#can’t believe I used to be up to date with ALL of these

[butchsucker]

FIRST DATE (or ellie invites abby to one of her shows as a seduction tactic, with very pleasing results)

pairing: ellie williams/abby anderson

contents: 18+ content, guitarist!ellie, dry humping, dom!ellie, sub!abby, car sex, pussy eating, praise, marking.

word count: 4,017

Abby isn’t sure you could call her first meeting with the human hurricane known as Ellie Williams a meet-cute, but it’s definitely something. She’s out with Manny because, bless him, he’s one of the only people in her life not acting weird about her recent lesbian “awakening.” They’re at some trendy new bar where the drinks are overpriced, underpowered, and served in glasses that look like they belong in a dollhouse. Not exactly Abby’s idea of a thrilling night out, and she isn’t even trying to get noticed.

Enter Ellie: tipsy, grinning, and already leaning far too close into Abby’s space like personal boundaries are just a suggestion. It should probably be annoying. Maybe even mildly alarming. But it’s not, because—God help her—Ellie is cute.

She looks up at Abby with these wide, shameless green eyes and slurs, “That your boyfriend? ‘Cause he definitely can’t handle all that.”

Then, as if to prove her point, Ellie gestures vaguely (but unmistakably) at Abby’s body while giving it a slow, appreciative once-over. Abby blinks. She’s not used to this. Not the boldness, not the attention, not the way Ellie’s gaze is warm and hungry without being gross.

Usually, girls wanted her to make the first move. They expected her to be all take-charge and dominant, probably because of the shoulders or the biceps or whatever dumb assumptions people make. Joke’s on them because Abby’s as big a bottom as they come.

“That is not my boyfriend,” she says, amused despite herself. “Are you saying you can handle all this?”

Ellie leans in, her arms bracing on either side of Abby like she’s about to deliver a line she’s practiced in the mirror. “Wanna find out?”

It earns a surprised laugh from Abby—partly because it’s bold as hell, and partly because she’s a little horrified at how close she is to saying yes. “Not that kinda girl,” she teases, letting herself flirt just a little. “You gotta take me out first.”

Ellie grins like she’s just won something. “That an offer?”

Abby shrugs, trying for nonchalant and failing miserably. “Maybe. You can take me on a date ‘cause you’re cute but I make no promises about letting you handle me.”

They trade names and numbers, fall into conversation that’s easy in the way it only ever is when there’s instant chemistry, and eventually, Ellie gets dragged away by the group she very obviously arrived with. Abby watches her go, still half-smiling, until Manny clears his throat.

She doesn’t even look at him. “Fuck off, dude,” she mutters, cheeks flushed as she tosses back the rest of her drink.

Over the next week or so of talking, Abby learns that Ellie isn’t always the smooth-talking flirt she met at the bar. More often than not, she’s a chaotic bundle of enthusiasm, tumbling through conversations about whatever hyperfixation currently has her in a choke-hold. And Abby, to her own mild horror, finds that she genuinely cares about every single one. Sometimes it’s video games—Ellie giving long, passionate monologues about plot lines and boss fights—or comics, which she insists Abby has to borrow, already setting aside a few favorites. Other times, Ellie FaceTimes her just to chatter away while scribbling in a beat-up journal, propping Abby’s screen up on her desk like she’s part of the furniture.

Abby nearly combusts the night Ellie finally flips the journal around and shows her what she’s been drawing. A whole page—maybe two—of sketches. Of her.

“You’re just so pretty,” Ellie says with a maddeningly casual smile. “I can’t help but draw you.”

“I can’t believe you said that with a straight face. That was so corny I think I’m dying,” Abby groans, trying and failing to sound unaffected. Compliments make her weird. Vulnerable. But even she can’t deny the warmth curling in her stomach. “You’re a really talented artist, though.”

Ellie just grins, clearly pleased with herself. “Speaking of my many artistic talents,” she says, rifling through a drawer, “I was thinking about our first date. How would you like to come see me play?”

Abby arches a brow. “Play what? Please don’t say e-sports, because I like you, but not enough for that.”

Ellie snorts. “No, dumbass.” She’s laughing now, and yeah, they’re definitely at the flirty-insult stage. “Guitar. On a stage. In a venue.” She delivers each word with slow, deliberate sass, as if Abby might need help keeping up.

“You’re in a band?” Abby asks, trying—and failing—to tamp down the sudden spark of excitement. Ellie, who is already objectively hot, plus a guitar, which is universally hot? It’s a lethal combination. Still, she has to check. “Okay, but are you actually good? Like, I’ll come and pretend if I have to, but be honest with me now.”

“You’re so charming, you know that?” Ellie props her chin in her hand, eyes shining. “Look, we’re not total crap. Someone’s paying us real money to make noise, so we must be doing something right. I’ll make sure to play extra good just for you.”

Abby narrows her eyes. “Can you play with your mouth?”

Ellie doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re such a pervert! I can’t believe you right now.”

She holds the mock offense for about five seconds before dissolving into laughter. “Yes. Yes, I can. And yes, it transfers to other mouth-related skills. You’re welcome.”

“Now who’s the perv?” Abby mutters, shaking her head with a helpless smile. She’s pretty sure they’re about to spiral into a whole new territory of inappropriate teasing, but a quick glance at the clock reminds her that morning is coming fast.

“I gotta hit the books in the morning if I want to be free for our date,” she says, reaching for her phone where it’s still propped up on the desk. “So I must bid you goodnight. But I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“Get your beauty sleep, princess,” Ellie purrs. “And wear some pretty panties for me.”

Abby rolls her eyes and ends the call with a scoff, but her cheeks are flushed. And if she spends part of the next day hunting down a pair of red lace panties—well, that’s nobody’s business but hers.

A package arrives just past noon the following day, a plain brown box with a crooked label and Abby’s name scrawled across it in what’s definitely Ellie’s handwriting. Inside, nestled between a ridiculous amount of tissue paper, is a tank top—black, worn-soft, and unmistakably one of Ellie’s band shirts.

It’s also definitely one size too small.

Abby holds it up, eyebrows raised. Subtle, Ellie is not. But it’s cute, in that deliberately grungy way. The tank hangs just short enough to show a sliver of her stomach, and when paired with her low-rise jeans—well, the lace edge of her underwear peeks out if she so much as leans the wrong way. She suspects that’s exactly what Ellie had in mind.

She keeps her makeup simple: smudged eyeliner that looks like it was applied last night and never quite came off (on purpose), and a sheer berry-tinted chapstick. For a moment, she considers braiding her hair back like usual, then changes her mind. She leaves it loose.

Fifteen minutes later, her phone buzzes with a text.

[Ellie 🖤]: come outside, hot stuff

Abby grabs her bag and heads out the door, nerves flitting in her chest like moths. But they settle the moment she spots Ellie waiting in a vintage, beat-up truck—paint a faded forest green, chrome edges dulled with time. A little Mars Attacks alien swings from the rearview mirror beside a smiling plastic dinosaur, and the dash is a chaotic sticker bomb of band logos, skulls, flowers, and what looks suspiciously like a hand-drawn portrait of a cat flipping the bird. The whole thing is so unmistakably Ellie it makes Abby grin.

The driver’s side window rolls down. “Hey, gorgeous,” Ellie calls, all easy confidence.

Abby climbs in, heart skipping when she realizes how close they are on the bench seat. “You look like you walked straight out of my dreams,” she says, not even bothering to hide her smile.

Ellie mock gasps. “Look at you, saying something that corny with a straight face. I’m impressed.”

She’s wearing the same tank top—hers cut at the sides with a pair of ratty jorts—and her eyeliner’s just as smudged. Very punk rock. Definitely doing a lot for this little rocker fantasy Abby's got cooking.

“Well,” Abby says, leaning back into the seat, “I figured I couldn't let you be a cornball alone.”

Ellie snorts. “Your kindness truly knows no bounds. How do you do it?”

��Oh, it takes lots of work. Hard, hard work,” Abby teases, nudging her shoulder.

The ride to the venue is full of music and chatter and little sideways glances that linger too long to be accidental. When they arrive, Ellie parks behind the building and takes Abby’s hand as she leads her through the back entrance. The place is rough around the edges—bare brick walls, cables snaking across the floor, old flyers stuck to everything—but it has charm. Energy. You can feel the history in the air.

The band is waiting in the green room: Dina, who is dressed so casual it's cool, throws Abby an easy nod while tuning her bass, and Jesse, all flippy hair and half-buttoned flannel, gives her a lazy wave from behind his kit. The introductions are quick, friendly, and forgettable—Ellie’s the only person Abby’s eyes are really on.

Backstage, Ellie’s all jitters and adrenaline. “Okay, I’m not nervous,” she lies. “But if I was, I’d say it’s your fault because you're so hot and I will have to end it all if I bomb.”

“You’ll be fine,” Abby says, casually sitting on one of the amp cases like she does this all the time. “You better be. I wore your name on my chest and everything.”

Ellie steps in close, her grin turning softer. “I feel like I should get a kiss for good luck.”

Abby raises a brow. “Hmm. Superstition, or are you just trying to kiss me?”

“Can’t it be both?”

Abby rolls her eyes, but she’s already leaning in. The kiss is brief but warm, a spark passed from one to the other like a secret. When they pull apart, Ellie’s smile looks steadier. Brighter.

“Break a leg,” Abby murmurs, adjusting the strap of the tank just enough to remind Ellie what’s waiting after the show.

Ellie just whistles low. “If I mess up, it’s your fault.”

Abby grins. “Got it.”

The house lights go low, and the crowd surges toward the stage like the tide rolling in—loud, electric, expectant. Abby takes her spot off to the side, backstage but with a perfect view, and rests one hand on the wall behind her to steady herself. She can already feel the music in her bones before it even starts.

And then Ellie steps into the light.

And there's something about the way she moves. The way she holds her guitar like it’s an extension of her body, the casual swagger, the flick of her fingers across the strings. She strums the first chord and it’s like a jolt straight to Abby’s spine.

Ellie knows how to put on a show.

Her entire body moves with the rhythm, hips swaying, boots stomping, head tossing just enough to let her hair fall into her eyes before she pushes it back with one practiced, sweat-dampened sweep.

At one point, mid-solo, Ellie drops to her knees and slowly spreads them apart, her back arched just so off the floor. She rises with a slow, purposeful motion, locks eyes with Abby and then she winks.

Abby’s knees just about give out on the spot.

She lets out a quiet, helpless laugh and immediately buries her face in her hands for a second. Get it together, she tells herself. But it’s already too late. Between the way Ellie’s fingers dance along the fretboard and the rasp in her voice when she joins in on vocals for the chorus, Abby is gone. Hopeless. Helpless.

Abby prides herself on being a girl with impeccable self-control. But this? This is unfair. This is “I’m-not-waiting-until-date-three” levels of hot.

By the third song, Abby’s resolve is hanging on by a thread. It's a little ridiculous, but she's pretty certain she's jealous of a guitar right now. She wants Ellie's hands on her in a way that is concerning to her self-respect.

The second the show ends, Ellie comes barreling offstage with a sheen of sweat on her neck and the world’s cockiest grin on her face. Abby doesn’t even have time to say anything before Ellie is crashing into Abby, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“You were incredible,” Abby says, voice a little breathless, a little wrecked.

“You think so?” Ellie asks, grinning wide as she pulls back just enough to meet Abby’s eyes.

Abby doesn’t answer with words. Just grabs the front of Ellie’s tank top and tugs her into a kiss that would normally never make it out of the utmost privacy.

“Okay,” Ellie mutters when they part. “Okay. Let’s get out of here before I do something extremely inappropriate in front of my friends and they never let me live it down.”

They say their rushed goodbyes—Ellie throwing her guitar into its case with absolutely no grace, barely managing a wave to her bandmates—and then they’re out the back door like giddy teenagers skipping curfew. Abby's laugh echoes off the alley walls as Ellie opens the truck door for her with a little dramatic bow.

“Such a gentleman,” Abby teases as she climbs in.

“You inspire that in me,” Ellie shoots back, jogging around to the driver’s side.

The moment they’re in, the truck rumbles to life and pulls onto the road, headlights slicing through the night. It’s just the two of them now. Just the hum of the engine, the city slipping away, and this...tension that won’t quit building.

Abby slides closer across the bench seat—close enough that her thigh presses against Ellie’s. She tries to play it cool, but her hand ends up resting on Ellie’s knee, trailing upward in slow, absentminded little strokes.

Ellie doesn't say anything, but her breath catches, and she drops one hand from the wheel to land heavy and warm on Abby’s thigh.

Abby leans in, slow and deliberate, letting her lips brush just under Ellie’s jaw, teasing. She breathes in that mix of stage sweat and faint cologne—something woodsy and citrusy and it goes straight to her head. She presses her mouth to the spot just beneath Ellie’s ear.

“You smell so good,” she murmurs.

“Abby,” Ellie says, voice tight, “I swear to god—”

Abby noses lower, kisses her neck again, and Ellie’s fingers grip her thigh harder.

“Fuck it,” Ellie mutters, low and gravelly, and then takes a hard turn off the main road. Gravel crunches under the tires as she pulls into some shadowed, tucked-away clearing off the highway, headlights flicking off with a twist of the key.

Abby blinks at her, heartbeat thudding in her ears. “What are you doing?”

Ellie shifts in her seat to face her, eyes dark and blown wide. “My place is thirty minutes away, and I’m not making it that long. We need to—” She gestures vaguely between them. “—something. Let off steam or I’m going to crash this truck trying to make out with you at a red light.”

Abby just stares at her for half a second. Then she lets out a soft laugh—low, warm, inviting—and climbs right into Ellie’s lap like it’s the most obvious decision in the world.

“Guess we better let off some steam then,” she says, hands already skirting underneath Ellie's shirt. “Don’t want you wrecking us before I get to see your bedroom.”

Ellie surges forward and kisses her like she’s been starving for it, hands sliding up into Abby’s hair as she presses her back into the worn leather of the bench seat. Abby makes a sound—something between a gasp and a laugh—as her spine arches and Ellie climbs halfway on top of her.

It's clumsy and rushed and so damn good.

Ellie’s mouth moves over hers like she’s trying to memorize the shape of it, and Abby doesn’t bother hiding the way she whines when Ellie’s teeth catch on her bottom lip. She bites back, sharp and unrepentant, before dragging her mouth down to Ellie’s neck and sucking a dark mark into the side of it—one, then two, then another just below her jaw.

“Jesus,” Ellie breathes, her voice wrecked.

Abby grins against her skin. “Mine now,” she murmurs, kissing over the bruise she just made.

Ellie’s hands are everywhere. She's gripping Abby’s waist, her hips, dragging her flush until there’s no room left between them. The friction as they grind against each other is messy, too hot, too much and not enough. Abby moans into Ellie’s mouth, her fingers fisting in the hem of her shirt, and Ellie groans like she’s going to come undone just from that sound.

She fumbles with the button of Abby’s jeans, swearing under her breath when it doesn’t immediately pop free. Her hands are shaking. Abby could tease her for it, but she’s too busy gasping, too caught up in the moment as she lifts her hips to help.

“Here,” she says, voice a low rasp as she pops the button open herself, dragging the denim down just far enough. It’s awkward in the cramped cab of the truck, but somehow they make space. Her jeans end up bunched up on the floor somewhere.

Ellie stills for a second.

Her eyes go wide as they land on Abby’s lacy underwear and her mouth parts, breath hitching audibly.

“You good?” Abby asks, breathless, trying not to squirm under the weight of that stare. But she can’t help it, not when Ellie’s pupils are blown and she looks like she’s witnessing something sacred.

Ellie swallows hard. “Happy trail,” she mumbles, almost reverent.

Abby blinks. “What?”

Ellie reaches out, tentative, fingers brushing over the faint line of blonde hair that disappears beneath the lace. “You have a happy trail,” she says again, voice barely above a whisper. “Fuck.”

The way she says it—like it’s the most important discovery of her life—sends a jolt straight through Abby’s core. Her stomach tightens, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Jesus, Ellie,” Abby says, but her voice is shaky now, her confidence faltering under that hungry stare.

Ellie’s hand is still on her, fingertips brushing along her waistband like she’s not quite sure if she’s allowed to go further or like she’s trying to savor every millimeter before she does.

“You’re—” Ellie starts, then just shakes her head, a laugh catching in her throat. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”

Abby leans up just enough to kiss her again. Slow and wet and wanting.

"I need to taste you. Like, right now."

And Abby’s not about to argue with that. Hell no. It takes a bit of wrangling. Ellie’s too fucking eager, all wild limbs and hungry hands, and Abby’s far from small. But they make it work. Eventually, Ellie gets herself settled between Abby’s thighs, bracing her palms on either side, and Abby props herself up on her elbows, both to give her a little more room and because the view is something she never wants to forget.

Ellie doesn’t hesitate. She presses her mouth to Abby’s still-clothed pussy, open and hot, a low groan rumbling in her throat like she’s starved for it. “You taste so fucking good. M’gonna die.”

Abby lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh, head falling back. Her hips jerk up on instinct, chasing Ellie's mouth. She’s already soaked through, and the pressure alone is enough to make her legs tremble. After a few more of those filthy, adoring kisses, she curls her fingers around the edge of her panties and yanks them aside with a hiss of breath.

Ellie moans at the sight, loud and unashamed, her breath stuttering hot against Abby’s swollen clit.

“Ellie,” Abby says, her voice thick, nearly gone. “Please.”

“Yeah? You need this too, baby?” she asks, all faux-innocence and wicked grin. Then, maddeningly, she turns her head and lays a soft kiss on the inside of Abby’s thigh instead.

“C’mon, Ellie. Don’t tease.”

Ellie chuckles against her skin, the vibration making Abby twitch. “Gotta pay you back,” she murmurs. And then, without warning, she sinks her teeth into the tender flesh just shy of where she really wants her, enough to sting, to leave a mark. Abby gasps, whines, hips canting up in a desperate plea for relief.

Only when Ellie’s satisfied—when Abby’s skin is littered in those pretty dark marks—does she give in.

Her tongue is on Abby’s weeping cunt in a second, slick and greedy, no mercy whatsoever. She licks her like she means to live there, open-mouthed and messy, groaning with every pass like it’s driving her insane too.

It’s filthy, raw. One of her hands spreads Abby wider, thumb dragging through wetness before she presses her tongue deep—slow and firm. That stretch alone is enough to make Abby’s stomach clench, but then Ellie shifts, her nose nudging Abby’s clit with every movement, rhythm perfect and completely unhinged.

Abby lets out a broken sound and claws at her own shirt, groping her tits through the fabric, hard enough to ache. Her back arches, heels digging into the leather seat, as her orgasm slams into her so fast it knocks the air from her lungs. She comes with a choked cry, riding Ellie’s face like she can’t get close enough, slick spilling down her thighs and over Ellie’s tongue.

And Ellie doesn’t stop. Not until Abby’s trembling, overstimulated, boneless and twitching under her mouth.

The cab is thick with heat and the sharp, unmistakable scent of sex. The windows are fogged, their breaths still coming in uneven bursts. Abby slumps against the seat, head tipped back, chest heaving as she tries to remember how to breathe like a normal person. Every nerve in her body feels raw, singed.

Ellie finally pulls back with a satisfied sigh, lips glistening, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. She grins like she just won something.

“That was awesome,” Abby breathes, voice all rasp.

Ellie leans over her, cocky and smug and absolutely gorgeous, and presses a soft kiss to Abby’s inner thigh before grabbing a napkin from the glove compartment and wiping her mouth, slow and deliberate, like she wants Abby to watch.

“I should’ve brought a towel,” she mutters, grinning. “You made a goddamn mess of me.”

Abby huffs a laugh, still wrecked. “Nobody told you to make me come that hard.”

Ellie tosses the napkin aside, then reaches down to help Abby ease her jeans back up—slow and gentle, because Abby’s still shaking a little. Their fingers brush and Ellie kisses her, this time softer, sweeter, one hand cradling the back of her neck. Abby melts into it, sighs into Ellie’s mouth.

When Ellie pulls back, her gaze is dark and steady.

“When I get you home,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “I’m gonna fuck you so good you forget your own name.”

Abby’s hisses at the fresh wave of arousal that brings. "Jesus, Ellie, I thought we were supposed to be releasing the pressure."

“I’m gonna spread you out on my bed,” Ellie continues, her hand sliding along Abby’s thigh, squeezing gently, “and keep you there all night. Gonna eat you until your legs stop working. Gonna make you beg for something I haven’t even thought of yet.”

Abby’s spine straightens, her thighs clench involuntarily.

“You’re gonna lose your goddamn mind,” Ellie promises, leaning in close enough that Abby can feel the heat of her breath. “And I don't plan on stopping.”

Abby swallows hard, voice barely a whisper. “You talk a big game.”

Ellie’s grin turns feral. “You should know by now, I deliver.”

They kiss again, deep and drugging, like they’ve got all the time in the world. And perhaps Ellie runs a couple of red lights just to get home a little faster.

You would, too.

[kathlare]

Hiii!! Finally revealing myself as the anon who comments on all ur posts (embarrassing ik) but I’m genuinely so invested in this story!! I was wondering could we perchance have a continuation of the austria fic that includes smut 🥹🥹 ty!!

Hiiiii omg STOP that is not embarrassing at all — you have no idea how much I appreciate you and your comments, seriously 🥹💗 You make my day every time!!

And YES your wish is my command 😏 I’m bringing you that smutty chapter you asked for — it’s not right after the Austria GP, but it is set shortly after and let’s just say… it’s Lando’s well-earned prize 👀🔥 I really hope you like it!! Thank you again for all the love and support, it means the world 💕

shameless

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Lando and Amelie navigate a day filled with warmth, love, and questionable decision-making.

Wordcount: 7.7 k

Warnings: smut

full masterlist // request over here!

July 3rd, 2025 - London, United Kingdom

liked by f1gfenergy, lanofan666, and others

ameliedayman: Because of you- Manchild is my first debut #1 in the US and the UK 🙏🏼 I love you so much it don’t make no sense! thank you endlessly!

View all 95,083 comments

landonorris: so proud of you. now play it on loop for the rest of time pls → ameliedayman: @landonorris already made it your morning alarm x → savnorris: @ameliedayman not you torturing him in his sleep too 💀 → landonorris: @savnorris it slaps. i’m not mad. just very awake

stelladayman: MY SISTER IS A CHART-TOPPING ICON!!! → ameliedayman: @stelladayman let’s get matching #1 tattoos or what → callumdayman: @ameliedayman i want no part of that but congrats legend

maxfewtrell: new national anthem → ameliedayman: @maxfewtrell we’re performing it at your wedding, hope you know → maxfewtrell: @ameliedayman even if you're not invited? → landonorris: @maxfewtrell she’ll be there. everywhere. always.

lanmelie4ever: LANDO GOT A #1 GIRLFRIEND AND I GOT A NEW FAVORITE SONG → gridbabiez: @lanmelie4ever he’s the real winner honestly → turn3terror: @lanmelie4ever yeah but so are we. we EAT with every drop

screechingtires: no bc “fuck my life won’t you let an innocent woman be” is my roman empire → softcurbstan: @screechingtires screaming it out the car window all summer long 😭

musictwtmess: this song is literally ✨therapy✨ for people who date men → dumbblondiedayman: @musictwtmess and she made it sound like a beach road trip. genius → manchildtruthers: @dumbblondiedayman can’t believe she healed me with a bop

savnorris: i knew it was a hit the moment you sang “i choose to blame your mom” → ameliedayman: @savnorris justice for fictional boy moms everywhere

georgerussell63: 10/10 banger. lyrics hit a lil too hard 😅 → ameliedayman: @georgerussell63 hmmmmm george you ok? want to talk? → alex_albon: @georgerussell63 blink twice

elysiadayman: You deserve it ALL. we’re screaming in this house 🥹 → ameliedayman: @elysiadayman next dinner’s on me

mclarenhater88: y’all really acting like she’s talented when she only gets attention bc of her boyfriend 💀

lanmeliebrainrot: manchild being about dating dumb men and then her man being her #1 fan is my FAVORITE irony → thelanfiles: @lanmeliebrainrot lando promoting it like it’s about his enemies not himself 😭

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

Amelie stirred slowly, lashes fluttering against sunlit skin as the faint chirping of birds filtered through the window of Lando’s childhood bedroom. She shifted under the soft duvet, arm instinctively reaching for the warm body she expected beside her—but there was none. Her fingers brushed over empty sheets, still faintly warm, and she blinked her eyes open with a frown.

—Lan?— she mumbled groggily.

Silence.

The room smelled like him—clean cotton, a bit of his cologne, faint motor oil clinging to something old in the air—but it was just her. Alone in a bed that wasn’t hers, in a house that wasn’t hers, but somehow still felt like theirs.

She sat up, hair an unholy mess of blonde waves, eyes still puffy from sleep. Her gaze swept across the room: scattered hoodies, a framed old karting photo on the dresser, a signed cap of his own on the bookshelf. And then, by the lamp, she spotted it.

A bright yellow post-it stuck to the nightstand.

Amelie squinted as she reached for it.

Out for a bit, sunshine. Be back soon. Mum’s downstairs if you need anything. Love you x — Lando

She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved into a smile anyway.

—Post-its again? Really?— she muttered to herself, shaking her head.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Back in 2022, when everything between them was a wreck and words were too much to say out loud, they used to communicate like this. Stupid sticky notes on bathroom mirrors, on gym bags, on fridge doors. Back then they felt like apologies and things left unsaid.

Now they just felt soft.

Warm.

Loved.

Still, she flopped back on the bed for a beat, groaning into the pillow before dragging herself upright again. If she was about to see his mum, she needed to look at least semi-human. Lando’s family might adore her, but showing up downstairs in just one of his t-shirts with mascara smudged halfway to her temples wasn’t exactly the vibe.

She dragged herself to the little ensuite bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled her hair into a quick low bun. Then she changed into a simple outfit she’d packed just in case—wide-leg jeans, a cute knit top, minimal makeup, and the dainty gold necklace Cameron had given her one Christmas with a tiny "A" engraved on it.

After a moment of consideration, she swiped on a bit of blush.

—Okay, presentable. Let’s not scare the Norris family today,— she mumbled to herself as she stepped into the hallway.

The house was warm and quiet, old floors creaking gently as she made her way downstairs, nerves fluttering in her chest like they always did right before she saw them. It didn’t matter how many times they'd welcomed her or how many cups of tea his mum made her—being in his space still carried that little electric weight.

But the second she stepped into the entryway—

Her breath caught.

There he was. Right in the middle of the living room, facing the door like he’d been waiting for her.

Lando.

In a cream hoodie and grey joggers, curls still slightly damp like he’d just showered. And in his hands...

A bouquet of yellow tulips.

Bright, brilliant, sun-drenched tulips.

The grin that lit up his face when he saw her was the kind of thing that made her stomach do cartwheels. That stupid, sweet sparkle in his eyes he only gave to her. Like she hung the damn moon.

—You’re back,— she whispered, a smile pulling at her lips.

—You’re up,— he countered softly, holding out the flowers.

She stepped into his arms without hesitation, burying her face in the tulips for a second before dropping them slightly to kiss him. Soft and slow and then deeper, more urgent. She missed him, even if it had only been a couple hours. Her hands slid into his hoodie and up under the fabric, fingertips pressing into the skin of his lower back.

—These are beautiful,— she murmured between kisses, her voice breathy.

Lando grinned, nose brushing hers. —You’re beautiful. But yeah… they’re for you. Yellow tulips. Thought they matched the sunshine thing you’ve got going on.—

—Lan…—

—And also, congrats, superstar.— He kissed her cheek, then her jaw. —Number one in the US and UK? You’re fucking magic, Ames. I’m so proud of you.—

She kissed him again, hands framing his jaw now, eyes shining.

—You’re gonna make me cry before breakfast,— she mumbled into his mouth.

—Good. Then I won’t be the only emotional one here,— Lando said with a lopsided smile, his hands coming to rest on her waist. —I nearly cried when I saw the charts yesterday, not gonna lie.—

Amelie rolled her eyes with a grin. —You always nearly cry when I hit number one.—

—Because it keeps happening and it still doesn’t feel real,— he replied earnestly. —Do you have any idea how fucking proud of you I am?—

Before she could answer, a dramatic cough echoed through the room.

They both froze mid-kiss and turned toward the hallway to see Flo standing there with a bowl of cereal in hand, eyebrows raised and an exaggerated look of disgust on her face.

—Jesus Christ. It’s not even noon. Can we not have a full PDA fest in the middle of the house? This is a common area, you two.—

Amelie let out a soft laugh, still pressed against Lando’s chest, her face warm and glowing. Lando groaned and dropped his forehead to hers in defeat.

—Flo, I literally haven’t kissed her in, like, seven hours.—

—Tragic,— Flo deadpanned, taking a bite of cereal. —But my Cheerios didn’t consent to witnessing tongue warfare on a Wednesday morning. Dial it back. PG-13, please.—

Amelie snorted, hiding her face in Lando’s hoodie. —Sorry, Florence.—

—You’re not sorry,— she muttered, eyeing them both with that sibling sort of judgment that was 60% sarcasm and 40% true concern.

—She’s really not,— Lando added with a grin, pressing another kiss to the side of Amelie’s head just to be petty.

Flo rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her skull. —Mum said to tell you both breakfast’s ready. Also, she’s pretending she didn’t hear anything from upstairs earlier but she definitely heard you giggling in bed at like 1 a.m.—

Amelie blinked. —We weren’t... I was just... we were watching that stupid cooking show and he kept making fun of the guy’s risotto, I wasn’t even... oh my god.—

—Yeah, yeah, whatever makes you sleep at night, Amelie. Anyway, I’m taking this upstairs. Try to keep it in your pants for, like, ten minutes. Bye.—

She disappeared just as dramatically as she entered, bare feet thudding on the steps, bowl in hand.

Lando turned back to Amelie, who was beet red and trying very hard not to laugh.

—We’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and you’ve already corrupted my sister.—

—She’s uncorruptible,— Amelie argued with a smirk. —Also, you started the tongue warfare.—

—You started it the moment you walked downstairs looking like that.—

Amelie grinned and swatted his chest. —I was trying to look decent for your family, not seduce you in the foyer.—

—Well. Mission failed. You’re indecently hot, and now I’m distracted.—

She kissed him again, quick and soft, and then pulled back to look at the flowers still in her hands. Tulips were her favorite. Yellow meant happiness, hope, sunshine. He always remembered the little things.

—You’re the best, Lan. Really.—

—No, you’re the best.— He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. —And you deserve every number one that comes your way. You work harder than anyone I know. I’m just lucky I get to love you while you take over the world.—

She leaned into his touch, eyes soft. —You’re gonna make me cry again.—

—Then cry. I’ll still be here. With tulips. And kisses. And potentially more tongue if Flo isn’t around.—

Amelie laughed as he took her hand and started guiding her toward the kitchen. The familiar hum of the kettle boiling, the scent of toast and butter wafting through the air, and Cisca’s voice humming softly from the next room made the house feel warm and lived-in, like she belonged here. Like they belonged here.

And honestly?

It did feel like home.

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

gracieabrams replied to your story

gracieabrams: he gave you flowers again didn’t he ameliedayman: maybe 😇 gracieabrams: girl it’s been a YEAR and he’s still in simp mode ameliedayman: and i fear i love it gracieabrams: stay soft forever

maxfewtrell replied to your story

maxfewtrell: stop showing off some of us are unlovable ameliedayman: lmao BYEEE maxfewtrell: he gets you flowers and i get ghosted by him ameliedayman: u deserve tulips too maxie :( maxfewtrell: tell lando to send me some

charles_leclerc replied to your story

charles_leclerc: so when do i get flowers ameliedayman: when u start wearing sunscreen charles_leclerc: never mind then charles_leclerc: enjoy ur petals 🙄

georgerussell63 replied to your story

georgerussell63: 12 months in and he’s still flower-boy level whipped ameliedayman: and you say it like it’s a bad thing georgerussell63: no i’m just taking notes georgerussell63: i fear lando is the blueprint

alex_albon replied to your story

alex_albon: are you trying to make us all look bad or ameliedayman: babe i didn’t even tag him alex_albon: doesn’t matter we all KNOW ameliedayman: lando’s era of soft launch ended 400 days ago 💀

elysiadayman replied to your story

elysiadayman: he sent those didn’t he ameliedayman: yes 🥹 elysiadayman: tell your little british golden retriever he’s dangerously close to making the family like him TOO much ameliedayman: he already made mom cry with the last bouquet elysiadayman: UGH he’s good

sydney_sweeney replied to your story

sydney_sweeney: yellow tulips AGAIN??? ameliedayman: 😇 sydney_sweeney: he’s in his eraameliedayman: he never left it sydney_sweeney: manifesting that kind of devotion tbh

tchalamet replied to your story

tchalamet: he did it again huh ameliedayman: 💛 tchalamet: this is some poetic cinema shit ameliedayman: the tulips got a tighter arc than most films rn

billieeilish replied to your story

billieeilish: y’all are gross ameliedayman: say it with love pls billieeilish: i mean it in the most affectionate jealous way billieeilish: also those are SO yellow wtf ameliedayman: sunshine coded 🫶

minniemills replied to your story

minniemills: don’t tell me those are from who i THINK they’re from ameliedayman: they are minniemills: oh he’s sick in the HEAD over you ameliedayman: he really is huh minniemills: not jealous not jealous not jealous

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

The kitchen smelled like garlic and olive oil, something faintly herby sizzling in a pan as Cisca moved with graceful ease between the stove and the counter, her apron tied neatly over a soft linen blouse. Amelie stood beside her with a wooden spoon in hand, sleeves rolled up, face lit with concentration as she followed Cisca’s instructions down to the letter.

—Now, careful with the white wine. Just a splash,— Cisca said, holding up the bottle.

Amelie nodded and poured slowly. —Like… that? Or am I making soup?—

Cisca chuckled. —That’s perfect. You’re a natural. Better than Lando, anyway.—

—That bar is underground,— Amelie teased, glancing at her with a warm grin. —Last time he tried to boil water, he forgot to put the lid on and nearly set off the alarm.—

—That sounds about right.— Cisca reached over to taste the sauce with a wooden spoon, then offered Amelie a bit. —Here, tell me what you think.—

Amelie took a small taste, her eyes widening. —Oh my god. That’s so good. I’m writing this down. I’m literally stealing this recipe and pretending it’s mine at dinner parties.—

—You’re welcome to it, darling,— Cisca said warmly, smiling at her in that easy, maternal way that always managed to settle something soft inside Amelie.

There was a moment of quiet while Amelie chopped some fresh basil, the knife rhythmic against the board, and Cisca glanced at her from the stove. Her expression shifted—gentle, thoughtful.

—You know,— she said quietly, —I don’t think I’ve told you this before. Not properly.—

Amelie looked up, eyebrows raised. —Told me what?—

—How happy we are to have you back. All of us.— Cisca smiled, hands resting on the countertop. —You’ve always been special to Lando, even when he didn’t know how to say it. We saw it. Felt it. And now that you’re here again, really here… he’s the happiest I’ve seen him in years.—

Amelie blinked, caught off guard by the emotion in Cisca’s voice.

—Cisca…—

—We love you like you’re one of ours. I hope you know that. And no matter what happens in this crazy life, you’ll always have a home here.—

Amelie swallowed hard, heart swelling. She glanced down, pretending to wipe her hands on the towel, but really trying not to get too teary over lunch.

—You’re gonna make me cry into your pasta sauce,— she said with a soft laugh. —And I really don’t want to ruin your perfect meal.—

Cisca reached over and squeezed her hand. —He’s a better man when you’re around, Amelie. Don’t ever doubt it.—

In the living room, just a few steps away, Lando sat curled into the corner of the couch, still barefoot and in the same hoodie from earlier, laughing under his breath at something his dad had said. Adam leaned back in the armchair across from him, one arm resting casually on the side table, watching his son with that kind of quiet, unspoken pride that didn’t need much explanation.

They could both see into the kitchen from where they sat—see Amelie laughing as she stirred a pot, Cisca tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The soft domesticity of it made the moment feel like something suspended in amber.

—She fits in well, doesn’t she?— Adam said, voice low.

Lando glanced toward the kitchen and smiled like an idiot. —Too well. It’s like she never left.—

Adam gave him a knowing look. —You know, your mum and I talked about it last night. We’ve never seen you this steady. This grounded.—

Lando rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. —Yeah… I know.—

—Is it serious?—

Lando looked at his dad and didn’t even hesitate.

—She’s it. I’m sure. One hundred percent. Like… I know everyone says “you just know” and it sounds like crap until it’s you, but I do. I know.—

Adam’s smile deepened, eyes crinkling as he looked back toward the kitchen, where Amelie was now gesturing wildly with the spoon as she told Cisca some story—something about a ruined risotto and a broken heel at the BRITs that made Cisca throw her head back in laughter.

—You’ve changed since she came back into your life,— Adam said quietly. —In the best ways. Less noise in your head. More… focus. Like you’re finally breathing properly again.—

Lando didn’t answer immediately. He was still watching her—his girl, his heart, barefoot in his mother’s kitchen like she belonged there, because she did. Like she’d always been part of this family, because she had. She was moving around so naturally, talking with his mum like they’d done this a hundred times. Her laugh echoed softly off the kitchen tile, and Lando felt it in his chest.

He finally spoke, his voice low and steady.

—When we broke things off the first time, I told myself I’d be fine. That it was for the best. But I wasn’t fine, Dad. Not even close.—

Adam turned fully toward him now, listening.

—Every win, every podium, every moment that should’ve felt big just… didn’t. Not really. Not without her. And then when we found our way back to each other, after everything, it was like someone finally turned the lights back on.—

Lando sat forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes still locked on the kitchen.

—It’s not just love, you know? It’s... peace. She gives me that. Even on the hardest days, when everything else feels like a storm, she’s the thing that calms it down. It’s her. Always has been.—

Adam nodded slowly, taking that in. —Then hold on to her. Build something with her. If you know, don’t waste time pretending you don’t.—

Lando leaned back, his smile soft and so real it hurt.

—Already planning on it.—

In the kitchen, Amelie was plating the pasta now, Cisca sliding roasted vegetables onto a tray beside her. The air smelled rich and delicious, a scent that felt like comfort and memory and new beginnings all at once.

Amelie turned as she laughed at something Cisca said, tucking a flyaway curl behind her ear with one hand and holding the serving spoon with the other. She was radiant—flushed from the heat of the kitchen, her gold necklace catching the light, eyes sparkling with ease and joy.

Lando’s gaze didn’t leave her. His heart felt full in a way he couldn’t explain.

Cisca glanced over her shoulder and caught her son watching. She raised a knowing brow.

—Lando! Come help set the table, you lazy thing. Your dad too.—

Lando stood with a smirk, glancing once more at his dad.

—She’s going to be part of our future, you know. Not just mine. Ours.—

Adam clapped a hand on his shoulder as they made their way toward the kitchen.

—Then let’s make sure she knows she always has a place in it.—

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

georgerussell63 replied to your story

georgerussell63: bro you’ve been living dangerously since day 1 landonorris: i fear for my life every meal georgerussell63: but like in a romantic way 🫶 landonorris: exactly 🫡

charles_leclerc replied to your story

charles_leclerc: she cooks?? landonorris: “cooks” is a generous word charles_leclerc: good luck soldier landonorris: i’ve written my will

alex_albon replied to your story

alex_albon: pls livestream the taste test landonorris: it’s giving fear factor alex_albon: if you survive i want a review in 3 words landonorris: “still in therapy” probably

maxfewtrell replied to your story

maxfewtrell: blink twice if you need extraction landonorris: i’m blinking i’m blinking maxfewtrell: say the word and we’ll fly in a chef landonorris: honestly might be safer

danielricciardo replied to your story

danielricciardo: she’s got the apron on = immediate trust issues landonorris: she said “guess the spice” with a smile danielricciardo: NOPE. red flag behavior landonorris: help

oscarpiastri replied to your story

oscarpiastri: she looks peaceful but i sense violence in the seasoning landonorris: it's silent chaos. she’s humming taylor swift oscarpiastri: ur so done bro 💀 landonorris: tell my story

carmenmmundt replied to your story

carmenmmundt: she’s adorable leave her alone landonorris: tell that to my stomach in 30 mins carmenmmundt: you’ll eat every bite and say thank you landonorris: ok fine

carlossainz55 replied to your story

carlossainz55: it’s over for you landonorris: respectfully yes carlossainz55: you’re gonna propose anyway so what’s a little food poisoning landonorris: 💍+ 💀 = me rn

elysiadayman replied to your story

elysiadayman: she told me she used oat milk but it was heavy cream landonorris: I KNEW IT elysiadayman: godspeed soldier landonorris: tell benny i love him

alexwolffofficial replied to your story

alexwolffofficial: is this revenge for something?? landonorris: i think i left the toilet seat up alexwolffofficial: yeah. enjoy the consequences landonorris: 💀

ameliedayman replied to your story

ameliedayman: WTF 😭 it’s literally pasta landonorris: yeah and it just winked at me ameliedayman: I HOPE IT CHOKES YOU landonorris: on love?? ameliedayman: on pepper flakes you dick landonorris: worth it

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

The late afternoon light spilled lazily through the living room windows, casting soft golden streaks across the floorboards. Outside, the garden hummed with the sound of bees and distant birdsong, but inside the Norris house, the only sound was the low, steady hum of a half-forgotten movie playing on the TV — something vintage and British, picked mostly at random from Lando’s “classics I’ve never actually watched” list.

Amelie was curled up on one end of the couch, bare feet tucked under her, hair loose from the soft braid she’d worn earlier. She wore one of Lando’s old hoodies over her tank top, sleeves far too long on her arms, a sight that Lando had declared "a criminally unfair weapon against his self-control" more than once.

And now, sprawled beside her, he was proving exactly why that was true.

—Lan,— she warned as his fingers slipped under the hem of the hoodie for the third time, grazing the warm skin of her waist.

—What? I’m just trying to cuddle,— he murmured, lips already grazing her neck.

—You’re trying to win an Oscar for “most dramatic fake cuddler,”— Amelie said, stifling a laugh. She pushed his face gently away, only for him to immediately nuzzle back in like a determined golden retriever.

—You know what I didn’t get on sunday?— he mumbled into her collarbone.

—A haircut? A personality? An ounce of chill?—

Lando nipped lightly at her skin. —My post-win prize. You know, the prize.—

—Oh my god,— Amelie groaned, flopping her head back against the cushion. —Lando, your mum made us lunch four hours ago. We’re in her living room.—

—And you think I wasn’t thinking about you the whole damn time? I sat across from you while you licked olive oil off your finger and talked to my mother about wedding playlists, and you expect me to be normal?— He kissed the edge of her jaw. —I deserve a medal. Or you. Preferably both.—

Amelie laughed, trying not to melt as his hand wandered again, a little bolder this time.

—Lan, we’re literally going to Max and Pietra’s in, like, an hour.—

—Exactly. That’s a whole hour.— He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. —Besides, you got your trophy. Number one in the US and UK? That deserves a celebration too. You won. I won. Let’s combine prizes. Efficient. Sexy. Teamwork.—

She turned to him, smirking despite herself. —You are not calling this “teamwork.”—

—Fine. Collaboration. Synergy.— His voice dropped low. —You and me. Merging… efforts.—

—Oh my god.— She slapped a hand over his mouth. —If you say “horizontal integration,” I’m calling your mum.—

Lando licked her palm.

—Lando!— she shrieked, yanking her hand back and wiping it on his hoodie. —You’re disgusting.—

—You love me.— He grinned, fully on top of her now, bracing his weight on his elbows. —Come on, Ames. Just a little. No one’s gonna walk in.—

As if summoned by fate itself, the distant sound of someone — probably Flo — yelling something down the stairs echoed through the house.

Amelie raised an eyebrow. —What were you saying?—

Lando groaned and let his head fall dramatically into her chest. —I’m cursed. This house is cursed. My libido is being held hostage by my sister.—

—Your libido needs to behave until we get back to our actual house,— Amelie said, ruffling his curls affectionately. —Besides, I want to look good for dinner. Can’t have you messing up my hair and makeup just because you’re feeling greedy.—

He lifted his head and looked up at her with a hopeful pout. —But what if I mess them up gently?—

She laughed and pushed him off, rolling off the couch in one graceful move. —You’ll survive. Now come on, I need to change, and you need to put on something other than joggers if you’re going to show your face at Max and Pietra’s.—

Lando flopped back dramatically onto the couch, hands over his face. —Fine. But I’m making out with you in their elevator. You can’t stop me.—

—You know they have a camera in there.—

—Then it’s art.—

—You’re impossible.—

He peeked at her through his fingers as she walked toward the stairs, giving him one final look — part fond, part exasperated, all his.

—You love me though,— he called after her.

—Yeah, yeah,— she called back over her shoulder, —I’ll love you more when you’re wearing pants with a zipper.—

Lando sighed happily into the couch cushions, the echo of her laughter trailing behind her.

Yeah.

He could wait. Maybe. Just until dessert.

Lando dragged himself off the couch with the melodramatic energy of a man deeply wronged by fate and fabric and house rules. He shuffled toward the stairs, muttering to himself about oppression, blue balls, and the cruelty of British architecture that made old wooden floors so damn loud.

Upstairs, he found Amelie already halfway through her outfit change in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand and hair pinned back in that lazy, effortless way that made him feel like some Renaissance painter had designed her just to torment him. She caught his reflection over her shoulder as he entered the room and smirked.

—You’re still pouting,— she said, voice amused as she swiped on a deep berry shade.

—You’re still hot and morally opposed to making out in shared spaces. So yeah, I’m pouting.—

—You’ll survive. Max and Pietra’s apartment has two bathrooms. If you’re really good, maybe I’ll follow you into one.—

He perked up instantly. —That sounds like an incentive system I can get behind.—

Amelie laughed, capping her lipstick and turning to face him. She was in a sleek, cherry red halter top and high-waisted black trousers, gold hoops glinting beneath her hair, and those heeled boots that made her walk like she knew every heart in the room belonged to her.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t inaccurate.

Lando’s eyes swept over her in blatant appreciation. —You’re gonna make it really hard for me to behave at this dinner.—

—That’s the idea,— she said sweetly, grabbing her small bag and brushing past him with a wink.

By the time they made it back downstairs, Cisca was in the living room reading, and Adam was in the kitchen tidying up the last of the lunch dishes.

Cisca looked up with a warm smile. —Off to Max and Pietra’s?—

Amelie nodded. —Yep. I promised Pietra I’d bring dessert. We’re picking it up on the way.—

Adam poked his head around the corner. —Do not let Lando near a cake box. I still remember what happened at your birthday last year.—

—It was one slice and a very soft table!— Lando protested as Amelie laughed.

They said their goodbyes, hugs exchanged, promises of a weekend breakfast tossed around, and then they were finally out the door and sliding into Lando’s McLaren parked in the driveway.

As he pulled onto the quiet street, Lando reached over and slid his hand across the center console, palm open.

Amelie laced her fingers through his without hesitation.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the gentle sound of the tires on the road, the distant hum of the radio, and the warmth of shared silence.

Then Lando said, —You looked good today. In the kitchen. With Mum.—

Amelie turned her head toward him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. —I was wearing your just jeans.—

—Yeah, and you still looked like you belonged more than anyone ever has. Like you were supposed to be there.—

She didn’t say anything right away. Just squeezed his hand a little tighter.

—That’s how I felt too,— she said quietly.

Lando smiled, gaze still on the road, but heart very much on the girl beside him.

—And hey,— he added after a beat, —if this whole singing icon thing doesn’t work out, Mum said you could take over as the family’s head chef.—

—Bold of you to assume I’d take a pay cut like that,— Amelie grinned.

—Yeah, but you’d be paid in eternal devotion and foot massages.—

—And the occasional sneaky bathroom kiss?—

Lando glanced at her, eyes glinting. —Babe, that was never in question.—

And with that, they drove into the London dusk, two kids stupidly in love, dressed for dinner, and plotting entirely inappropriate things in someone else’s apartment guest bathroom.

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

liked by lanmeliecore, lanfanclub69, and others

lanmelieupdates: Lando and Amelie were spotted walking hand-in-hand through Notting Hill tonight

View all 67,925 comments

padockbitch: not lando looking like her bodyguard bf and her sugarbaby at the same time → wagsunhinged: @padockbitch he’s holding her purse like his life depends on it 😭 → lanfanclub69: @wagsunhinged it probably does tbh

oscarssideeye: you’re telling me she walked runways in paris and now she’s walking beside her man like it’s nothing?? → sainzslut: @oscarssideeye she’s the main event and the afterparty at once

bbgamelia: why does this feel like the final scene in a romcom 😭

f1h8r69: she’s literally everywhere how is this not PR 😒 → lanloves: @f1h8r69 ur mom’s a PR stunt and nobody’s complaining → ameliasbrowgel: @f1h8r69 babes just say you're lonely and go

lanmeliecore: they’re not walking they’re floating. on love.

chaoticwags: lando winning races AND boyfriend of the year is sooooooo sexy of him → norilovemail: @chaoticwags she’s healing him like she’s his multivitamin

papayaheart: don’t talk to me i’m busy manifesting a walk like this w my situationship → softlyoscar: @papayaheart good luck babe he still thinks i’m his “bro”

norrisnation: if i was walking behind them i’d fake trip just to make them turn around

thepaddocktea: lando used to look stressed now he looks like a boyfriend with a spotify playlist → gridgossip: @thepaddocktea he def made her a playlist named “manchild healing hours”

lanxmel: just two it-girls in love → teamdayman: @lanxmel the real london bridge falling down is ME every time i see them 😭

mclarenmuse: if love is a crime then arrest THEM

padduckluv: not lando doing his little side-glance like “yeah she’s mine” 😭😭 → wifeydayman: @padduckluv he walks like the sidewalk was built for her

lanfan69: he’s definitely the type to take her bag and act like it’s no big deal 🧍‍♀️ → siriwantrug: @lanfan69 my ex wouldn’t even hold my phone when my hands were full

sweetteaf1: that’s not a couple that’s a lifestyle

norrisupdates: walking around london like they didn’t just break the charts AND win a GP → gridgirlenergy: @norrisupdates productivity couple of the year

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

The dinner was warm and chaotic in the best way.

Max and Pietra’s flat smelled like garlic bread and candles, and their playlist bounced between R&B classics and early 2010s pop bangers. The table was cozy but beautifully set, with mismatched wine glasses and a vase of tulips that Pietra claimed “were for ambiance, not symbolism,” which no one believed for a second.

Lando and Max had been laughing non-stop for the past twenty minutes over some inside joke involving a childhood camping trip, while Pietra leaned into Amelie’s shoulder, whispering commentary about how “your boyfriend literally giggles like a squirrel.”

And Amelie?

She felt full. Full of pasta, full of wine, full of love. Her face ached from smiling. Lando’s hand rested casually on her thigh under the table like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there, like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

She leaned over to grab the empty dessert bag from the sideboard when Pietra rose too.

—Want me to grab plates?— Pietra asked, already heading to the kitchen.

Amelie smiled. —Sure, I’ll go freshen up real quick. Bathroom’s still down the hall?—

Max nodded. —Left at the end. Don’t get lost. It’s a studio apartment, not Narnia.—

She shot him a sarcastic thumbs-up as she padded down the hall, heels soft against the wooden floor. Inside the bathroom, she shut the door behind her and sighed, bracing her hands on the sink.

She smoothed down her hair, dabbed under her eyes with a tissue, and reapplied her lip gloss with a practiced swipe. Her heart was still humming — too much wine and Lando’s thumb tracing soft, maddening circles against her leg under the table.

She was just about to open the door again when...

Knock knock.

Amelie blinked. —Occupied! Be right out!—

But the knocking came again.

—One second!— she called, reaching for the handle.

And when she opened the door...

Lando.

Grinning like he’d just won another Grand Prix. And stepping inside like he’d been waiting for the cue. The door clicked shut behind him before she could get a word out.

—Lan, what are you doing?— she hissed. —We’re at Max’s! And I’m pretty sure this is the only bathroom. You can’t just...—

—Babe,— he murmured, crowding into her space, —I’ve been on my best behavior for hours. HOURS. Do you understand the kind of restraint it took to sit through Max telling stories about my braces phase while your thigh was warm under my hand and you were wearing that damn top?—

His hands found her waist, fingers firm and sure.

She narrowed her eyes. —We’re literally between pasta and tiramisu.—

—Exactly. Perfect time for a palate cleanser,— Lando whispered, pressing a kiss to her neck.

Amelie let out a soft gasp before her hands instinctively pushed at his chest. —Lan, no... someone might actually need to pee.—

—Let them hold it. I’ve been holding this all day.—

And then he kissed her jaw, then her collarbone, slow and unhurried like they weren’t stealing minutes in someone else’s flat. His lips moved like he knew exactly how to unravel her. And before she could argue again, he’d picked her up with an obnoxiously smug grin.

—Lando!— she squeaked as he sat her gently on the edge of the sink.

—Shhh, you’re ruining the fantasy,— he murmured, slipping between her legs.

—We are literally... ohhh... at dinner with your childhood best friend.—

—And that’s exactly why this is funny,— he replied with a kiss to her shoulder. —It’s poetic. Naughty. Classy. I call it “Post-Win Degeneracy.”—

She tried to fight the giggle bubbling in her throat. Failed miserably.

—You’re ridiculous.—

—You’re irresistible.—

He let his gaze linger on her, the low hum of the bathroom fan and the distant murmur of voices from the living room a muffled backdrop to the sudden intensity between them. His hands, still resting on her thighs, began a slow, deliberate journey upwards, pushing aside the fabric of her black trousers.

—Lando,— Amelie breathed, her voice a little shaky now, a stark contrast to her earlier playful resistance. Her eyes, wide and dark, met his, and he saw the surrender there, the same burning desire that mirrored his own.

His thumbs brushed against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and Amelie gasped softly, her fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his head down. He took the hint, capturing her lips in a deep, hungry kiss that banished any remaining thoughts of tiramisu or polite conversation. The kiss was a wildfire, consuming them both, fueled by hours of suppressed longing and the thrill of their stolen moment.

When he finally pulled back, just inches from her face, their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven. His eyes were dark, almost black, with an unshakeable focus on her.

—I need you out of these, Ames,— he murmured, his voice husky as he tugged gently at the waistband of her trousers.

Amelie nodded, her head a little light. She didn't need to speak. Her body was already arching into his touch, an eager participant in their silent agreement. With a deft movement, Lando slid the trousers down her hips, gathering them around her ankles. She kicked them off with a soft thud against the tile floor.

He moved his hands to her cherry red halter top, his fingers finding the delicate clasp at the back. As it unhooked, the fabric loosened, revealing the soft curve of her stomach, then the tantalizing lace of her bra. He peeled the top away slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers, savoring the reveal. The cool air of the bathroom met her skin, but Lando's touch was all warmth.

Amelie, for her part, was far from passive. As Lando worked on her clothes, her hands roamed, finding the loose bulk of his t-shirt. Her fingers slipped under the hem, tracing the hard line of his abs, then moving higher, tugging at the fabric. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against her.

—You’re driving me mad, you know that?— he muttered against her lips, his own breath hitched.

Her answer was to pull his shirt up and over his head, revealing the lean, muscular expanse of his chest. Amelie’s hands immediately sought the warmth of his skin, her fingers splaying across his chest, tracing the faint outline of his abs. Then, with a playful boldness, she dragged her fingernails lightly over the denim of his jeans, just above the fly, teasing him, testing his limits.

Lando stiffened, a sharp intake of breath. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, a silent battle raging within him. When he opened them, they were blazing.

—Amelie...— he warned, but there was no real warning in his tone, only raw desire.

She just smiled, a wicked, knowing smirk. Her head dipped, and she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the pulsing vein in his neck, her tongue flicking lightly against his skin. Her fingers continued their maddening dance over his jeans, a silent promise of what was to come, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. The air in the small bathroom crackled with unspoken desires, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the faint, rhythmic creak of the sink beneath them.

Without another word, Lando moved with a swift efficiency that belied his earlier playfulness. His hands went to the button of his jeans, then the zipper, the soft rasp of the fabric loud in the small, suddenly silent bathroom. The denim slid down his legs, followed quickly by his boxers, pooling around his ankles. He kicked them off, his gaze never leaving hers, a silent challenge in his eyes.

He then reached between them, a familiar anticipation building between them. Amelie gasped, arching into his touch, her legs instinctively tightening around his waist as he entered her in one fluid motion.

A choked sound escaped her lips, a mixture of pleasure and the desperate need for silence. She buried her face in his neck, her teeth gently nipping at his skin to muffle any sound, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

—Quiet, love, quiet,— Lando murmured against her temple, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated through her. He began to move, slow at first, then picking up a rhythm that was both urgent and controlled, perfectly attuned to her body.

The cool porcelain of the sink pressed against her bare thighs, a stark contrast to the heat building between them. Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, designed to push her closer to the edge while maintaining a precarious silence. Amelie’s breath hitched with every movement, her body clenching around him. She bit down on her lip, a soft moan escaping despite her best efforts.

Lando’s hands tightened on her hips, guiding her, supporting her, his eyes fluttering closed as the intensity mounted. The sounds from the living room faded into a distant hum, replaced by the frantic beating of their own hearts and the increasingly shallow sound of their breathing.

—You’re incredible, Ames,— Lando whispered against her ear, his voice rough with exertion, just as she felt the familiar clenching deep inside. It was the only praise she needed, the perfect fuel to her fire.

The culmination hit them almost simultaneously, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that stole their breath and left them trembling. Amelie cried out, a muffled gasp against Lando’s neck, as her body arched violently. Lando groaned, a deep, satisfied sound as he collapsed against her, his forehead resting on her shoulder.

For a moment, they simply held each other, the small bathroom filled with the aftermath of their stolen passion. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, the only sound the frantic thrumming of their pulses.

Lando was the first to stir, pushing himself up slightly, though still heavily leaning against her. He looked down at her, a breathless, satisfied smile spreading across his face.

—Still think that was a bad idea?— he teased, his voice a little hoarse.

Amelie just shook her head, unable to form words, a blissful smile mirroring his own. She pulled his head back down for a soft, lingering kiss.

—We should probably… you know… before Max sends a search party,— she finally managed, her voice still a little shaky.

Lando sighed dramatically. —Fine. But only because I love you and I want tiramisu.— He pulled away, though reluctantly, helping her slide off the sink. He quickly pulled up his boxers and jeans, while Amelie, still a little unsteady, reached for her top and trousers.

As she fumbled with the clasp of her halter, Lando stepped behind her, his warm hands brushing hers away. —Let me get that.— His fingers were surprisingly gentle, expertly fastening the clasp before he dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder.

She pulled on her trousers, feeling a fresh wave of heat as she remembered exactly how they’d come off. They both quickly tidied themselves, running fingers through their hair, taking quick glances in the mirror to ensure they looked… normal.

—Ready?— Lando asked, his hand finding hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Amelie nodded, taking a deep breath and trying to compose herself. —As I’ll ever be.— She looked at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. —Just try not to giggle like a squirrel when we go back out there.—

Lando smirked. —No promises. But it’ll be a happy squirrel, you can bet on that.—

They stepped out of the bathroom like two actors trying to convince an audience that they hadn’t just absolutely desecrated the guest sink.

Amelie’s lipstick had been reapplied, her halter top looked almost exactly as it had when she entered, and Lando’s hair — while slightly more disheveled than it had been at dinner — still passed the “I didn’t just get laid five feet from your dessert forks” test.

They had barely taken a step down the narrow hallway when they froze.

Max.

Standing right there, arms crossed over his chest, brow lifted, a dessert plate in each hand.

He blinked once. Then twice. Then tilted his head to the side, lips pursed in something halfway between horror and disappointment.

—You two are so sick,— he said, voice flat. —In my house. In my one and only bathroom. During dessert. Which I hosted. Out of the kindness of my heart.—

Amelie’s entire face flushed crimson. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, then opted for a small, awkward cough.

—I just… needed to reapply my lip gloss.—

Max shot her a look. Then turned to Lando.

—You’ve changed. You used to have shame. And better timing.—

Lando gave him a sheepish grin and reached to rub the back of his neck. —In my defense… it was mutual.—

—No one here is defending you,— Max replied, handing Lando one of the plates with a bit more force than necessary. —You owe this household, like, three apology desserts. Each.—

Amelie tried to shrink behind Lando. It didn’t help. Max just pointed at her with his fork like a disappointed parent.

—And you! Sweet, innocent popstar girl. I had faith in you. Faith! And you’re the ringleader.—

—Okay, to be fair,— Amelie began, then paused, reconsidering every single choice she’d made in the last fifteen minutes. —Actually no. I’m sorry. I have no excuse.—

Max looked between them both, then let out a long, dramatic sigh and turned toward the kitchen.

—You’re banned from my bathroom forever. If you need to pee, go next door to the neighbors and explain yourselves. I’m done.—

—Come on, mate,— Lando called after him. —It’s not like we broke the sink.—

Max whirled back around. —DID you break the sink?—

Amelie held up her hands instantly. —No! God, no. The sink is fine. I think. Probably. We were very gentle.—

Max clutched his chest. —Don’t say “gentle.” In my hallway. Where I walk with clean thoughts.—

Just then, Pietra peeked out from the kitchen.

—Is this about the sex sink thing? Max told me. Honestly, I’m impressed you managed to keep it that quiet.—

Amelie groaned into her hands. —Oh my god.—

—Honestly?— Pietra added, completely unfazed. —I just hope you washed your hands before touching the dessert spoons.—

Lando turned to Amelie with a tiny smirk. —I love our friends.—

—You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,— she muttered, though her smile betrayed her.

Max’s voice drifted in from the kitchen one last time.

—You bring that sink into my house again, Norris, and I’m making you clean it. With a toothbrush. And a priest.—

And with that, the night continued — one dessert, two scandalized hosts, and four friends laughing until they cried over tiramisu that was, quite literally, tainted by love.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Every Part Of You

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Chubby!Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: angst, putting yourself down, feeling insecure about height and weight, fluff at the end

Request anon: Can I get an imagine where the reader doesn’t feel like she is good enough for Spence? She is short, chubby, and plain looking. Nothing like his other crushes.

Summary: Sometimes, the voices in your head are so loud that you can’t think about anything else. They make you compare yourself to everyone and question your worth. Spencer is different. He makes the voices disappear, even if for a little bit.

Square Filled: jealousy for @criminalmindsbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3

x

It’s going to be fine. This is Spencer. He’s going to take you somewhere fun. Don’t overthink it. It’s easier said than done. You’ve spent your whole life overthinking things. You don’t mean to, but when your insecurities are staring you in the face, it’s hard not to think about them constantly. Your entire family is tall, but you must have gotten different genes because you’re shorter than anyone you’ve ever known. Barefoot, you come up to five feet. That’s it. Sure, you can use heels, but most of them hurt your feet.

If it’s not about your height, then it’s your weight. Your sisters are tall and skinny. Your brother is lean and muscular. Your parents are a mixture of the two. Then there is you. Chubby. You weigh more than someone of your height should weigh. You’re not overly obese, but you could stand to lose a few dozen pounds.

Your belly is round and pokes out of jeans, your breasts are bigger than normal, and your thighs look like they can suffocate a bitch. Some days are good when you don’t think much about what you look like, but most days are bad when all you can do is think about it.

Today is a bad day.

Spencer is coming over to pick you up for a date, where he can introduce you to his friends from work. You have to look good, so you’re obsessing over what you’ll be wearing. You choose a sundress that kind of hides your stomach, that flows all around you. To pair it off, you’ve put on small black heels that only give you a couple of more inches of height.

Look at how fat you are. Spencer won’t like this on you. All of his friends will judge you.

Tears spring to your eyes when you hear the voice in your head. Maybe she’s right. Why is Spencer with you? He could have someone taller and skinnier and prettier. Your insecurities aren’t new to him, so he spends every night telling you how beautiful you are. Every time he picks you up for a date, he compliments you. You should be so lucky to have someone like him in your life, and you do.

You just don’t understand why he’s with you.

By the time Spencer comes, you don’t have time to change into something else. He’s not driving, but he still wanted to pick you up like a gentleman. You quiet the voices in your head and answer the front door. Spencer looks so good in his sweater vest. How did you ever get to be so lucky?

“Oh, my God. You look stunning. Absolutely gorgeous.”

Hearing how genuine he is when he says these things makes your heart happy. It makes you believe his words. He makes you feel good about yourself. Maybe this date won’t end up being so bad, not as long as Spencer is there.

“You look very handsome,” you grin.

“Come on. We’re going to lunch. The entire team is excited to meet you.”

The excitement for this date dwindles a bit once you hear you’re going to lunch. One thing you hate doing is eating in front of them. All you think about is how they’re thinking what a pig you are. Still, you don’t want to ruin this for Spencer, so you don’t comment on it.

Everyone is going to judge you.

You force the voice out of your head as you make your way to the bus stop that’s down the block from your house. Spencer has either his hand in yours or his arm around you. His touch makes you feel safe, like you can do this without there being an issue.

However, the second you see his friends, your body stiffens. JJ is tall and slender. Her collarbones are prominent, and she fills out a pair of jeans perfectly. No fat anywhere on her body. Emily is also just as tall. She’s a bit heavier than JJ, but still skinny. She is wearing a dress, and there is no bump where her stomach spills over the front. Penelope is the heaviest of the three, but she makes her sparkling dress look so good. Even Derek is tall and muscular.

It’s like your family is right in front of you.

Look at them. You’ll never look as good as they do. For once, you agree with the voice.

“Ah, you must be Y/N. I’m Penelope. It’s so nice to meet you. I love your dress,” she grins.

“Thank you. I love yours, too.”

She gives you a hug as a greeting, but the others shake your hand. They don’t want to hug someone who is fat. It’s taking everything in you not to cry right now. Once everyone is seated, the waiter comes over to take everyone’s orders. They all order whatever they want, regardless of the calorie or fat count. You’re healthy according to your last blood work, but you don’t order what you truly want. Instead, you get a salad in hopes you don’t get judged.

Do you really think it matters what you eat? You’re a pig. That’s all they’re going to think about when you stuff your face.

“So, Y/N, what do you do?” JJ asks.

“Oh, um, I’m an art teacher. I teach art for adults at my studio.”

“That’s so cool. We have to go,” Penelope grins. “I love painting. I’m not very good at it, but I love it.”

“Yeah, it’s fun. I never know what I’ll get when I do a class. I’ll send you the information.”

“Awesome!”

“So, Spencer has been very cagey at work. We figured you might provide us with more information. How did you two meet?” Emily asks.

They’re just pretending to be nice to you. They secretly hate you.

“Oh, um…”

Spencer immediately jumps in when it’s clear you’re not going to speak. “I accidentally walked into her studio one day thinking it was something else, and I was smitten. Hooked from day one.”

The waiter comes back with the food, and everyone digs in. All except for you. They stuff their faces, but it looks elegant when they do it. They don’t have double chins and extra fat on their faces like you. You can feel the judgment coming off them when you take your first bite. Suddenly, the food doesn’t look too good. Your appetite is gone.

Conversation flows smoothly across the table. You try to answer their questions as best as you can, but you’re trying hard not to cry. Spencer, being a very skilled profiler, notices the shift in your behavior. Something is wrong.

“Are you okay? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

“I want to go home,” you mutter.

“What?”

“Take me home. Now. Please,” you add quietly.

“Hey, listen, I’m not feeling too well,” Spencer lies to his friends. “We’re just going to head out. Sorry to cut this lunch short.”

“Oh, no. Are you okay?” JJ asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I just need to lie down. Maybe we can do a dinner sometime later.”

“Sure.”

Spencer puts some money down for both of your meals and helps you into your jacket. Look what you made him do. He had to lie to his friends because you’re too insecure to eat in front of them. Of course. Now you hate yourself even more for it.

The entire ride home is quiet, and you practically run to the bathroom when you get home. You slam the door shut behind you and lock the door. Tears spill over your eyes and roll down your cheeks in waves.

“Y/N, are you okay? What’s going on?”

There is no way Spencer is going to leave you when you’re feeling this way.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

“I can hear you crying. You’re not fine. Open the door. Talk to me.” He tries the doorknob, but it’s locked. He runs his hand over the frame of the door where you keep the spare key. “I’m coming in.”

He uses the key to get inside the bathroom, and his heart breaks when he sees you leaning against the bathtub in tears. He loves you so much, and he knows that whatever issues you’re having, it’s not going to go away with some compliments and a pep talk. He sits down next to you and pulls you into his arms, not saying a word. You’ll speak when you’re ready. Right now, all he provides is a shoulder to cry on, and that’s exactly what you do for the next thirty minutes.

“Talk to me, Y/N. What’s going on?”

You’re so tired of holding onto this weight. It’s killing you.

“I just… All I could think about at lunch was how I don’t look like JJ or Emily or Penelope. They’re skinny and beautiful with no fat showing. Look at me. I have back rolls and thick thighs and stretch marks and a big belly. I’m not pretty enough for you. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I don’t know why you’re with me.”

“Okay. First, let’s get you off this floor. Let’s get changed. We’ll stay in bed for the rest of the day. Come on.”

Spencer helps you off the ground, and he helps you get undressed and ready for bed. Once you’re in comfy sweats and his shirt, you two cuddle in bed.

“I want you to listen to me, okay? I let you speak, and now it’s my turn.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see a beautiful young woman who has a passion for art. Who loves a lot and is loved a lot. I see your heart, which is filled with kindness. That’s what I fell in love with. Everything else is a gift. I don’t look at your weight and see ugliness. I see beauty. Your thighs, they’re the perfect size for grabbing. Your stomach is the perfect size for holding at night. I love your stretch marks because they make you look like a goddess. I love every inch of you, and I will spend every day telling those voices in your head to shut up because I can’t see my life without you in it.”

Tears fall from your eyes for a different reason. This won’t heal you of your issues forever, but it’s a damn good start. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him because you’re out of words. You’re speechless. He wouldn’t be with you if he didn’t love you, and it’s about time you start seeing that.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you. Every part of you.”

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[af4ll3nst4r]

𝙻𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝙶𝚘 𝙶𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐!!!𝟷!𝟷!!𝟷!

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣 (𝕎𝕙𝕠'𝕤 𝕒 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕙𝕚𝕞)

𝐑𝗼𝗺𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝗼𝐧𝐬

Art by ron_just000 on X :D

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Okay… were you and Chance a match made in heaven? Because they surely believe so!

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You both love gambling… come onnn come onnnnn.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You two met while he was gambling at his parent’s casino. You sat down and instantly sparked their interest. Confidence shined in your eye, and smug smile tugging at your lips as you sat down across from him. You slammed a couple of dollars down on the table. You heard about all the rage of how lucky he was, and how not single person lost to him. And you swore you were gonna win against them. “How about we make a bet.” You say, and Chance swore right then and there you were prefect for him.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You were confident, cocky, and charming. You reminded him so much of himself, he had to pause to think he wasn’t looking in a mirror that reflected his entire personality.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You two were instant friends. Though, you were quite skeptical of Itrapped, you didn’t say much since it wasn’t really any of your business. You just were friends with Chance and that was all.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Anyway, you and Chance joke around.. A LOT. Even when you were both forsaken—which they were shocked to found out you ended up there too— you two still shared snarky comments as a way to lighten things up. Hey, there needs to be some positivity in this realm close enough to be considered hell.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You were actually forsaken recently after Chance. Once they spotted you in that cabin, he ran to you like you were a hundred dollar bill conveniently placed on the sidewalk.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Oh god, they could NOT take their hands off of you. He was scared you might slip away the moment he lets you out of his grasp. He’s just scared they’ll loose you too.. but after a whole bunch of reassurance, it was back to the ordinary shenanigans between you two.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You two are risk takers, and commonly make bets with each other. “If this lands on heads you have to wash the dishes for a week, and if it lands on tails I have to do it.” They say, holding the golden coin in between his fingers. A daring expression on their face. You smirk at his offer. “Bet,” you respond, poise painting your tone.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Chance didn’t confess… no, he made a bet. Which is, oddly fitting and humorous. “If this lands on heads you have to be my partner!” They declared. “Bet— wait.. what?” You paused, but he was already flipping the coin.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Surprise, surprise.. as the coin landed upon his wrist. And standing upright, the coin had landed on heads.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ They chuckled, a smug grin appearing on his face. “Haha! Heads!” They then hesitated, their confidence wavering as he turned his head to face you. “Please..?” They spoke, cocking his head to the side. You could see the hope glimmering in their eyes. Yet, another gamble of friendship and romance. You only laughed in response, before bringing your hands to cup his face. Your lips then pressing against theirs as you kiss him delicately. They practically melted in your hands.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Oh my god he SPOILS YOU SO BADLYYY. Even before you two were officially dating they did so. Buying you gifts ‘just because.’ “Oh, I thought it would look good on you.” They say, handing you an extremely expensive suit or dress you remembered admiring. “It reminded me of you!” He says, his voice having a slight jingle to it as he hands you elegantly wrapped gift with contents worth at LEAST five hundred dollars.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You want to return the favor but you’re not exactly filthy rich like them. Sure, you have your fair share of money due to your luck at gambling but not like him. You are by no means using him for their wealth. And you feel guilty knowing you can’t buy them overly nice and expensive things.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ You remember telling this Chance, admitting how you want to return the favor so badly but just can’t seem to afford to. They’d smile at you, not the smug and confident one you were used to seeing, but a genuine and gentle smile. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, bringing you close. “You’re already all the gold I need..” They say to softly. And with that, you hold him tighter.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Though, as you expressed your guilt.. Chance hesitated. They weren’t used to people wanting to him something in return, or at the very least spoil him as well. But, then again, it was just another reason why they fell in love with you. And another reason they knew they could trust you.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Chance smooth talks you, and flirts with so incredibly often. Sometimes, he doesn’t even mean to do it, just praises you involuntarily. Though, they always see a red hue appear on your face once. Not like they’re complaining though, he loves making you flustered.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Though, when you flirt with him, it’s a game to them. As a flirty comment leaves your mouth, it suddenly becomes a game of whose face turns the reddest. Though slowly, they become putty in your hands. And as he desperately tries to fan the heat from his face, you giggle and pull him in for another kiss.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ He lives for your kisses. Seriously, the words—“If this lands on heads you gotta give me a kiss!” Is incredibly often to hear. What? Can a guy not love their partner’s affection?

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Chance cannot keep their hands off of you. There’s always an arm wrapped around your hip or waist, shoulder or arm. It’s as though he’s telling the whole world you’re their partner. It’s actually kinda sweet.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ Though, as much as Chance loves to gamble, you’ve gotta be their favorite thing they’ve won. Seriously.. Lady Luck was on his side when you pulled him in for a kiss that one day.

ᵎ⋆.°🎰⋆.ೃ And you can bet, that they’ll always be there. He loves you dearly after all.

[supercorpkid]

Sin x Secret

Supergirl. Baby Danvers x Lena Luthor. Kara Danvers. Alex Danvers. Kelly Olsen. Nia Nal.

Word Count: 3.9k

“So that's it?” Lena asks, voice low and uncertain, as if the answer might kill her—even though she’s the one who said it first. “We’re… done?”

“Yeah.” You can’t believe the word comes out of your mouth. How can you and Lena be breaking up when you love her so much? “I—I think so.”

You just sit there, staring at each other from opposite ends of the couch. Silence settles between you, heavy and fragile like glass.

“There’s just one tiny thing,” you say. Lena raises an eyebrow. “Alex’s engagement party tomorrow.”

“Oh, fuck. I forgot about that.”

You both groan at the same time, and it’s almost funny. Almost comforting. Almost like nothing's changed. But it has. Everything has changed.

“Look,” Lena says, folding her hands tightly in her lap. “I don’t want to lie to anyone, but—”

“Tomorrow isn’t about us,” you complete. “We’re not going to ruin their party. We can tell them afterward.”

Lena nods, slow and reluctant. “Right. After.”

For a second, it feels like you’ve agreed to more than just a secret. It feels like you’re promising not to fall apart—at least not where anyone can see.

She stands, smoothing her clothes even though she’s in pajama shorts and one of your old hoodies. “We should figure out how we’re going to play this.”

You force a weak smile. “You mean how to fake being in love with you for an entire evening?”

Lena looks at you. Looks through you. “I don’t think either of us has ever faked that part.”

It’s a punch to the chest, the way she says it. Soft. Honest. Dangerous.

You look away. “Okay. So we’ll do our part. We’ll smile, hold hands, take pictures, laugh at Kara’s dumb speech, slow dance if we have to…”

"Kiss?” 

It’s a simple question. An obvious one. But it knocks the air out of your lungs. Because yeah, you’d kiss Lena in a heartbeat. You’d kiss her right now.

But what if you can’t stop? What if her mouth ruins you all over again? What if it feels like home, and you have to walk away from it anyway?

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice hoarse. “Can you?”

Lena doesn’t answer right away. She just stands there in the doorway, hands clenched into the sleeves of your hoodie—hers now, you guess. Her eyes are glassy in the low light. You can’t tell if it’s anger or heartbreak or both.

“I’ll try,” she says finally. Then adds, quietly, “If you can maybe not… um, do that thing.”

You blink. “What thing?”

Lena’s cheeks flush red. She looks anywhere but at you. “You know, the thing with the tongue and—”

“Oh. Right. I won’t do the thing.”

You nod solemnly, like you’re making a vow. Even though you have no idea how not to kiss Lena with everything inside you. That’s the only way you’ve ever known how. Like it’s the last time. Like she’ll vanish if you don’t kiss her hard enough to keep her tethered.

She hugs herself. “Thanks. It’s just… I can’t—”

“I get it,” you cut in gently. “Me too.”

A beat.

Then Lena gives a small, crooked smile. “So we’re fake-dating tomorrow, but without the tongue.”

“Right. Strictly PG-13.” You try to match her tone. Light. Casual. Like your chest isn’t cracking open.

“And the day after the party…” she starts, but her voice wavers, and she lets it trail off.

“We’ll tell them.”

And just like that, the clock starts ticking on the last day you'll ever be hers, even if this time is just pretend.

You're late, which is not surprising to anyone—though they act like it is. You've tried being on time before, you swear, but time is a construct and it used to move completely differently on Krypton, so really, it’s not your fault. Besides, being able to cross the city in under a second has made you... a little lax with punctuality.

“You're late,” is the first thing Lena says when she opens the door to her penthouse.

And it hits you like a slap—not her words, but her. The way she looks. Her hair woven into the prettiest braid, neat and effortless in that way only Lena can manage. The black dress fits her like a whispered promise, hugging every curve you know by memory now—each line of her body a path your hands used to trace in the dark. And then there's the slit in the front, plunging too low, revealing the soft line of her cleavage. Your eyes follow it without thinking, like a reflex. Like your body still hasn’t caught up to the part where you’re not allowed to anymore. She looks like a sin dressed in silk. Like a secret you can't keep.

Your mouth goes dry. “And you look too good. Can you change?”

Lena’s brow lifts. “What? No, I'm not gonna change. We're late!”

“Fine,” you mutter, dragging your eyes away from her cleavage. “But just so you know, you're making this a lot harder than it has to be.”

She laughs, light and unbothered. Like she didn’t cry into your hoodie last night. Like she hasn’t been sitting in your chest like a bruise ever since.

“Let’s just go, Y/N.”

By the time you walk into Alex and Kelly’s apartment, everyone’s already gathered in the cozy living room. Balloons tied to chairs, silver and white streamers trailing from the ceiling. A homemade banner that says She said yes! hangs crooked above the fireplace—Kara’s handiwork, probably.

Alex spots you first and lights up. “Finally! We were starting to think you two got distracted on the way here.”

You laugh too fast. “Traffic.”

“Oh, there’s traffic in the sky now?” Kelly teases, handing you both drinks with a wink. “I’m just impressed you two managed to get your hands off each other long enough to show up.”

You nearly choke. Lena just takes a sip of her wine, cool and unreadable.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, searching for something—confirmation, a crack, anything. But she doesn’t flinch. She’s always been better at pretending than you.

And that’s the worst part: this used to be effortless. This used to be real.

Now, every second feels like you're trying to hold on to something that's already slipping through your fingers. And you can't even grieve it. Not here. Not tonight. Not when everyone’s watching and expecting you to smile like nothing’s wrong.

So you smile. And you drink. And you try not to look at Lena too long, or remember what her laugh used to feel like when it was only for you.

But your heart is already screaming.

There’s music and dancing and laughter in the background. You hear it—sort of. It slips through the noise of your own mind, screaming at you to act normal. Just one more hour. Just one more moment. Just get through this.

Then comes the call for a group photo. Someone corrals everyone in front of the banner. Alex is glowing. Kelly is beaming. You try to stand behind Kara, but—

Nia elbows you gently. “Here, switch with me so you’re next to Lena.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you start to protest, already backing away.

But she’s already moving.

And suddenly Lena is beside you, her perfume subtle but devastating, her hand sliding around your waist with practiced ease—like this is just another Saturday night, like nothing has changed.

You can’t breathe.

“Smile, darling,” Lena murmurs beside you, the word slipping out too easily, too naturally.

And that’s when your brain stops working altogether.

Because it’s not the nickname. Not the hand at your waist. Not even the practiced smile she gives for the camera.

It’s the fact that, for one terrifying second, you almost forget you’re pretending.

You almost lean into her. You almost kiss her temple.   You almost believe you didn’t lose her.

And it guts you. 

Later, you’re sitting alone on the loveseat, nursing your drink and trying not to look like you’re watching Lena. But, of course, you are. How could you not? She’s across the room, laughing at something M’gann said, her fingers twirling the stem of her wine glass, legs crossed like a goddamn movie star.

Your heart’s in your throat where it has been all night. It’s starting to feel like your ribs weren’t designed to hold it in.

Kara plops down beside you, folding her legs beneath her and balancing a second cupcake in her hand. “Hey,” she says, bumping your shoulder. “You and Lena are acting weird today. Everything alright?”

You freeze.

You don’t mean to look at Lena again, but your eyes betray you. One glance. Just one. And she’s already looking. Smiling softly. Eyes flicking your way like she knows you’re watching her. Like she likes that you are.

Your heart nearly breaks your ribs this time.

“She just…” you start, words catching somewhere in your throat. What are you supposed to say? That you’re broken up? That you’re lying to everyone in this room?

You settle for the only truth you can handle.

“She looks so hot.”

Kara blinks. “What?”

“I’m trying to stay away so I don’t jump her bones right here in front of everyone.”

There’s a long, horrified beat.

“Oh my Rao, Y/N!” Kara nearly drops her cupcake. “Ew! Just—ew, okay? TMI!”

She springs up from the couch like it burned her, wiping her hands on her dress like she needs to physically scrub the mental image away.

You can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “You asked.”

“I was expecting, like, ‘We had a fight,’ not graphic horny sibling confessions!”

You shrug, cheeks hot. “It’s not my fault Lena decided to wear that dress. Look at her bu—”

“NOPE,” Kara groans, clutching her head like she’s been cursed. “I’m done. I’m going to go talk to literally anyone else.”

She storms off in mock horror, cupcake still in hand.

You shake your head, trying to laugh it off, but the heat under your skin doesn’t go anywhere.

Across the room, Lena catches your eye again. She quirks an eyebrow—teasing, knowing. Like she knows exactly what just happened. Like she knows exactly what that dress is doing to you.

And then—she moves.

Not toward you. Not yet.

But toward the music, toward the open space where a few others are swaying lazily in pairs. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t invite anyone to join her. Just starts moving like the music is something she owns. 

You can't believe your eyes, you can't believe she is dancing. Because Lena doesn’t like dancing. At least, not usually. She’ll do it if she’s drunk, or if you put on music in the morning and pull her close, swaying your hips together in lazy half-steps across the kitchen floor.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

She moves like a secret meant only for you—hips swaying slow and deliberate, head tilted just enough to let her braid slide over one shoulder. Her eyes flick toward you again, dark and dangerous and amused.

You don’t mean to stare. Honestly, you try not to. But your eyes betray you—again—and when hers find yours from across the room, she winks.

Your entire face goes hot.

Kara, who somehow always appears at the exact wrong time, leans in with a low, exasperated warning: “Lena, please don’t do that. She’s already having a really hard time with that dress. Let’s try to keep it in our pants, okay?”

Lena bursts into laughter like Kara’s just delivered the punchline of the year. She turns toward her, voice sweet like honey and just as dangerous, “Oh, that’s exactly where she’s going.”

“Why! Why are you two doing this to me today?” Kara groans, visibly scandalized. She takes a few bold strides toward you like she’s about to stage an intervention. “Hey, horndog! Can you and your girlfriend behave? No one here wants to see you staring at each other like that.”

You try to play it cool, coy, anything to hide the panic rising in your chest. “Like what?”

“Like the world is going to end if you can’t touch each other.”

And it’s… too accurate.

Your breath catches. Your eyebrows lift, surprised—shocked—that she said exactly what you’re feeling, like she cracked open your chest and peeked inside. You blink, fast, but it’s no use. The tears come anyway. Hot and heavy. Because maybe the world is ending. Maybe it already did.

“Shit,” Kara mutters, instantly worried. “Shit. Sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to yell.” She softens, crouching beside you like she’s apologizing to a child. “Please don’t cry.”

You swallow, throat burning. You have to tell her. You can’t keep lying, not to her. She’s your sister. She’d understand. She'd keep your secret for tonight, you're sure.

“Kara, I—I gotta tell you something.”

But before you can get the words out, Lena’s already beside you, like she felt you slipping.

“Hey,” she says, soft and steady. “It's okay.” She glances at Kara and gives a subtle nod—dismissal or protection, you don’t know which. “I got her.”

Then her eyes are back on you. Warm. Calm. Still yours in a way that wrecks you.

“Come on, honey,” she whispers, reaching for your hand. “Let’s go clean your face.”

You let her pull you to your feet.

And you don’t look back.

The bathroom is warm and quiet, and thankfully far from everyone. Lena shuts the door behind you with a soft click, and you don’t say anything at first—just grip the edges of the sink, trying to breathe.

She dampens a towel, dabs gently under your eyes, her other hand cupping the back of your neck to steady you.

“You okay?” she asks, voice low.

“No,” you answer. Too fast. Too honest. “But thanks for pretending I am.”

Lena offers a faint, tired smile. “It’s what we’re both doing tonight.”

You flinch. “Right. Guess I just wasn’t as good at it.”

She shrugs, still impossibly calm, like she’s not the one who sent your entire nervous system into overdrive five minutes ago. “You weren’t supposed to be good at it. Just play the part.”

“Oh, I was supposed to play the part?” You scoff. “You’ve been swaying your ass around the living room like you’re trying to win a lap dance contest.”

Lena raises an eyebrow, unbothered. “I wore a dress. I danced.”

“You winked at me.”

“You stared.”

You push away from the sink. “Oh, come on. You did it on purpose even though we had a deal.”

“I didn’t even touch you, Y/N.”

You step closer, until there’s barely space between you. Close enough to feel her breath. Close enough to fall. “You know you don’t have to. Just admit that you wore this dress for the sole reason of driving me insane.”

She meets your gaze—unflinching, infuriating, impossible. “Maybe I did.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

You push her back against the wall—not rough, not gentle, just enough—and you’re kissing her before you even think it through. You kiss her like you’re furious. Like you’re starving. Like this is the last thing keeping you alive.

And when your tongue brushes against hers and you do that thing—the one you promised you wouldn’t do—Lena gasps into your mouth, like it knocks something loose inside her. But she doesn’t stop you. She pulls you closer.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s not pretend.

It’s hunger. It’s grief. It’s home.

It’s everything you’ve been trying to bury.

She tastes like red wine and regret, and the kiss feels like confession—hot, reckless, holy. A sin you’d commit again. A sin you'd commit forever if it always led to her.

Your hands are in her hair, her fingers are tugging at your shirt like she can’t bear to let go, and for a split second it feels like time is folding in on itself—like this isn’t borrowed or fake or ending.

When you finally pull back, breathless and trembling, her lipstick is smudged, and your heart is thundering so hard it hurts.

Lena blinks, stunned. Her lips part like she wants to say something, but the words don’t come.

“I wanna rip this goddamn dress off,” you whisper, and it’s not just lust—it’s desperation. Worship. Grief.

Her breath stutters. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that, if you're not gonna do it.”

But her voice is barely there. She’s flushed and on fire, her chest rising and falling too fast, her hands still curled in your shirt like she’s afraid to let go.

You know exactly what you’re doing to her. You also know that she’s doing it to you, too.

You look into her eyes—really look—and it nearly shatters you. Her pupils are blown wide, her gaze frantic, like she’s seconds away from coming undone. Like she’s begging you to give in first so she won’t have to.

And for a second, you almost do.

Because why does this feel like how the world ends and how it begins, all at once?

Why does it feel so right—so yours—but also borrowed and sinful, like something you were never meant to hold this long?

She nods at you slowly—like permission. Like a plea. Like please don’t stop, please keep going, please touch me.

And you understand. You know what she’s asking for. What you could have, right now, if you just reached for it.

But you can’t. Not when she isn’t yours anymore. Not when her body remembers you, but her heart already said goodbye.

You take a step back. Barely an inch, but it feels like an ocean.

“Lena…” you whisper, and your voice is wrecked. “We said we wouldn’t.”

Her eyes flutter shut. She nods again, this time with her jaw clenched tight like she’s trying not to fall apart. “I know.”

You adjust her dress carefully, smoothing the fabric where your hands had bunched it. And she lets you.

Silence settles between you, thick and awful.

You just stand there, in the eye of the storm, hands still aching from not touching her, mouth still bruised from the kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.

“I’m gonna—” You gesture vaguely to the door, already backing away. “I just… I need a minute.”

You don’t wait for Lena to answer. You can’t.

She looks wrecked—lip bitten raw, dress rumpled, chest still rising like she hasn’t found her breath yet—and you know she’ll need time to pull herself together before walking back into that living room like nothing happened.

So you do what she doesn’t have time to. You flee.

You make it back into the hallway with a drink in your hand and a practiced smile that you hope doesn’t look like a bruise.

Kara shows up beside you not much later, “I don’t wanna know what happened in there, I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

You force a grin, bumping her shoulder. “Relax, Kara. You didn’t break my heart just because you called me a horndog.”

She gives you a look, but there’s relief in it.

You look down at your glass, trying to shake off the way your ribs still feel like they’re cracking open. “By the way,” you add, voice lighter than your chest feels, “I thought you said there would be cake?”

The party winds down slowly, like the end of a dream you don’t want to wake from but can’t stay in, either.

Lena doesn’t say much when she comes back from the bathroom. Her lipstick is fixed, her expression unreadable. You don’t look at her. Not at first.

You just stand beside her when the final toast is made, you hold her hand when Eliza pulls you both in for a hug, and when Alex thanks everyone for making the night so magical, you smile like your heart isn’t dragging behind you in pieces.

You don’t say anything until you’re alone again, walking Lena to her door, the city silent around you like it knows what’s coming.

“That kiss—” she starts, unlocking the door slowly. “That wasn’t fair. To either of us.”

You nod. “It was the wine. The dress. The whole romance-in-the-air thing.”

She swallows hard. “Yeah. Just... a mistake.”

“Right.” You try to believe it. Try to make it sound like you mean it.

She doesn’t ask you to come in. And you don’t ask if she wants you to. Just a nod. A quiet goodnight. The slow closing of a door that feels way too familiar now.

The next morning, your phone buzzes.

You’re still half-dreaming when you reach for it, fingers fumbling across the nightstand. Your body is heavy with exhaustion, with memory. The space beside you is cold. Of course it is.

The screen lights up.

Nia Nal sent a photo.

You tap it open without thinking. And then you stop breathing.

The picture is from last night—softly lit, slightly blurred, but unmistakable. It's you and Lena.

Neither of you looking at the camera. Just… looking at each other.

You're halfway through a laugh, your smile crooked and helpless. She's watching you with the kind of expression that makes time stutter—like you’re the only real thing in the room. Like you're gravity itself.

And underneath it, Nia’s caption reads:

Find someone who looks at you like you're their whole world 💫 #relationshipgoals

Your heart twists. Violent and sudden.

You press a hand to your chest like that might steady it, but it doesn’t. Because this isn't some cute picture. This is a mirror. A gut punch. A truth you’ve been too afraid to say out loud.

What are we doing? Why are we pretending we can survive this apart?

You’re already flying before you can stop yourself—barefoot, breathless, wind slicing at your skin. You don’t care. You’d fly straight into the sun if it meant seeing her again.

You land on the balcony just as she reaches for the handle.

The door flies open, and there she is. Hair unbrushed. Eyes rimmed with sleep and something deeper, something unraveling.

She stares at you like she isn’t sure if you’re real.

“I was coming to you,” she says, and her voice is nothing—just breath and want.

“I know,” you whisper.

And that’s all it takes.

You crash into each other like gravity won. Like longing built too long inside your bones and finally broke free.

Her hands are in your hair, yours on her waist, your mouths finding each other in something too fierce to be gentle, too soft to be violent. The kiss is everything you didn’t say. Everything you couldn’t.

You taste grief and love and every second of pretending. You kiss her like you’re trying to memorize the shape of a future you nearly gave up.

She kisses you like she’s trying to say sorry without words. Like don’t let me go again.

You pull her closer. Like you're trying to tell her that it's going to work this time. We'll make it work.

You both shake, slightly, from the weight of it.

And when you finally break for air, foreheads pressed together, hearts slamming in sync, you whisper what’s been sitting in your chest since you saw that photo, “I look at you like you’re my whole world because you are.”

Her breath hitches.

And then she’s kissing you again—fiercer this time. More certain. Less fear.This time, it’s not the party. It’s not the wine. It’s not a sin, nor a secret. It’s real. It's yours.

[livelaughleclerc]

Pick Up Lines - AL50

Pairing: Arthur Leclerc x fem!reader

Warnings: none. Though I swear a lot IRL and I can’t believe I have written a fic with no swear words, so there may be one in there I’ve missed. EDIT: there is one near the end lol 🙈

Summary: You are Arthur’s best friend and in love with him. One time when you’re drunk you text him a pick up line and he thinks you have a crush on someone and are just testing the line on him, so you start texting him daily pick up lines. They can’t possibly be working on Arthur though, can they?

A/N: I stumbled upon @/savannahraedemers on instagram and fell in love. 99% of the pick up lines in this fic came from her. I just wanted to write a fun, fluffy fic so I hope you enjoy ❤️

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Arthur moved the iced coffee to his other hand to pull keys out of his pocket and open the door.

“It’s me! Morning!” he called out cheerfully, making his way into the kitchen to put the cup down on the work surface just as you walked into the room, hair still damp from the shower.

“Wait, you actually brought me coffee?”

“Well yeah, I said if you went for a run, I’d get you iced coffee from your favourite place, I knew bribery would work,” he said with a wink.

“And I knew there was a reason I let you have keys to my place!” You picked up the coffee happily and took a big sip.

You and Arthur had been best friends for years. You’d randomly met at a bar in Monaco one night and immediately hit it off. Unfortunately for you, Arthur saw you as just a friend, a best friend who he spent most of his time outside racing with, but a friend nonetheless. Part of you had fallen for him all those years ago in the club as the neon lights lit up his eyes making them sparkle, but over the years you’d fallen head over heels for your best friend. Quite simply the dumbest thing you’d ever done but you’d decided friendship with Arthur was better than no Arthur at all. So, you kept your feelings hidden, tried to disguise your sadness when he dated other girls and just focused on being grateful you had him in your life.

A few days later, Arthur was in Maranello, taking a break from the sim during the midnight hours when his phone buzzed with a text from you.

“You are hotel…without the ‘el’.”

He re-read it confused before finally figuring out you were trying to say he was hot.

“Was this meant for someone else? Are you drunk?” he responded, still somewhat baffled.

“No, it was meant for you but yeah I’m drunk. I’m trying out pick up lines.”

Arthur’s brain was exhausted from the hours spent in the sim and he was still perplexed why you were suddenly sending him messages like this.

“Oh wait, you meant trying out so you can figure out which ones would work for a guy you like? Wait, do you have a crush?” typed Arthur, proud of himself for figuring it out. His phone lit up with a single word answer “Yeah.”

Miles away in a club in Monaco you put your phone down with a deep sigh and took another shot of tequila. “It’s you, dumbass,” you muttered sadly under your breath, phone vibrating gently on the table with a response.

“I can definitely help! Send me all the pick up lines and I shall tell you which is the best!”

And so it began.

You and Arthur used to send good morning texts. But this morning he had woken up to a silly pick up line instead.

“Are you a triangle? Because you’re acute one. And you look good from every angle.”

“Wait, what is acute?”

“It’s maths, Thur! Nevermind. I’ll cross that one off my list…”

“If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple, and if you were a vegetable, you’d be a cutecumber. And if you were mine, that would be pretty awesome.”

Arthur read the message and sighed, hand running subconsciously through his hair.

“You don’t even like cucumbers?”

“Ah but cutecumbers. Yes please.”

He rolled his eyes fondly as he typed his response. “You are an idiot.”

The reply came back immediately. “Ah I learned from the best (you, obvs) <3”

“Are you French? Because Eiffel for you. Get it? I fell, Eiffel. No, this one is bad. Also, don’t reply to this because I am not having another argument with you about how you say you are French when you are Monegasque…”

Arthur rubbed his tired eyes, he’d just woken up and found himself grabbing his phone to see what you’d text him this morning. Upon reading it, he grinned.

“Ah but I am French,” he replied, knowing it would wind you up, despite the fact that you were from neither France nor Monaco.

“Do not start or I will screenshot this conversation and send it to Charles to deal with. I’ve seen your passport dude, it’s MONEGASQUE.”

Arthur would be the first to admit that winding you up was one of his favourite things and today was no different.

“Ah that was a decoy,” he replied, laughing to himself.

“A decoy?!? Stop making up stuff, Leclerc!”

“Yes. A decoy. All French people have them, so no one knows we are French. Like spies.”

It had been a couple of weeks of daily pick up lines from you and Arthur found himself looking forward to seeing what you had come up with each day. As if on schedule, his phone buzzed on the table, lighting up with a notification from you.

“Do you have a plaster? I just scraped my knee falling for you. And I fell pretty hard, so it looks like I might need two plasters, if you have them?”

Arthur giggled. Actually giggled before covering his face with his hand. He suddenly had a thought and went to look in his bathroom cabinet. He found a pack of plasters hidden at the back and pulled them out. It was fairly full but he removed all of them except two and took a photo. He began typing, “unfortunately I used up most of mine when I fell for you but you can have these two ;)”, he attached the photo and hit send. Why was he flirting with his best friend? And why was it giving him butterflies in his stomach waiting for a response. This wasn’t normal. They didn’t do this. Maybe he was sick or something. That must be it. Definitely the reason his heart skipped a beat when his phone lit up with your response. It was a selfie of you from the shoulders up. You had covered half your head and face haphazardly with a white bandage and were grinning like a dork at the camera. “Nevermind. Fixed it,” was the accompanying text. He couldn’t help it. He let out a laugh, the kind that comes from your belly and is impossible to prevent, the kind that takes over your whole body, shoulders shaking, nose scrunching and everything. “Cute,” he found himself replying before he could stop himself. “Why thank you Little Leclerc, I can save you some of the bandages if you like, cover up your entire face so you might have more luck with the ladies?” Arthur found himself chuckling, feeling back on firmer ground. This was what your friendship was like. Banter, taking the mick out of each other (but never really meaning it), being there for each other. The flirting was just a deviation from the norm, it didn’t mean anything.

A few days later, Arthur was trying to pack for his next race when his doorbell rang. When he looked through the keyhole and saw you, he opened it and was already walking off when you began speaking. “Hey, you got a jersey I can borrow? I’m really just looking for something with your name and number on it,” you said, barging past him and heading straight for his bedroom closet before pulling out half his clothes to look through.

“You know what, forget the jersey, can you just please kiss me?”

“Wh-what?” Arthur stuttered.

“Ok, you didn’t move, so distraction doesn’t work…” you said thoughtfully. Arthur was barely listening, too busy wondering why he had almost moved to kiss you and why he was now desperate to know if your lips felt as soft as they looked.

“Where are all your Ferrari shirts, Little Leclerc?” you asked, staring at the pile of clothes you had made on the floor. Arthur shook himself out of his thoughts, “you stole them all, well most of them. I had to request new ones from the team…” he stated, folding his arms and pretending to look stern, “and you stole about five of my hoodies!”

“Borrowed,” you corrected with a grin.

“So I can have them back?” asked Arthur, hopefully.

“Not a chance babe,” you replied, sticking your tongue out and tapping his chest as you made your way to the kitchen, leaving Arthur questioning why you’d suddenly called him babe, and why he had really really liked it.

You were running late. Arthur was going to kill you, he needed someone to attend some sponsor event since Charles couldn’t make it and you’d agreed. But then you’d spent an hour picking a dress and your timings had gotten completely thrown off. You’d opted for an ankle length black gown with a low neckline and a slit up the side hoping you weren’t too overdressed. You grabbed your keys and bag and ran out the door, jumping into the waiting taxi. Thankfully you ended up only five minutes late and ran up the stairs of the venue to find Arthur waiting for you. He was dressed in a navy blue suit and white shirt with the top couple of buttons casually undone. He looked so good you nearly tripped up the steps but caught yourself just in time. “Hi,sorry!” you said, glad you could attribute your breathlessness to running and not how goddamn hot your best friend looked right now.

“Should we go in?” you asked. Arthur still hadn’t said anything and was gazing at you with a strange look in his eyes, which you attributed to anxiety about meeting yet another load of new people.

It had been a few hours, you’d made small talk with a bunch of people, including a few creepy old men who had you regretting your outfit on more than one occasion. Thankfully Arthur had tightened his arm around your waist and made an excuse to move away. For the first time that night you found yourselves alone, taking a moment to regroup before you inevitably got pulled back into the fray.

“I meant to say earlier, you look beautiful by the way. That dress looks great on you,” blurted out Arthur suddenly. You smoothed down invisible creases in your dress, feeling on unsure footing before looking up again muttering a soft “thank you” under your breath. He was gazing into your eyes with an unreadable expression.

You took a chance.

“Hey, are you a magician? Because when I look at you, everyone else disappears,” you whispered, unable to look away. Suddenly, a hand tapped Arthur on the shoulder and he reeled back. Back? When had he leaned forwards, towards you? “Sorry to interrupt Mr Leclerc, they want to take the photos now,” said a well dressed man with an apologetic smile. Arthur followed, still in a slight daze, leaving you wondering what the hell had just happened.

The next day, Arthur got back from his run and fell backwards onto the sofa. He knew he should have a shower but his mind hadn’t stopped whirring the entire time he was out. He couldn’t stop thinking about you. His best friend. You hadn’t sent him a pick up line today and he missed it. More than he should have. He ran his hand through his hair with a sigh thinking back to the sponsor event. He had been disappointed when you were interrupted for photos, he realised. He had really wanted to kiss you and now he couldn’t stop thinking about how stunning you had looked in that dress. The way it hugged your curves, the way you pulled him just a little bit closer every time you met someone new, like you needed reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t, he would always be there to protect you. You were his and… oh.

OH.

In hindsight, it probably should have taken him a lot less time to figure out he had developed feelings for you… the signs were right there. “I’m just dumb,” he groaned, covering his face with his hands in resignation.

You were just settling down on the sofa with a coffee and your latest read when there was a knock at the door.

“Coming!” you yelled, running through the apartment to fling open the front door.

“You know, if we were socks, I think we’d make a pretty good pair. But we aren’t socks, yet we’d still make a pretty good pair,” said Arthur, leaning casually against the doorframe. He was fiddling with his hands, the only sign he was nervous. You looked at him confused, hair still messy from your early morning gym session and one of his Ferrari shirts clinging to your frame, loosely tucked into denim shorts.

“I’m pretty sure I was supposed to be the one coming up with pick up lines, Thur. But I’ll definitely add that to the list.”

Arthur’s eyebrows met in a brief frown before he pushed himself off the door frame and walked inside your apartment, hands suddenly on your waist.

“Tell me who your crush is, please?” he asked, desperation in his voice that you completely missed in your panic.

“It’s no one, I mean, you don’t know them so it doesn’t matter,” you answered, voice strained as you tried to move out of his grip but he only held you firmer.

“You never mention anyone and you spend all your time with me. We’re best friends, we tell each other everything, so why haven’t you told me a name?” he asked quietly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Arthur-”

“The pick up lines worked,” he admitted, interrupting whatever you were going to say. “I don’t know if that was your plan all along but they fucking worked. I loved them, they made me smile, they made me laugh, I found myself looking forward to them and wanting to flirt back and somewhere along the way I fell for you. I need an entire factory of plasters for how hard I’ve fallen for you. I’m just hoping you feel the same because if not, it might actually break me.”

You looked deep into his eyes before scanning his face for any sign he was lying but the face that looked back at you was different this time. This one was so full of affection you were almost suffocated by it, making your heart skip a beat. You took a deep breath before speaking.

“It’s you Arthur, it’s always been you,” you confirmed with a small smile.

“Oh thank god,” he muttered relieved before moving to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed in happiness. “They should rearrange the alphabet and put U and I together,” he added with a smile.

“Arthur, baby, are you planning on kissing me any time soon or are we going to cycle through all the pick up lines you clearly practiced before coming over here first?”

“I thought you loved pick up lines?” asked Arthur, moving his head back to look at you properly with a cheeky smirk.

“Thur, I swear to god-” you started, left hand going to hit his chest in mock frustration. His smirk turned into a full on grin before he grabbed your hand, pulling you towards him.

“Come here,” he said softly before finally, finally meeting your lips with his. A few seconds later he pulled back, “do you like my t-shirt? It’s new.”

“Um, what?” you asked, confused why your favourite harbinger of chaos had stopped kissing you.

“Ask me what it’s made of…”

You sighed wearily before reluctantly doing as he requested, “what’s it made out of Little Leclerc?”

“Boyfriend material,” he answered with a wink.

[kidspawn]

how long do you think pynch waited to do the do. because I just know that the second the light turned green, adam was slamming on the gas pedal because he’s a horny touch starved freak, and while ronan had been Down Bad for longer, he did make adam sleep in declan’s room after getting together, which I can’t decide is because of his traditionalism, or he still had elements of repression he hadn’t had time to address post dream thieves. in the end, it’s not that deep, I just find the varying timelines of first time fics to be interesting, as many of us have dozens of ideas of how and when they might’ve become physical. by opal, they’re at least getting handsy, and those two are certainly not virgins by cdth

My position on this is... as soon as possible? There's roughly seven months, give or take, between their first kiss and the epilogue (which takes place roughly June) and it's heavily implied they're having sex by the time the Opal story comes around. Their second kiss all but ended in them sleeping together, and I've sat in the belief that the only reason they didn't was because there was so much going on. but they definitely got close? Like they cleared a base or two, and I don't see them waiting to go for a home run much later. These are two hormonal teens who have been positively batshit about one another for months (over a year in Ronan's case, I believe) and all but jumped each other the second their feelings were mutual.

Personally, taking how emotionally charged the final act of TRK was, I've always thought they wait a few weeks to get physical again, just because everything was so overwhelming, and everything with Adam's temporary possession I think would have him reserved in initiating contact. I could actually see this being a reasonable conflict because the two struggle with clear-cut communication, and I can see Adam brooding and Ronan questioning Adam's position and that blowing up temporarily. I think they'd spend a few weeks just... being together? I don't think they're the type of couple to go on classic dates, and Adam literally does not have the time. So they just hang out like usual, but now they can acknowledge the something more of it all.

Honing in on their lack of communication, for all I love the idea of Adam showing up with a supply kit and a plan, I think they'd impulsively stumble into their first time. Ronan is someone who leaps headfirst into affections, falls faster than logic could hinder, and Adam is able to let go of a lot of his second-guessing and anxieties where Ronan is concerned. So my honest belief is after they've been a Ronan-and-Adam for a month, maybe two, they're making out and it just escalates into more. Maybe they have an awkward, oh shit we need a condom and they have to drive out and buy condoms at a gas station at least thirty minutes out. Because this is a small town and small towns talk, and they're not interested in that getting around by word of mouth. And it's awkward and they bicker the entire time, but it's also safe and warm and they laugh through the entirety of it. And when they wake up Ronan has filled the entire room with flowers and he's mortified and Adam is mortified and also helplessly endeared because he's only gotten glimpses of this part of Ronan before and now he has this Ronan by his side and dreaming him bedrooms of flowers.

Logistically, I'd say they'd get around to it during a school break. Maybe winter or spring break? Adam's schedule is kind of a crucial factor, and for all I think they'd jump into their first time without second thought, I do think Adam is the type to plan out the potential of it and make sure he doesn't get fucking distracted by having sex with Ronan for the first time during finals and sticks to hard cut rules on whether or not they can take a night to make out in their car or at St. Agnes or the Barns.

In conclusion, if they wait at all it's absolute hell on earth and my honest, mildly illogical answer, is that the second they can confirm Gansey has a pulse Adam is dragging Ronan to the Barns by the shirt collar and jumping him on the porch.

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Twelve (R2) 2 of 2

@paracosmic-sims, @perolesims, @eljeebee, @jonquilyst, @riverofjazzsims, @matchalovertrait - Sim creators and co-writers

Results based on charisma skill level

Isabella (2.51)

Nyami (2.54)

Quetzalli (2.86)

Isla (3.36)

Hana (3.43)

Apolline (8.46) - Winner

Nyami: *throws a Nyami version of sultry look over her shoulder - in a playful sexy tone * I'm ready for my close up

The trio settle down on the couch.

Quetzalli: Dang, maybe I should've gone all out and started swimming. I had to make the judge BELIEVE I was an axolotl. Next time, next time.

Isabella: *sighs* It was fun anyway!

Nyami: You still angry Belle?

Isabella: I could distract myself while we were dressing up

Quetzalli: Oh we should use the date time to play with the instruments upstairs, you'd like that

Isabella: Maybe...

Isla: I'm disappointed I didn't win, but... that's ok. This dress-up challenge is something I would have loved to do as a kid and I'm so happy that I got to do it now as an adult!

Hana: I can’t believe I got second! Are you sure? Like, just look at all the other contestants, this is… TOO MUCH!

Isla: You looked gorgeous, I almost didn't recognise you

Hana: *laughing* You wouldn't recognise kid photos of me then

Isla: Your parents made you dress a certain way?

Hana: Got it in one

Apolline: *Flips hair* I'm not bragging. I'm not. But really, winning was a must. I was not going to be outdone on my own domain. Time for people to stop *thinking* I'm pretty and start *being sure* I am

Yep, her charisma level was that high! The next highest after her 8.46 is Sarah on 4.30...

Today Apolline has chosen to head to the cafe for her date.

Deanna: Your outfit for the challenge... it blew me away

Apolline: *smiles like a Cheshire cat* Merci. I knew you would like it

Deanna: *blushes* Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Apolline: *Looking pensive* Well, I know I'm lucky in a lot of areas... I was born rich, I'm conventionally pretty, I have a good relationship with my family. So, overall... I'd say so?

Still, she sighs and looks away, seemingly lost in thought for a while.

Deanna: I'm sorry, I hope I've not upset you

Apolline: No! I... I suppose being born with a... - How do you say, silver spoon? - can sometimes make tiny unlucky moments feel a lot bigger.

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Apolline: I'm not sure. The thought is... Daunting. It takes blame away from us, certainly, to be predetermined, and that itself is a mercy, but... Wouldn't that also mean we are powerless to change by our own volitions? Destined to stay in our roles, no matter our own opinion of it?

Deanna: You mean... destiny can be kind and cruel?

Apolline: *sips coffee*... I find the concept rather sad. Tragedies only ever work because the audience knows the characters would never choose differently

Deanna: Well now I have to find a way to cheer you up. I'm determined you'll be smiling again before the date is done

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Apolline: Tartosa is charming. I wouldn't mind staying around *she smiles*

Deanna: It's grown on me to

Apolline: I supposed it really has a way of stealing hearts.

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable, not constant packing and unpacking

Apolline: I don't think it would matter much where we end up, I suppose. Settling here, or in Champs, or anywhere else... My only real ties to home as of now are my family, and I can always visit whenever

Deanna: I would love to visit there one day. Are you any good as a guide?

Apolline: *smiles* I will show you all my favourite places

When everyone is back at the villa it's time to work on their skills. While some challenges are more up to luck, there are some that are influenced a lot by skill. This is the last chance they have to study before the group day challenge, and the next round if they advance.

Again logic is a popular choice, Quetzalli and Hana picking it to study. Apolline picks charisma again! Does she need to? She thinks so (she comes close to maxing the skill). Isabella and Isla who adorably picked all the same options for their skill time this round focus on comedy. Nyami takes a chance and spends time with the nectar maker. She's very glad the apples don't appear to stain her outfit.

Devin: Last day before group challenge, how are you feeling?

Deanna: Excited, but also nervous because that means we're getting closer to me having to make more cuts

Devin: How was your date with Apolline then?

Deanna: Pretty good. I know she can seem rather bratty but I'm getting the feeling a lot of it is bravado. I'm feeling closer to her even if it wasn't quite a gold date

Devin: But it was close?

Deanna: Very close

As it's the groups last day together before the group challenge, final dates, and commencement ceremony, we again head to the spa. Reece (Deanna's best friend) welcomes everyone and escorts them to the meditation area in the back garden. There he leads a guided meditation

Reece: Close your eyes and become aware of your breathing... picture a place that makes you feel calm. It might be the beach, the woods, behind a beloved screen or in front of one...

Reece: Repeat to yourself after me... I am proud of my past self for persevering 

When everyone finishes the guided meditation they stand and stretch. Hana and Isla hug which shocks Quetzalli. What is going on with everyone and their PDA today? How is an unflirty sim meant to pretend they aren't horrified?

After yoga it's time for dinner, grilled by Deanna herself. The group moves to the picnic area.

Apolline: This looks nice

Deanna: Bon Appetit

Isabella: I hope the dip isn't too spicy

Nyami: Same here. We don't have lots of spicy food at home

Isla: I am interested in wellness, it's meant to be good for mood control

Reece: Mindfulness is a useful skill to have

Quetzalli: I need mindfulness with some of the fans I have

Hana: Yeah I could have used some when I was stuck with my parents

Oop, some fire ants have spawned, nobody tell - oh there Apolline goes running away from them anyway.

When the food is finished the group get to experience the main reason for the spa trip - a chance to relax and let go of stress or tension from the competition.

Everyone gets a face mask! Some get massages, some steam in the spa and other relax in the massage chairs. Autonomy is set to full and Deanna always starts in the massage chairs, since those relaxing in the spa normally start chatting pretty quickly.

It's a small Connor group reunion in the sauna as Isabella, Isla and Nyami all enjoy the steam. As Apolline, Hana and Quetzalli finish in the massage chairs they drift into the steam.

Apolline: Your hair looks pretty like that Hana

Another display of affection? This really is not helping Quetzalli relax.

Hana: Thanks! How long did those braids take? Can't have been quick

Isla: I find it easier to relax with my hair out

Isabella: Me to.What about you Nyami? Nyami?

But Nyami has left the sauna. Outside she found Deanna who seemed to want to give her a mistletoe kiss. That makes another kiss on the books! Afterwards Nyami caresses her face, cuties.

PSA: So the plan is between rounds get the first kisses done off screen since they are not autonomous. This should unlock kissing options for contestants to choose next round, and we'll treat the first on screen kiss with contestants as their first kiss with Deanna. I didn't want to do this part way through a round as I thought sims who have dates later in the round could have an unfair advantage if they are able to queue up kisses on their dates while earlier contestants couldn't.

Someone who does not find it cute is Apolline. Upon leaving the sauna and seeing what those two are up to she interrupts to kiss Deanna on the cheek. Then she leaves to sit down, she can't have anyone thinking she's desperate after all, no carrying on the conversation for her. Hana watches her friend amused while she gets to know Isla and Quetzalli better.

[devdozes]

Hands up gabriela !

insert shit idk i made this for my dad

You weren’t sure why the universe hated you, but it did.

There was no other explanation for why Yoo Joonghyuk, top of the class, allegedly terrifying, a walking Excel spreadsheet with the face of a fallen war god, was always, always in every goddamn class you took. Same major. Same electives. Same seminars. Same stupid library corner he liked to hog like a dragon over a treasure hoard.

And now? Midterm project partner.

You stare at the email, jaw slack.

Partner assigned: Yoo Joonghyuk.

“God is dead,” you mutter, dropping your forehead dramatically against the cafeteria table.

Across from you, your friend hums. “No, but your GPA might be if you piss him off.”

You sit up and groan. “I’ve never even spoken to him! He looks like he’d knock out a professor for assigning group work.” ♥ ♥ ♥

The first time you meet, Yoo Joonghyuk doesn't say anything for the first five minutes.

You do. A lot.

You wave your hand in front of his face at one point. "Hello? Earth to Brooder?"

His eyes flick to you, the kind of glare that should have reduced you to ash. handsome fag

"You're loud," he says flatly.

"And you're brooding. Get used to it."

Something flickers in his expression. Maybe irritation. Maybe amusement. Hard to tell under the massive emotional lockdown he's got going on.

But the next day, he sends you a fully drafted project outline and a research schedule so intense it might legally qualify as a murder attempt because what the actual fuck is this.

Yoo Joonghyuk doesn't believe in small talk. Or pleasantries. Or acknowledging your very human need for verbal affirmation that this arrangement won't end in bloodshed.

The second meeting begins in silence, again.

You watch him, arms crossed, as he sits across from you in the library and of course, it's his usual spot, fourth table from the back, near the window, where the sun hits the pages just right and he can sit with his back to the wall like an absolute loser with paranoia.

He pulls out his laptop. Doesn't say hello. Doesn't look at you.

You lean forward. “Okay, listen, I know you’re like... a lone-wolf academic weapon or whatever, but group work requires some level of cooperation. Maybe even god forbid, a conversation.”

He types. “I already finished my half.”

You blink. “I haven’t even started.”

“You will.”

“Excuse me?”

Yoo Joonghyuk finally looks up. His gaze pins you with the intensity of someone calculating your worth like a statistics problem. “You're not the kind of person who does badly. You complain. Then overperform.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again. “...Okay, that was accurate, but it sounded way too much like a backhanded compliment. Or an insult. I can’t tell.”

He doesn't respond. Instead, he slides a printed, annotated schedule towards you.

You scan the dates, eyes widening. “You want us to finish the research this week? Joonghyuk, we have three weeks.”

“I don’t work last-minute.”

You blink at him. “You are a deeply concerning individual.”

“.....”

You're halfway between biting your pen and biting him when a familiar voice interrupts your descent into madness.

“Are you two... bonding or plotting murder?”

You look up in relief. “Dokja.”

Kim Dokja, miracle of your life and the only other person who understands your suffering, slides into the seat beside you. His laptop bag is slung carelessly over his shoulder, and his expression carries that of exhastion. He was reading novels all night again

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes narrow slightly. “Why are you here.”

“Wow,” Dokja deadpans. “Nice to see you too.”

You grin. “He’s here to monitor my vital signs. In case you try to assassinate me with these schedules of yours.”

Dokja leans in and whispers, mock-serious: “If he asks you to meet in the engineering lab alone at night, run.”

Yoo Joonghyuk clicks his pen once. Slowly. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “I hope you do hear us and reflect on your violent project management style.” ♥ ♥ ♥

It gets worse before it gets better.

Every time you meet, Yoo Joonghyuk is a study machine. He’s already done the readings, memorized them, and written reflections. He shows up with annotated textbooks and stares at you like you are the one dragging civilization down by not understanding the theoretical framework of sociolinguistics fast enough.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even sigh. He just stares. With those unnaturally intense eyes that make your brain forget how to process simple things like oxygen or PowerPoint slides.

You think, This man is insane.

And then, Why is insane kind of attractive?

Which is probably a sign you need to touch grass.

You tell Kim Dokja this while you’re at the cafe near campus, collapsed in a heap next to your laptop. “Dokja. That bastard has done something irreversible to me. I think I’m turning into a husk.”

Dokja doesn't look up from his book. “Uh huh, Finally evolving to match your insides?”

“Ha-ha,” you deadpan. “I’m serious. I haven’t slept. I’ve had three energy drinks. I think my blood is just Red Bull now. I saw God on slide thirty-seven and he told me to drop out.”

Kim Dokja, ever unbothered, sips his coffee. “You’re the one who tried to match his pace.”

“I didn’t try to match it. I got trampled by it.”

“You could tell him you’re burning out.”

“I’d rather die.”

He flips the page. “Okay. Let me know which font you want on your gravestone.” "Kill yourself"

It comes to a head the night before your second presentation checkpoint.

You’ve stayed up working through the tenth draft of your section, editing for the twelfth time. The words blur. Your shoulders ache. There’s an entire untouched meal on your desk you forgot you ordered. You blink hard, trying to stay awake, but everything feels cotton-soft and floaty.

Then someone knocks.

You barely register it, It knocks again. Louder this time

You drag yourself to the door, and the last thing you expect is Yoo Joonghyuk standing there, in a dark hoodie, holding a bag of food and a rolled-up blanket under one arm.

“You didn’t respond to my texts,” he says, calm as ever, but his eyes are just staring at your soul. He doesn’t look annoyed. He looks like he’s trying to figure out if you’re about to collaspe.

“I-uh,” you blink. “Was working.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I forgot.”

He steps past you before you can even invite him in, like he's decided your room is now a critical rescue zone. He sets the food down, opens the windows, and turns off your monitor before you can even retort back. You just stand there like an idiot watching your war general become a domestic tyrant.

“Sit,” he orders, pulling out your chair and setting the blanket around your shoulders like you’re a burrito with bad decision-making skills.

“Are you always this bossy?”

“When people treat themselves like disposable tools, yes.”

You blink. Asshole, but he has a point

He doesn’t look at you. His voice is low, like it’s costing him something. “You don’t have to keep up with me. You’re not me. You don’t need to burn yourself out just to prove something.”

You go very still. Something in your chest stings.

“…You didn’t have to come all the way here,” you say finally.

He finally looks at you. His gaze isn’t sharp this time. It’s something else. Steady. Frustrated. Concerned. He simply pushes the bento box towards you, signaling you to eat it. So you don’t say anything. You eat the food he brought, while he sits nearby, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and your desk like he’s debating whether to burn your notes and force you to sleep. And when you nod off, half-asleep with rice still in the bowl and the blanket slipping, it’s his hand that gently adjusts it back over your shoulders. And when you finally felt your eyelids weigh heavy, its his his arms which hold you up and lie you down on your bed, And he leaves quietly, switching off all the lights of your dorm. And your inbox dings with a new schedule.

Day Off. Rest. Required.

[katethetank]

Yours for the Night - Chapter 3

Rating: 18+ minors gtfo Chapter Summary: Eddie attends The Chicago Gala with Richard Harrington. The evening is going well until it's interrupted by his son. CW: Alcohol consumption, implied sex work Pairing: Escort!Eddie x Rich!Steve Word Count: 1.6k

Chapter 2<<Masterlist>>Chapter 4

The Field Museum is gorgeous at night. The lighting is low, tables are set up throughout the space, heavy drapes hang from the walls and there are fresh flower arrangements everywhere. 

Richard had them driven here in a private car, and it’s crazy how used to that Eddie is now. It’s a far cry from his beat up van that permanently smelled like weed.

As they enter the building, Eddie’s hand tucked into the crook of Richard’s elbow, they’re immediately greeted by the head of the Women’s Group. If the welcoming board standing next to her with Harrington Investments at the top of the list of sponsors wasn’t indication enough of how much of a big deal Richard is, the way everyone seems to fawn over him sure as hell is. They’re not even inside for a full minute before someone is handing them champagne flutes and thanking them for being there.

Since his company is a top donor, and he’s receiving the Corporate Philanthropy Award, Richard has a private table for his group at the front of the room. They slowly make their way over and Eddie readies himself to be whatever Richard wants him to be. Most of the time at events like this, Eddie is just the arm candy. His clients just need him to stand there and look pretty, which he’s happy to do. He gets paid the same regardless of his participation. 

Richard has spent years in the closet, and this is his first time bringing a man with him as a date. Eddie fully expects to just be seen and not heard, but surprisingly, Richard makes a point to introduce him to everyone they encounter on their way across the room. Eddie works the crowd with one hand holding a delicate glass and the other still on his date’s arm. 

The men he’s introduced to are pleasant enough, the types who are all business, and don’t comment on the fact that Richard’s companion isn't anything like his ex wife. They just glance at where Eddie’s hand is and avoid the topic entirely. It’s either because they feel awkward addressing it, or because Richard is the most well respected man in the room and someone you’d want to have on your good side. Eddie is pretty sure it’s the latter.

Conversation flows well enough regardless, and Eddie is well practiced with these types, knowing just what to say to earn a chuckle or a pat on the arm. The women, though? That’s where he really shines.

He learned pretty quickly that a lot of the older ladies aren’t exactly being showered with attention by their husbands. And since Eddie clearly isn’t interested and poses zero threat, he lays on the charm and flirts like crazy. They eat that shit up. His dates are usually pleased with all the compliments they receive for bringing such a “lovely young man” along with him.

Tonight is no different. 

“Richard, honestly, he is just too much! And so handsome!”

Eddie has been laying it on thick with this short, stocky woman who’s got to be at least in her 80’s, and she’s been giggling like a fucking school girl. He loves this shit.

Richard places his hand on top of Eddie’s and brushes his thumb back and forth. “He certainly is. You better not try to steal him from me, or I’ll be having words with your husband,” he teases.

“Oh, dig his old bones up! See if I care!”

They both crack up and Eddie can’t believe the sense of humor on some of these people. They soon part, with Eddie giving her a wink and her returning it, and finally make it to the table just before dinner service begins. Richard, being a perfect gentleman, even pulls out his chair.

He introduces Eddie to his colleagues, who all greet him with a firm handshake, and polite smiles. As the food is being plated, he notices that Richard keeps looking at the empty seat across from them, and glancing around the room.

“Are you still expecting someone?”

He sighs through his nose while gritting his teeth and squeezes Eddie’s knee under the table. “I was. Not to worry. Let’s just enjoy our dinner, shall we?”

Eddie lets it go. Not his business.

About halfway through dinner, Eddie’s enjoying his filet mignon, and pretending to enjoy the conversation about racquetball, when the empty seat across from him is suddenly occupied. A man practically throws himself into the chair with all the grace of a drunk panda, gulping down a full flute of champagne. 

He’s got to be related to Richard. It’s like a carbon copy, but roughly 30 years younger.

“Nice of you to finally join us.” The disdain in his date’s voice is a bit of a shock, he’s been so pleasant all evening.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Dad.”

There it is. 

“Steven, I believe you know everyone. Allow me to introduce you to my guest this evening, Edward.”

The guy just looks him up and down with a bitchy expression. “It’s Steve. Not Steven. You know how much I hate that.”

Judging by this guy’s attitude, Richard probably does know, and addresses him that way on purpose. He ignores his son and signals a server, asking them to bring another plate. “You’re going to need something to soak up all the alcohol.”

Jesus. He’s probably right, but calling his son out like that was a bit much. Whatever. It’s not Eddie’s business. He’s here to do bis job, not get involved. 

“So, Richard,” he says, drawing back his date’s attention. “Tell me more about this award.”

Richard gives him a grateful look and touts his company’s achievements in philanthropy while pointedly ignoring the glares his son is sending him from across the table. Steve is giving off the impression of being a spoiled brat. And look, Eddie’s not blind, the guy is hot. And weirdly, the attitude is kind of doing it for him.

When dinner service is done, they remain at the tables while speeches are given, guest speakers talk about where everyone’s donations are going, and the winner for the Corporate Philanthropy Award is announced. Richard stands to the applause of the entire room and gives Eddie’s shoulder a squeeze before rounding his chair and heading to the stage.

Eddie turns in his seat, giving his date his full attention as he accepts his award and begins his speech. Not even thirty seconds in, there’s a voice right next to his ear.

“How much is he paying you?”

Eddie whips his head around and is face to face with Steve. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. There’s no way he just met you and asked you to come to this. He’s paying you, isn’t he?”

Oh he is not taking the bait. “I think maybe you should mind your business and pay attention to the ceremony instead of acting like a brat.”

Steve actually looks surprised that Eddie would dare to speak to him like that. He just gives him another assessing look, grabs Eddie’s glass of wine from the table, and leaves. 

After the ceremony, Eddie takes Richard’s arm again as he makes his rounds to accept the congratulations from all the well-to-do’s of the crowd. As they’re wrapping up, he takes the opportunity to excuse himself to use the restroom. He’s just finished washing his hands and fixing his hair in the mirror when Steve’s reflection appears behind him. He looks pissed. And drunk. Always such a lovely combination.

“You know what he said to me when I came out? He said ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Steven.’ And now…what…he can just turn around and do whatever the fuck he wants?”

Eddie sighs and turns to face him. “Steve, you’re drunk-”

“Yeah! I am! I walked in here tonight and saw him showing off his new…whatever you are, and I was pissed! And it’s an open bar, dude!”

“Maybe you should get some water-”

“You know he threatened to cut me off if I ever brought a guy to an event like this? Yeah. Told me it would ‘tarnish the Harrington name’ or some shit.”

Eddie steps forward and clasps his shoulders. “Steve. Whatever this is, it’s between you and your father. It has nothing to do with me. Now I’m going to head out that door, and you’re going to get your shit together. Have a good night.”

With that Eddie turns and exits the restroom. Steve thankfully doesn’t follow.

On their ride back to the St. Regis, Richard sits close and rests his hand on Eddie’s knee. “You were spectacular tonight. I’m very glad Ms. Wheeler recommended you.”

“So am I. Without you, I wouldn’t have met the love of my life.”

His date raises a questioning eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“80’s. Blue hair. Pearl earrings. I believe her name was Doris?”

Richard lets out possibly the first genuine laugh Eddie’s heard from him all evening. “Of course, how could I forget! You certainly charmed your way into her good graces. I must say, I’m impressed. You were worth every penny.” His hand slowly drifts away from Eddie’s knee and down his thigh. “I can’t help but wonder what other services you provide.”

Eddie allows the roaming touch as he looks at the man next to him. It was a good night, aside from the momentary drama with the guy’s son. “My time isn’t free, Richard.”

“I didn’t assume it was.” The car rolls to a stop outside the hotel and the driver gets out to open their door. “Would you care to come up and we can discuss this further?”

Eddie smooths his hand over Richard’s thigh, giving it a light squeeze. “Lead the way.”

Chapter 2<<Masterlist>>Chapter 4

So that's one hell of a meet ugly! Stick with me, I SWEAR this is Steddie end game!!!

Taglist is open!

@mrsjellymunson @the-unforgivenn @watermelonmite @micheledawn1975 @wordynerdygurl @live-laugh-love-dietrich @connected-dots-st-reblogger @wheneverfeasible @cheersdannyx2 @stellashades @renfrisol

[mainstreamangel]

hey! i would love an angel reese fic where you two are best friends and have crushes on each other. a sweet love confession would be so cute after one of angels games!

MEBOUNDED TO YOU

summary: when you get hard fouled, angel checks on you—a harsh reality crashes through about her feelings and the honesty towards them.

warning(s): none

a/n: you’re gonna be a player. PUT ME IN COACH!!

masterlist / chicago locker room

“[last name] going for the 3.. and a whistle blown—foul called on aliyah boston.”

you groan at the impact and lay there staring at the bright lights. you can hear the footsteps of your best friend, angel reese. you had met her in college and both got drafted to the chicago sky.

you had seen many friends split due to the draft and you thanked whatever higher power there was that you could play on the same team—on the official roster together.

“you ok?” angel asks, extending a hand to help you up.

“tell her to stop pushing me.”

“ok, HEY-“

you jerked your body up so fast, wincing slightly at your ankle. “angel don’t.” you laughed.

angel just smiled and patted your behind as you get ready for free-throws. you needed to get into free-throw space to put your team anywhere close to a closable gap.

angel helped you limp off the court and helped you sit down on the bench.

“are you sure you’re okay?” she asked tossing a bag of ice onto your bare thighs.

you yelp at the cold sensation and quickly shift the bag onto your ankle.

“yes angie i’m fine.” you laugh.

angel smiles at your little nickname. the same one you’ve been using all these years.

“what’re you staring at?” you poorly throw a towel towards angel’s face.

“nothing.” she laughs, taking a seat next to you on the bench.

“vandersloot checking in for chicago sky. with 4:52 left in the final quarter, chicago is down by 4. shot clock 12.”

you perk up. “COURTNEY ON THE COURT!!!” courtney shakes her head and positions herself where she was told.

you tip your head back and sigh. coach benched you for the remaining of the match so you were starting to wind down (intentionally and unintentionally).

“can’t wait to go home and watch white chicks.” you sighed.

it was a tradition to watch white chicks on fridays. dated back to when you first convinced angel to hang out outside of basketball.

“ribs or are you cooking?” she asked. she knew the answer but it was fun to pretend otherwise.

“ribs.” you both said in sync.

you both giggled and turned your attention back to the game. angel could tell you were getting tired and when you were tired you started slowly shutting your brain off.

she shifted closer and guided your head onto her shoulder. saying nothing you mindlessly watched as the condensation mixed with your sweat, dripping down to your foot.

“..”

“how’s-“

“i’m fine.” you slurred.

angel rolled her eyes playfully and cheered on her teammates while you closed your eyes to avoid the bright light.

“22 seconds left, chicago has the ball.”

you squint your eyes watching the blurs of movement you call your teammates.

“angel?”

“hm?”

you were pretty tired and you’re not sure if you believed you were real but you decided now or never.

“i wanna win.”

“me too..?” angel turned to you skeptically.

“i meant i wanna win with you. i haven’t been honest with my feelings cause i was scared we couldn’t go anywhere further than just best friends.”

angel tenses.

“are you saying?”

“i love you.”

there was silence amongst you in contrast to the crowd erupting at the fever win.

“don’t say anything if it’s not in my favour because-“

“i like you too. i think.”

you peek one open open again.

“you think.?”

“i think when i worry about you more than our other teammates it means more than just a close bond through time. i think our bond is more emotional.”

“i think i’m more emotional.”

your lips curve up a bit to match hers and you lean in and kiss her cheek (that doesn’t go unnoticed by the cameras or the media).

you let your lips linger on her skin before putting your head back on her shoulder, lazily clapping for the fever’s win.

angelreese5

[picture of angel at her vanity taking off her makeup with your arms around her neck kissing her temple]

Liked by your.user, caitlinclark22, haileyvanlith, and 25.2k others.

your.user: mebounded to you 💕

↳ angelreese5: coin it!!

user1: I KNEW IT

user2: angel whats ur makeup routine

user3: [name] AND ANGEL ARE HARDLAUNCHINGGG AND AFTER A LOSS TOO???

↳ your.user: losing isn’t real

↳ angelreese5: get off ur phone and pay attention 2 the movie

↳ user3: HIIII I LOVE U GUYS SM

[kyndahot]

avoidant!seer obscura makes a comeback with a different version of the confession from that old post :] I lurv them... Morgan is the first to develop feelings and Seer Obscura isn’t oblivious per se, but they certainly ignore the signs for a while just because they genuinely can’t believe they’re being crushed on.

It's not even a self-deprecating thing, they just can’t fathom the idea that someone would want to be with them. They don’t have many feelings about their appearance, obviously there’s a way they prefer to look, but they are otherwise neutral about their looks so them being considered attractive is foreign. They’re aware that their personality and quirks aren’t… conventional, by any means, so attractive enough to ignore– or even find endearing– is odd.

Eventually, it becomes hard to ignore the way Morgan looks at them, the soft flush of his cheeks when they make eye contact (which is often), the lingering touches, etc. He is not pushy at all, they don’t feel any sort of pressure to reciprocate, and they’re incredibly grateful that he’s fostered such a relationship with them where they can navigate their own feelings and that he’ll be by their side no matter the decision they decide to make about it. It isn’t easy for either party though.

There’s a period of avoidance from Seer Obscura when they realize they’ve developed a crush on Morgan, and Morgan, ever attentive, immediately knows something isn’t right. The first tell was their sudden aversion to maintaining eye contact with him, followed by shorter lunches, keeping their interactions to a bare minimum for what would be a distant friendship. Morgan confronts them about it and they’re honest that they’re feeling something for him but aren't quite ready to do anything about it yet or even what it means. They reassure him it's nothing he’s done but they’ve gotten into their own head about it.

“I know you aren’t oblivious, and I’m not exactly subtle, but you don’t have to agree or make a decision on anything you aren’t sure about. If space is what you need, I can give you that.”

They bite the inside of their cheek and slowly meet his eyes after a minute of scanning the walls of his office, “I want to be around you more. It’s just… something I’ve never felt before." Another beat, another minute of staring at anything but his face and then they continue. "Growing up there are… milestones... people meet. Like their first crush, date, kiss— things like that. I used to just… ignore it? Or would participate because it seemed like the normal—” they air quoted and shook their head,“—things to do. There’s a bit of regret in doing those things because I thought I had to meet a quota instead of doing them because I genuinely wanted to.” They sigh, “In a way, I feel like I’m mourning things that would feel more special if the first time around was with you.”

Morgan smiles, he can feel the tension in his shoulders drop. "That's very sweet but you shouldn't beat yourself up over it. And I'll be the first to tell you that a lot of people feel the same way. Lord knows I do. Unfortunately, most first times with people tend to be… lackluster at best– platonic or otherwise." He reaches for their hand, sandwiching it between his own. “I don't say that to convince you to jump into something you're not ready for. But I hope it's at least a little comforting to know you aren't the only person that feels that way about past experiences like that."

Seer Obscura’s shoulders drop and they release a long held sigh at his comfort. Meeting his gaze with a smile that makes his heart sing. “Thanks, Morgan. I appreciate it. Sorry for being distant.”

They adjust themself so they’re holding Morgan’s hand, grazing their thumb across his knuckles. He fails to bite back the bashful grin that graces his face but he finds the courage to get past the lump that formed in his throat, “I’m glad we could talk about it. You’re my friend before anything else. I’m content staying that way if a relationship is something you can’t see yourself in.”

When they do finally sort their feelings, Morgan can immediately tell because everything they do is so much softer. The way their gaze goes from intense to just… mush when they make eye contact makes it hard for him to think clearly. Seer Obscura has always shown an interest in his hobbies and personal life, but they began to engage more in the conversation— not that they wouldn’t prior, but they seem more curious and more willing to ask questions and they light up when he indulges. It becomes a regular occurrence that his voice strains from how much they get him talking about his passions and vice versa.

Morgan was usually the one initiating contact and he very much would freak out when he would reflect on every touch and how long it would take for him to pull away, even if an interaction was a couple of seconds. Seer Obscura wasn’t afraid to simply call his name when they required his attention (rare, because they could sigh quietly and he’d hear it from a mile away) but they pick up the habit of touching his forearm or bicep to get his attention. It drives him NUTS because it’s so gentle and they always do it with the sweetest small smile.

It’s not long before the age old question is popped– and it's Seer Obscura that asks. 

They’re walking down the steps of his apartment before they stop in their tracks to look back at him. “Do you want to go on a date?” Morgan chokes on his own spit, and Seer Obscura is quick to return to his side to pat and rub his back while he coughs.Hands on his knees, he laughs incredulously before rising, “I would love to! Do you have anything in mind?”

They look down and huff, “Not at all. I was hoping maybe you had something you were interested in– like a movie or dinner. We could do anything and I would be content.”

He flushes and ruffles his hair, “Well, there’s a drive-in theater venue not far from your apartment? How’s this saturday?”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ve seen a few previews for movies that might be interesting. I’ll send you the times for the different viewings.” They say, taking a couple steps back down. “I can make dinner and pack it in advance so we can eat in the car.”

The light through his apartment window hits their face in such a way that he has to fight himself from zoning out and staring. There’s a glitter in their eye, and the shy smile on their face becomes a little wider.

Morgan bids them farewell and closes the door, but the excited “YES, YES, YES, HOLY SHIT!” from inside the apartment still reach Seer Obscura from the bottom of the steps.

[daddymaster21]

Okay I don’t really know why I’m reading this other than the fact that I clicked on it when the notification popped up. Cause like. I still need to do my review of chapter 28, and I don’t even read Bucky oneshots??? But here we go I guess 🤷🏼

1. Autistic queen for real. All my shit is done, can I go home now???

2. She really said :)))))

3. The bit about saying her name????? Oh my god????????

4. Yelena is a fucking icon and I love her

5. Me when I don’t want to do something vs me when someone says I’m not going to do the thing I don’t want to do

6. This is so off topic but I’m so glad I’m not the only person who makes ESL speakers forgo contractions

7. Bucky doesn’t want to play happy couple, but that’s nothing compared to how little he wants her to play happy couple with someone else

8. Oh, Yelena for sure knows that Bucky is in love with her

9. To be fair, if I got the chance, I’d probably also blow stuff up all the time

10. LMFAOOOO THE JAR OF PICKLES

11. she doesn’t even know he loves her 😔

12. Oof same only kept up to date when I’m “useful”

13. It’s giving that doctor who scene where Clara calls and says “you’re my boyfriend”

14. Thea 🤝 me being attracted to men who like green

15. Girl good cologne makes me fold like cheap laundry I stg

16. If you don’t think about *lists things and immediately starts thinking about it* FUCK

17. “I looked up the catering company” Also an autistic king

18. I hate to see large crowds coming

19. “I bet it is” LISTEN TO HER INFODUMP OR ILL RIP YOUR THROAT OUT WITH MY TEETH

20. Okay that was a little aggressive I’ll chill

21. Oh god the bit him getting everything right and then moving like he hates her. At least kiss the brick before you throw it at me

22. “At least you went out burning from his touch” REEEEEEEEE

23. Good cologne AND long hair AND an accent? I am. Dead

24. “Nothing more than anyone else” oh, well, I guess we’ve just stabbed me in my deepest insecurity 🤷🏼

25. You’ll be safe here! *security guard walks in less than two minutes later*

26. “who the fuck are you” “I don’t know” I’M FUCKING HOWLING LMFAOOOO

27. I love a woman who can survive rejection and just. Doesn’t want to

28. Girl “right now” doesn’t count you can’t even touch her for more than two seconds any time you’re not acting

29. Okay he admitted he doesn’t have the spine to talk to her he’s forgiven (I’m so weak 😔)

30. I’m so feral for men with confidence who also believe deep down that they’ll never deserve love. Especially when they yearn for love

31. There’s literally nothing hotter than someone you’re attracted to saying your name in a specific way

32. The way I would chew on that metal arm like a fucking dog

33. Thigh riding is just as hot as fucking change my mind

34. BARK WOOF TAKE WHAT YOU NEED PRETTY GIRL

35. You can’t use pretty girl and sweet girl in the same story I’m gonna combust

36. Dirty is the only way to play it, actually

37. I didn’t even THINK about that the temperature play with his metal arm would be so much fun

38. LMFAO USING THE WALK OF SHAME AS A COVER IS SO FUNNY

Final thoughts: men being bad at emotions is delicious. Yay long fic bullshit!!!!!

I Must Have Missed it in the Rain

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, light angst, light fluff, love confessions, fake relationships, mutual pining, shameless smut (blowjobs, fingering, p in v sex), no use of y/n,

Summary: You're, somehow, in a building full of super-people, the best person for this undercover mission. The one where you have to pretend to be Bucky's girlfriend. You don't know why he agreed to it when he can't stand you. But you love him.

So you'll get through it, if only to play pretend for one night.

Author's Note: I was born in the right century. I love da internet and Bucky Barnes long hair in HD.

Word Count: 7.9k

You don’t know why it has to be you.

It shouldn’t be. Anyone at all would be better. Easier. Safer. Technically, you’re not even supposed to work missions, because that’s not your job.

But Yelena had said we need a couple, it will be the least suspicious, and everyone had looked at you. 

You hadn’t been paying attention, though. Not at first. You’d been staring at your fingers, picking at your nails and trying to figure out if you could get away with leaving the meeting early. You’d already done all your work. They didn’t need you here, you didn’t really want to be here, and if you’d run in two seconds, you might have made it out the door.

But just as always, those two seconds had passed, and you hadn’t run. You’d stayed, torturing yourself just a little bit more, and glanced up. 

When you look up, it’s always for the same reason. 

Trying to grab a moment that isn’t yours. A second where your eyes can land on Bucky, he’ll be occupied with whatever they’re all talking about, and you can just look at him. They’re more than stolen moments. You don’t get anything from them. Just a louder ache in your chest and another second that you’re going to replay for the rest of your life. Trying to figure out if he was in that position to avoid looking at you, if his hand on the table was angled towards yours on purpose, if the slight downturn of his lips has anything to do with you at all.

That last one might be the only time you’re right. 

Bucky never smiles at you. All you do is smile at him, then get tiny grimaces and sour expressions, and fall deeper in love because there’s something wrong with you. 

It’s not the fact that he never smiles at you that’s pulled you from the start.

It’s only everything.

How you’d looked at him for the first time, and he’d sort of seemed like someone had carved him from marble. But then he’d shaken your hand, and it had been warm. He’d said your name, and you didn’t know people had been say it wrong until he said it—all the same sounds, but a smooth and bored tone of voice—and it became the only right way. Then he helped you set up your office, always said please when he asked you for something, and taken your plate after dinner to wash in the sink. And you’d only fallen further.

But he hates you.

He doesn’t give you more than a grimacing smile, doesn’t look at you, and every attempt to talk to him ends with a few grunts and Bucky shuffling away.

And there wasn’t anything to take or survive, but you did anyway. And now you live off of those glances, and you never leave the room.

But Yelena snapped your name, and you glanced up to find Bucky already watching you. 

Everyone had been watching you.

“What?” You’d frowned around the table. “Was I, um, supposed to do something?”

Yelena had sighed, bracing her hands on the table and leaning forward. “You are being put on the mission.”

“The- Mission?” You’d shaken your head. “I- Um- Isn’t it a field mission? I can’t shoot a gun-“

“Yes, you can.” Yelena had given a bored wave of her hand. “Anyone can shoot a gun. You just pull a trigger, it is not that hard.”

“People without fingers probably can’t shoot guns.” Walker had said, and Bob had nodded slowly at your side.

“There’s probably a way to do it with teeth? Right?”

Yelena had sighed, but nodded. “Sure. But she has all her fingers, and teeth. She is going on the mission.”

“No, she’s not.” Bucky had grunted, and you’d swallowed, sinking into your chair. 

You hadn’t wanted to go on the mission. 

There was still a sharp sort of ache that Bucky didn’t want you on the mission either. 

“It is not your call to make, Bucky Barnes.” Yelena had snapped. “There are no other options.”

“I could go.” Alexei had raised his hand, grinning at Bucky. “Me and Barnes would make a beautiful couple, no? And if people get mad, I could punch them in the face.”

Walker had snorted, and your best hope in the moment had been that this would devolve just as fast as usual, everyone would forget the suggestion, and you could go hide in your room. 

“I don’t see why Bucky gets to go on the fancy mission.” Walked had said, sitting a little taller in his seat. “If he’s got such a problem with this, I can go instead-“

“No.” Bucky had grunted, and Walker had rolled his eyes. 

“C’mon, man, you don’t even want to go-“

“Nobody wants to go on missions.”

“Uh, yeah they do. When the mission is going to have gelato?” Walker had raised his brows, and this was where you could’ve escaped. Ava had opened her mouth to start arguing with Walker about something—probably—and you could’ve just run right out the door as they all got pulled into the pointless argument about nothing. 

But Bucky had leaned forward, raised his voice, and the single moment had closed. 

“I don’ care about gelato, John. I’m not taking a civilian on a mission.”

“It is an undercover mission,” Yelena had said your name with a shrug. “And she will not be fighting. Just walking with you, to lend you credibility.”

Bucky had scowled. “I don’t need credibility-“

“They will suspect you, if you have anyone else, or go alone. You take her, or I send Walker with her.” 

Bucky and Yelena had fallen into a brief, tight staring contest—the ones that made everyone else feel like the air was wired, all of you watching to see who was going to pull out ahead this time—and Yelena won faster than usual. Bucky had let out a long, heavy sigh, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Fine.”

Fine. 

Everyone else had moved on—another mission had ended in something blowing up, and they really needed to stop doing that—but you’d lingered in the moment. Drowned yourself in his words, trying to give them more weight than they likely needed.

Fine. He was fine with you going on the mission, even if he’d had to lose a staring contest to agree. 

You don’t know why he lost that one. You’ve seen him stare at a jar of pickles so hard it opened. It wasn’t like you weren’t already trapped in going anyway. And going with Walker would’ve have been the same, but it wouldn’t have been horrible. He’d be invested enough in the mission to make the night go fast, and you could’ve made fun of rich people together. 

But Bucky had lost. He didn’t want you there, but he was still joining you. 

And you can look at it from any angle that you want, but it always ends in the same conclusion. 

It not about you. Bucky doesn’t want a civilian in the field, but he’s also not going to let Walker take the mission he’s been working on for almost three months. In almost every way, you’re nothing more than an accessory to get him through the door. 

You could help. He’s trying to get into a computer—you think, nobody really tells you anything unless they need something from you—and download some files, and that is your specialty. And there’s a scenario you play out in the shower, where he can’t get into the computer, so you take over, do it yourself and pass him the external drive with a smile, and then he fucks you against the desk. Maybe whispers in your ear that he’s always wanted to do that, and then you never have to analyze his words again. 

It’s still just a fantasy.

But everything else is far too real. 

“You’re my wife.” Bucky grunts at the table, the night before the mission, and you choke on your pasta. 

“I’m- What?”

He sighs, staring at you with an unreadable expression. “For the mission. You’re my wife. We met on a dating app, you’re a librarian, and we’ve been married two months.”

“Oh- Okay.” You swallow, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “Is there- Do we need to come up with a whole backstory? Or like, tell each other about ourselves?”

Bucky frowns at you. “That is our backstory. And I already know you.”

“Yeah, but-“ You shrug, your gaze dropping down to your plate. “What’s your favorite color?”

There’s a long beat of silence, long enough for you to think he’s walked away, but when you glance up he’s still staring at you. And there’s nothing to do but hold his gaze, give him a small smile, and pray you didn’t somehow cross some sort of invisible line.

His nostrils flare slightly, and when Bucky speaks, his voice is low and rough, and makes you press your thighs together under the table. 

“Green. I like green.”

He’s gone only a second later. You don’t see him again until you’re both meeting in the mission room, letting Yelena give—mostly Bucky—the mission run down. 

And you’re really trying not to look at him, not when he’s this close—standing right next to you, going to be next to you all night—but it’s impossible not to think about him. His voice as he and Yelena talk about logistics, the heat you can feel coming from his body, the cologne he’s wearing that’s making your head sort of spin.

He looks good. He always looks good, but this is cruel. His hair doesn’t have a single strand out of place, he’d been talked into another tuxedo and it’s a little tight on his shoulders, and you want to fucking climb him—kiss over his neatly groomed beard and let him fall all over you, just for one moment relaxing and touching you with big hands and holding you against his body—but he still won’t look at you. There had been a brief glance and tiny nod when you’d walked into the room, and nothing more. 

Bucky never really looks at you.

Not like that.

And that’s why it’s all, always, fucking fantasy. 

The night can go fast. If you busy yourself in your own head, and don’t let yourself stare at him—don’t think about he opened to door to the car for you, or his hand on your lower back, or how he keeps standing so close to you, because it’s all just part of the mission—you can drift through this with ease. Walked had been right. The food is good, and so are the drinks, and you’re on the clock but you’re just a prop. Just a body for Bucky to guide around while he scans the crowd, looking for a way for you to get out of the party. 

He’s not helping you, though. 

Every single thing Bucky does stretches itself into a million longer seconds, and you’re going to drive yourself out of your mind. 

“Don’t eat that.” He mutters, right in your ear and sending tiny shivers up your spine, and you frown at him. 

“Why? Is it poisoned.”

“No.” His lips twitch, but his doesn’t drop his gaze from the crowd. “You won’t like it.”

“It’s a mini-pizza, Bucky.”

“They made it with goat cheese. You hate goat cheese.”

You blink at him. “How do you know that?”

“I looked up the catering company.” He grunts, and before you can tell him that you meant how does he know you hate goat cheese, he’s moving on. Plucking the mini pizza out of your hands and swapping it with one of the fancy cocktails shrimp things, then guiding you back into the crowd.

His hand keeps pressing on your lower back. It hasn’t moved from there since you arrived. And any time some senator or fancy asshole tried to talk to you, he tugs you tighter against his side. 

It’s a little cruel, even if he doesn’t know it’s cruel. It’s just for the show of the mission, but he’s so good at playing his role. His hand fits perfectly against your body, and he holds you like he’s done it a million times, and every time someone pulls him into a conversation, he squeezes your hip like he’s checking you’re there.

And he’s talking about you.

A lot. 

“Your girlfriend is lovely, Barnes.” Some man in a suit and bad toupee hums, grinning down at you, and Bucky pulls you impossibly closer. “I know you New Avengers don’t prance around like Stark did, but I’d like to see her more.”

“Sorry.” Bucky shrugs, his grip tightening slightly. “We don’t like to go out much. Loud crowds not really our scene, right, Doll?”

You nod weakly—nobody seems really interested in hearing your voice—and Bucky drawls your name. 

“You wanna tell the senator about that book on Mayan agricultural systems you found last week.”

“I- Um,” you swallow, frowning at the air. That’s a real book you found, that you’d told Ava about for two straight hours while Bucky sat in the corner. You hadn’t thought he was listening. “It’s sort of boring-“

The Senator laughs. “I bet it is, sweetheart. Brains and beauty, though? Barnes is a lucky asshole.”

“Yeah.” Bucky grunts. “I am. Let the lady talk.”

He sounds like he means it, and you’ve never been more confused in your life. Everything he says, it sounds like he means. And it’s all right. Someone asks about how the proposal went, and Bucky launches into a story about how he gave you a bouquet of flowers in a spot you can see the ocean, and he gets your favorite flowers right. Someone asks about how you met, and he makes up a story about coffee and pastries and gets your coffee order right as well.

It’s a little like floating through a dream. You know it’s all going to dissolve the moment it’s done, it will never be more than just a single night, but in the moment it’s so real. And that’s where the cruelty comes in. Bucky’s giving you a million things to cling to, and they’re all going to slip through your fingers, and your crush with remain nothing more than the alter that you’ve kept for him since you met. Built of something almost indestructible, tended all the time and lain with every single word he’s ever said, and—in the end—worshipping nothing at all. 

Because it doesn’t matter how many people call you and Bucky a beautiful couple, or how when older men leer at you, he tucks you closer into his side. It’s just the mission. The mission he didn’t even want you going on. 

And it hits you like a bullet, the moment Bucky finds the moment to slip out, tugs you into the hall. 

He didn’t want you here. 

And he takes a large step away, barely sparing you more than a quick glance, and the illusion dissolves. 

You can still feel where he’d been holding you. It left a depression on your body, and nothing else is ever going to properly fit. Bucky might touch you again later, when you make your way out of the party, but then it will be back to this. 

Silence and a space between you that feels bigger than the whole universe. You lingering in the margins of his life, no more than a helpful foot note that sometimes tells him what he needs to know. Never spared a second thought as he moves through the world.

Only really existing for him. 

Because it’s not like you don’t have hopes and dreams and a life of your own. Like the world will end if Bucky never looks at you. 

But when you look at him, it’s all you can ever see. And time slows, and you’re staring at the sun, but you want to fly into it. He’s got more than you. You’re nothing but a speck, but you’d like to dare and touch him, and maybe let it destroy you. If you keep staring at him until you blind, at least he’ll be imprinted behind your eyes like neon. If you try to kiss him and it wrecks you, and least you went out burning from his touch.

It’s tragic how you’re smarter than to act of it, but not strong enough to let it go. 

Bucky’s not going to look at you. He’s not even glancing over his shoulder to check that you’re still there. Your feet are starting to hurt from how fast he’s walking, your heels blistering on your feet and your balance a little off.

You stop in the center of the hall, bending down to take off your shoes, and Bucky grunts your name,

When you look up, he’s suddenly towering over you with a tight frown. “What are you doing.”

“I, um- Shoes.”

He raises his brows. “Shoes?”

“They hurt.” You mumble. “Can’t walk. I’ll just wait here-“

“No.” He holds out a hand, and you blink at him. “Can’t leave you behind. I’ll carry you.”

You blink at him, a little pathetically. “What?”

“I’m going to carry you, doll. C’mon.” 

You take his hand tentatively and he helps you to your feet, scanning over your body with a small frown. “You don’t need to carry me, Bucky. I- I’ll just go barefoot.”

His frown deepens, but his hand retracts, and he rubs it against the metal one. 

Like he couldn’t bear that you touched him at all. 

And when he looks away, he doesn’t look back. 

You find the study fast. Bucky drops at the desk the external drive, typing away on the computer, and you sway slightly in the center of the room. His back muscles flex whenever he moves. His hair looks soft, and you kind of want to know if he’d moan, should you tug it-

“Fuck.” He hisses, and you frown. 

“What?”

“It’s not here.” He clicks the mouse again, and you can hear the glower in his voice. “It’s not goddamn here.”

You take a slow step forward, careful not to touch him as you lean down. “The files?”

“Yeah. We’re- Shit, now we’re gonna have to start over-“

“Why are you looking on the cloud drive?”

Bucky looks up, and you could swear he does a double take, when he realizes how close you’re standing. And you would’ve scrambled back, if he didn’t clear his throat before answering you, his voice a little deeper than a second ago. If he didn’t flinch away, but only held your stare as he gestured to the computer.

“Hard drive is empty. Nothin’ else to look at.”

His Brooklyn accent is slipping. You can’t let it distract you. “Well, they’re important files, right?”

Bucky nods, and he’s still looking at you, and it’s a fight to keep your voice even.

“Then they’d probably be on an encrypted hard drive. So maybe this, is, um-“ You swallow, and it’s like his attention is burning into you. Starting a fire that starts in your core and spreads to every single nerve. 

He’s never looked at you like that before. Not that you can remember. Not where you could see the slight chap in his lips, and every single shade of blue in his eyes, and the tiny wrinkles from stress and time that you’d always wanted to sooth with your hands. You never want him to stop looking at you like that. You might be able to move mountains, if he keeps it up. And if all you get is a single look like this, once a year, it will be worth it

And for a split second, you think he knows. That he understands the power he has over you. Maybe he’s always known, and it makes him uncomfortable. 

But maybe his eyes are darting down to your own, slightly parted lips, and if you leaned forward, you could kiss him.

You’re not that stupid. To think that it could change anything, when you’d probably mean just as much to him tomorrow as you did today. A pretty face that helps. Not a superhero, interested in strange things and always staring at him, nothing more than anyone else.

Your voice is still breathless, though. When he raises his brows in a silent prompt to continue, and now you have to remember what you were saying. 

“Maybe this is just the wrong computer.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks, the strange, intense gaze lingering a second longer and then he rips it away.

And it’s cold. Leaving you stranded as he pushes to his feet, and speaking in the same, cool and smooth voice you’ve always heard. 

“Alright. Wait here.”

“Wait here?” You frown. “I thought you weren’t leaving me behind.”

“I’m not.” He grunts. “But I have to search the whole building, and you’re-“

“Too slow?” You finish for him, raising your brows, and he blinks.

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s not bad, Bucky, but I could just, um, walk faster-“

“No. You’re safe here.” He shrugs off his jacket, dropping it on the back of the chair, and heads to the door without a backwards glance. “Stay.”

You scramble after him. He might not want you here, but you don’t want you here either. And god, you really don’t want him to leave you alone. 

“Bucky, you can’t just go-“

“I’ll be back.”

“But-“

“No. Stay.”

You scowl, and the fire isn’t going sour, but it’s only fueling every single bit of your love for him. And it’s making you feel hollow and hot, and he doesn’t know, and it’s not his fault he doesn’t like you, but he doesn’t have to do this.

“I’m not a dog, Bucky, you can’t just tell me to stay.”

He pauses with his handle on the doorknob, bowing his head for a second.

And you think he’s going to turn around. Look at you, just for one more second. 

But he just shakes his head, and pushes the door open without another word. Leaving you in a room, alone, on a mission you didn’t want to go on and acting like you’re not even there at all. And the fire is twisting over your heart, because he looked at you. For a split second he looked at you, then he just walked away. 

He never has to like you. 

But he can’t agree to bring you on the mission, look at you, then just fucking walk away. To make it fester, in the deepest and most nervous and fearful part of you, that maybe he just wants to get away from you. 

He never speaks to you. He’s, apparently, been listening, but that doesn’t mean anything if he’s going to treat you like you’re something on the bottom of his shoe. If being kind to you is a switch he just flicks on and off as he pleases, because he must know. What he does to you, what you can’t stop feeling for him. So it is cruel. 

Bucky’s not a bad man. And maybe he really does hate you that much, enough that he can’t stand to look at or touch you, enough to treat you like a problem when you’re helping him, but it’s not your fault. You’re kind to him. You really try never to cross the line, and you smile at him when he’s being and if he’s going to leave you like this, he can at least pretend that he doesn’t fucking think of you like an animal-

The door opens. And you’ve been pacing with venom building on your tongue, ready to snap at Bucky for being an asshead, but it’s not Bucky that walks into the room. 

The tall, broad security guard stares at you, then the still-open computer—why didn’t Bucky turn it off, the fucking dumbass—then you again. 

Bucky didn’t even give you comms. 

You don’t care if you love him. When you find him, you’re going to fucking punch him. 

“Who the fuck are you.” The guard grunts, and you swallow. 

“I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know- Alright, lady, hands in the air.”

That can’t be good. But this has already gone to shit, so you might as well double down. 

The guard reaches for his gun, and you sprint right at him, slamming your fist right into his throat, and take off down the hall. 

You have to find Bucky. They’re going to sound the alarms, and him being caught is a lot worse than you being caught. But he didn’t tell you where he was going, and you’ve barely made it out of the guards view when the alarms go off. And this is why you don’t work the fucking field. It’s crushing your chest, the blaring sounds and flashing lights, and you’re starting to stumble and freeze, because there’s too many ways for this to get fucked sideways and you can’t think of a single way out-

An arm wraps around your stomach, and suddenly you’re being yanked sideways into a closet. The scream that tries to leave your throat is muffled by a hand over your mouth, and you can’t get out of their hold and you’re going to die-

“It’s me.” Bucky grunts, and you let out a weak sound of relief. “Stop- Shit squirming-“

You flop immediately, and he stills behind you. 

“Sorry.” You whisper into the dark, and he shrugs.

You can feel every shift of his body against yours. Every breath, every word rumbling in his chest, every single flex and sigh.

You were mad at him, a moment ago. 

It’s hard to remember why. 

“Why the fuck did you leave the room.” He grunts, right in your ear, and you scowl. 

That was why.

“A guard walked in,” you hiss back. “And you weren’t there, so I had to punch him and run.”

“You punched him-“

“Of course I punched him!” You try to twist around, but God, he’s solid. “What was I supposed to do? Wait for you?”

Bucky just lets out a heavy breath, muttering under his breath, “I knew this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t have come.”

“Hey, I didn’t want to do this either, dickface.” You cross your arms over your chest, tipping your head back, and he’s look at you again.

It’s not before. 

But he’s still so close, and you’re trying to be mad at him, but now he’s got a tiny grin on his face, and that’s not fair. 

“Dickface?”

“Yeah.” You snap. “You’re being a dickface.”

He snorts, shaking his head like he just can’t believe you. “I’m tryin’ to make sure you don’t get killed, doll-“

“Like you’d fucking care.” 

Bucky freezes, a scowl painting fast over his face. “Excuse me.”

“You don’t have to pretend you like me, Bucky.” You mumble, a lot of the fight draining from you in a second.

You know it’s the truth. 

A big part of you always wishes it wasn’t, but now you’re saying it aloud, and the alter you’ve made him is going to be crumbled down to ash. You’ll survive in the rubble. 

It’s still going to hurt. 

“You think I don’t like you?” He’s still frowning at you, and this will be easier if you don’t look at him. 

But he grabs your jaw, and tips your face back. Your head resting right against his shoulder, his arm still around your stomach, and you don’t know why he’s doing this. It’s drowning you in him, and it’s just like out in the party, but now it’s meaner. Now he’s staring at you like that but there’s no one to preform for, and he’s holding you so close as if he’d ever want to touch you.

“No,” you whisper, your head a little numb from his gaze. “I don’t.”

“Why.”

You blink at him. “Because you do-“

“I don’t.”

“Bucky, you don’t have to lie-“

“I’m not lying.” He snaps, and there’s a painful, strange strain in his voice. “Why the hell would I lie about that.”

“I- I don’t know.” You frown, and his hand on your jaw tightens slightly. It wouldn’t be to make you feel better. That’s not how Bucky is. But- “You don’t look at me.”

“I-“

“Ever.” You whisper, scanning over his face for a hint. Just a clue of is this is going to hurt when it’s done. “You never look at me. Or stand near me. Or talk to me.”

“I’m talking to you right now.” He grunts. “Lookin’ at you, too.” 

You let out a dry laugh. “Because I’m making you-“

“No, you’re not.” You can see his frown in the dark, and it’s strangely tight. “I look at you, doll. All the time. Just not when you’re looking at me.”

“I look at you all the time.” You whisper, and Bucky gives you a strange look.

“Why.”

Shit. “I- I’m-“ You swallow, and suddenly you don’t want his attention anymore. It’s piercing into you, making your thoughts a little hazy. “I don’t wanna talk about it, James.”

He raises his brows at you. “James? I’m James now?”

You give him a weak nod, and he sighs.

“Can I tell you why I look at you?”

“I-“

“Please.” His thumb runs over your cheek as he says your name, and you swallow. “Let me tell you.”

He’s still looking at you, and you can’t figure out how you could say no. So you nod, and Bucky lets out a slow breath that fans over your face. 

“Cause I think about you,” his grip over your stomach tightens, and your arm flies up to hold it against you. “All the time. About how pretty you are, how smart, how sweet. Think about how you talk and what typa foods you like, what things you think are interesting and if you’d find me interesting, if I grew the spine to talk to you.”

“I- I talk to you all the time.” Your voice is soft, and Bucky shrugs. 

“I know, and I think ‘bout that too. And how I know you look at me, doll. I can feel it.” His mouth lowers slightly over yours, his voice dropping so low you can feel it in your core. “It feels like I’m on fire.”

You blink at him for a second, and a soft giggle bubbles up in your throat. Bucky frowns at you, but doesn’t move away, and suddenly you’re slack in his arms and fully laughing. 

“Why the hell-“

“Because that’s such a dumb thing to say.” You smile at him, wide and unrestrained, and his lips twitch. “I- I mean, it was good, but-“

“Too much?” There’s a dry amusement in his voice, and your smile grows. 

“No. Just right, but dramatic.”

“Well, I practiced in the mirror.”

You giggle again, his hand still firm on your jaw, and he’s still watching you. No offense in his gaze from your laughter. Only that same heated look from the study. His thumb reaches up to swipe your lower lips, and one of your giggles turn into a sharp gasp as he shifts you slightly, and suddenly you can feel his half-hard dick, pressed right into your ass. 

“This okay?” He mutters, right in your ear, and you nod a little stupidly, clinging to his dress shirt. “Good, cause I wasn’t lying. I think about you,” his lips brush over your ear, and a small shiver darts up your spine. “All the time.”

You believe him. If there was any space to not believe him, it’s been pressed to nothing between your bodies. But now you’re playing back all those moments you thought you analyzed so well, looking for some sort of sign. A hint that you didn’t just toss up to delusion, a shred of proof that it’s always been real. 

“Bucky?” You whisper, and he hums, the sound vibrating over your ribs. “Why didn’t you- I mean- It’s been a year-“

He understands your stumbling words, and shrugs slightly. “You didn’t say anythin’ either.”

“But I didn’t know.” You give him a half-pout. “You knew.”

“I did.” He sighs, his hand dropping from your jaw to trace the bare skin of your leg. “Also knew you deserve better than me.”

“Bucky-“

“You know what I am,” he mutters your name, his grip loosening slightly. “What I’ve done. And you’ve got too long a life ahead of you to stain it with all my shit.”

He’s starting to let you go. To look away, his attention now fixed on where he’s touching you, shooting sparks over your skin and making your legs spread wider.

And you know exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to talk himself out of this, before it’s even started. So you reach back, wrapping your arm around his neck and pulling his gaze back to yours with a firm glare. 

“I love you.”

Bucky blinks at you for a second, then shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter-“

“Doesn’t it?” You narrow your eyes. “Do you love me?”

“Course I love you-“

“Then that’s it.”

He stares at you for a second, and you think he’s going to argue. But then his hand starts to trace back over your thigh, wrapping under it before pulling it slightly up, and you can feel the warmth of his hand, making your back arch as he massages your skin.

“You’re sure.” he murmurs, holding your wide-eyed gaze. “This needs to be something you want-“

“Want it.” Your nails are digging into his skin as his hand wanders further up, but he doesn’t flinch. “Really want it, Bucky.”

He hums, his thumb skimming over your panties, and pausing when you shudder. “Jesus, doll, you’re soaking-“

“You’re hard.” You grumble, grinding back against him, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, I am. But,” he presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, and you moan. “You’re so fuckin’ wet. Dripping on my fingers, lookin’ gorgeous, sayin’ my name like that.”

You blink at him again, shamelessly grinding down onto his hand as words start to turn into soft, breathless sounds, and Bucky’s eyes flash. His attention falls from your face to where you’re still gripping his arm, then lower. Where his hand is cupped over your core and you’re rocking on his fingers, trying to drag yourself over the edge. A high whine of frustration escapes your throat, and you try to scratch at his arm over your stomach, but you can get a proper grip on the metal and the ache between your legs is only growing worse-

“You really want this.” Bucky mutters, like he can’t believe it, and you nod, throwing your head back against his shoulder. 

“I- I told you- Love you- Need you-“

Bucky crashes his mouth down, and you open for him in half a second, moaning loudly down his throat. He tastes like mint and chocolate thingy you made him eat at the party, and you’d thought he’d just thrown it in the trash, but he ate it. And he’s kissing you like he’s about to go off to war, his groan rumbling between your bodies when your teeth scrape his lip, and his grip on your body tightening when he shoves his tongue further into your mouth. It’s like he’s trying to eat you alive, and you can’t think anything past the growing need for him, and the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’re going to dissolve under his hands. 

His fingers finally pull your underwear to the side—slowly, as if he’s giving you a second to swat him away—and two fingers start to tease over your pussy, making your mouth fall into a wide, useless gape. Bucky chuckles, starting to kiss back over your neck, and when you make a soft plea of his name, his fingers vanish. 

“No-“ You squirm against him, tears starting to sting behind your eyes from desperation. “Bucky, please- Oh-“

He grabs your chin again as his knee carefully guides further apart, holding your gaze against his as you flutter your lashes, and shoves his thigh between them. 

You squeak, and start to grind against him until it’s all you can feel. The strength of his body around you, the thick muscles of his thigh over your pussy, and the wildfire it’s igniting everywhere in your body, only a high and perfect feeling of the friction and his hand holding your throat so carefully, your gaze trapped onto his. 

“There you go,” he mutters, gaze flicking down to where you’re fucking yourself on his leg. “Take what you need, pretty girl, I’ve got you.”

Your only response is another moan, and Bucky’s eyes flash. He keeps looking at you like you’re sacred, scanning over your every feature as you chase your release in his arms. He adjusts you slightly, making your clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants as well, and grin when you make a strangled noise of pleasure.

“Feel good?” He murmurs, leaving soft, teasing kisses everywhere on your face but your lips, and you whimper.

“So good. Bucky- I- more-“

He hums against your skin, his grip on your throat tightening slightly, and your pace increases. “I don’t know, if you think I don’t care about you-“

He laughs as you whack his arm, and you try to glare at him, but your voice is still coated with need, so you’re not sure you’re selling it. “Don’t be mean- Fuck-“ His hand over your stomach glides up, palming at your breasts and playing with your nipples. “Bucky-“

“Not trying to be mean, doll.” He shrugs. “But-“

“You are.” You whine, turning your face to bury in is neck, your hips never stopping their roll on his thigh. “I love you, Bucky, and I’d do anything for you but- Please-“ You might be about to cry again, and you’re stuck right on the edge, unable to find the thing to tip you into blissful oblivion. “You’re teasing me, and I- I need you-“

“Okay.” His voice is impossibly soft in your ear, and when he guides your eyes back to his, there’s a sad, adoring expression in them before his kisses you, longer and slower than before. Taking his time and guiding the kiss to stay slow, and gentle, and the last bits of doubt dissolve in the heat of your body. 

Bucky wouldn’t kiss you like this if he didn’t mean it. Wouldn’t moan your name against his lips when you wiggled your ass against him, and grin when he pinched your nipple and your back arched. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he mutters, pulling back with your body pressed fully against his, trapping all your movement. “I- I don’t know how to do this anymore, won’t ever let you think I don’t care again. Okay?”

You nod, tugging at his hair to try and get another kiss, and you were right.

He lets out a deep moan, pressing another, deeper kiss against your lips.

“We good?” He murmurs, and you nod.

“We’re good. But I-“ You wiggle, and a low hiss leaves his throat. “Bucky, please-“

“Yeah, I got it, just-“ He pauses, frowning down at you. “I don’t have protection-“

“I’m clean. Or we can just do, like-“ Your back arches, his grip loosened enough for you to start grinding on his thigh again. “Hand stuff, but I- I’d like- Fuck-“

Bucky watches you with an almost awestruck expression, his voice impossibly deep. “You want to cum on my cock, sweet girl?”

You nod, opening your mouth to scream yes, please, anything, but Bucky doesn’t give you the time. He carefully leans your forward so your hands are braced on the closet door—one arm still holding you steady—and bunches up your dress until you can feel cool air hitting your cunt, your clit pressed right on his knee. You have enough room to keep grinding, as he shuffles around behind you, and you’re right on the edge when you feel the head of Bucky’s cock rub over your pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. 

There’s not a second to plead with him before he shoves into you. He’s big, you can feel it. Big and thick and bullying right against your g-spot with one stroke, and your orgasm rushes through your body. 

You might have screamed his name, because his hand shoots up to cover your mouth, his voice low and strained in your ear. 

“Still in public,” he grunts your name in your ear, a low sound leaving his throat when you squeeze around him. “Need you to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me?”

You moan against his hand, but nod, and he chuckles. 

“Not really sellin’ it, doll- Shit-“

You’re jerking your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his cock, and that’s all it takes to snap whatever sort of restraint he was holding over himself. 

Bucky groans, tugging you back to his chest and folding his body wholly over yours, and starts to piston his hips against yours with an unrelenting fervor. His hand remains over your mouth, his own lips sucking and biting on your neck, and the closet fills with the sound of his skin slapping against yours and the wet, vulgar sound of his cock abusing your already raw pussy, and you can’t think anything but his name, the pleasure racking your body, and the sound of his voice in your ear. 

“So fuckin’ good, doll,�� he grunts, and if you were more than putty in his arms, you might whimpers something about him being good too. “Taking me so well, feel like heaven, and- Shit-“

His hips jerk as you squeeze around him, and you moan against his mouth. 

“Yeah, just like that-“ He grabs your chin, leaning forward to kiss another sound from your throat, and you shiver in his arms. “Doin’ so good, baby, just gotta- Shit-“

His strokes are starting to grow sloppy, his lips almost fused to yours, and you’re trying to meet him with every thrust, but you might be floating. There’s nothing in your body but warmth and tension and need, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. He just fucks you harder, grunting praise into your mouth and moaning whenever your pussy flutters around him, and you’re going to melt or explode into starlight but the coil in your gut won’t just snap- 

“Such a good girl, takin’ me like you’re made for it, sounding so pretty, gonna- Shit.” Bucky moans as your hand somehow manages to get behind you, cupping his balls and playing with them, and you’re shoved back against the closet door. “Don’t play dirty, doll, gonna make me cum right in your perfect, tight cunt-“

You whine, throwing your head back on his shoulder, and his movements stutter again.

“Fuck, you want that, don’t you.” He groans when you nod, your mouth parted but no sound able to fully come out, every bit of you consumed by only Bucky. “Wanna cum with me? Let me fill up this pussy so everyone knows who it belongs to you?”

You gasp as metal fingers trace down your abdomen to press and rub rapid, firm circles on your clit, and Bucky nips at the soft skin of your throat. 

“Need words-“

“Yes,” you manage to push out, and Bucky grins against you. “Please, Bucky, let me come-“

Your words fall off into soundless scream when Bucky’s pace somehow increases, his lips slotting perfectly back over yours. 

“Whatever you want, baby.” He mutters, pinching your clit. “Cum for me.”

You might be flying out of your skin. The second orgasm feels like it’s pulling you apart and remaking you in a single moment, cresting higher and higher as Bucky fucks you through it, his own release coming a second later and panting over the wall of your cunt, warmth dripping down your thighs and filling you up so good, you don’t think you’re ever going to be empty again.

It feels like you’re floating gently down, as Bucky buries himself fully inside you and the pleasure lingers comfortably in your body. His brow drops to your shoulder as he comes down himself, his breathing heavy in your ear and fingers still absentmindedly playing with your clit, sending a last, tiny orgasm shivering through your body. A light kiss is pressed to your neck as he pulls out, broad hands straightening out your dress before you hear his zipper, and when you tip your head back, he’s looking at you. 

And grinning. 

Bucky’s staring at you with no intention to look away, and grinning like you’re the only thing in the world. 

“Alarms haven’t been goin’ for about a half hour.” He hums, and you flush.

“Are we, um- the mission-“

“I got it.” He shrugs. “We just need to get out.” He scans over you, and gives a tiny nod that mostly seems to be for himself. “I’ll carry you.”

“You’ll- Bucky-“ You squirm around to fully face him, pushing off his chest as he tries to haul you over his shoulder. “You can’t just carry me-“

“Yeah, I can. I’ve carried heavier-“

“No, I mean-“ You sigh, dropping your face to his chest. “You don’t have to.”

He frowns. “What if I want to.”

Fuck. You’re never going to leave this closet, if he keeps talking like that. “Then later. Right now we have to do the walk of shame.”

“What’s that.” His hands start to rub tight circles on your hips, but he doesn’t try to throw you back over his shoulder, so you count it as a victory. 

“We just fucked.” You shrug, playing with the buttons of his suit. “We probably look like it. If we just walk right out, nobody will try to stop us from going home.”

Bucky hums, still watching you so carefully. “And we… get a later?”

You pause, letting his words sink in, and a small smile spreads over your face as you see the nervous, open expression on Bucky’s face. 

Get a later. 

He’s just as unsure as you are. He really has been feeling all the same things, just as much, and this is delicate to him as well. 

It’s important. Made of glass and beautiful. But still capable of being dropped. 

You’d really like not to drop it, if he doesn’t want to, either. You’d like a later. 

You’d like a forever. 

So you push up on your toes, pulling Bucky into a gentle, slow kiss, and smile against his lips when he groans. 

“We can have a later.” You mumble, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. “If you want.”

“I do.” He chases your lips for another, smaller kiss, and a giggle pulls from your throat. “Want it. If you want it, too-”

You lean back, trying not to feel like you’re glowing under his attention, then deciding that—overall—it’s really not worth fighting.

Because his words falter as he looks at you, his hands squeezing your waist. And it’s better than you imagined, having him like this. And he’s not going to go away.

“I’d like that.” You whisper. “A lot.”

“Good.” Bucky brings one hand up to trace over your face, and it’s so gentle.

He’s still touching you like you’re holy. Just like how he looks at you.

Just like you look at him.

“Me too.”

End Note: I love it when men are bad at emotions. It's okay baby girl you can say you love me. And I'm back on my long fic bullshit! Twas busy in June but don't worry. I'm about to go crazy.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

@globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr @youdontknowe @panicking-outside-the-disco @ambiguous-avery

@generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @ilovedeanwinchester4 @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r

@winchester-whiskey @jsudsgf @deans-yn @jofinka @megara0224

@funkenniffler @disappearintofanfiction @solsborg @sheneedsjesus @bonkydarnes

@whimsicalcherry @charliethemanticore @cats-chaotic-mind @forzalando @roseblue373

@sleepysongbirdsings @angrydragon90 @dumbwhorestuff @biodegradable-glitter-fest @idontwannabehere78

@miss-marmalade @cowboysandcigarettes @mgchaser @starrylanex @cookiemonstermusic258

@milaer @winchestert101 @juliperezsilveira @kamisobsessed @amelya5567

@skrph @kanakarbakar @lcolumbia1988 @sebastians-love @jjwasneverhere

@annoyingrebelsoul @strawberrykiwisdogog @panickedbitch @itserickalove @sineminuse

@deerandbunnies

[gorimbaudandgojohnnygo]

The Save the Date card for our wedding. (The photograph we used was taken in June 2009, on the train tracks in Santa Cruz, and remains one of my favorite photos of us, ever.)

[appreciatingtokrev]

sometimes i worry that one day i’ll stop loving my qpp the way i love him now but i’ve known him for almost five years and we’ve been in a qpr for almost three and i still can’t stop smiling as i’m walking towards him every single time we meet again

[butteryunlikelylady]

it was never my life to live and he didn’t fall for the real me… he fell for an accessory and thought he could just change the label while things stayed the same