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reyalvr · 1 year ago

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SHE'S MINE | 01

I'M ALL IN, I CAN'T REVERSE IT-

synopsis ┊ thrust into the spotlight, ken sato had easily become the next big thing tokyo had seen in decades. alongside his fame came the inevitable string of rumors, of which sprung forth scandals and discrediting information against his image. of course the obvious and most rational solution would be to address them like every other celebrity, but this was ken sato; nothing would ever be rational with him, which is how you wound up with a ring on your finger and the sato name in your papers.

genre ┊ fake dating, fake marriage, idiots-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, slight angst, chaotic fluff, mild smut

pairing ┊ ken sato x fem-PA!reader, ken sato x fake-wife!reader

warnings ┊ mild cursing, eventual smut, mentions of alcohol, all events in ultraman: rising take place a year after kenji moves back to japan

word count ┊ 3.2k

author’s note ┊ WOOHOO part one finally out! thank you so much for all the love on the prologue, it made me so motivated to make this as good as possible hehe >.< each chapter title is based off of a lyric in my writing playlist for this series, lmk if you guys would like me to drop it ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶. happy reading!

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KEN KNEW HE WAS IN DEEP SHIT. Knee deep, even. If you asked him what was going through his head thirty seconds ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell you even if he wanted to. Everything that happened next was a blur- from shaking hands with the host to walking back to his dressing room, it felt like he was operating on autopilot. Who wouldn’t be, though? He had just announced to the world that he was officially taken; that he was off the market- hooked. Of course, it wouldn’t have been a problem if it were true…

But it wasn’t.

He had just lied to an audience of a hundred people- not to mention the millions throughout the various streaming platforms the show was being aired on. His nails dug into his palm as he neared his dressing room, the bold, black letters of his name growing larger and larger each step he took. His heart was pounding, and he swore he felt chill down his spine the moment he opened the door. No one could blame him though, not if they knew the inevitable wrath they were about to face.

You were stood there, eyes narrowed and resting all your weight on your hip. Your arms were crossed, your lips were pursed. The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, staring at each other as you waited for the other to speak up. Ken swallowed nervously, tapping his foot as he tried formulating an explanation. He wasn’t entirely sure as to why he was so overstrung, it was just you. Why should he be terrified of your scolding on his recent screw up?

“Special someone, huh?” You said through your teeth, finally breaking the tense silence in the room. “So special that nobody on your team knew of her prior to your public love confession?”

Ah. That was why. The way you were able to see right through him scared him sometimes. He never outwardly showed his reactions, though- at least he tried not to. He cleared his throat before finally moving to plop down on the couch, doing his damndest not to show his jitters.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. I lied, so what?” He replied, his cocky tone masking the unsureness in his words. “It’s not the first time I’ve done it.”

Strike one. As if you couldn’t have been any more pissed off, that seemed to be the tipping point. You paused before letting out a deep breath, circling around him. He closed his eyes when he knew you were behind him, and he waited for you to berate him; to remind him of the consequences of his actions. He waited, but it never came. He opened one eye, and he relaxed when you moved to sit on the opposite couch. He was spared… for now.

“What, no scolding?” He decided to test, tilting his head to the side as he watched you.

You only let out a small laugh, and somehow that was worse than any scolding he’d ever received from you. You were oddly calm, like all your anger had just melted away. Leaning forward, you slid an enclosed piece of paper across the table towards him.

“Can you guess what this is, Ken?” You ask, your eyes finally looking back up to meet his.

Ken knew not to answer. He was ready to spit out some witty reply, but the look in your eyes told him that this was going to go down another route; one that he definitely didn’t want to aggravate.

“It’s my resignation letter.” You say nonchalantly, causing him to straighten up once more. “I keep it handy.”

Resignation letter? Was this real? Were you actually going to quit over this? He opened his mouth to speak up but quickly shut it when you maintained your soul-searching gaze. He tried to relax, yet the furrow in his eyebrows seemed to stay as you continued on.

“I’m going to be very clear on what’s going to happen next, Ken.” You say, resting your arms on your knees. “This will be the last time I help you clear up a mishap. After everything is settled, I’m gone.”

Gone. His eyes widened slightly, the palms of his hands starting to get clammy. He let out a light, nervous laugh, looking at you as if you had just said something absurd. Which, in his defense, you sort of did. Again, he had no idea why this news was so shocking to him, seeing as you’d only worked under him for a year and a half. Surely he couldn’t have been that terrible, right? He stared at the folded paper in front of him before speaking up.

“What, uh, what do you mean gone?” He asked through a breathy laugh. “Gone like a break or something? I’m happy to give you one-”

“Gone as in I quit.” You cut him off, standing up as you adjusted the sleeves of your shirt. “Like I said, this is the last time I clean up your mess, Ken Sato.”

You moved to walk away, but he quickly caught your arm. “Woah, hold on a sec,” He stood up, looking down at you with stunned eyes. “Quit? C’mon, [Y/N] I know I screwed up but you can’t just leave me hanging like this-”

You scoffed at him then, yanking your arm out of his grasp. “Oh I can’t leave you hanging, huh? Tell me, Ken, how many times have I saved your ass in the last eighteen months I’ve been working for you, hm?”

He swallowed dryly as he tried to recall. He was used to having his name on headlines, most especially after his move last year. He couldn’t go five seconds without seeing his ads pop up on his platforms, hell he couldn’t even go five blocks without seeing a billboard with his face on it. Which all brought him back to one thing: not one negative scandal under his name. With you, he was perfect; jack of all trades in the MLB and the internet’s favorite spokesperson.

Shit. Strike two.

You only hummed in response once you read over his expression. “Exactly. So the next time you even think about downplaying my job, remember how I was the reason for your recent success.”

Ken was at a loss for words. Rarely was he ever left speechless, he always seemed to have a response ready for anything. But now was definitely not one of those times. He watched as you bent down to retrieve that dreaded letter, and you shoved it into his chest before moving to finally walk past him.

“Our flight leaves tomorrow at five a.m, I'll see you in the lobby at three.” You say, not so much as sparing him a glance as you fixed your bag.

He managed to let out a quiet ‘okay’, gripping onto your letter tightly as he watched you pack up. Damn Ken, you really did it this time, didn’t you? He thought to himself, wondering how- or rather, if he would be able to make things right with you. For the first time in his career, he was thinking about someone else other than himself.

“Oh and Ken,” You say, breaking him out of his dazed stance.

“Hm?” He hummed out, averting his gaze to be level with yours.

“You had better pray that the next assistant you get is half as good as I am.” You said before closing the door, leaving him alone in his dressing room. All of a sudden it felt… quiet. Too quiet. He sighed, dropping down on the couch once more before closing his eyes and masking his face with his hands.

Strike three.

THE TENSION IN THE CAR WAS PAINSTAKINGLY PALPABLE. Ken’s leg bounced as the two of you were stuck in airport traffic, the car unmoving for nearly half an hour now. Your occasional sighs and the hum of the car’s engine were the only sounds filling the air. He felt like he was going crazy. He hadn’t been able to sleep properly the night before thanks to your bombshell of an announcement. In comparison, though, he probably shouldn’t be complaining about bombshells when he himself dropped one twice the size of yours.

Still, he was restless. You hadn’t uttered a single word to him since landing back in Tokyo, and the unwanted solitude was driving him nuts. He glanced over at you through his shades, noting the way you were impatiently tapping your fingers against the wheel. Obviously you were still pissed at his little stunt, and the articles following the incident didn’t aid in calming your anger.

He knew it wasn’t smart, but he needed to talk to you. The sea of red lights in front of him remained stagnant, and he didn’t want to spend another minute in this deafening quietude. He gnawed at his bottom lip before finally breaking the silence.

“Can we talk?” He said, looking over at you.

“No.” You replied bluntly.

“[Y/N]-” He started, but one glance from you was enough to shut him up.

“I am doing you a huge favor by helping you solve the mess you created.” You said as you looked back at the road ahead of you, lifting your fingers and circling your thumbs around the wheel. “I could’ve left right then and there, leaving you to deal with this on your own. But I didn’t, I don’t know why, but I didn’t.”

You looked back up at him, and only now did he notice the circles under your eyes and the paleness of your complexion. Something inside him twisted; he couldn’t tell if it was guilt or regret. Guilt, probably, for having to rely on you to correct his mistakes, and regret for even causing this whole debacle in the first place.

“The least I’m asking from you is your compliance.” You say tiredly, the glint in your eyes doing most of the talking.

“Yeah, okay. Sorry.” He managed to get out, leaning back into the passenger seat.

And just like that, the dreaded silence was back. By some miracle the traffic started to gain some speed, the taillights of the cars ahead of him dispersing onto the road. His head hit the back of the headrest, and he sat through the entire ride back to the Tokyo Dome contemplating his recent choices.

It was only when you knocked on the window of the passenger side when he realized he had finally reached his destination. He got out, stretching his limbs after being cramped inside the car for so long. He threw on his jacket lazily, not even bothering to zip it up. He went to put on his cap, but then he noticed something odd.

It was quiet outside the building, the bristle of the trees and the nearby roads the only sound filling his ears. There was something lacking; the neverending shuttering sounds of cameras and eager voices yelling at him to look or to say something. He realized then the lack of paparazzi and reporters outside to greet him, just like they usually did whenever he came back from a trip. His head turned, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked around. Not a single one in sight.

“‘Something wrong?” You asked as you walked past him to swipe your ID into the security system.

“It’s just,” He said, still looking around in confusion. He let out an airy laugh as he followed you inside, the expression on his face remaining the same. “There’s no paps or anything.”

At that you laugh, albeit sarcastically, waiting for him to get into the elevator. “You know that might be the first time I’ve ever heard a famous person complain about not being bombarded by ill-intent people.”

“I’m not complaining, trust me.” He says, putting his hands up halfway in defense. “It’s weird. That’s all.”

“Well that’s what happens when people think you’re spending time with your special someone after being away for so long.” You say, pulling up a press announcement on your phone.

For a split second, Kenji had completely forgotten that he had to keep up the fact that he supposedly had a significant other waiting for him at home. He let out an ‘ah’, sliding his hands into his pockets as the elevator went up. Again his heart panged, finally realizing why your eyebags were deeper than they usually were. While he may have had discomfort in his slumber, it didn’t compare to the hours you were up trying to get everything settled here.

You held the door open to your office, letting him in first. Once the lights were on, he was greeted with your infamous whiteboard, different scribbles of colorful ink filling up the space corner to corner. He cringed at the bolded date of the talk show he was on.

“Your bags will be sent here in the next hour, and valet has your bike ready.” You say, doing the usual routine you did whenever the both of you came back from work trips. He sat down on the sofa, nodding each time you reminded him of something.

“Now, about the issue,” You walk over to the whiteboard, erasing its contents. “We need to find you a fake girlfriend.”

He choked on nothing, not surprised by the news but surprised by the continued bluntness of your tone. “I beg your pardon?”

“We need to find you a fake girlfriend.” You repeated, emphasizing the words obnoxiously.

“Yeah I get that,” He finally replied, a look of uncertainty splashing his features. “But you’re making it sound like all we need to do is shop around.”

“Well unless you can give me a face, let alone a name to your special someone, this is the plan we have.” You retort, resting a hand at your hip as the other points at the board.

“Why can’t I just be one of those celebrities who keep their relationship private?” He questions genuinely.

“Oh I’m sorry, who was the one who announced that they were in love on live television?” You remind him, annoyance laced in your words.

He bites back any sort of sarcastic remark that conjures up in the back of his head. You were right, obviously you were right. But some part of him felt it was… unfair to not have a say in this. Stupid, yes, but it’s how he felt.

“Can I continue or is there anything else you want to unnecessarily add?” You ask, looking at him with an eyebrow raised.

He only lifted a hand, signaling for you to carry on. You go on to explain that whoever ends up “dating” him will need to have to go through a contract signing, NDA included. You draw up charts on your board, showing him the possible stats of his ratings if he’ll be able to pull this off.

“Your next playoff season is about to start, I suggest we get all this settled by then.” You scroll on your smartwatch, looking at the calendar. “It gives me two weeks to plan everything out. I need you here tomorrow bright and early so that we can go through a list of potential candidates.”

“Candidates? What is this, speed-dating?” He says, making a face at all the analytical parts of your plan.

“No, it’s a game called ‘save-my-reputation.’” You answer snarkily, narrowing your eyes slightly at him.

He takes in a deep breath, starting to get annoyed with your remarks. He knew he had no right to, but to think that you were just dictating away at his choices made him feel like some sort of plaything.

“I just don’t understand why we even need to find a ‘girlfriend’ in the first place.” He massages the back of his head before crossing his arms. “I mean everyone thinks I’ve successfully hidden my love life up until now, what’s the point of going all out?”

He could see you clench your fingers around the marker, and he knew he was close to reaching your tipping once more. All in the span of twenty-four hours. You pinched the bridge of your nose before you spoke up.

“Ken. You told the world that you were in love.” You say in an eerily calm tone. “You got yourself into this mess, now you have to get yourself out of it. And unless you want to say goodbye to your stardom, this is what you need to do.”

He opened his mouth to speak up but was cut off by your phone’s ringing. You answered, spewing out a quick and formal ‘thank you’ to whoever was on the other line. You sighed, placing your marker back down on your desk before you walked past him towards the glass door.

“Your bags are here.” You say, opening the door. “Your bike’s parked outside and everything should be good to go.”

Your demeanor had changed in a split second, going from PR manager to assistant in the blink of an eye. At times Ken wondered how you were able to juggle everything. It wasn’t the main thing that was on his mind, he had… other, more serious things to worry about. Like the other secret he had kept from you all this time; Ultraman. He shook his head, trying not to focus on his double life on top of the situation he was in.

Ken knew that your words were a sign to get up and get out, and he did just that. You followed him all the way back down to the lobby of the stadium, handing him his duffel bag and walking him to his bike. Despite your earlier mood, you did your checks on his motorbike that he had grown accustomed to after a while.

“Tomorrow, bright and early.” You remind him, crossing your arms as he got on his bike. “Please.”

“Tomorrow, bright and early.” He repeats through a huff, slinging his bag into the compartment attached to the back of his motorbike. “Got it.”

You only hummed in response, turning away to walk back into the stadium. He didn’t know what it was that came over him, but before he knew it he was grabbing your arm softly once more. Your head spun around to look at him, more of your stray hairs spilling out of your updo. At this angle the sunset brought out the shininess of your eyes, the early evening shadows accentuating your features.

He swallowed before he continued. “You know for what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

Instead of another curt response, though, you sighed as you pressed your lips together. He lets go of your arm then, not wanting to invade anymore of your personal space than he already has. He can see you poke your tongue into your cheek, a habit you did when you were in contemplation.

“Well,” You finally breathe out, your expression relaxing. “If you’re actually as sorry as you say you are, you’ll do as I say.”

“‘Course.” He says before his face gets obscured by his helmet. He nods towards your direction once more before finally revving the engine.

Only time will tell what the outcome is, but whatever it is, he hopes he ends up in the one where you don’t loathe his very being.

tags┊@mochminnie, @rreasonablydumbb, @sincerest-one, @fruticake, @lunaryasha, @lovingyeet, @sugacor3, @arrozyfrijoles23, @fennecspage, @mmeerraa, @azryaa, @akiradailylifes, @montybooks, @mmv-ymvm, @hore4ken, @greeniegreengreen, @meikoo, @random-3455, @todaywasafairytale07, @mythicalmoa, @imafangirlofeverything, @astylos, @vynwan-cbq, @rosegiyanabing, @icedberrytea, @ken-zah, @letharue, @chi222, @flooftoof, @c4ttheart, @ymrai, @stxrrielle, @alpha-mommy69, @ewitscat, @lightsinmycity, @furblrwurblr, @ayamago, @sugururawr, @secretlyapartofthisfandom @shellspider, @oh-kurva, @noraimp

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zerocoded · 1 month ago

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✧ THE SEONGHYEON JAEGA ◞ sunghoon vampire fanfic series.

ɜ: soulmates!au ◦ vampire!au ◦ mentions of sex ◦ dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing ◦ landlord!sunghoon x fem!reader ◦ vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader ◦ vampire!enhypen ◦ gore, mentions of violence and blood ◦ graphic description of violence ◦ in this au, humans and vampires coexist and vampires are almost extinguished ◦ heavy angst ◦ family drama ◦ mommy issues ◦ reader's dad has cancer ◦ eventual smut ◦ description of blood ◦ HAPPY ENDING ◦ too much angst ◦ pls be mindful of what you're consuming for your mental health.

🎴 your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

◦ prologue — pink tiles. 5.8k ◦ prologue part two — the seonghyeon building. 10.9k ◦ chapter one — hydrangeas & homicide. 11.2k ◦ chapter two — six-hundred-and-thirty-three. 16k. ◦ chapter three — eletromagnetic emo ghost. 21.6k. ◦ chapter four — grocery shopping & movie nights. 18.2k. ◦ chapter five — resist the urge to bite (or kiss). 17k.

2025 © zerocoded

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dietcane · 24 days ago

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⚢ barbed wire baby - dirty little secret

cw: dead dove, do not eat !!, age gap (ellie is late 30's, reader is 21), elements of domestic violence, toxic relationship, death, themes of organized crime (gangs/mafia/drug cartels), cheating, bribery, abuse (physical, drugs, alcohol), mentioned gambling, bloodplay, strap-on usage, heavy manipulation, dark!ellie, spitting, rough sex, oral sex, depictions of mental instability. more to be added!!

synopsis: as the adrenaline becomes more and more overwhelming, so does the danger. stakes are higher than ever. dingy prison cells, double entendres whispered through jail phones. knowing glances exchanged with prison guards. her modern day bonnie to her clyde. your life weighs in the balance. you know ellie has pull inside and out. you have to decide if you're willing to risk everything for her. are you?

DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

⤷ m.list | a/n: first chapters are soo short. lengthy ones soon!

Time rolled by quickly following the day of Ellie’s conjugal visit. Thirty minutes felt like five, hours felt like ten. Mindlessly slugging around Ellie’s too-big mansion. Cold hallways, impersonal decor, and ceilings that made you feel miniature from the sheer height of them. Following daily routines like second nature- brush teeth, shower, skincare, make-up, fix hair, attend whatever Ellie’s scheduled you for. Meaningless little things. Charity events, small outings so you’re not stuck in the house, fancy dinners with people of her caliber. Dangerous people, that is, adorned in thick Armani suits with glinting watches from brands that you’ve never heard of in your life.

Days become weeks and weeks become months. Life is a blur. Not much to keep in mind when you're being puppeteered from behind iron bars. Ellie has made no effort to get herself out or vy for a retrial. Content with the schedule she’s been abiding by for the last one hundred forty-two days.

Her men aren't dormant, though, despite her absence. Tirelessly working, arranging deals, carrying out hits, the usual. Trudging through the endless, eerie halls covered in blood. Bloody footprints caked into the tiled floors, seeping into the divots of grout and the stark paleness of the slabs of granite. Distinct screams sounding from the basement, the exhale of air from the suppressor and the heavy thunk of cold bodies hitting the concrete floor.

You didn't leave your room most days if Ellie didn't schedule or force you to attend one of her “graciously” planned events or activities for you. Majority of your days were spent in bed, pajama shorts around your ankles and panties long discarded, just trying to alleviate the pent-up arousal impending in your stomach. It didn't work much. Ellie knew your body much better than you did. Couldn't get yourself over the daunting brink while plagued with nausea. Nauseous from the cloying, sterile scent of bleach and hospital grade cleaning supplies. Nauseous from the coil of guilt and disgust roiling in the pit of your stomach every time you walked past the heavily guarded and locked basement door. Trapped away beneath thick deadbolts, nightlatches, and a series of biometric locks. Overkill, you think. One of Ellie’s best guardsmen- her right hand man, honestly- keeps an eye on this door- Abby Anderson. A heavyset blondie with striking blue eyes that tend to wander. Broad arms covered in scars and faint hair. She's not bad-looking. Stark opposite to Ellie, though.

Today, unfortunately, the basement guard has been swapped out with your usual bodyguard- Dina- and now you're under Abby’s watch. She’s gruff when she barges into your room, dress and cardigan clutched into her fist, arm extended. Your skin is sweat slick where you’re bare and naked in the middle of your bed, a spot carved out into the sheets. Knees propped up and spread. Your fingers are curled in between your thighs and they’re dripping with your own slick. She doesn't even look at you.

Your fumble to sit up, blanket pulled over your lower half, plagued with bouts of embarrassment and horror. You drag your dirtied fingers over the comforter, trying to even make yourself look even the closest semblance to presentable. Her eyes don’t even bother to look at you now. Eyes that once trailed over you whole and unashamedly- for a moment that brings you an inkling of comfort. It’s nice to think for a moment that she doesn’t want to see you vulnerable. Not without your permission. But then your brain oh-so helpfully supplies you all of the vague memories of Ellie leaving you out on display for all of her soldiers and men to see. One time? Completely bare with only a thick, leather collar hanging around your neck. Early on into the relationship. Mouthed off at her. Rattling off nonsense with an attitude just to be annoying. To be stubborn. Ellie wasn’t a fan of back talk. Or spunk for that matter. Made you sit at her feet like a dog. Of course you mouthed off about that too. For an entire week, she made you sit with the suffocating leather collar and leash. All while adorning a black eye, of course.

Her nose is turned up like it's inconveniencing her to even be in your presence. You swear that she even wipes her hand on her tactile weapon belt, slung heavy around her hips, when your fingers graze the back of her hand. You feel like you’re beneath her. Her expression is bored and her tongue is prodding into her cheek. You’re staring. Freckles, scarred cheek, blue eyes, pretty lashes. She’s hot. But you keep it to yourself.

“Not sure Els would really appreciate you finger deep with no panties around her guards, yeah? Keep it to yourself, pretty.” Her voice doesn’t sound how you’d expect it to. You expected her to be harsher, more brute-like. It’s slick. Like one of those dommes in videos you’d tumbled over in the depths of the internet- late at night and pent up. Slick with a honey dew seductive caliber. You deduce the fact you definitely want Abby Anderson- your wife’s right-hand man- to jump your bones, even if that’s the last thing that ever happens to you. The thought plagues you with guilt, but you try to mediate it with the excuse of ovulation. Wife is incarcerated, you’re frustratingly warm, and you’re ovulating! You’re clearly not yourself.

Silence has become severely familiar to you. One of your closest adversaries. Bleak nights spent sitting on balconies, silent alongside nothing but the stars and the moon to keep you company. Some nights you lay in bed and just think. Thinking about how life would be if you had heed the warning about Ellie’s bars. Bars tucked into shady, yet so lively corners of New York City. Maybe you’d still be in school, continuing your major. Slumped over psychology textbooks with shitty plastic chicken flavored cup ramen and half melted pints of Ben and Jerry’s- a frivolous purchase for a broke, barely scraping by university student. I mean, come on, nearly five dollars for a pint? Breyers sells the same thing for the same price for way more! But hey, cramming for exams with the bliss of a thirty minute affair with a spoon a five buck delicacy. Burnt coffee from communal coffee pots, sticky countertops and mildewy showers shared with halls of girls and snuck in friends and boyfriends. Truly a romanticized experience for you. Silence always brings you back here. Brings you back to every moment where you’ve dwelled over every decision you’ve ever made. Thoughts of how every single choice you’ve made led to over choices. Butterfly effect and the whole nine yards. The silence is deafening, suffocating and all consuming.

Ellie’s favorite black Mercedes SUV is silent. The interior is cold and dark, windows are up, and the AC is steadily blowing, just at the settings how Ellie favors it. Just enough to prick the hair up on her arms and wake her up when she has to force herself through grueling business proposals at ten in the morning almost every day of the week. The dress and cardigan she pulled for you today doesn’t do much to alleviate the pulsating blow of chilled air throughout the car. A white poplin and lace MiuMiu dress with a boring white shrug and a pair of pale slingback pumps from Dior. The color is reminiscent of what you think a decaying ballet pointe shoe would look like. Reminiscent of pointe shoes that have been carved and shanked and dulled at the platform. Wilted at the wings and vamp. A pale, dusted pink. Pointe shoes that have been on relevé much too long and turned and piqued for years. So much emotion and grace muddled into the color of a pair of bleak pair of heels. You hate it. It’s stiff and expensive, just how Ellie wants you to be.

You’re in the backseat alone, though. Abby driving, gun perched in her lap, clutched with her left hand. Ambidextrous, maybe. Her right hand rests lazily against the bottom of the steering wheel, occasionally steering towards exits and down dirt-pathed back roads. Another guard, Caitlyn, is in the passenger seat. Killer aim from what you’ve gathered amidst brief presences in Ellie’s meetings. Caitlyn wields snipers and shotguns in steady hands trained on frantic targets and never misses. She’s lethal. Ellie’s favorite contract killer- her perfectly trained mercenary for hire. Her eyes are tired and deadpan where they meet you through the rearview mirror. Dark blue hair- odd choice for their field of work- with lighter, yet calculating even more blue eyes. Scanning, analyzing, horrifying.

Prison is not a place you enjoy frequenting. The drive there is tedious and tense, sandwiched between two women with years of experience and blood on their hands. They’re unapologetic with how they presented themselves. Brutish, rough, heavy. While Ellie was purposeful with how she carried herself. Kept home and work separate. Guns and knives tucked away neatly into locked cabinets and drawers, all hidden away in her heavily guarded and locked office room, where her guards were opposites. Constantly in their suits and tactile belts with guns strapped around ankles under slacks and pocket knives hidden under sleeves of custom-tailored and fitted suit jackets.

You’ve learned to dissociate during the drive from Ellie’s mansion to her tucked away hiding spot that she calls her reprieve from her everyday chores. Her reprieve from you, maybe. Your chest burns. The thought is sour and no matter how much you try to swallow, it doesn't let up. It's saccharine, cloying, excessive. Too much.

Your lungs feel like they're contracting faster than they can expand. In, out, out. You're gasping, almost. Silently. Caitlyn’s eyes find yours through the rear view mirror. She's judging you. Unimpressed, like she's shaming you. Furrowed brows pinched together in an expression of utter contempt. She's looking at you like you're a child. Like you're beneath her.

You're not crying, yet.

You're getting worked up over nothing. Rubbing the heel of your palm over your restlessly beating heart and over contracting lungs. Because maybe, just maybe, your wife sees your absence as a reprieve. Sees her heavily scheduled and monitored days and routines as a break from you. Basking in the solace of freedom from you. The solace of having someone so attached and dependent on you. Ellie was probably having the time of her life- her men inside with her, being puppeteered to cater to her whims to let her roam and reign however she’d liked.

You weren’t useful to her. Not like how her guardsmen were. They fought and bled for her. You were just… there.

You don't enjoy that. Jealousy and envy plague you paralyzed. You try to meet her eyes through the mirror again, but her eyes are trained on the street before the three of you. You shift in your seat uncomfortably. Sat in the middle seat of the second row in Ellie’s SUV, you get a clear gaze of them both. Yet, they pay you no mind. Why are you so invisible?

Shaky hands fumble through carved-out compartments on backseat doors. Rifling through pens and paper clips and other meaningless office supplies, your hand drags over one of Ellie’s switchblades she keeps in her truck. It's cold and heavy where it rests in the palm of your hand. Engraved with her initials. Abby and Caitlyn don't notice, don't spare you a passing glimpse, a tiny eye contact. Nothing.

You're alone on the road, no other cars around, only you, Abby, and Caitlyn confined to the SUV. Your hands and body move before your mind does. Before your consciousness.

Your hand wraps around Caitlyn’s head from behind the seat. She grunts in surprise and jolts. A strength in your arms erupts like never before- have you always been this strong? It's a three-second affair. Caitlyn’s head is held starkly against the headrest of Ellie’s Mercedes.

A firm swipe. It's jagged, unconfident. Not a surgical cut. It's done with shaky impulsive hands. A jagged line from the left carotid to her right. Caitlyn’s blood is warm where it trickles over your fingers. She’s not going to make it, you guess. Asphyxia or blood loss. Abby is cursing and trying to swerve to pull over. Caitlyn is gurgling and trying to grasp at her throat, but the wound is far too big and you doubt Abby’s attempt at a half-assed tourniquet will do much.

Abby pushes you back, flat against the seat. You sit there, staring at your hands. Blade flat against your thighs, still extended outwards, covered in maroon shades. Soaking wet. You touch your face gingerly. Trembling fingers drenched in someone else’s bodily fluids. You frown. Wipe your eyes afterwards. Wrong hand, you make the mental note, not to wipe with your left hand. You’re sat in the backseat, Caitlyn’s blood, smeared mascara, and eyeliner smudged around your eyes. Not a pretty sight, you’d bet. Ellie wouldn't like it.

Her blood has stained your sweater. Her blood cascaded down from the silver engraved blade, lacing around your fingers, and dribbling down your arm. There’s a puddle of it in her lap, steadily streaming into the seats. There are flecks of it on your dress. You realize that it’s not just Caitlyn’s blood on your dress.

A steady stream of it dripping onto your dress. Your nose is bleeding.

You’re not mentally present anymore. Your mind lags behind and the world keeps spinning. Why did you do that?

“Ellie’s going to have a time with you later. Can’t imagine how she’d feel when she finds out you ganked the chick she’d been banging for the past year and a half.”

For good measure (or overkill, honestly) you shiv the blade into the back of the headrest where Caitlyn is sitting. You earn a sickening crack in return. If she wasn't dead before, she is now.

The shower is ice cold. You couldn't move the entire way home. Manhandled by Abby into the house, heavy boot steps followed by meek clinks of heels. She had to undress you since you wouldn't move.

The water going down the drain is a painful scarlet. Swirls around your toes and leaves streaky lines down your body.

The once-white porcelain shower floor is now like a soaking wet canvas. Drenched in water color reds and pinks and faint traces of orange-red variants. Swirled and dragged down to pool around the drain. A faint ring resides there. Mocking you. You killed Caitlyn. In a fit of rage. Like a child. A petulant child so worked up with unbridled rage that they’d resorted to violence. Unstable and unable. It’s embarrassing. You close your eyes. Maybe shutting them out will block out the mockery of the blood drying around the drain, to shield you from the backlash of your actions. To play as a fortress against the impending breakdown festering underneath your surface.

Caitlyn’s dying expression is burned into your retinas. Melded to the backs of your eyelids. You see her when your eyes are open, when they’re closed, even when you try to dissociate yourself out of the world. Out of the world and into the back of your mind when nothing can bother you, just your everlasting state of peace.

Sickly, seeing that excited you. You know it’s wrong. Far more than wrong, really. The smile starts off slow, A small quirk of the corner of your mouth when you start to recount how her eyes glazed over. How her lips trembled and her nostrils flared. How her hands smacked weakly at your right hand over her forehead, holding her still. How she writhed when she squirmed in her seat as you dragged the blade across her neck. How warm her blood felt over your cold hands. The weight of the blade in your palm.

The smile becomes a grin- full teeth, all expression. A quivering smile, canines pointed. Then it becomes a laugh- hysterical, loud, full body. Abby’s large hands are stabilizing your shaking body. You can barely stand. The laugh is all consuming and it throws you off kilter. You’re leaning against her, soaking wet, blood stained face, and you’re laughing!

The tears followed shortly. Hysterical laughter followed by the onslaught of body wracking sobs. Abby’s hand grips your hair tightly, holding your face beneath the steady stream of the shower, You’re still laughing. Laughs and sobs quickly become sobs and chokes and coughs.

Her hand drags roughly over your face, dragging calloused palms over sensitive cheeks and rubs over dried blood in its path. She’s cleaning you- rather roughly, but cleaning you nonetheless. You can’t stop inhaling the water. A steady stream buffing over your eyes, down the slope of your nose and into your mouth. Streaming into your nostrils, settling down your throat. It’s cold water but it burns the lining of your throat like scalding hot water. What drowning feels like, maybe. Like a million tiny shards of glass are trailing down every lining in your body until they’re all covered and bleeding.

Abby yanks you back and you cough pathetically.

“Figured you needed a chaser after all that. Boss won’t like it if I brought her girl to come see her all doped up, hm? It’s not the adrenaline anymore makin’ you laugh. Just pure you. You sick fuck, probably enjoyed it, right? Baby’s first kill?”

Her voice is mocking and doing so much for you. It’s silken and honey-like and it rattles around your brain. Probably affecting the brain chemistry you have up there- or maybe the lack thereof since you just murdered one of your wife’s best workers and laughed about it afterwards. You swallow and adjust your footing. Avoiding eye contact. You decide you’ll jump her bones if you look her in the eye.

The water’s off now. You didn’t notice she did it. Too caught up in the whirlwind of your brain- scattered, messy, unattentive. The blood has long dried around the drain. Ring of Caitlyn’s life crusted around the holed steel circle. Red, blatant, and present. The goosebumps on your arms are starting to bud. Pricking up and spreading. Your fingers graze over your arms, fingertips dragged over soft bumps, almost like braille. The goosebumps aren’t just from the cold. Fleshy braille blossoming from the sheer recount of Caitlyn and the presence of Abby alone.

Your eyes fix on the drain. The smile is bigger than before. Standing in the porcelain shower, dripping wet, arms wrapped around yourself, smile wider than ever. And in that exact moment? You don’t feel an ounce of regret.

Your heels click as you’re walked down the corridor of the non-contact visit room by one of Ellie’s men, Jesse, and Abby. Similar outfit as your one from this morning, long vintage MiuMiu dress with the same dulled out ballerina-destroyed-pointe-shoe pink heels. No sweater this time- the only good one to go with this dress was currently blood stained and being bleached by one of Ellie’s many servants and maids- whole yadda yadda.

Ellie’s the only inmate in there. A row of double ended glass walls with phones haphazardly attached to the walls. She’s manspreading on the other side- hideous jumpsuit unzipped and hanging lowly around her hips, wife beater on display. There’s a cigarette hanging between her pointer and middle finger. She’s staring directly at you, just lazily smirking at you. You stand behind the chair across from her, on the other side of the glass. Abby slides behind you, pulling it out and gesturing for you to sit. Your eye catches the phone to the right of you. Ellie is still staring, analyzing. Looking.

Her right hand finds the black phone to her side and you mirror her action instinctively. Her breaths are light through the phone. You hold it up to your ear and avoid her incessant eye contact.

“Where’s Caitlyn, baby?”

A single eye twitch, barely perceptible if Ellie wasn’t looking at you so harshly. It gives you away instantaneously. Nausea washes over you quickly. Nausea, regret, guilt.

Ellie knows it too. The way she looks right through you. Makes you feel like you absolutely have to tell her every single secret you’ve ever held dear to your heart. Spill every single little meaningless thought you have just to appease her. You’re tense, paralyzed with guilt and everything underneath the sun.

“I don’t know why I did it. The way she looked at me, Els. Made me angry and it happened before I knew why. But, I don’t feel sorry. I can’t feel sorry,”

You tumbled and spewed off like a dam finally breaking. Every single thought streaming out of your lips without much regard. Only impulse. Adrenaline. So many words yet you couldn’t properly deduce it to one feeling. You felt sick.

Ellie takes a drag from the cigarette between her fingers. She doesn’t respond to you, just simply stares. The smirk widens, she’s smiling at you now. She doesn’t express disappointment or contempt. Just stares at you down the slope of her nose. Flicks the ash off the end of the cigarette onto the table beneath the two of you. The smoke warbles into the air, curling and warping in all of its ashen grey glory. You wrinkle your nose at the smell unconsciously and Ellie chuckles. A soft exhale of air. Real quiet. The hair on your arms prick at the sound and you cross your legs.

Your body suddenly feels warm. Ellie notices that too. Notices everything.

“Got Caitlyn with my blade, eh? Figured Abs over here told you about me an’ her, too. Did that bother you too? Does it bother you that I went to Caitlyn to fulfill my needs because you’re not enough? She knew how to shut up and take it when I needed it. You’re far too much at times, angel.” Her tone is heavy and brutal. You know it’s true. Your hands are trembling now and tears are pricking at your eyes. It does bother you.

Psychological warfare. One of Ellie’s strong suits. Knows how to build you up and tear you down tenfold. Tells you all the right things, says it how you want to hear it. Whispers those sweet nothings that really mean nothing to her. Nothing to her but everything for you. The ring on your left hand suddenly feels heavier than it ever has. Like it has enough weight to keep your hand flush against the table, paralyzed still. The band feels restricting, contracting and shrinking around the fleshy skin of your finger. It feels impersonal, now. Like it’s not meant to be yours. Like it’s meant to be for another. Maybe like it’s Caitlyn’s.

“Yes! I hurt Caitlyn and in return I feel no remorse.”

“Au contraire, sweetheart.”

You bang your hand against the table. Chest heaving in a fit of frustration. Ellie is looking at you like you’re a child. Just like how Caitlyn looked down at you. A petulant child with a knack for temper tantrums. Contempt. Contempt. Contempt. That’s all they see of you, right? You’re beneath them. Unworthy. Useless. You’re not going to be on their level, ever.

“First kill does that to someone like you, cutie. You’re just a walking pendulum of instability today, aren’t ‘ya? Sitting there all wet in your panties thinkin’ about how you hurt Cait. Am I right?”

She’s baiting you. Egging you on for a reaction so she can retaliate, with ease. Waiting for you to hit that brink so she can exploit it over and over and over again. You’re close. Temper rising, pendulum swinging. Rocking between emotion to emotion, each one on two opposite sides of the spectrum. Adrenaline coursing and rampaging to paralyzed with bouts of hysteria. Pendulum. Always swinging, save for the calm-before-the-storm moments. The moments when you remember how well acquainted you are with silence. How a part of you silence truly is. Those brief moments of quiet and solace and tranquility.

Ellie’s steady breathing is grounding you. Your nails have carved crescent-shaped scars into your palm. You rock back and forth in the chair and you’re vaguely aware of where you are. Your trembling hands grasp a little tighter around the jail phone. It’s cold to the touch. Freezing where it presses against your ear. Shaky, unstable, unfit.

But the thing is, Ellie is right. You’re angry and pent up and frustratingly wet in your seat. Your eyes find hers and she offers you a smile.

“‘S just us in here. No cameras. Put your feet up on your chair and give me a show. Show me how bothered you are. Flip the pretty little dress I bought you up so I can see everything, yeah?”

You push back in the chair you’re in. Tug your dress up, tug panties down. You reluctantly spread your legs, completely baren to the guards behind Ellie. The position is awkward. Fingers delving between soaked sticky folds, spreading and displaying, all for Ellie.

Your body is burning hot but your fingers are cold. Freezing, shaky. You’re hesitant. Dragging your fingers through your slick, swallowing back shaky whimpers. Her eyes are on you and that's all you want. It spurs you a little further, slipping the tip of your finger in. You gasp how Ellie likes it. You’re performing for her. A practiced art. Steady pumping of fingers and small drags with the pad of your thumb over your over-sensitive clit.

Ellie’s put out her cigarette now. Burning tip put out on the palm of the guard nearest to her. She’d never believed in ashtrays. More convenient to put it out on the nearest surface. Whether that’d be you, herself, a table, or even her soldiers.

Green eyes laser focus onto you. Unmoving, attentive. Momentarily, her eyes flick up to Abby behind you. In seconds, you’re livid.

You pull back. Fingers wiped haphazardly against lacy fabric. Panties snatched back up your legs in a fit of rage. Standing on your feet. Fists clenched and nostrils flared. Your fingers are sticky against your palm. You're faintly aware of how it feels. It grounds you more. Just slightly.

Ellie smiles, leaning back completely. The chair she’s in is tilting on its two back legs. She looks so fucking good.

She squints at you before clicking her tongue and standing up.

Her voice is loud enough that you can hear her through the reinforced glass.

“God, I’ve got to get you on valium or something. Acting like a fuckin’ baby.”

Your eyes start to prick with tears and you sit back down. You weren't a child. Grown adult. A woman. Who could control her rapidly swinging range of emotions. You were good. Stable.

Not a fucking baby.

A woman saddled with a temper that was kept in check. You could do that, right? Keep it settled and hidden. To appease Ellie. That's all that matters to you.

Validation. One word. Ten letters. Still such significant weight. It's all you want. Not money, not material, not the latest new fad- but Ellie’s validation.

That's what you were going after when you slid Ellie’s favorite blade across Caitlyn’s neck, right? Seeking out validation when you watched her eyes glaze over and the way her shaky hands tried to grasp at the steady bubble of the blood seeping from her carotids.

Seeking out validation when you stood underneath the freezing cold stream of Ellie’s shower. When you stared and watched the blood clawed its way out of your skin in streaky globs and spiralled around the drain. Watched it dry and settle and sink into the textured floor of the shower. Watched the drain pool with scarlet water as it released steadily.

Seeking out validation when you barely struggled against Abby when she held you underneath the water that burned your lungs. When you let her manhandle you under the steady onslaught of ice cold water and you smiled. You let her. Didn't argue, fuss, or fight.

All for Ellie’s validation, right?

She made you act that way. It was all for her. Whether she liked that or not.

taglist: @bambiaches @mabermaple @starrdelight @vahnilla @elliesfavtoy @sulliefimmie @oneinameliann @eriiwaiii2 @azxteria @l0veylace @valeisaslut @slutforabbyanderson @hitmehardmommy @billiegabbysyd @the-sick-habit

cmnt to be added or removed!!

- jadie loves u!

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

5 SECONDS TO FREEDOM | prologue

˗ˏˋ debts unpaid ˎˊ˗

"In Tokyo's underground, there are only two currencies that matter—respect and reputation. When someone threatens to take both, you don't just race them. You destroy them."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 3.5k

content: street racing culture, debt collection, first meetings, midnight races, dangerous driving, Spanish endearments as provocation, the dynamics of Tokyo's underground scene, and your first defeat in nineteen months.

✧ author's note ✧

Soooo here we fucking go.

I've been obsessing over this story for months—I think we all know that lmaooo I think I posted the teaser like a couple months ago and I was devastated because it barely got 50 notes. But you know what, this was still in my head so I did write some drabbles—and I kind of shaped the prologue, which is what you’re gonna read below hahaha.

“But Kiki we just sent you 45 asks telling you to rest” AND I SAID SIKE??? No actually, I’m okay I promise! Usually writing different stories is what prevents me from burning out, because I get frustrated with the same storyline so it’s like… I write something else and my brain goes ‘yay thanks’. You know, ADHD—shiny new toy, mind dances to the music.

Anyways, so. I love this. I love this because as always I get to experiment with different personalities and psychological backgrounds and what I fucking love about these two is the masks they wear and how opposite they are. He’s cocky and arrogant, but in a different way FMU!jungkook is. She’s determined and ambitious, always pushing for more, but still very distinct from all my other Y/N’s because she’s handling different situations (you’ll see in later chapters).

And Hachiroku and Jaque aren't just racing personas—they're escapes. And what makes this delicious is that they're running from opposite lives. One from privilege, one from struggle. Both finding freedom in the same five seconds at the starting line.

And yes, the cars matter. They're not just vehicles; they're extensions of identity. The AE86 is legendary for a reason—not the most powerful, but perfectly balanced in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they're doing (sound familiar?). Meanwhile, the R34 Skyline is raw, unapologetic power held in check by someone who understands precisely when to unleash it.

AS ALWAYS—READ THE AUTHOR INTRO AND TW listed in the index post. This is a must before reading this story.

Fair warning: this isn't going to be a clean race. These characters are messy. They make decisions that will make you want to scream at them. They'll crash into each other's lives and leave debris everywhere, and the kind of attraction that feels like a guardrail giving way on a mountain pass.

But that's the point, isn't it? The most interesting stories happen in the dangerous curves.

So buckle up. We've got a long road ahead.

Ready? Light’s about to turn green.

Also. Notes for this one are pretty high, that’s intentional. Like I just wanted to post the prologue to have it out for a bit but I still need to work on the arcs and major plot points. So I don’t have the story fully shaped out for now, which is why I want this to rest and check for engagement and reactions. Seriously—don’t crash out, I know this one will take time and that’s absolutely my intention!

Edit: prologue takes place 6 months before the main storyline!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Respect isn't given in Tokyo's underground—it's paid in cash or blood.

You roll the cherry lollipop against your teeth, counting seconds in your head like engine timing.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since you left Kalo and his overpriced Supra in your rearview on the Hakone downhill, his taillights disappearing around the corner while you took the perfect line through the hairpin that everyone else brakes too hard for.

It's nighttime at Daikoku.

You cross one leg over the other, letting your heeled boot dangle casually off the edge of your AE86's hood. The mini skirt wasn't a random choice. Neither was showing up without your racing gear.

Because tonight isn't about driving—it's about collecting.

"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."

You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.

"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."

"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."

You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.

The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.

Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.

"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"

You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"

"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"

"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."

Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."

"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."

"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"

"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."

The memory brings a slight smile to your face.

The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.

The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.

"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"

You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."

"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.

"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."

A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.

Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.

"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."

Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"

"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."

"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."

You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.

You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.

"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."

"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.

Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.

"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."

"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.

"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."

You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."

"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."

Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."

"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"

"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."

The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.

Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.

Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.

Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.

"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.

Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."

You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.

Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.

Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"

"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."

Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.

Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.

"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.

"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."

That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.

Hayato's record has stood for three years.

This guy has broken it in a month.

Who the fuck is this?

Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.

Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.

"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."

You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.

His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.

Or more specifically, on you.

He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.

You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."

But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.

You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.

You've never been the first to look away.

"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."

"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.

Just because you had to look back at Kenji.

"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."

You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.

"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."

Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.

"You want to find out, don't you?"

"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."

You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.

Kalo.

Your head snaps toward the source.

The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.

"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"

Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"

"He just mentioned Kalo."

Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"

No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.

"Excuse me," you say, already moving.

Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."

You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.

Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.

He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.

Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.

And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.

Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.

Not subtle about it at all.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.

One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.

You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"

He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.

Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.

"Why so serious, princesa?"

It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.

"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.

"And I asked you one too."

He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.

"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"

The description is so accurate you almost smile.

Almost.

"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."

His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.

Smart.

Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.

"And how would you know about that?" you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder.

"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)

"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."

"I'm observant."

His eyes lock with yours.

"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."

Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.

Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.

"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.

"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"

"Nineteen months," Maya corrects automatically.

You shoot her a look.

Jaque's smile widens. "Nineteen months. Impressive."

"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."

"From a guy who isn't here."

He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.

"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.

"And you know that how?"

"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."

You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.

"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."

That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.

"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."

You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.

"I'll pay you double what he owes you."

The words stop you mid-step.

You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.

"Excuse me?"

Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.

They’re gleaning.

"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."

Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"

You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.

But he’s not done.

"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."

"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."

"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."

You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.

"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."

"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."

You narrow your eyes.

Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"

You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.

But.

Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.

Like he already knows your answer before you do.

And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.

"One race," you hear yourself say.

Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.

"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."

"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."

"If," you correct.

"When." He doesn't back down.

One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.

Hinoki.

"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"

The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.

"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."

He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."

From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.

Word travels fast in this world.

"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."

He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.

"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."

You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"

His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."

Death has a rhythm.

Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.

The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.

Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.

He's not even looking at the road.

Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.

Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.

You grip your steering wheel tighter.

Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.

"Ready!" Kenji shouts.

You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.

"Set!"

Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.

Winks.

What the fuck is his problem?

Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.

"GO!"

You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.

The Skyline stays even.

First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.

Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.

The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.

Should.

Doesn't.

The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.

Until the straightaway.

The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.

But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.

He passes you.

Not aggressively. Not dangerously.

Just... efficiently.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.

"No fucking way."

You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.

No guardrail. No room for error.

Normal people brake early here.

Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.

You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.

You exit the corner a car length behind him.

"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.

The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.

It's where precision matters more than power.

You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.

The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.

You know exactly how much space you need.

You dive for the gap.

For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.

Then he does something impossible.

Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.

The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.

You brake.

The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.

But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.

"What the actual—"

The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.

And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.

For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.

It's not enough.

The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.

The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.

You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.

The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.

You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.

Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.

Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.

His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.

And something stops the words in your throat.

He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.

When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.

Just... satisfaction.

Like he's found something he's been looking for.

His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.

"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.

You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.

goal: 500 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @jkrailme @graydolan12

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, nightmares, protective!Lando, papaya rules tw (barf).

Notes — It's long again - which is becoming a common theme. Also pls take every pregnancy date/timeline piece of information with a pinch of salt. I'm not perfect and I only went to nursing school for 3 weeks (not kidding). Okay ily enjoy xxx

2024 (Saudi Arabia—China)

It was still dark when she woke up.

The air in the hotel room was cool, but Lando was burning next to her — damp with sweat, breath uneven. He jerked once, a short, desperate twitch like his body was trying to run without him. Then again, louder. A sound came out of him that didn't sound like him at all.

Amelia blinked, heart already climbing, and reached over. "Lando?"

He flinched at her voice; sat bolt upright, eyes wide and unseeing. He was panting. Actually panting.

"Hey," she said, sitting up with him, hand finding his arm. "Hey, it's okay. It was just a dream."

His head turned slowly toward her like he wasn't sure she was real. "Amelia?" His voice cracked halfway through her name.

She nodded. "Yeah. Hi. I'm here."

Lando dragged in a breath. Then another. But it wasn't calming him down — his hands were shaking, still clenched in the bedsheets like he was bracing for impact.

She reached for them gently. "Lando."

He dropped his head, and for a second she thought he wasn't going to speak. But then — quietly, nearly swallowed by the dark — he said, "There was blood."

She stared at him.

"Yours," he added, like that should have explained everything.

Amelia wrapped her arms around him immediately, pulling him close, pulling him in. His body was stiff at first, coiled tight like he'd shatter if she touched him too hard. So she didn't. She held him exactly the way she liked to be held — not soothing, not soft. Solid. Anchoring.

"I couldn't get to you," he murmured. "I kept running but, fuck, I don't even know what happened. I just—I couldn't get to you."

Her hand moved slowly up his back. "Got me now, haven't you? And I'm fine."

His breath hitched again, then he dropped his head to her shoulder like it weighed a hundred kilos. "You were shouting my name," he whispered. "Trying to get me to come and help you. And I couldn't do anything."

"It was a dream." She told him.

"It didn't feel like one." He admitted.

She didn't say anything. Just held him tighter.

For all the times Lando had been the one to protect her, hand at her back in the paddock, whispering 'I've got you, always' — this was a rare moment where it was her turn to return that.

Amelia shifted slightly, so his arms were around her bump, so he could feel her, all of her, safe and alive and steady. "This is real life," she said into his hair. "Your dreams mean nothing," she said gently, tucking her fingers behind his ear. "They're not omens or premonitions or anything silly like that. Not manifestations. Just your brain sorting through junk data while your body rests."

Lando didn't respond right away, still caught somewhere between shame and exhaustion, eyes trained on her face like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.

"They're not real," she continued, softer now. "It's just neurons firing while your hippocampus files away memories. No intent. No purpose. Just noise."

Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone.

"Nightmares are especially common in high-anxiety environments, particularly when there's big change; like, I don't know," she said lightly. "Maybe preparing for us to have a baby whilst also driving at blinding speeds every weekend."

That pulled a faint, breathy laugh from him. She smiled, but didn't let him look away.

"They mean nothing," she repeated. "They feel real, but they aren't. I'm here. I'm fine. We're fine." She pressed her palm flat over his chest, right where his heart beat wild and frantic just minutes before. "This is real," she said. "Me. You. Here. Everything else? Just your brain being dramatic."

And Lando didn't argue.

He just leaned in and kissed her wrist.

Nuzzled her pulse.

And eventually fell asleep again.

—

Lando was still asleep when she padded out into the hotel suite's sitting room.

She hadn't gone back to sleep. Couldn't.

Not after the way he'd clung to her. The genuine fear that's shined in his eyes.

So she sat on the sofa, blanket over her legs, and pulled out her phone.

Nightmares in expectant fathers.

The search bar filled itself in before she finished typing.

She clicked. Scanned. Saved one medical article, one parenting blog.

Tapped open her Notes app.

THINGS TO REMEMBER — FOR LANDO

• Nightmares are common in expecting fathers, even more in high-stress environments

• Fear of losing partner is normal (He's scared. Not silly. Not dramatic.)

• Don't minimise the fear — reassure with touch + presence.

• If it happens again, don't ask what the dream was right away → He will tell you if he wants to talk about it in detail.

• Deep pressure helps (arms around shoulders, grounding. Not smothering.)

• Keep lights low.

• Bring water next time. He won't ask for it.

She stared at the list for a moment, thumb hovering.

She didn't cry. But her throat got tight. Stupidly tight.

It wasn't just that she wanted to help. It was that she wanted to know how. The exactness of it. The steps. Because love, for her, wasn't always instinctive. It was often a system — learned, built, updated in real-time. Just like strategy.

She could do love if she could learn it like this.

A soft sound pulled her gaze back toward the bedroom. Lando shifting under the duvet. She waited, but he didn't call out this time.

She added one more bullet:

• You fall apart all the time, and he always catches you and puts you back together. When he falls apart — return the favour.

Then locked her phone. Set it down. Took a slow breath.

She'd be ready, if it happened again.

Because that's what love looked like, for her.

Data points. Her Notes app. A quiet war against the clench of unnamable emotion in her stomach.

And a husband who would never have to feel fear alone for the rest of his life.

—

Heavy blackout curtains drawn, both of them stripped down to t-shirts and shorts, the air-conditioning humming softly overhead. Amelia lay sprawled on her back across the crisp duvet, one knee bent, iPad propped against her thighs. She wasn't really reading anymore.

Lando had been beside her a while now, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Not touching her, just close — their shoulders brushing lightly. He knew better than to crowd her at the end of long race days. She needed decompression like she needed water. Especially now.

Amelia exhaled slowly. The flutter had been there for a minute or two now. Not sharp, not uncomfortable — just present. Familiar. Rhythmic. She'd started tracking it a few weeks ago. There was a pattern forming, she was sure of it. After dinner, quiet room, body finally still — the baby wriggled off like clockwork.

She tapped her fingers gently along her bump. Lando glanced over.

"You okay?" He asked.

Amelia didn't answer right away. She was focused on the pressure inside — just low enough beneath her ribs, like a tiny muscle twitch, but from the inside out. She'd learned not to flinch at it. Not anymore. The first few times had been startling. Unnatural. It had taken her weeks to fully come to terms with it.

She glanced at Lando. "Give me your hand."

He blinked. "What?"

She tugged his phone from his fingers and set it aside, then reached for his wrist and guided his hand down gently, laying it across her belly. He held still immediately, tension tight in his shoulders — like he might scare it off.

Amelia exhaled again. "Just wait."

They sat there like that for maybe a minute. No movement. Lando didn't speak, didn't move. His eyes were glued to his own hand, fingers splayed awkwardly, not quite sure where to press or what to feel for.

Then it happened; subtle, but unmistakable. A faint thud against his palm.

His head snapped up. "Was that—?"

"Yeah," she said. "It's been happening for weeks. Sorry I didn't tell you. I needed to get used to it."

He didn't speak. Just stared down, mouth parted slightly. A second kick followed, firmer this time, more insistent.

"Holy shit," he murmured.

Amelia hummed. "Baby gets real active in the evenings. It's like they know when I stop moving."

Lando adjusted his hand slightly, more confident now. "That's insane."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "It made me panic, a bit."

"What?"

"The first few times. Sensory-wise. I didn't like not being in control of what my own body was doing. It was... jarring. That's why I didn't tell you."

His eyes flicked to hers, softer now. "Baby."

She smiled faintly. "It's okay now. I— I like it. I like knowing they're okay. Growing. Getting stronger."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder, still keeping one hand pressed firmly against her belly. "You're magical."

Amelia snorted. "I'm incubating."

He smiled against her skin. "Still magic."

The baby kicked again. Lando grinned so wide it made her laugh; full and involuntary.

And just like that, something shifted in the room. The noise from the hotel hallway faded. The distant memories of his nightmare faded away. The race weekend disappeared.

It was just the three of them.

—

Jeddah was hot, fast, and utterly unforgiving.

The kind of circuit that left no room for error, and no patience for discomfort — which, when you were pregnant and doing three jobs at once, was laughably ironic.

Amelia had learned to time her day in ten-minute increments. Ten minutes of data logging. Ten minutes of standing. Ten minutes of sitting. Ten minutes of politely telling people she didn't need help. Ten minutes of actually accepting it when her body disagreed.

Lando had qualified P6. Not ideal, but workable, and Oscar had lined up P5. Both cars in the mix. Everyone pretending not to hover around her as she moved up and down the garage like her body wasn't actively rearranging itself every hour.

The paddock whispers were quieter this weekend. Less second-guessing. Fewer sidelong glances. After Bahrain — after the strategy calls she'd pushed, the moments she'd kept the team calm under pressure — it was like something had shifted. Small things. Andrea deferring to her on timing sheets. Her dad checking in with her first before post-quali meetings. Engineers who used to triple-check her math now just nodded and plugged in her numbers.

Respect, it turned out, came slowly. But it was coming.

Race day was chaos from lap one. A Safety Car reset the whole strategy board by lap fifteen, and Amelia pivoted fast; switched Oscar to the alternate plan, gave Will the nod to bring Lando in early. It was a gamble, but it paid. Tire wear dropped off fast for everyone else, and by lap forty-two, Oscar was in P5 and closing in on Alonso.

He crossed the line in P4.

Lando came home in P8.

The radio crackled with champagne and static and shouting, but when Oscar's voice finally came through, and he said, "Solid comeback." She couldn't help but smile.

After press, after cool-down, after everything, Lando found her in the back hallway near the engineering room, still in her headset, still half-in strategy mode, and pulled her into his arms like he hadn't seen her in weeks.

"You and Oscar," he whispered against her hair. "The two of you are going to keep me on my toes, eh?"

"Yes," she whispered back. "It's fun, isn't it? To really be challenged by your teammate. Hard, but... good."

Lando just laughed and kissed her forehead.

Oscar wandered past then, a bottle of water in one hand, a protein bar in the other. "You guys done with the PDA or..."

Amelia flipped him off without looking. He tossed her the water bottle anyway.

—

Amelia wasn’t one to buy into headlines. She liked numbers. Data. Consistency. So when Oliver Bearman was called up last-minute to debut for Ferrari in Saudi, she’d watched with a measured kind of curiosity — analytical, not emotional.

And then he went and scored points. Solid, clean, fast laps. No drama. No rookie clumsiness. Just grit and focus and a poise that made her sit back in her chair and blink at the final results.

Later, in a quiet debrief room, she pulled up his sector times just to be sure.

Consistent under pressure. No massive tyre drop-off. Clean exit speeds. Braking points tight and repeatable. No rattled radio calls.

She gave a little hum, almost pleased.

When Lando swung by later to ask if she’d seen the race, she just said, “Kid’s got control. Not just fast — smart. I liked it.”

And that, from Amelia, was basically a glowing endorsement.

Behind the scenes, she jotted his name into a private file of “Drivers to Watch” — not because she thought he’d threaten her boys (Oscar and Lando were already leagues ahead in her book), but because she respected the science of performance. And what Ollie had shown under that kind of pressure? That was textbook.

Later that night, curled up on the sofa, she told Lando absently, “He reminds me of you, a bit. Quiet when it counts. Loud when it matters.”

And Lando, who’d already seen the headlines and felt the faint stirrings of a new generation pressing in, just smiled and said, “Yeah. He’s good.”

Amelia nodded once, then added without looking up, “He’ll be better with the right team behind him.”

Which, in her mind, was the truth of it. Because raw talent mattered. But the right data? The right feedback loop? That’s what made drivers great.

And Ollie already had the talent part covered.

So she’d make some calls. Speak to some people.

And in the meantime, she'd sent Carlos a 'Get Well Soon' cake.

—

The Quadrant studio in London always smelled like LED lights and too many energy drinks. Cables snaked across the floor, the main set still half-dressed with props from the last shoot — some cardboard weapons from a Mario Kart skit, a suspiciously cracked gaming chair, someone's half-finished iced coffee with a lipstick ring around the lid.

Lando was fiddling with a controller. Max was doing doughnuts on an office chair.

Amelia stood just off-camera. She wasn't due for any on-camera time, just there for the afternoon while Lando filmed promos before they flew out to Melbourne. She hadn't even meant to stay this long — but the couch was comfortable, and she didn't have to explain why she needed to sit down every fifteen minutes.

"You're very pregnant," Pietra said bluntly, appearing beside her with a hand on her hip and a warm grin that made the words feel like affection, not insult.

Amelia made a face. "I'm aware."

"No, seriously," Pietra said, dropping down beside her on the couch, eyes wide as she took in the bump. "When I saw you in January you were just... gently round. Now you're, like... full second trimester in the shape of it."

Amelia nodded. "Twenty-four weeks. All starts happening really quickly once you're out of the teen weeks."

"Wow." Pietra gave Amelia a searching look. Amelia nodded and shifted her hoodie. Pietra rested a hand lightly on her belly, pausing when she felt movement. "Strong."

"Busy," Amelia muttered. "Moves more when Lando's talking. Recognises his voice."

Pietra squealed like that was the cutest thing she'd ever heard, then immediately quieted herself with an apologetic hand gesture, though the excitement still lit her up. "Sorry. That's so sweet."

"I know," Amelia smiled lightly.

"You look beautiful," Pietra said, nudging her. "Like, you've got the glow."

"I've been throwing up for four months."

Pietra snorted. "And you're still hot. It's unfair."

Across the room, Lando looked over. He gave Amelia a crooked little grin before turning back to Max, who was trying to convince the producer to let him do a skit with a Nerf gun and a referee's whistle.

Amelia leaned her head against Pietra's shoulder for a second. "You're still the only woman I've talked to about this who isn't a midwife. Or my mom."

"That's because you're very selective and kind of mean," Pietra said sweetly.

"Thank you."

"But also because women are terrifyingly competitive sometimes and you're like... not built for that kind of bullshit."

"Also thank you."

"I'm serious," Pietra said, turning toward her now. "You're one of the most no-nonsense people I've ever met. I think that's why I like you so much. You never make me guess what you mean."

"That's the autism."

"That's the charm."

They sat like that for a while, low voices and half-lidded smiles, until Lando came over during a break and dropped onto the arm of the couch.

Amelia just reached for his hand and rested it gently on her stomach, where the baby was kicking again — a soft press, not too much. Lando's face softened like it always did.

"You doing alright?" He asked her under his breath.

Amelia nodded. "I'm good. Kind of hungry."

"I'll UberEats you some food." He said.

Max shouted from across the room, "Tell me when I can shoot someone with the Nerf gun!"

—

Oscar's mum had made enough food to feed an army. Four different kinds of salad, two trays of roast vegetables, grilled chicken, a full rack of lamb, and something vegetarian "just in case." Amelia had offered to help twice and had been firmly denied each time with a polite, maternal smile that brokered no argument.

So she sat obediently at the long table on the patio, the soft hum of Melbourne's twilight filling the air, and let the comfort of domestic noise happen around her.

Lando was already two plates deep and talking animatedly with Oscar's dad about tyre temps and the difference between this years compounds. Amelia kept one hand braced on her stomach, the other around her glass of apple juice. Oscar sat on her other side, shovelling roasted potatoes into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in years.

"She feeds me like this every time I come home," he mumbled. "Pretty sure I gain two kilos every time we race in Australia."

"Good," Amelia said, spearing a green bean. "You're too wiry."

Oscar gave her an affronted look. "Rude."

"True," Lando added, not even looking up from his fork.

Oscar's sister set a dish of bread rolls down in the middle of the table, golden and still steaming, then leaned in toward Amelia with a conspiratorial smile. "How's the baby? Are they kicking yet?"

"A lot, actually," Amelia said, smoothing a hand across the curve of her belly. "It used to feel like flutters, kind of like popcorn. Now it's more—defined. Rolling, stretching, tiny kicks. They're... busy in there."

The table laughed; that warm, open kind of laughter that lived easily between mouthfuls of pasta and clinking cutlery.

Under the table, Lando reached out and tapped her knee, fingertips resting lightly for a second or two. Amelia glanced at him. His expression was soft, like something inside him had gone loose. She gave him a small, knowing smile. He didn't need to say thank you. She could feel it in his hand.

Later, when dessert came — two types of pavlova, of course, one topped with mango and passionfruit and the other with strawberries and cream — Oscar's mum passed a plate across the table to Amelia with a practiced kind of care.

"Don't let anyone tell you otherwise," she said. "You're growing a baby. Sugar counts as energy. This is mum-approved."

Amelia smiled, a little caught off-guard. "Thanks. I'll take all the mum-approved sugar I can get."

Lando slid a spoon into her hand without being asked. She didn't miss the way he watched her eat the first bite, like he was mentally cataloguing everything — her comfort, her colour, the rate she was breathing. She let him, because she knew that's how he loved her.

Across the table, Oscar said something dry about his awkward post-race interview, which set off a ripple of laughter. Amelia leaned into Lando's shoulder for a second and just breathed it all in — the open patio doors, the faint scent of jasmine from the garden, the way Oscar's mum had called her "love" all day long.

When the meal wound down and plates were scraped clean and the sky turned the soft violet of a late Melbourne summer, Amelia shifted back in her chair and rested a hand just beneath her ribs. The baby was moving again — just little stretches this time, the kind she was learning to read like a language.

Oscar's sister caught the motion and smiled. "Moving?"

Amelia nodded. "They're a big fan of desert."

"Well," Oscar's mum said, standing to start collecting plates, "clearly they're going to fit in with the Piastri's just fine."

The others laughed again, but it wasn't at Amelia — never at her. She didn't feel observed. She felt... included. Known.

Lando stood to help, moving instinctively to her side as she got to her feet. He didn't make a fuss. Just placed a steadying hand at her lower back and kissed her cheek, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When they climbed into the back of Oscar's mum's SUV to head back to the hotel, Lando buckled her seatbelt for her without asking. She let him. She was learning to let him help.

Oscar slid into the backseat beside them, his knees knocking Amelia's gently. "Just a warning," he said, completely deadpan. "If you two start being disgustingly PDA back here, I'm getting out and walking."

"You're so dramatic," Amelia said lightly, resting her head on Lando's shoulder.

Lando smirked. "Ignore him. He's jealous because he's not the favourite child anymore."

"It's fine," Oscar said, eyes closed, "I'll always be her first."

Amelia laughed.

—

Albert Park felt familiar in a way few circuits did — maybe because it was Oscar's home race, and Oscar had quietly made it hers too. It was warmer than expected. The kind of dry, sun-struck heat that made the garages feel like furnaces by midday, and the hospitality suites always smell faintly of sunscreen above engine oil.

Amelia ran her iPad on low brightness, wore compression socks under her fireproofs, and drank from her water bottle every minute.

Oscar's family had stopped by the track on Friday. His mum had brought fruit. His sister asked to feel the baby kick and cooed when she did. It was almost too much — not the attention, but the softness of it. Amelia didn't know what to do with tenderness that didn't demand anything in return. She took it anyway. Filed it away for later.

By Saturday, Lando had qualified P4. Oscar managed a clean Q3 lap for P6. Amelia stood between the engineers' wall and the pit box, headset around her neck, a folded pit strategy in her back pocket, her hand resting lightly over her bump.

She didn't miss the way the newer engineers double-checked everything with her. The quiet shift in authority. Trust, finally, not earned through her name or her proximity to Lando, but through clean results and consistent systems. Through knowing the car like she'd built it herself. Because she had.

She didn't say much on race day. Her voice carried weight, and she'd learned when to use it. Oscar got boxed early to cover Hamilton. The undercut worked. Lando stayed out two laps longer than planned, held Verstappen behind for five beautiful corners, and came out ahead after the second stop.

Amelia had trained herself not to flinch when things went sideways — a yellow flag, a botched pit release in the box next door, a lockup into turn nine — but she could feel the baby twist in her stomach with every adrenaline spike. Lando's telemetry showed steady throttle traces. Clean lines. The kind of driving that only happened when he wasn't chasing. When he was already out front.

He took the last podium place on lap 41.

McLaren's first podium of the season.

Oscar followed behind in 4th.

Afterwards, when the champagne had been sprayed, Amelia leaned her head against Lando's sticky shoulder in the back of the garage. Just for a second.

"Such a good drive from both of you," Amelia said.

"Car's really starting to feel dialled in." Lando said.

Amelia hummed, adjusting something on the iPad balanced across her lap. "It'll only keep getting better. I built this car specifically for you and Oscar, remember?"

He shot her a grin. "Yeah, baby. I remember."

Before she could respond, Oscar appeared from the garage tunnel, dropping onto the crate beside them like his limbs had given out. He was already halfway through his second sports drink and looked like he might fall asleep mid-sip.

"God," he groaned. "I feel like I need to sleep for three weeks."

Lando chuckled, scrubbing a hand through his damp hair. "You say that after every race."

"Yeah, well, some of us actually push," Oscar muttered, elbowing Lando in the shin.

The moment hung suspended; the afterglow of adrenaline, the buzz of a job well done, until Lando cleared his throat. "Hey... so—hypothetically—what happens if we're both fighting for the win?"

Oscar didn't say anything right away, just looked at Amelia like he wasn't sure if she was going to laugh or murder them both.

She didn't blink. "Whoever's had the cleaner race gets prioritised race strategy."

Oscar frowned. "Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

Lando tilted his head. "Even if it's close?"

Amelia looked between them, her expression flat. Not unkind. Just firm. "I don't play favourites. I won't have you two fighting each other for points unnecessarily. The data doesn't lie. If one of you's managing tyres better, or has had stronger pace on long runs, or been cleaner through traffic—that's who gets the optimal strategy."

"But what if—" Oscar started.

Amelia cut in. "The data will tell the pit wall exactly who's having the better race. Even if it's just by a tenth. That's how it'll be decided."

They both stared at her for a beat too long.

She raised her brows. "You think that's fair?"

Oscar nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

Lando blew out a breath. "It's just weird knowing the person making the call is, you know..."

"Your wife?" Amelia supplied, looking dead at him.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah."

"Doesn't matter," she said simply. "Once the visor's down and you're both in the car, you're just data points to me."

Oscar snorted. "Romantic."

Amelia's mouth quirked. "Don't worry. I'll love you both again once the cool-down lap is over."

Lando let his head tip back, laughing, but Oscar just drained the last of his drink and nodded thoughtfully.

And then, like it had never been tense at all, they sat in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder, their suits still half-unzipped and reeking of brake dust and heat. Amelia leaned back against the crate, iPad still in hand, calm as ever.

Law laid.

—

Monaco was quiet in that oddly padded way it always was between race weekends — blinds half-drawn, travel bags still by the door, and a kind of stillness that settled over the rooms like breath held too long. The fridge held only a few stragglers: bottled water, half a tub of hummus, one sad lemon. The kind of post-travel chaos Amelia had once found irritating now just made her feel... warm. Anchored. A little undone around the edges, but not in a bad way.

She'd fallen asleep on the sofa in a crumpled sprawl, one leg tucked awkwardly beneath her. She woke with a cramp in her hip and that now-familiar nausea coiled low and constant — not as sharp as it had been in the first trimester, but still there.

Their scan was booked for late morning. Same clinic as always — discreet glass doors, a wall of untouched magazines, that soft, over-perfumed smell of orchids and antiseptic. Amelia sat in the waiting room with one hand resting lightly on the curve of her stomach, her hoodie stretched gently over her bump. The iPad in her lap glowed, unread.

Lando sat beside her, bouncing his knee. A rhythm he didn't seem to notice.

"Are you nervous?" She asked, eyes on her screen but not reading a word.

He shrugged, then nodded. "Dunno. I just... I want to know she's alright."

She hummed in agreement.

They still didn't know the sex for certain, hadn't wanted to find out in December when the offer had been made. But lately, they'd started slipping into the idea of a daughter without thinking. A soft she in the early mornings. A tentative her when Lando scrolled through name lists at night, reading them out loud with too much focus, as if one might suddenly feel right.

They were called through. Same sonographer. Same faint vanilla scent clinging to the corners of the dimly lit room. Amelia eased onto the table, hoodie pulled up, her belly rounding into the cool air. She reached for Lando's hand without needing to ask.

"You want to know the sex today?" The sonographer asked.

Lando nodded once. "Yes. Please."

Amelia gave a small smile. A little tense around the edges. The gel was cold against her skin, the wand firm just under her ribs.

"There we are," the sonographer murmured, screen flickering to life. "Heartbeat is strong. She's measuring just under the 60th percentile. Spine's here — lovely alignment. And very active. You'll be feeling that more and more as she runs out of room."

It landed quietly. No fanfare. No pause for effect. Just: she.

Lando made a sound beside her. Not quite a gasp. Just the breath catching in his throat like it had nowhere else to go.

Amelia blinked. "She?"

The sonographer smiled softly. "She's not shy, this one. There's no mistaking it."

Amelia let out a slow, careful breath. "We'd been guessing," she said, voice thinner than usual. "Didn't want to find out too early. But... yeah. That fits."

Lando was still staring at the screen like it held the answer to something unspoken. Their daughter moved — a small, decisive roll — and pressed one foot against the uterine wall like she was testing the perimeter of her world.

"Looks like she's already got opinions," Amelia muttered.

"Good blood flow," the sonographer continued. "Placenta's anterior, fluid levels are excellent. She's sitting diagonally for now — spine curled along the left. Look at those little hands."

Amelia stared, but something caught in her — a quiet breath that didn't go all the way down. "Can I ask... is there any sign of... scarring?"

The sonographer tilted her head. "You mean from your endometriosis?"

Amelia glanced at Lando, then back. "Yeah. It's minor. Diagnosed when I was a teenager. I've been managing it fine and my midwife isn't concerned, but—"

"Nothing concerning," the woman reassured gently. "There's some faint evidence of prior inflammation near the uterine wall, but it hasn't affected blood flow or implantation. Your body's doing exactly what it should. She's growing in the best possible environment."

Lando's thumb rubbed slowly over the back of Amelia's hand. Quiet. Grounding.

When the scan was done, Amelia wiped the gel from her stomach and sat up carefully. Her joints felt loose lately — like her body had quietly agreed to more change than her brain had signed off on. Ligaments giving, hips stretching. Quiet, invisible work.

Lando carried her water bottle. Didn't let go of her hand until they were outside.

The air was warm and breezy off the marina. Sunlight slipped between clouds like threads pulled through linen.

"You okay?" He asked softly.

She nodded. "She's okay. That's all I care about."

He paused like he wanted to say something — to turn the moment into a joke, or maybe something bigger — but he didn't. Just watched her like he couldn't believe any of it was real.

Back at the apartment, Amelia moved slower. Not tired. Just aware. Of the shift. The weight. The girl inside her.

Lando pinned the scan photo to the fridge with careful precision. Not casually — like it mattered. Like it needed to be straight.

Next to it was a post-it that read: We were right.

Amelia added another below, neat and precise:

24w scan: 144 bpm. Diagonal. 60th percentile. It's a girl.

Lando stood there for a second, then picked up a pen and drew a lopsided heart beneath it.

Later that night, while he brushed his teeth, Amelia curled up in bed and opened her notes app. A new list took shape.

Third Trimester To-Do

• Pack hospital bag

• Final scan at 32w

• Baby CPR course

• Book postpartum physio

• Order blackout blinds for nursery

• Learn how to style baby hair

• Ask Mum about baby clothes storage

• Confirm birth plan with midwife in UK

• Stop Googling "endometriosis birth risks"

She clicked her phone off, rested both hands on her stomach. A flutter answered her. Small. Intentional.

Not a concept anymore. Not an idea.

A girl. Their girl.

Lando slid into bed beside her, silent and warm. He didn't say anything, just reached for her hand and held it. Steady and sure.

And she let him.

—

Amelia had never really enjoyed FaceTime. Too much pressure to make eye contact, to frame yourself properly, to keep a neutral expression when your face wanted to do anything but. But since the pregnancy, she'd started calling her mom more and more. Sometimes audio-only. Sometimes with the camera propped up on the windowsill, a safe few feet away.

That evening, Monaco was sunk in a golden dusk. The blinds were half-open, the sea just visible through a gap between buildings. Lando was out, dinner with his trainer, and Amelia had the apartment to herself for the first time in days.

She called her mom while she was folding laundry. Not dramatic, not ceremonial; she just needed to hear her voice. The call connected quickly.

"Hello, sweetheart."

"Hi, Mom."

Her mom's face appeared; soft lighting, kitchen tiles in the background, a cup of tea in hand. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind of presence that made Amelia's shoulders drop without her noticing.

"You look tired," her mom said, but kindly. Not a judgment. Just a fact.

"I am," Amelia admitted, folding a soft baby onesie she hadn't quite meant to buy yet. "But we had the 24 week scan. She's doing fine."

Her mom blinked. "She?"

Amelia felt it land in her chest, quiet and solid. She smiled, small but real. "Yeah. It's a girl."

Her mom didn't burst into tears, didn't gasp or squeal. She just let out a slow breath and placed her tea down, like she needed both hands to hold the moment. "A girl," she echoed.

Amelia nodded, lips pressed together. "A little girl."

"Oh, sweetheart." Her mom's voice went warm and quiet. "That's... that's beautiful. How's she doing? How are you doing?"

"Heartbeat's good. She's measuring well. Still flipping all over the place, but that's normal. They said she's healthy and active." Amelia paused, fingertips brushing the edge of the folded onesie. "And I'm... okay. Tired. Ligaments are weird. My hips feel like someone's unzipping me from the inside out. But okay."

Her mom smiled, soft and proud. "You always were tougher than you gave yourself credit for."

Amelia swallowed. "I'm coming back to England for the last bit. I want to have her there. At home."

"Of course," her mom said. No hesitation. "You'll stay here. Whatever you need."

"I just..." Amelia took a breath, then let it out in a rush. "I know Lando will be racing. And I'm not... I'm not scared. But I don't want to do it without someone who knows me."

"You won't have to," her mom said gently. "I'll be right there. However you need me. I promise."

Amelia's fingers played with a tiny pair of socks, folding and refolding them. "Do you think I'll be okay at this?"

"I think," her mom said slowly, "that you already are. You're careful. You're clear. You've made a life where this baby will be safe and loved. And you're going to figure the rest out one step at a time."

Amelia blinked hard. "I keep thinking about her growing up. What I'll say to her. What I'll show her. I want to be steady. I want to get it right."

"You won't get everything right," her mom said softly. "None of us do. But she's going to know she's loved. And she'll know you. That's more than enough."

Amelia nodded, her throat a little tight. "Thanks, Mom."

"Always, love."

They stayed on the line a little longer, not talking much. Just the quiet comfort of home on the other end. Eventually, Amelia got up and poured herself a glass of water, carried the phone with her around the apartment. Her mom stayed there on the screen, sometimes commenting on the laundry pile, sometimes just watching her daughter move through her life.

It wasn't dramatic. It didn't need to be.

It was just love; steady and quiet and unspoken, the way it always had been.

—

It hit her on the flight to Japan.

Amelia shifted in her seat for the sixth time in as many minutes, trying to get comfortable. The upgraded seat helped, sure. The little footrest and lumbar support, the quiet of the cabin, the way Lando had wordlessly handed her one of his noise-cancelling earbuds when the hum of the plane started getting under her skin. But none of it stopped the low ache in her hips. Or the swelling in her hands. Or the way her centre of gravity felt just slightly... off.

It wasn't new. But this was the first time she couldn't bring herself to ignore it.

Lando was asleep beside her, a hoodie pulled up over half his face, mouth parted slightly. He'd had his hand on her thigh when he drifted off. It still rested there, warm and reassuring.

She looked down at herself — at the dome of her belly now undeniably there, visible even beneath the soft slope of her hoodie. Twenty-five weeks.

Her iPad screen lit up with her calendar. Back-to-back races. Long-haul flights. Debriefs that stretched into the early hours. The carefully timed quiet minutes between adrenaline spikes.

There wasn't a line in the schedule that said you will have to stop, but she could feel it all the same. A kind of internal countdown.

She opened her Notes app and typed.

When to stop flying?

Ask Dr. Molina about long-haul after 30w.

How long before babies are allowed to travel longhaul?

What if I miss something?

What if the team does better without me?

What if I'm not ready to stop?

She stared at that last one for a long time.

Lando stirred beside her and blinked awake. He glanced over, registered the screen, then her expression.

"Baby, you okay?" He asked, voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah," she said automatically. Then hesitated. "I was just thinking. About how much longer I can keep up with all of this."

He sat up a little straighter, pushed his hoodie back. "Yeah?"

"Travel. Track. Work. This pace. I'm not there yet, but... I can feel the edge coming."

He was quiet for a second. Then, gently, "You know you can stop whenever you need to. No one expects you to—"

"I know," she cut in. Not unkindly. "But I expect me to."

Lando didn't argue. He just shifted closer and rested his hand again over her stomach. His thumb traced absent patterns, slow and grounding.

"You'll know when it's time," he said. "And when it is — we'll figure it out. Me and you and the team."

Amelia leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes still on the screen. Her typed out worries stared back at her.

For now she closed the app, shifted into a slightly more comfortable position, and let herself rest. Not ready to stop yet. But maybe starting to soften to the idea.

Just a little.

—

The garage was half-packed when Amelia finally sat down on one of the flight cases, iPad still in hand, tea cooling on the crate beside her. Her dad dropped into the chair next to her, no clipboard, no headset. Just her dad.

"I've done the maths," she said without preamble. "If everything stays on schedule, I can probably work trackside through to Monaco. Maybe Canada. Depends on what my doctor thinks about the travel."

Her dad nodded like he'd been expecting this. "That gives us until early-June."

"Assuming no complications. If I do decide to bench myself before then, I'm going to need two weeks to train Tom. Ideally three."

"He's on board."

She finally looked up from the tablet. "Yeah?"

"Knows it's temporary. Knows it's your program he'll be running."

Amelia gave a tight nod. She didn't need soft reassurances. She needed facts. Structure. A transition plan.

"I'll still handle all the dev work," she said. "Sim data, mechanical spec reviews, upgrade briefs. That can all be done remotely. I can run analysis from the MTC. Keep my name on the post-session reports."

"You will," her dad said.

"I don't want to fade out."

"You won't."

She glanced down at her stomach, hand resting absently over the slope of her hoodie. "I think I'll fly home after Imola. Be near Mum. Lando'll be in Canada and that's just... it's too far away for me to feel comfortable being on my own. It makes sense."

He didn't argue. Just nodded once. "That buys you recovery time over the summer break. Target Zandvoort return?"

"Realistically, Monza. Depends on baby's health, what the paediatrician reccomends. But I'll be involved well before that."

Her dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know this isn't about proving anything."

"I'm not trying to prove anything," she said, not unkindly. "But if I don't spell it out, people start making decisions on my behalf."

That earned the ghost of a smile.

"You don't have to worry about your place here," he said. "It's yours. Nothing changes."

She nodded again, that single clean tilt of the head that meant she was logging the information. "I want everything documented," she said. "No handover gaps. I'll start mapping out the protocols next week."

"Whatever you need."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

"Do you want help breaking it to Oscar?" Her dad asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "He already knows what to expect."

Her dad snorted. "Good. He'll be fine."

Amelia stood slowly, tugging her hoodie into place, checking the tablet again like she couldn't bear to be idle. "I'll work until I can't. And then I'll keep contributing until I'm back."

"Exactly what I'd expect from you."

"Not too soft for your pit wall, then?"

"Terrifying," he said flatly.

She smiled, just a little. "Good."

—

The paddock in Suzuka had always felt different. Not quieter — the energy here was as high as anywhere — but more... reverent. Like the corners themselves held history. Every garage whispered with ritual and rhythm, the hum of a place that demanded precision. Amelia had always liked it.

This time, it felt harder to keep pace.

She was twenty-six weeks pregnant. The travel was getting trickier. Her hips ached more after every flight, and her ankles didn't always bounce back the way they used to. But she hadn't missed a session, not yet. She was still Oscar's race engineer, still elbow-deep in data and debriefs. Still herself.

Mostly.

It was Saturday afternoon when she realised she'd started leaning against the pit wall more often than not — subtle, casual, one hand on the railing like she was just watching sector deltas scroll past. Tom had noticed. He didn't say anything, but he started keeping one ear open on comms, watching her line of sight when Oscar came in from a run.

She appreciated it.

And the team, maybe for the first time, really saw her. Not just as Zak's daughter. Not just as the woman Lando went home to. But as Amelia. The one who rebuilt the simulation code base. The one who restructured McLaren's comms protocols to reduce data lag by half. The one who kept Oscar focused even when he was ready to snap.

Her notes were tighter than ever. Her briefings were concise, efficient. She stopped double-checking her own voice before speaking on the radio. She let herself lead.

It was Oscar's best qualifying session yet.

Lando was P4. Oscar P5. Both cars within half a tenth.

And by Sunday evening, after a clean, hard race that left both drivers exhausted but intact, McLaren had walked away with solid double points and zero drama.

No risky overtakes. No strategic infighting. Just clarity.

In the garage after the race, Oscar leaned his forearms on the back of Amelia's chair and peered at her screen.

"You're glowing."

"I'm sweating," she said flatly.

He grinned. "Same thing."

Lando came in a few minutes later, hair damp, suit unzipped to his waist. He looked drained, but good. Sharp in that post-race way, nerves still hot under the surface.

Amelia turned in her seat and pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. He took it with a murmured thanks and then crouched beside her chair like he just needed to be close. She let him lean against her knee.

Oscar watched them for a second, then said, "So... there's a break coming up now, right?"

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Right," Oscar continued. "So what if, just what if, we went somewhere that wasn't a hotel or a racetrack or an airport lounge?"

Lando blinked. "Like a holiday?"

Oscar gestured between them. "You two are about to have a whole new person. I figure you deserve a few days of fake retirement before everything changes."

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "Would you be joining us on this so-called fake retirement?"

He didn't even flinch. "Of course. I'm the honorary family dog. Can't shake me."

Lando snorted. "I mean... a quiet week somewhere would be good. Somewhere warm. No cameras."

"Somewhere with pillows," Amelia added. "And comfortable sun loungers and mocktails on tap."

Oscar nodded solemnly. "Somewhere where Amelia doesn't have to wear shoes if she doesn't want to. I'll look into it."

She should've said no; there was too much to do. Too much to plan. Too many timelines and checklists still open. But she felt Lando's hand on her leg and Oscar's unshakeable grin and the soft thrum of the post-race lull all around them, and something inside her relented.

"Fine," she said, slowly. "But I'm vetoing a resort. I want privacy."

Oscar threw up his hands. "So picky."

"I'm allowed to be picky." She said.

"Yeah." He agreed.

Lando just smiled, tired and soft, like he couldn't quite believe this was his life.

And Amelia, sore-backed and sun-drenched and more herself than she'd felt in months, reached for her water and let herself breathe.

They'd go. Maybe they'd do nothing. Maybe she'd watch Lando fall asleep by a pool while Oscar got sunburned and insisted he wasn't. Maybe it would be good.

Maybe it would be rest.

—

The villa in Mallorca was rented under Oscar's name, but Amelia had commandeered it within five minutes. There were towels folded with hotel-precision on the beds, blackout curtains in every room, and a fridge that had already been stocked to her specifications. No sparkling water, no orange juice with bits, and an entire shelf dedicated to cut fruit and unseasoned carbs.

They had a pool. They had sun. Lando had somehow acquired a ridiculous straw hat shaped like a watermelon slice. Oscar had already been banned from cannonballing before 10 a.m.

Amelia was stretched on a sun lounger, sunglasses on, iPad open across her knees — not working, just tweaking a grocery list and glancing occasionally at the group chat where Max was demanding selfies every hour. Her bump sat proudly in the centre of her soft grey dress, round and obvious now, rising gently with every breath.

Lando floated by in the pool, arms hooked lazily over a pool noodle. "What're you doing?"

"Thinking."

"About what?"

She tapped a note open on her tablet. "Maternity leave."

Oscar groaned from the deck chair beside her, where he was eating an unpeeled nectarine like a feral animal. "It's a holiday. Why are you using work words?"

"It's literally not a work word," she said. "It's a logistics plan. And it directly impacts both of you."

That got their attention.

Lando paddled toward the edge, resting his chin on his arms like a golden retriever. "Go on."

She flipped to the next page in her document. "Okay. So. I'll officially step away after Imola. That gives me time to finish the first round of upgrades and oversee Oscar's spec setup for Monaco and Canada."

Oscar looked nervous. "Who's covering me?"

"Tom Stallard."

"Oh." He blinked. "That's fine."

"You'll still have access to my notes," she added, glancing over her glasses. "I'll be consulting remotely until I give birth — probably from the MTC in Woking, or my mom's house, depending on how uncomfortable I am. You'll both send me debriefs. You will not filter them."

Oscar raised a hand. "Will there be snacks at your mom's? Because I can be convinced to travel there between every race."

"There will obviously be snacks."

Lando looked at her. "How long, baby? Six weeks, eight? You can take the rest of the season if you want. I'll come back to you between every race, no matter what."

"I haven't decided yet," she said simply. "Eight weeks, maybe. Depends on the birth, my recovery, and how you two act without me here. But when I come back, I'll walk straight back into the role. No stepping-stone. No reduced hours. That's already been agreed with Zak and Andrea."

Lando gave a short nod. "Okay. That sounds good." He pursed his lips. "And baby girl...?"

"Baby girl will be with me at all times." She said firmly. "And when I'm on the pit wall, she'll be with my mom. She's already agreed to travel with us. I don't want to hire somebody I don't know to look after our daughter." She told him.

He nodded in agreement. "My mum's already offered to travel with us, dad too. To step in whenever we need a break."

Oscar chewed his nectarine like he was thinking hard. Then, finally, "When I win, can I take the baby on the podium with me?"

Amelia stared at him with genuine horror. "No!"

Oscar blinked.

Lando laughed so hard he nearly choked on pool water.

Amelia looked up at the sky. "I just don't want you to act weird about it. I'm pregnant, not vanishing. I love this job. I worked hard for it. I'll rest, I'll recover, and I'll come back."

Oscar gave a slow, half-serious salute.

Lando climbed out of the pool, water dripping down his arms, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You don't need to prove anything to us. You know that."

Oscar tossed his nectarine pit into a paper cup. "This baby's going to be a real Grid Kid."

Lando grinned. "I love that."

Oscar pointed at her. "You should get McLaren to make her some branded tiny noise-cancelling headphones."

"I already sent the request," Amelia said.

There was a pause.

Oscar grinned. "God, you're gonna be so good at this."

Lando said nothing, just reached down and threaded their fingers together.

Amelia leaned back, letting the sun find her face. Her feet were propped on a folded towel. Her boys were here, quiet and safe and ridiculous.

And the baby kicked once, just a soft nudge, as if to say: 'I'm here too.'

—

The Shanghai International Circuit thrummed with heat and movement — engineers hunched over telemetry, mechanics rolling tyres with military precision, the air sharp with rubber and tension and something metallic beneath. Amelia kept her pace steady, one hand curved just under her bump like an afterthought, posture instinctively counterbalanced. Twenty-seven weeks pregnant, and the world still spun the same.

She’d just wrapped a meeting with Oscar and his strategists, short, sharp, effective, and was heading back toward the McLaren hospitality suite when Lando appeared, all loose limbs and narrowed eyes, like he’d been looking for her.

“Hey,” he said softly, already scanning her face. “You look pale, baby.”

Amelia exhaled through her nose. “Just the usual dizziness. I’m fine.”

But Lando didn’t look convinced. His gaze drifted downward to the slope of her belly like he could assess her blood pressure with a glance. “Maybe you should take a break. Put your feet up for a bit.”

Before she could offer a rebuttal, Zak appeared on her left, all brisk concern and the slight lean of a man about to intervene. “Honey, I was just about to say the same thing. You’ve been on your feet all morning.”

Amelia glanced between the two of them, arms crossed over her chest, jaw set. “I’m fine.”

“Yes,” Zak said evenly. “But you’re also very, very pregnant, in thirty-degree heat.”

“I’ll take a short break,” she muttered, already heading toward the suite. “Eat something. I’m hungry anyway. Can we find some noodles? Plain ones.”

“Yeah, of course,” Lando said quickly, falling into step beside her.

Inside the hospitality suite, the air was blissfully cool. Amelia sank onto a wide, cushioned chair near the far window and peeled off her cap. A cool drink appeared in her hand, water, with ice and a slice of cucumber, and she leaned back, one hand absentmindedly tracing the ridge of her stomach through her t-shirt. The baby shifted. Not a kick, but a gentle roll, like she was stretching.

A few feet away, near the coffee bar, Zak and Lando lingered; not hovering, exactly, but tethered to her like satellites.

“When she was a kid,” Zak said quietly, arms folded, voice pitched low, “she didn’t cry when she grazed her knees. Not once. Just stood there, blinking, blood running down her leg. It’s like... she feels pain, but her brain doesn’t flag it as urgent. Doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Lando’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. I know.” He was watching her like he always did when she wasn’t watching him — careful, like she was made of glass and iron in equal measure. “She pushes herself harder than anyone I’ve ever met. But I’m watching. I know the signs now. When she’s close to the edge and pretending not to be.”

Zak blew out a breath, not quite a sigh. “Wish I could wrap her in bubble wrap.”

Lando huffed something like agreement. “Yeah. Same. But she’d kick our asses if we tried.”

Zak chuckled. “She gets that from her mother.”

Across the room, Amelia caught their eyes and squinted. “Are you talking about me?”

“No,” they said in unison.

She narrowed her eyes but let it go, already distracted by the appearance of a steaming bowl of noodles being dropped in front of her.

“This is nice,” she said between mouthfuls.

Lando pursed his lips to hide his smile.

—

By late afternoon, the circuit had settled into its usual Friday-eve rhythm: cars back in the garage, radios quieter, engineers drifting between briefings and laptops. Amelia finished updating Oscar’s setup notes and slipped her headset off, the weight of it leaving a faint pressure along her jaw.

She spotted Tom near the back of the garage — arms folded, watching the data feed scroll across a nearby monitor. He looked focused, but not too busy. Good.

Amelia adjusted the fit of her polo over her bump, grabbed a spare iPad, and walked over with the steady confidence of someone who expected to be listened to. “Got a second?” She asked, already flipping the tablet around.

Tom straightened. “Always.”

“I want you to start shadowing me properly,” she said. “From now on. Every session. Every debrief. From now until I step back.”

Tom blinked, just once. “Already?”

“Yes, I want both os us to be prepared for any eventuality,” she told him. “You’ll be the most important to Oscar during my leave. And I want the transition to be as seamless as possible for him.”

He nodded slowly. “Understood.”

“You’ll do fine,” she added, tapping the iPad awake. “I know that you’ve got great credentials, and you’re calm, just like my ducky. But I want it done right. You’re not just reading notes — you’re learning how I communicate with Oscar. How I time interventions. Where I let him drive through issues and where I call it early. The tone matters. The silence matters more.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “I can do that.”

“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why I requested you specifically.”

A pause. Not long. Just enough for her to glance sideways and see Zak watching from across the garage, arms still crossed, nodding to himself like he approved of the moment without needing to step in.

“I’ll be available to you remotely,” she continued. “From MTC or home in Surrey. You’ll always be able to get in touch if something’s unclear or we need to adjust mid-weekend. But I want you confident enough that you won’t have to.”

Tom looked down at her bump, not long, just a flicker of respectful acknowledgment, and then back at her eyes. “How far out are you planning to step back?”

“Before summer break,” she said. “Likely after Monaco. I want a clean split before Imola. She’s due in late June, early July, and I want to be home by then.”

He nodded again, solid as always. “Alright. I’ll start sitting in properly tomorrow.”

“Good.” She closed the tablet. “And Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“If he complains that you’re not me, remind him I handpicked you. And that he has to do what you say — because I said so.”

Tom grinned. “Got it.”

Amelia turned to go, but paused after a few steps and looked back over her shoulder. “Don’t screw this up, Stallard. For your own sake. I get mean when anybody messes with my boys.”

—

The McLaren war room wasn’t called that officially, but Amelia couldn’t think of a better name. It was tucked behind closed doors at the back of the motorhome, with tinted windows, air-con humming softly, and a huge screen already displaying performance graphs and strategy overlays from the Shanghai Grand Prix.

Lando’s P2 had been hard-earned. Strategic brilliance, excellent tire management, clean defensive driving. Amelia had been proud; of him, of the team, of how the car had performed under pressure.

Oscar had come home P6. No mistakes. Just a race that didn’t quite go his way.

And now, with a double points finish in their pocket and the start of a momentum swing building, they were all squeezed into this meeting to talk about the future.

Specifically: team orders.

“Look,” one of the strategy leads was saying, gesturing toward the display. “We’re in a unique position this season. The car’s competitive. But so are both drivers. Very evenly matched. We should just let them race.”

A few people around the table nodded, murmured agreement. “It’s the fairest approach,” someone else added. “No favouritism. Trust the drivers to race clean.”

“Right,” another chimed in. “Papaya rules—no number one, no number two. No intervention unless absolutely necessary.”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, one hand resting protectively on her bump, the other spinning a pen idly through her fingers. She waited a beat.

Then, calmly, “That’s idiotic.”

Silence.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“Letting them race without clear structure is how you lose the team points,” she continued. “It’s how you make emotionally reactive decisions mid-race. It’s how you create resentment—because eventually, one of them will get burned by a call that felt arbitrary. Or too late. Or unfair.”

Zak shifted in his seat but didn’t interrupt. He’d seen her like this before; measured, relentless.

“They’re not in go-karts,” Amelia said. “This isn’t about playground ethics. It’s about execution. Maximising constructor points. Sustaining morale. Keeping both of them an integral part of the long-term plan.”

Someone across the table sighed. “Come on, you think they’ll be okay with one of them being prioritised just because they’ve had a cleaner race that day? Even if the other was leading the championship?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I do think that. Because unlike any o you, I’ve already spoken to them about this. At length. Separately. Together. After Bahrain. After Jeddah. Again last night.” She let the silence settle. Let them exchange awkward glances as they realised how on the back-foot they all. “They know what’s at stake. They understand that in a scenario where one of them is consistently faster, cleaner, or better-positioned based on live data, that driver will be prioritised for that race. It’s not a demotion. It’s not a snub. It’s a race-by-race performance-based call.”

“But—” someone began.

She cut them off. “They agreed it would make them both better. Force them to be cleaner, smarter, more strategic. Push each other. Because the moment it’s not based on merit, we undermine the value of their work. And we risk both of them driving more emotionally than tactically.”

Zak finally leaned forward. “You’re saying… no open racing. Just structured flexibility.”

“I’m saying we don’t throw them into a burning building with no fire exits,” Amelia said. “We guide them. We explain our decisions. And we make it crystal clear: we back the driver who’s executed the better race. Full stop.”

She sat back.

No one argued.

After a long pause, one of the older engineers finally muttered, “Hell of a thing when the drivers trust each other more than the people in this room do.”

Amelia arched a brow. “They trust each other because I made sure of that.” She tapped her pen twice on the table. “And because they trust me to be impartial.”

Another beat of silence passed. Then Zak stood.

“Alright,” he said. “Then that’s how it’ll be. We back merit. We run data-forward. Amelia writes the internal protocol. Full review before Miami.”

The meeting dissolved shortly after.

As she stood, Lando appeared in the doorway, fresh from his media obligations. He glanced at her with that careful, familiar look he always gave her after long meetings—curious, proud, a little smug.

“How’d it go?”

She smiled faintly. “You and Oscar are getting merit-based strategy rules. No fighting each other unless it makes sense on the timing screens.”

“Perfect,” Lando said. “I’ll just have to be better than him every week, then.”

Amelia smacked his chest lightly with her folder on the way out. “You can try.”

—

The paddock had mostly emptied by the time Amelia caught up with Oscar. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the long shadows made the garages feel colder than they were. He was leaning against a stack of tyre blankets near the back of the garage, in a pair of sweats. A half-drunk sports drink hung from his fingers.

He noticed her before she spoke, gave her a tired little smile.

“Fun meeting?” He asked dryly. "I assume it ended with someone muttering something like, 'well, Amelia knows best.'"

She smiled faintly. “Not in those words. But close.”

He looked away, nodding. “So… the strategy thing.”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping up beside him. “They agreed. It's what makes sense.”

Oscar didn’t reply immediately. He wasn’t sulking, that wasn’t his way, but he was being cautious about this. Amelia respected him for that. Always had.

“You’re not going to be sidelined,” she said quietly. “Not ever. But I won’t let you two cannibalise each other. It’s not about protecting Lando. It’s not about picking favourites. It’s about making strategic calls when they matter.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “I get it. I just…” He trailed off, rolling the bottle between his hands. “It’s frustrating, you know?” He added after a second. “To feel like I’m just outside the sweet spot. Every weekend. Not far off. Just not quite there.”

Amelia nodded. “Yeah. I know. But you’re not behind, Oscar. You were still a rookie last year, yeah? And you had a car that you couldn’t drive because it was all-but underivable. I never expected you to walk into this season and get consistent podium finishes. You’re in development. The best kind. The kind that’s going to make you seriously dangerous by midseason. You don’t want to peak now — you want to be ready to win, and keep winning, when it happens.”

Oscar gave her a side-eye. “Midseason, huh?”

“On track, in briefings, in strategy meetings, you’re my priority. Just like Lando is Will’s. So trust me when I say that we will make a data-driven decision to protect your race when it's yours. The same goes for Lando. Neither of you is owed a position. You earn it. And you’ve earned plenty.”

He exhaled, long and slow.

She hesitated for half a second, then added, “Also, you’re the only person who can get under Lando’s skin just by existing, so please don’t stop doing that.”

Oscar snorted. “Oh, I plan to keep annoying him.”

“Good. That’s your most valuable skill.”

They both smiled. The moment settled into something comfortable.

Then Amelia said, softer, “they wanted to let you fight it on the track. No structure. One of you gets an earlier pit, the other would be fucked, because there wouldn’t be any kind of structure.”

Oscar looked at her.

“The structure. The clarity. The mutual understanding,” she continued. “Osc, when everything is vague and reactive and drivers are forced to figure it out mid-race, it screws with your head. I won’t do that to you. Either of you.”

He gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

“And when Tom steps in while I’m off,” she added, “he’ll follow it the same way. Because you’ll help him. And because you’ll remember we built it together.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “When do we start calling it the Papaya Doctrine?”

“When you win your first race of the season,” she said without missing a beat.

“Cheeky.”

“Motivated,” she corrected, then pushed gently off the wall and turned to head back inside. “C’mon. Let’s go find Lando.”

Oscar followed, more relaxed now. Lighter.

And when they reached the motorhome, he reached up and tapped the scan photo Amelia had stuck to the communal fridge earlier that week.

“Little engineer better be on my side,” he said under his breath.

Amelia didn’t even turn. “Sorry. She’s already a daddy’s girl.”

—

It was late afternoon in Monaco. Amelia had slipped away from the apartment, sipping on a decaf iced latte and pretending her ankles weren’t already starting to hate her.

She didn’t expect Max to be walking in the same neihbourhood, but he was—of course he was. He veered off course like it was second nature, grin crooked, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

“Zusje,” he said by way of greeting, already wrapping her in a loose, familiar hug. “You’re massive.”

Amelia made a face. “Max.”

He stepped back to take a better look. “No, I meant — I just mean that—"

“I think that you should just stop talking,” she said flatly.

Max held his hands up in surrender, then leaned against the wall ledge beside her. They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

Then she said, without ceremony, “It’s a girl.”

Max blinked. “Seriously?”

She nodded, and for a second, something unreadable crossed his face; surprise, maybe, or just the weight of knowing. Then he smiled. Big. Soft. “She’s gonna be trouble,” he said.

“I know.”

“She’ll be outdriving Lando by age twelve.”

Amelia grinned. “Obviously.”

Max looked at her a long moment, then reached out and tapped a gentle knuckle against her arm. “You’d be a good mum to any baby. But a little girl will be so, so lucky to have you, Amelia.”

It was simple, unadorned. But the words wrapped around her heart like a fuzzy blanket. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it.

He hesitated a second longer, then added, “And if you want to name her Maxine, you know...”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughed. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

Maxine. God forbid.

Still — she’d always known he’d be the first to joke about it.

And the first to show up if she ever needed him.

—

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landonorris outnumbered already ❤️ by amelianorris

user47 I'm crying girl!dad Lando makes so much sense to me

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user53 pls i don't mean to be parasocial but i rly hope they share baby girl norris' name because i bet its going to be so beautiful

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nereidprinc3ss · 1 year ago

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do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him.

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye.

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign.

You look at it.

And then you set your phone down.

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness.

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder.

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside.

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes.

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment.

He looks good. Almost too good.

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek.

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head.

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him.

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully.

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.”

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek.

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best.

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body.

You cover his hand with your own.

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion.

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies.

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks.

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense.

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this.

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy.

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel.

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm.

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him.

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you.

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly.

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds.

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no.

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful.

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly.

“Yes, please.”

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting.

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine.

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for.

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings.

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present.

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing.

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster.

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem.

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest.

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place.

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand.

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair.

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all—just without him.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful.

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again.

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you.

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame.

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you.

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul.

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin.

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential.

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands.

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind.

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK.

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake.

He knows.

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity.

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like.

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before.

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it?

Maybe you have it all wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you.

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick.

24 hours go by.

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up.

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure.

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off.

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking.

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep.

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed.

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone.

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said.

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room.

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while.

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs.

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones.

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks.

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble.

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no.

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly.

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence.

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans.

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure. After a pause, he sighs in defeat.

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown.

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless.

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up.

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones. It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic.

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand.

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket.

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter.

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges.

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it.

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it.

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

“Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer.

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing.

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?”

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you.

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?”

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that.

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before.

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft.

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest.

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows.

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts.

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning.

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration.

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous.

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them.

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit.

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice.

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making.

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now.

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“’M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that.

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers.

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute.

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base.

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut.

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock.

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.”

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk.

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump.

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment.

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry.

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!”

He knows.

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist.

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding.

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease.

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more.

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone.

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide.

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else.

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you.

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he’s really here.

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength.

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?”

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous.

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue.

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared.

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out.

“You regret your first time?”

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does.

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash.

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins.

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same.

You want to scream bloody murder.

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse.

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence.

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back.

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me.

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later.

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was.

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help.

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does.

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound.

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more.

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right.

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here.

“Goodnight.”

part five

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic

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januaryembrs · 11 months ago

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MY BABY, HERE ON EARTH | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [BONUS]

Description: the NINE months of pregnancy

Word count: 10.9k

warnings: pregnancy duh, babies, giving birth, c-section, ummm body fluids? lots of emotions, nausea & sickness, talks of weight gain and stretch marks.

authors note: y'all... there you have it. I will be back to finish their story but until then this is my goodbye piece until I have finished my hiatus to write my own book and start uni (again). I can't wait to take these two (three) on the final lap they deserve but for now.. I hope you enjoy pookies being pookies.

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MONTH ONE. The one where she finds out.

She hadn’t meant to find out when she did. It had been just a routine implant swap that she’d had twice already in the last six years.

“Any blood clotting, any pain at all?” The nurse asked, jotting down a few notes on her form as she sat back on the bed and waiting for the numbing cream to take hold.

She shook her head. “It’s weird as hell to feel and when I think about it too long it freaks me out, but no, no pain,” She said and the nurse chuckled, nudging her glasses up her nose.

“And finally, is there any chance that you’re pregnant?” She asked, no doubt having rehearsed the same script about thirty times that day alone.

Bugsy gave her a flat smile, “Small chance, but I guess that’s what this is for, huh?”

The nurse looked at her then, as if mulling over the words before she said something, “Small chance?”

“I mean, nothing is a hundred percent effective,” Bugsy tried to weasel her way out of the awkward conversation, because she had absolutely no intention of letting the nurse know her and Spencer had been at it like bunnies since the Hotch had forced them to take medical leave. Who knew having so much time on her hands with her very handsome boyfriend would have that effect?

The nurse pursed her lips, and already the woman felt like she’d said too much.

“Alright, we’re going to do a routine test, just need a quick urine sample,” Bugsy felt her cheeks heat, though she was in no position to argue. Her discomfort must have been more obvious than she thought, however, as the nurse went on to explain, “If I give you this implant and there’s a fertilised egg, it can lead to ectopic pregnancy, in which case you’ll need surgery. Trust me, honey, peeing in a cup is your easy option,”

She gave the practitioner a small nod, wondering if she needed to message Spencer to say she’d be running a little late. She knew he was likely doing the sudoku in the waiting room magazine, since he’d refused to let her come alone. And even though she’d told him she would be fine on her own, he’d seen through it, had even offered to get her ice cream on the way home for putting on a brave face.

And yet her face was nothing short of horror struck not even half an hour later when the nurse showed her the stick with empathetic eyes.

“Congratulations,” The woman said cautiously, a fake smile plastered on her face as the girl stared at her, utterly gobsmacked.

“But, I thought…” Bugsy stammered, running a finger over where the nurse had removed her implant, “But I had everything ready, I never let it get late, I did what I was supposed to,”

“You said it yourself, honey, nothing is a hundred percent effective besides abstinence-”

“That’s just what parents say to make sure their kids aren’t banging every Tom, Dick and Harry out there!” Bugsy was near screeching, the worry in her tone clear as a bell and her chest hot with panic.

Pregnant. She was pregnant, there was no way she could be…

Except there was exactly a way she could be, seeing as she struggled even on a dry spell to keep her hands off Spencer longer than a few days at a time. And he was just as bad.

The nurse huffed, rifling through her drawers for a handful of pamphlets. She passed them to Bugsy whose mouth was still bobbing with more expletives she held herself back from saying, and it wasn’t until she saw the happy couple on the front of the first one, holding a very swollen and round bump that she thought she might be sick.

Comical timing, she hissed at herself.

“There are always options, sweetheart. Abortion is legal in Virginia, if that is what you decide, however there is always information and support that we recommend looking into before you make a solid decision,” Her response was professional even though her expression was compassionate, and Bugsy knew she must have looked scared because that was exactly how she felt and she had little to no room to hide it.

Abortion? Is that what she wanted? Except it wasn’t just about what she wanted, it was what Spencer wanted too. Even if he would argue against that being the case in a heartbeat, even if he would tell her she had every right to be the only one to make a decision, no matter what he thought. But maybe it wasn’t so much about needing his opinion for that reason, and more it was because she had absolutely no clue what to do and Spencer was always good at making sense of the things she didn’t know how to deal with.

She nodded silently, her mouth dry as sandpaper as she took the leaflets and stuffed them in the bottom of her purse where she hoped Spencer wouldn’t go looking.

She barely remembered standing on liquid legs, barely remembered the way her chest felt tight and her head spun as she thought of the fact her body had a baby growing inside it.

No, it wasn’t a baby. Not yet. It was likely the size of a grain of sand, miniscule. That wasn’t a baby, that was nothing.

But it would be. Eventually. It would be hers and Spencer’s baby.

And she wanted to tell him, wanted to tell him the second she saw him there in the waiting room, his head shooting up the second the door opened and she left looking a little ill and shaken.

“All done? Everything go as normal?” He preened, standing immediately as she neared him, his hand immediately weaving around her shoulder to pull her close by. Gently, ofcourse, because she had a big, fat bandage where her implant should have been.

“Y-yeah,” She stammered, hoping he didn’t hear the shake in her throat. Yet she knew immediately that he did. Because he leaned in to give her a delicate kiss to her forehead not even a moment later, “C-can we go straight home, I’m not feeling ice cream anymore,”

He looked worried, as anyone who knew her would because Bugsy turning down free pudding was a blaring red siren in his eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” He said, stroking a gentle hand over the side of her head and leading her where he’d parked the car.

And it was that worry, the same cloud that hung over him for months with Scratch and his mom and the Dirty Dozen and everything else that was put onto his shoulder that made her shut her mouth right then and there. He didn’t need one other thing to contend with, not when he was already carrying the weight of the world.

And so she wouldn’t tell him. Not yet at least.

MONTH TWO. The one with the scan.

“Spence, would you stop worrying, I’m sure everything will be fine,” She urged in the gentlest tone she could muster. Yet she was a hypocrite, because she felt her hands shaking as she sat in the chair, trying to adjust her sleeves for something to do and Spencer stopped his leg from bouncing.

Looking over at her, he sighed, holding out a large palm and weaving her fingers in between his and she flicked a look over at him, her own eyes nervous.

“I’m sorry,” He gave her a guilty smile, “If it helps, it’s half excitement too,”

And she smiled then, shaking her head as he squeezed her hand gently.

“Me too,” She confessed, looking down at her stomach that didn’t seem all too different than usual. She’d felt a few symptoms up until this point, a bit of nausea but that was nothing she couldn’t handle, headaches here and there. But it wasn’t anything exactly life changing that she’d expected when she’d always thought of pregnancy.

If anything, none of it felt real quite just yet. Having only been a few weeks since she’d told Spencer, they’d spent the majority of the time searching for houses and appointments and gynaecologists and neonatal care, and whenever they were free, they were trying to get used to the idea of the two of them as parents.

“Did you know they’re around half an inch long by now,” Spencer said, his hazel eyes falling to where her shirt hid her stomach that had yet to change no matter how many times he stared at it, “About a third of that is made up of their head,”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” She shrugged, stroking her thumb along the edge of his pinky finger, “It’s your kid, they’re going to have biggest brain out there,”

He snickered, lifting her hand to press a kiss to the back of it softly, “If they have even half your brains, we’re going to be raising the next Galileo,”

“Mr and Mrs Reid,” Their heads shot up at the midwife, Bugsy fumbling for words to correct him as the two of them stood up to greet him with bashful smiles. She didn’t need to look at Spencer’s face to know he’d gone bright red.

“It’s uh, Prentiss-Reid,” Spencer spluttered as they entered and the nurse looked again at his chart with wide eyes, his cheeks a little pink himself and he ushered the two of them into his office with a smile.

“So it is, I do apologise,” He said earnestly, holding a hand out to gesture Bugsy to sit on the reclining bed, “I hate to stereotype, but usually when dad books the appointments, its because their wives are already doing a hundred other things,”

“It’s okay, it happens,” She said with an awkward chuckle, avoiding Spencer’s eyes because they still hadn’t had that talk. Even though she knew her mother would frown at her grandchild being born a bastard, she didn’t care much for Elizabeth’s opinion. It wasn’t like marriages had ever led to good things for her mother anyway.

She hopped up onto the examination cot, her heart quivering just the slightest in worry because the smell of bleach and rubber made the whole thing real. Until then, having a grain of rice growing inside her seemed like a fever dream since she’d only had a handful of side effects, throwing up could have easily been passed off as bad chicken, the head aches could have just been her eyes straining from using her computer too much.

“Okay, everything feels okay, Mom? Nothing concerning at all?” And then the midwife said things like that, mom, and the part of her that almost forgot she was pregnant came to a screeching halt.

She’d be a mom. Someone would call her mom. The thought of it made her suck in a breath.

“Uh, no.” She cleared her throat and felt Spencer grab her hand, “Morning sickness is kicking my ass, but nothing worrying,”

The nurse chuckled, and she felt Spencer rubbing his thumb over the back of her palm, his eyes burning into the side of her head.

“Well, if it’s alright, I need you to lift your shirt up a little so we can have a see what’s going on,” He said with a kind smile, and she realised then he’d slipped latex gloves over his hands, and brandished a bottle of gel.

She nodded absently, doing as he said and lifting her shirt to sit under her breasts, drawing the hem of her skirt down so he had a space to apply. And the second he did she sucked in breath through her nose, the cold of the air conditioning chilling her to her marrow, and she tried telling herself that’s why her hands were shaking.

She felt Spencer’s fingers curve through her hair, and she reminded herself to breathe, looking over at him with nervous eyes she hoped he didn’t see straight through. But judging by the way he scooted the chair forward and gave her an encouraging smile, she guessed he’d seen the flicker of doubt in an instant.

“It’s okay, it’s going to be fine,” He murmured, his own fear buried deep somewhere she couldn’t see anymore the second she had been the one to look to him for help. She knew she wanted this, knew she’d always dreamed of Spencer and her having their happily ever after. She knew whenever she’d let herself think of a little boy with chocolate curls and hazel eyes that she wanted all of that and more.

But it was all so… real. Like seeing a movie come to life, and she was starring centre stage. Her body wasn’t a disposable shell that held thirty plus years of stupid mistakes and regrets and tattoos she’d decided she hated now. Her body had a whole other human inside it.

The midwife clicked the machine on, the transducer wand ready in his hand as he gently put it on her lower stomach, barely a few centimetres from her panties, and she wondered why they showed the wand roaming over the woman’s belly button on tv shows since that was entirely wrong and not nearly as embarrassing. She let out a shaky breath, and Spencer stroked her head again, forcing her to give him an unsure look, like she was trying to calm herself for his sake but couldn’t.

His eyes were anxious though he squeezed her again with a smile and she saw it immediately, like he too was trying to be brave for her.

She had never loved him so much.

“Apologies for the shock, I know the gel can be a little cold,” The nurse said with a grin, and it was only then she realised the screen had lit up with a black and white image, one she’d seen a thousand times when she’d studied neonatal procedures for her degree.

She knew that was her womb lining, and that was the amniotic fluid and that right there-

Bugsy froze, and judging by the way Spencer’s hand tightened around her own, he had too. She felt her mouth drop with a laugh of shock, and she sat up slightly to take a closer look at the monitor.

“And there is baby,” The midwife said, his expression warming as he watched Spencer’s stand up to lean over the bed, not once letting go of the woman’s hand, the two of them utterly enraptured in the screen, “Probably about the size of a raspberry,”

And Bugsy laughed, her eyes lined with tears as she looked up at Spencer’s equally wetted hues. He was grinning from ear to ear when he looked down at her, and it wasn’t long before he brought his lips to her forehead, his nose and throat burning with a held cry.

“Do you hear that? A whole raspberry already?” She said, her voice wobbling and he giggled, sitting back in his seat and rubbing his cheeks with his sleeve. “I am good at this cooking thing, might as well call me an easy bake oven,”

Spencer shook his head with another chuckle, his eyes trailing back to the little blob on the screen that looked more like a toy alien than anything else, and held her hand between both of his like he was in prayer.

Because Spencer never believed in anything sacred and divine until he met Bugsy.

MONTH THREE. The one where they tell everyone.

“What are you doing?” Bugsy jumped out of her skin as JJ all but materialised behind her. She looked over her shoulder guiltily, her hand still half way through pouring out her mug of coffee Derek had handed her before he left to get lunch.

She turned to see the blonde with her own steaming mug of decaf in her hands. She’d been taking the lack of caffeine much better this time around since having a second baby to breastfeed, considering she was nothing short of evil when she’d had Henry, which had been Spencer’s words not Bugsy’s. And it wasn’t as if the woman could blame her. She was grouchy when she didn’t get her regular dose even before being pregnancy, Derek had once gotten a kick to the shin when he’d disturbed her on a day she’d been too busy to grab one on her way to the office.

She was a fiend for the bitter god. And everyone knew it. Which was exactly why JJ’s eyebrows were all but raised into her hairline seeing the girl who would usually be in the stages of withdrawal by now tipping the drink away.

“Uh, the milk tasted funky,” She excused, though the way JJ narrowed her eyes at the poor excuse told her it hadn’t passed by a mile.

“Right, the milk that Hotch picked up this morning?” JJ pursed her lips, sliding her own mug onto the side and jutting her hip.

And as if he were summoned, Hotch sidled up to the kitchenette, Rossi and Tara hot on his heels as they flicked through some paperwork, and his head shot up the minute he heard his name.

His eyes trailed to where the girl flipped her mug upside on the drying rack, and his brow furrowed.

“Is everything alright?” He asked, and she huffed in response, wiping her hands on her jeans.

“Yes, I’m fine,” She grumbled, shaking her head, “I don’t know what you’re all so wound up about, it’s not like I’m dying, I just don’t feel like coffee today-”

“Oh my god,” Penelope gasped where she crept behind Hotch with her very favourite octopus mug in tow, one that was nearly thrown to the floor when she heard the words pour from the girl’s mouth, “Are you sick? Like in the body or in the head? Rossi, check her pulse, I’m going to get a thermometer-”

“Pen, I’m fine,” She said unconvincingly and she tried to skirt past the group that seemed to have her surrounded. Seeing Spencer pulling up the rear in search of lunch she felt herself sigh in relief, because he would think of a much better excuse than she ever could.

She had barely been able to keep her mouth shut for the months they had been secretly dating, and had relished in the peace it brought her when everyone knew. But the midwife had said it was common to keep things under wraps at least until the first trimester was over. Apparently the million of questions that were sure to be heading their way would cause her unnecessary stress, though she’d argue having to sneak to the sink every morning and dispose of a delicious looking coffee was torture enough.

“What’s up?” Spencer asked as she ducked towards him, his hand consciously wrapping around her waist, and she huffed again, looking to him with a silent plea.

“They’re profiling me,” Bugsy said, and he felt his gut knot because he should have known it wouldn’t be long before they caught on. It was their job to pick apart out of the ordinary behaviour, and Bugsy going teetotal on caffeine was definitely something of a head turner.

“I told you that diet would cause a stir,” He joked, hoping they bought his pathetic attempt of an excuse, as he gave her side a gentle squeeze, and hoped that he could lead her back to her desk like she was a lost little lamb being prowled upon by nosy wolves that rarely took no for an answer.

And it almost worked, almost, until JJ snapped her fingers and pointed at his wandering hand.

“See that, that is the fourth time you’ve been all touchy and weird this week,” The blonde surprised, her brows furrowing, “Bugsy hates PDA, usually by now she would have whacked you over the head and called you a perv,”

Bugsy smashed her lips together because she couldn’t exactly disagree with her. That’s exactly what she usually did. Usually would tell Spencer to stop being so horny in a place of work even if she felt her cheeks heat at the delicate grabs of her stomach fat.

But whether it was the little bean now around the size of a small lemon that had made her mellow and affectionate, or whether the lack of caffeine really was making her feel vulnerable, she wasn’t sure. And the whole thing was only made worse by Hotch’s eyes burning into the side of her, and she felt the trail of his gaze head straight for her stomach.

“Come to think of it, I only saw you with a lime and soda at Savannah’s birthday last week,” Rossi pointed out, wagging his finger in her direction, his brown hues widening in thought, “When Penelope asked if you wanted tequila you said-”

“I’m all tequila-ed out,” Penelope chimed in with the same frown, “But that can’t be, when have you ever been tequila-ed out, that’s like impossible, even that night we had to help Spencer get you in the shower because you’d thrown up everywhere you were demanding more,”

She felt her cheeks heat thinking about her twenty ninth birthday, or atleast the parts of it she could remember of it before the rest of the gaps were filled with black spaces of time that she guessed had been robbed from her by the shots she piled on.

“Maybe I just didn’t feel like tequila, can a girl not live in the moment?” She tried to rebuttal, only Penelope gave her a blank look that told her to try again because the Bugsy she knew would slap her for saying something so dumb. She opened her mouth to correct her again, but Hotch beat her to it.

“You know Hayley got really affectionate a couple months into being pregnant,” The man said, his eyes swirling with something proud and warm when he saw Bugsy’s head flick to him like she’d been caught red handed, which they had. “Though, if you ask me I think she was just a little sorry for herself that I took the coffee away,”

There was a beat of silence, and the room held its breath. Even Tara, who had only known them the best part of a few months raised her hand to her mouth in shock, and Bugsy shot a look at Spencer in utter defeat.

“We tried,” She said with her shoulders shrugging, and it was then that the office was filled with a piercing scream that turned a fair few heads and the infamous octopus mug was thrown clear across the kitchen floor, one of his tentacles snapping clean off.

“OH MY GOD, IT’S TRUE? YOU’RE PREGNANT?” Penelope wailed like a banshee, and Bugsy couldn’t help but break into a smile, nodding at the woman who screeched again and yanked her in for a tight hug, “Oh my god, there's going to be three of you, three geniuses, three little einsteins that I want to smush together and kiss all over-”

“Garcia, I think she needs air if she’s going to make another little genius,” Rossi said, and the tech analyst pulled away aghast, cupping Bugsy’s face that was still grinning ear to ear with a chuckle.

“Oh my god, I didn’t hurt you did I? Or the baby- Oh my god there’s a baby in there!”

Hotch wrapped a rare yet tender arm around Spencer’s shoulder, giving him a little pat and a “Congratulations” while Rossi smiled knowingly between the couple and JJ had her turn smothering Bugsy in a tearful hug.

And by the time Derek had walked into the office with his everything bagel hanging between his teeth and a tea in his hands, his onyx hues fell to Penelope, JJ and Bugsy exchanging weepy words while Tara handed them tissues with her own sparkling eyes.

“What fresh hell did I miss?”

MONTH FOUR. The one where she starts looking different.

She huffed, her fingers gripping the edge of her jeans and yanking them up her thighs as far as they would go. She felt like everything had shrunk in the wash, or like she was trying on a doll’s wardrobe. Surely she hadn’t gained that much weight in just a few months, but then again she’d been all but living off chocolate pudding cups since the Bean decided it wanted sugar, sugar and more sugar.

She grunted in annoyance, her arms and back aching where she was leaning over to pull at the infernal things. She barely had a second to pout childishly, before kind hands were wrapping around her stomach and a mouth kissed at her neck tenderly.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me,” His voice was honey sweet, thick and goopy with love overflowing as he pulled her to his chest, his hand caressed the bump that seemed to be getting in the way of her and her favourite jeans. Spencer knew she tried to ignore the symptoms that almost every woman felt during pregnancy, he knew she compared herself to how JJ had handled both pregnancies gracefully and looked better than ever even as a mother of two. He knew she hated complaining because she didn’t want him to think she was miserable carrying their kid, but god was she getting sick of her clothes pinching her in.

“I’m getting fatter,” Bugsy grumbled, her eyes darting to the vivid lines that had deepened into the crease of her hips within a few weeks and she winced, “I’m not even halfway, how does this kid want to eat pudding all the time?”

Spencer frowned, shaking his head slightly because he refrained from telling her what a silly statement it was, knowing it would only make her feel worse, and instead pressed delicate kisses to her jaw, squeezing her closer. He’d noticed the stretch marks, just as he’d noticed her face and hips gathering weight a bit more than usual, and was just grateful there was even more Bugsy to love.

“You’re eating for two, you’re literally growing a whole life inside of you. I think that is more than enough grounds to eat whatever you want,” He murmured, biting the inside of his cheek when she sighed as though she didn’t believe him, “Honey, clothes are replaceable. What your body’s trying to do is create a little bubble around you and this little pudding fiend so you can feed them when they’re out here,”

Bugsy knew he was right. She’d spent well over a hundred hours researching hormone levels and how pregnant bodies are changing all hours of the day to accommodate the foetus, she knew it was normal for things to look different. Had it been on anyone else she wouldn’t have batted an eye. But it didn’t make the sting of seeing her body morph into one she didn’t recognise any less harsh.

“I know,” She hummed somewhat defeated, turning in his arms to press her face in his neck, “I just didn’t expect it to happen so fast is all,”

Spencer smiled warmly, because every day he thought she had gotten impossibly prettier. He hadn’t believed in ‘pregnancy glow’, in fact he’d chalked it down to some sort of innate scientific survival tactic that associated a vulnerable woman with looking angelic, at least not until he’d woken up to see her stomach protruding from her pyjama top in a clear curve shape and he thought her face looked like she should be in some Monet painting, dozing in a field like a wide eyed doe.

“I know, it’s a lot for anyone to go through. But you know I’m so grateful for you,” Spencer said, and he felt her smile without even seeing it. Her fingers wove into his hair at the nape of his neck, kissing a trail up his chest because he suspected she looked somewhat embarrassed. “Besides, I’m not complaining. It means I get to do this,”

She felt two large hands grab at the fat of her bum cheeks and she squeaked in surprise, even though she heard him laugh in her ear at her reaction. That had been another thing she’d noticed, and how could she not. Penelope said just the other day that she was ‘baking a bun in the oven and cake in the trunk’ with a little wink, and she’d had to excuse herself quickly for lack of a response.

And Spencer wasn’t lying. He wasn’t complaining with any of it, not by a long shot.

MONTH FIVE. The one with the mood swings.

“So you guys really don’t want to know the sex?” JJ asked, sipping on her tea as she chatted with Bugsy who was balancing biscuits on top of her now protruding stomach. It was as if overnight the baby had stretched out enough to make themselves a damn penthouse suite in Bugsy’s tummy.

“We want it to be a surprise, either way we’re going to love the little bean, even if they do keep kicking my bladder at four am,” She said, balancing the tenth cookie on the tower she’d made, reaching over carefully for another one, “I swear if the bean kicks my cookie tower I’m giving them a hideous name,”

“It’s good to feel the baby kicking at this stage, it helps develop their joints and bones so they’re stronger when they’re born.” Spencer inputted helpfully as he slid a fresh mug of decaf tea over to her desk.

“Next time the baby kicks your uterus walls, Spence, gimme a shout and we’ll discuss how great it is,” Bugsy said with a small smile and he paused, looking at JJ as if he was caught in a trap, suddenly well aware of his mistake.

“Point taken,” He conceded quietly, and JJ chuckled because she’d seen Will just as hesitant to piss her off in both of her pregnancies. And she knew Bugsy would never hold it against him, that Spencer’s head just ran away from him sometimes.

She halted her little game and carefully leaned over to draw the mug to her lips, too impatient to wait for it to cool down fully and she barely spotted Derek swooping around the corner of the desk.

“Good morning, Mommies and Daddy Genius,” He greeted in that chirpy tone, his hand snatching up the top cookie and scarfing it down before she could protest.

Bugsy shared her snacks all the time, it was a no brainer that they took a bite here and there out of each other's goodies before they could get a smack to the wrist. And Derek had certainly noticed a few of his Rolos missing the last time he bought a pack, and a particularly cheerful Bugsy smirking at him over her desk.

It wasn’t a huge deal, and yet Bugsy sat up in a gasp, and the entire biscuit tower fell to a crumbling mess on the floor.

“Well done, princess, Hotch is going to-” Derek stopped mid sentence when he saw her sniffle, and his eyes widened at the sight of her eyes glistening with tears, “Bugsy- are you okay-”

“My cookies! Derek!” She whined pitifully, and she buried her face in her hands, “My cookies, I was so going to eat the shit out of those, they were gonna be so good, Derek,”

Morgan looked gobsmacked, his head whipping between the woman leaning against the desk with an understanding smile and Spencer who was already rubbing her shoulders with his lips smashed together, trying not to laugh.

“Honey, it’s okay, he didn’t mean to,” Her partner tried to coo, though he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the way Derek scrambled to draw out his wallet.

“I’ll get you more, Bug, I swear, they sell them by the deli down the street, right?” He asked, jittering in his bones because he’d never made her cry before. He worried or a moment Hotch might just put him on sabbatical leave for such an offense. Emily would probably fly to Virginia just to cave his skull in, “I’m sorry, I’ll go get more, I’ll even get you strawberry milk-”

“Chocolate milk,” She wailed, and JJ slid a box of tissues over to the pitiful girl with a silent snicker. She remembered all too well the feeling of unexplained emotion crashing over her, and she didn’t doubt that the tough faced Bugsy would be back to normal any moment soon.

“Chocolate milk, got it,” Derek said, with a nod, and he all but darted for the elevators, in a hurry Spencer somewhat suspected was down to the fact he feared for his life if Penelope got a whiff of what happened.

Bugsy sniffled for a moment, drawing a tissue out the box and dabbing her eyes sullenly, her feelings slightly worse for wear even if she had a small inkling of doubt that she was really so torn up about the cookies as her body made it seem.

But she had been thinking about them all morning; made herself promise she would only eat them once she got the stack fifteen high at least.

“Are you okay, baby?” Spencer asked, his gaze empathetic as she snuffled her sobs into the palm of her hands. He wasn’t too worried, even if he hated seeing her cry just as much as anyone else did. And it wasn’t that he didn’t take her seriously. But when she’d been crying just that morning because her shower gel spilled on the floor and tipped almost all the way out, or even when she’d stepped on a snail walking into the building and smushed it into the ground, effectively killing it, he seemed to be getting used to her mood swings.

She sniffed woefully, “I was really looking forward to those, and now I think I was too mean to Derek and…” Her eyes glistened with fresh tears, and the sight of it made Spencer sigh, leaning forward to kiss the side of her head because it must be difficult being so out of your usual self for nine months.

“And what?” He prompted softly. Only she burst out crying again, reaching forward to drag him into a hug that told him she was feeling extra sorry for herself.

He wouldn’t blame her. Would sit through every weep and sob and tantrum if it meant he got to show her even more times over that he loved her endlessly.

However he did have to hold in the giggle when she wailed; “I think I really do want strawberry milk,”

MONTH SIX. The one with the false labour.

She had been in Hotch’s office when she felt it.

Embarrassingly so, her first thought was trapped gas. She’d gotten a lot of that considering the baby had decided it craved spice, and had been planning to excuse herself when it felt like her whole abdomen seized as if she’d been hit with a particularly nasty period cramp.

Her hand flew to her stomach where she sat with Hotch reviewing her latest reports, the same quarterly check the whole team was mandated to have with their boss since Cruz became section chief. Hotch didn’t miss a beat, the folder in his hand hitting the desk in an instant as he tensed, looking at her with caution.

“Are you alright?” He asked, and she held her breath for a moment. Spencer was out with Rossi giving a lecture in Washington DC, JJ had the day off for her mom’s birthday, Penelope and Morgan were taking Tara to lunch to show her a few more of their regular spots. It was just them and Anderson in the office for the next few hours, possibly the worst time out of any to have an empty floor.

“Yeah- I just, woah,” Her stomach gave another lurch of a painful twist and her hand slapped on the table to keep herself steady. She breathed through the pain, because she’d had much worse only that wasn’t what was making her heart race. It was fear. Because she wasn’t due for another twelve weeks at least, and while she’d heard of baby’s being born as premature as six months, she knew premy babies suffered major complications later on, let alone the stress their body goes under during the actual birth.

Bean, as the team had affectionately named the baby since the couple had firmly decided they didn’t want to know the sex, was about the size of red cabbage, tiny in the scheme of things even though it felt like just a few minutes ago they were a grain of rice.

“Okay, it’s okay, stay calm,” Hotch said in a smooth voice, gentle yet reassuring as he rounded his desk in a flash and put his hand on her shoulder, “Do you feel like you need to use the toilet? Any back ache or irritability?”

Bugsy breathed out through her nose as her lungs jittered with nerves, “N-no, I don’t need the bathroom, why would that matter?”

Aaron stroked a large kind hand down her spine, watching her face scrunch in pain for a second time, and he slowly began directing her towards the door, taking small steps so she wasn’t rushing. “Needing to use the bathroom is an early sign of labour, it’s your body's way of helping expand your pelvis to accommodate the head. Any back ache or frustration at all?”

He didn’t care that he’d had to repeat himself, not even when he was usually so against it, because he could feel the own unease rising in his throat like bile even if he tried to keep his face as neutral as possible.

He would be damned if he let her see how worried he was, and so he swallowed heavily, holding his other hand out for her to take when they approached the stairs. Anderson was on his feet in seconds when he saw his unit chief leading the woman with a tightly concealed frown, fumbling around for his phone.

“Agent Prentiss?” He exclaimed, darting around the mess of chairs and paper and desks to approach them, “Would you like me to call Dr Reid? An ambulance, perhaps?”

“She's alright, I’m driving her to the ER, thank you Anderson,” Aaron responded politely, his hand still resting on her back, and the agent nodded, digging around for his keys.

“I can drive, if you’d like to ride in the back with her,” Grant offered with worried eyes as Bugsy’s face crumpled in agony again, and Hotch’s head whipped to her, and his composure crumbled for a moment.

“Bugsy, hey, it’s okay, we’re gonna be okay, honey,” He cooed, and Anderson was quick to open the glass doors, “Did you pack a bag at all-”

“No, Spencer told me I should but I said it was too early, why is that man always right,” She grumbled, her footsteps weary and jittery as the three of them got into the elevator.

Hotch fought a smile, trying to remember everything he’d memorised before Hailey had Jack. The 5-1-1 rule blared through his head, and he glanced at his watch for a fraction of a second, and he wondered for a moment if he was going to have to write off a company vehicle for the fact his youngest agent gave birth in the back seat.

“I’m afraid that’s just how Reid operates,” Hotch said, pulling his phone out to dial the man in question and let him know where they were headed, “It’s probably nothing, Hailey was getting cramps all the time once she reached her third trimester, but we’ll get you checked out to be safe,”

“Really?” She looked at him with pitiful eyes and he nodded with a tight smile, committing to his illusion of calmness even if he swore he hadn’t felt so scared in months.

Because it wasn’t just Bugsy anymore, it was Bugsy and her baby. Her and Reid’s baby. The two people who deserved their happy ending more so than anyone else he knew.

And he felt her hand slip into his then as she accepted his answer, in fact she didn’t let go the entire time she waited on Spencer and Aaron was in no rush to leave her side. Even when she lay back on the table and had the midwife checking everything over, he stayed by her head (no doubt to avoid a very awkward conversation), stroked her hair when she fretted through a few more cramps, even when Spencer burst in through the door with Morgan at his heels looking like the two of them had just ran a marathon.

“Is everything okay- what’s wrong- do you need fluids- do you need ice-” Spencer rushed on his odd breath, his chest puffing with inhales, and he pretended he wasn’t seeing stars floating across his vision.

“I’m assuming by your reaction you’re dad,” The nurse said, pulling off the blue gloves and dropping her mask from her mouth.

“Yes, he is, he’s dad,” Morgan filled in for him as Spencer all but fell back against the wall, because he really should have drank something other than soda and coffee this morning. He was close to swaying on his feet when he stepped over to his girlfriend, and she took his hand in the her own, or atleast the one that wasn’t occupied by Hotch’s tight hold.

“Don’t worry, everything is alright with mom and baby,” She said, noting down a few things on her chart and the four of them took an audible sigh of relief, “Braxton Hicks contractions are very common in your final trimester, it probably felt like a lot because your baby is moving to into the anterior position ready for birth,”

Bugsy’s head flopped back against the pillow in comfort and she forced herself to take a few deep breaths, willing her heart rate to go back to normal. Braxton Hicks, she should have known. Her head had been fuzzy the past few weeks as it was, but she supposed the moment she’d thought there might be something wrong with the Bean, all of her logic had flown out the window.

But at least she’d had Hotch to keep her level headed, and-

“Oh my god, Anderson,” She jolted up, her legs stuck in the stirrups the midwife had place her into while she examined everything, “We need to tell Anderson, the poor guy was so worried,”

Hotch chose not to tell her he’d seen Anderson go as white as a ghost the second she’d turned her back, and instead patted her leg as Spencer went to speak to the midwife a little more, no doubt picking apart every single symptom she’d presented in that huge, worried head of his.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Anderson is fine, honey,” He said earnestly, and she looked at him like a kicked puppy, entirely sorry for the panic she’d caused, “Let’s just get you your underwear back, huh?”

MONTH SEVEN. The one where they decorate the nursery.

“What about Elias,”

“Veto,”

Bugsy pulled a shunned expression as she carefully rolled the wallpaper up the wall.

“Mason? Niko, stop,” She proposed, one hand on the wall while using the other to push the nosey feline away from the wet paste she’d been brushing on the wall.

He sat politely at her chide, blinking at her with those big eyes as he watched her work with a twitching tail, almost entertained at the woman who had ballooned up in just a few weeks struggling to do a relatively easy task.

“Hmm, Mason can go on the bench,” Spencer responded where he was sitting at the other end of the wall doing the same thing only much faster, though she’d argue it was a little easier since he wasn't carrying a large coconut strapped to his stomach.

They’d left the apartment just two weeks ago. Derek had been the one to help them cart their small amount of furniture into the modest house on the outskirts of West Springfield. It was large by Spencer’s standards, even if Bugsy had seen what grandeur looked like in her own childhood homes, but it didn’t matter. Because walls and floors and fancy grand pianos had never bought her love. Yet the first evening they’d spent in their new home they had slept on a mattress on the floor, the list of things to do the following day rattling around their heads. But they had a home. They had the picket fence with the nice school down the road and the bus stop within eyesight of the kitchen where their kid would one day walk to their door with a book bag and glasses like Spencer’s.

She had never felt like she belonged somewhere until she had a home with him.

“What about Ada for a girl?” Spencer called over his shoulder, where he had almost caught up to where she was still working on the small patch of wall. The paper was proving frustrating for her swollen fingers, considering the entire thing, when put together, made up a mural of little woodland creatures amidst a forest and left zero room for error, “Named after Ada Lovelace, the woman who pioneered computers,”

Considering it for a moment, she nodded, “That’s pretty. Ada makes top ten,”

Flipping the last part up to stick against the thick glue, she ran her hands over the seams to be sure it aligned perfectly with the rest of the picture. Satisfied when it matched and a little fox stared down at her, she smiled, tilting her head up where Spencer was standing over her, watching her concentrate.

“All done!” She chirped, and he bent down to give her a kiss to her puckered lips, sliding a hand beneath her arm to help her up.

“Looks perfect, you’re really carrying the team honey,” He mused as she got to her feet with a little whine, wrapping her arms around his middle in a proud hug.

“I know, what would you ever do without me?”

He laughed, looking at her with an adoring gaze.

The light cracked through the open window, laying over her face delicately. The house was still bare, still in need of carpets and a good dusting, still had leaky pipes and ants in the pantry. Yes, they had a pantry now. But it was a start. It was a home.

“I say we leave the cradle for another day, baby is calling for frozen grapes again,” She said, rubbing a hand over her protruding belly button and he smiled. Spencer could have sworn he was the luckiest guy in the world when he called her his friend. He thought maybe he should have bought a lottery ticket the same day she told him she loved him. The day she became his girlfriend he thinks he may have died and the past three years have been purely a dream.

But watching the breeze kiss her cheeks and stroke her hair, watching her eyes rove over the room that would keep their baby safe and warm in just a few weeks, even seeing her smile at him like he had handed her the whole universe in a box when she was the one growing a whole human inside her; Spencer felt like his life was so much better than he ever hoped it would be.

“Frozen grapes, coming right up,” He said, slipping his fingers in between his to help her down the winding staircase which had been a winner for her immediately. It’s like we have a castle, Spence. “You or the baby could ask for a whole damn ox and I’d give it to you.”

She laughed, holding onto the bannister as they headed downstairs to the kitchen that was in dire need of fresh paint.

“What if I said baby wants a holiday to Cancun and another cat,”

“I’d say baby is onto something there,” Spencer said, sweeping her from the final step and giving her a wet kiss to her head, “But first, grapes.”

MONTH EIGHT. The one where she gets cranky.

“Oh my god,” She groaned as she threw herself into her wheely chair, her button up shirt barely accommodating her stomach that was well and truly ready to pop.

Derek Morgan loved her, he truly loved her like she was one of his sisters, dare say he had loved her since that day he’d carried her out of the church she was held hostage in by Cyrus. He had seen her at her rock bottom, had seen her graduate with flying colours, had even put his job on the line for her; covered her back from a stupid mistake at a bar when she popped a little molly on government pay.

Derek loved her. He did. But the moment he saw her slump into her chair, her face scrunched up in frustration, he was collecting his mug of coffee and all but bolting for the door and heading straight for Penelope’s lair.

“Back pain again?” JJ asked, flitting past a very frantic Morgan and heading towards Rossi’s office with a stack of papers in her arms. Bugsy let out something close to a growl in return, and JJ took it as a yes.

“I swear I have been pregnant for years,” She huffed, barely reaching over to where her keyboard sat at her desk. Tara nudged it forward for her to grab, because it seemed like she was on her breaking point enough as it was, and received a brief nod of thanks “I can’t remember a time when my back didn’t hurt, or my boobs were aching or my head wasn’t all fuzzy and weird and- OH for the love of god SWITCH ON YOU PIECE OF SHIT,”

JJ’s brows raised as the keyboard mouse went flying off the side of her desk in protest, rolling straight past where Hotch and Spencer were strolling through the office, her boyfriend carrying the biggest Strawberry Milkshake he could find on this side of town.

If Hotch wanted to say anything about her damaging property, he thought it smarter to keep his mouth shut as she swivelled to face the two of them, her expression already irritated by the worried stare they shot her way.

“What?” She said with a bite, and Spencer raised his hands in surrender, which left her gaze to slide to Hotch.

And Hotch loved her too, loved her more than he would ever admit. But he swore he the second her eyes clamped on his, Aaron Hotchner considered an exorcism might be necessary.

“What, what are you staring at me for?” She snapped, throwing her hands out like a bratty teenager, and Hotch cleared his throat before he spoke, something embarrassingly close to fear shaking his vocal chords.

“Have you given any more thought to maternity leave, yet?” He asked and her eye twitched, and it was as if he saw the stapler was next on her list of things to send flying off the table, preferably straight at his head. “I would be more than happy to pull some strings so you take longer off after the baby is born, maybe even Spencer could start his paternity early-”

“What?” She said for a third time, like she was a broken record. And she knew she was being unfair, perhaps even cruelly so. But she would make it up to them later, when she was in a better frame of mind. Her underwear rode up and pinched where her uterus had begun to drop, her trousers itched for whatever reason, her face was hot from just walking from the elevator to her chair and that was just since she’d entered the office. She hadn’t got much energy for showers anymore and so washing her hair became some ugly affair where Spencer got in with her and did it for her, only last time he put a little too much product on and got the suds in her eyes and they had spent twenty minutes rinsing her face, naked and dripping wet, over the sink. She felt awful, awful for how she was being so irrationally rude, but it was like every inch of her being was uncomfortable. And there was still another month to go.

“Good god, man, don’t poke the bear,” Tara hummed as she passed, taking her own half full mug to the kitchen to escape whatever was rumbling in that hot head of hers.

Hotch swallowed heavily, noticing how Spencer stayed deadly quiet no doubt because he’d learned his lesson in trying to force Bugsy into doing something when she was like this, “I’m saying I think it would be good for you to take some time off, you’ve both worked hard enough as it is and with the baby being so close, it would be good to take it easy for a few weeks-”

She pressed her lips together, because she knew he was probably trying to help, probably trying to be considerate, and yet the heat of annoyance bubbled up inside her all the same like a kettle on the precipice of boiling.

“If you want the big scary pregnant lady out of your way just spit it out, Hotch,” She snapped, scowling at him in a way he remembered Hailey doing when he so much as sneezed too loud.

And he couldn’t find it in him to be mad at her. Because anyone with eyes saw she was uncomfortable, he knew if she was anything like his own ex-wife then she wouldn’t be sleeping nearly as much as she should, that more than likely their kid would be already kicking with long, scrawny legs to get out and show the world what they were made of.

Hotch was saved from the firing line when his guess was proved almost immediately, and she groaned with a hand to her abdomen.

“Spencer, would you tell your kid they’re not a linebacker and that my kidneys aren’t the damn ball,” She complained, and her partner flashed her a brave smile, leaning over her to rub where she was caressing her battered organs.

“Actually, right about here will be your spleen since the baby has pushed everything around at this stage-” And with that Hotch darted towards his office because Bugsy looked ready to clip someone around the ear, and he didn’t have the heart to write her up for it.

Although for the sanctity of his team, he rushed her documents through the same afternoon and gave her an extra four weeks pay in lieu of a truce.

MONTH NINE. The one with the birth.

It had been fourteen hours already when the doctor mentioned the word caesarean.

“Caesarean? We never planned for a C-section,” Bugsy’s eyes widened where she was intermittently sucking down gas and air, Spencer patting her forehead down with an ice wet cloth.

But then again she supposed she had never planned to go into labour when getting the laundry off the washing line while Spence painted the porch.

He looked at her with nervous hazel hues where her face sparkled with sweat and water, her hand squeezing him tightly as another contraction hit.

“I’m afraid we have few options left, Miss Prentiss,” The midwife said, a woman around her age that was already masked up after prodding around her cervix for a few hours, “Fourteen hours is rough on anyone and we’re not seeing any movement past your pelvis. Any longer and you or your baby might be at risk,”

And it was the truth, but it was a harsh one, and tears sprung to her eyes hearing those last few words. She had never had any delusions it would be easy giving birth, it was revered as the most painful thing anyone could go through, but she had assumed on a hope and a prayer that things would go smoothly.

“I know it’s scary,” Spencer found his voice after a second, their hands clasped tightly together because there was more chance of snow in hell than there was he was letting her do this alone, “But, baby, you’re doing so well, and you’re almost there,” He said in a watery sweet tone, dabbing at her brow once more and the two of them exchanged a teary look, “It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be okay, they’re going to numb you for the whole thing and when it’s over we’re going to have our baby, huh?”

She smiled ruefully because he was trying desperately to cheer her up, even though it sounded like he was reassuring himself just as much as he was her.

And she nodded, because she knew he was right, and more than anything she wanted their baby to be safe, even if it meant having her insides scooped out like she was some russian nesting doll.

“O-okay, yeah, c-can Spencer stay with me?” She asked nervously, and the midwife smiled, pressing a button to call for the anesthesiologist.

“Ofcourse, honey. Just try to relax, we’re going to arrange an epidural for you,” She said in a voice that told Bugsy she’d practised staying calm in an emergency a thousand times.

Bugsy breathed through her nose, feeling Spencer swoop in to wipe the lone few tears dribbling down her cheeks.

“It’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay,” He said, his voice bustling with nerves and she wanted to tell him the same, wanted to tell him she loved him more than ever for trying to put a brave face on for her sake. But she couldn’t, so she nodded frantically, leaning her forehead against his cheek and taking a few more deep breaths.

–

“You’re doing great, honey, you’re being so brave,” Spencer reassured in his biggest voice, his hand carding over the side of her hot face gently. There was blood, there was so much blood, and the sound of her monitor was the only sound that was constant and not at all worrying with its steady heart beat.

The midwives were flitting around the room, the lead obstetrician making careful incisions and handing various things Spencer didn’t want to see over to his co-workers. Because he loved their baby already, couldn’t wait to meet the mini him he’d been dreaming about since he was a boy himself, but Bugsy needed him first. She was his everything, his whole life, his whole universe fading between clear consciousness and a slightly loopy gaze as she relaxed on the table.

“Is it over? Are they here, are they okay?” She slurred, looking over at him where his hair was covered in a blue scrub cap, his entire body wrapped in protective uniform to minimise the risk of infection on her body.

He cradled her face again, shaking his head, “Not yet honey, you’re doing so good, it’s nearly over,” Spencer said, pressing his brow against hers because he had a mask over his mouth and couldn’t kiss her properly, “I love you so much, I swear I’ll try every day of my life to repay you,”

“You’re being mushy, you’re freaking me out,” She joked as if she was her regular self, because the midwives had all warned him that the sedatives would take the edge off her nerves. And he chuckled, even if he was worrying enough for the two of them, sniffling behind the stuffy mask he had to keep on until she was in recovery.

“I’m sorry, baby, I just want you to be okay,” Spencer said earnestly, and he pressed a kiss to her head anyway even if she wouldn’t feel it with his mask, “I’m gonna get you so many milkshakes when this is-”

There was a wail behind the curtain they had draped over her stomach, and both their breaths stopped in their chests.

“Is that…” Bugsy started, her eyes wide and alert even if seconds ago she had been almost drunk, “Is that it- is that them?”

And another scream resounded around the room as if to answer her.

Spencer swore he had never felt tears well in his eyes so fast until one of the midwives brought a wriggling, wrinkly bundle around the curtain, and within seconds he felt his cheeks sodden with tears.

“Oh my god,” He said his smile reaching his eyes as the little creature was put on Bugsy’s chest, and it was only then he realised she was weeping too and he resumed his position stroking her head, “It’s a-”

“It’s a girl! Spencer, we have a girl!” Bugsy’s grin went from ear to ear, her eyes round and adoring at the ugly, scrunched face still screaming at them, her eyes closed and her skin covered in a white goop, “Oh my god, she’s so beautiful,”

“I told you she’d take after you,” Spencer said, not minding the nurses sewing Bugsy up as they stared at their little girl, Bugsy’s arms holding her body weight delicately though she didn’t quite know what she was doing.

Spencer was quick to remove the mask once they cleared him to, and the second he was freed he pushed his lips to his girlfriend’s, their mouths equally as salty and sodden as one another with the way their cheeks washed with tears. Pulling away, he looked at her in the eyes, the same eyes he’d always loved, the same eyes he’d know in any life, in any world, in any fog, and their smiles were damn near blinding.

“I love you so much, I swear I’m going to make it up to you, anything you want,” Spencer said, kissing her again, his hand resting over hers where she held their baby girl on her bare chest.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him she already had everything she’d ever wanted right there with her.

“I love you so much more, Spencer,” She said quietly, the two of them pulling away when the little girl squealed again and they chuckled, quickly rushing to calm her cries as they looked at her as if they had yet to realise she was real and she was theirs, “Oh my god Spencer, you’re a daddy,”

“Bugsy, you’re a mommy,” He said with raised brows and she gasped, giggling with glee as her free hand flew to grab his face and pull him in to kiss her again, “We’re a mommy and daddy,”

The two of them burst out laughing even though overjoyed tears lined their eyes again, and Spencer trailed a large finger down her chubby cheek softly, her skin shrivelled and pruney like she’d been submerged in a bath for too long.

“Spencer, she’s perfect,” She said after a moment, her breath completely stolen when she took her in, the small head completely covered in dark hair, which she had already suspected would be there from the amount of times she found herself itching at her stomach. Her tiny fists waved in the air as her sobs subsided, beginning to warm up to the skin on Bugsy’s chest, and Spencer audibly choked in a cry of his own when her eyelids slowly blinked open and revealed forest hues damn near identical to his own. He pushed his temple to Bugsy’s again as she carefully swayed her from side to side.

“I’m never going to let anything hurt you,” He murmured, his breath warm on her collarbone and his baby girl stared back at him like she understood, even though he knew that was pretty much impossible, “Either of you,”

Bugsy sniffled with a wobbly smile, her hands shaking as she held her daughter up, “Do you want to hold her?”

Spencer looked ready to wail all over again, not that she would ever hold it against him. The two of them had been weeping all day, and their kid was a real tear jerker to look at with her thick lashes and wide eyes.

He was quick to pop open his shirt, holding his hands out nervously as she placed the baby in his arms, his fingers supporting under her head the whole time he brought her to his chest.

Bugsy smiled, the midwife checking in with her for a moment before they were ready to wheel her into the other room to rest up, while Spencer looked entirely enamoured with the little bundle in his arms.

He was a dad. He had made this beautiful, perfect little girl with the woman he loved more than anything in the world, and somehow she had given him even more reasons to feel so lucky.

“Hello, you,” He said through bleary eyes, smiling through a chuckle when he saw just how tiny she looked in his arms, and he had never seen anything look so fragile, “I’m going to try be the best dad you could ever have, okay? I’m gonna be there for all the lame parties, and the sleepovers and the big games and every single time you need help on your homework, I’m gonna be right there with you.”

“What name are we putting on the chart?” The midwife asked as Bugsy watched Spencer murmur to the sweet face that looked up at him in wonder, “Or is it just Baby Girl Prentiss for the moment?”

“It’s Reid,” Bugsy said with a smile, as Spencer poured even more of his gentle heart out in promises she knew he would keep until the day he died. And she knew without checking with him the name they chose weeks ago was perfect; the one they’d decided on just a few days after the nursery was finished and she had yet another bowl of frozen grapes to chow down on while they admired their work.

One for his mother, one for Emily.

“Ana Emilia Reid,”

–

taglists:

TROUBLE

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#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fic #emily prentiss x sister!reader #prentiss!reader #matthew gray gubler x reader #bugspence

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katandroofics · 2 months ago

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extract from our fic ‘three hundred and thirty four days’ on ao3! lil’ exile tommy doodle

full extract and link to fic below cut

CHAPTER NINE OF 334 DAYS

Water filled his lungs. It burned, and the gleaming blurred light of the sun just beyond the surface drifted further out, fading slowly, or his vision was, he couldn’t tell. Tommy was drowning. He hoped the burning would stop soon. His whole body ached, ached like Hell. There was no way he could get himself to the surface, no way he could make it to that glistening horizon, get the sand under his nails and drag himself up the shoreline, scrape the skin off his body as he dragged it over shells, rocks, and grains. He hoped the burning in his lungs would stop. It wasn’t so bad aside from that, he thought, it was like dozing off in the winter, like dozing off in the snow under the Christmas Tree in L’Manburg – exactly how how he used to when he was a child. That was one of the first things they’d gotten, Wilbur had taken a trip into the Esempi and bought a tree for them to all celebrate with that first year. Wilbur and Niki had made sure he was dressed so warmly—in fur and everything, he was actually sweating, properly sweating, even though it was practically always snowstorming that December—that he’d not gotten sick, just awoken chilly in a nice way. If his lungs weren’t on fire, he would have exactly the same feeling.

Here is the link if interested!

#dsmp #dream smp #tommyinnit #ctommy #c!tommy #exile arc #dsmp reimagined #dsmp rewrite

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writesvani · 4 months ago

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dear me | 01

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): nostalgia, lost friendships, unrequited love, emotional pain, longing, drifting apart, past relationships, smoking (cigarettes), self-destructive habits, regret, emotional detachment, loneliness, unresolved feelings, reminiscing about the past, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— next chapter

wc: 3k // date: 18th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE; Me VS. Me happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay so first of all, THIS FIC IS MY BABY. my pride and joy. my magnum opus. my chef’s kiss MWAH. i have birthed it with my own two hands (don’t question the anatomy of that sentence, just roll with it). i have been so deep in writing characters that make you go hmm. questionable. concerning. ma’am, do you need therapy? that i just CRAVED writing someone to actually root for. and thus, this fic was born. and i love it. i love it so much.

writing this was an emotional rollercoaster. like, HELLO?? nostalgia just drop-kicked me in the chest. it is actually insane how little we remember of our own lives, like??? the fact that our past selves could be out there scheming, writing weird emails to our future selves, and we’d have NO IDEA?? terrifying and also very on brand.

anyway, i cannot WAIT for you guys to see the other chapters. i am so giddy about this fic you don’t even understand. i feel like a mad scientist cackling in the middle of the night. ugh. okay that’s all.

and yes, i listened to A LOT of Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish writing this. 🩷

LOVE YOU, BYE!

Memories are like bruises. They cling to you, pressing into your skin, carving themselves deep until they feel permanent. They settle in, making a home in you—for an unknown amount of time. But slowly, they fade. Day by day, they grow lighter, less sharp, until finally—nothing remains. And it’s as if they were never there at all.

By the time a human gently touches the edge of eighty, they will have lived nearly thirty thousand days. Yet, the ones they truly remember—the ones that weave their strings into the soul’s net—are only a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.

We are born. We grow. We build connections. And yet, most of them dissolve with time. The light dims. The ties loosen. The voices fade into echoes. But sometimes, even when everything else is lost, the love we once shared lingers. A flame—small as the ember of a dying cigarette—still flickers, waiting, hoping to ignite once more.

Sometimes, the flame never reignites. The memory remains, vivid yet stagnant, sinking deep into the depths of our being but refusing to bloom again.

Other times, love and memory return like a hurricane—familiar knocks pounding at the door, relentless, inescapable.

And in your case—it comes right back, sitting pretty in your inbox. Letter after letter of who you used to be years ago, wrapping around you like a mother’s embrace. And you don’t want to let go.

Checking your email after work is a daily, unskippable ritual—like the scent of morning coffee, the kind that melts down your throat, the kind that holds you in its warmth. Like tying your shoes, a habit that clings to you ever since you first learned how to do it on your own.

Today is no different. You come home, drop your bags onto the first clean surface you can find, and eat the leftovers from the meal you made for your client. Thank God she lets you take them home.

Even though cooking is your passion—even though you live for the alchemy of flavors, for the way warmth blooms in someone’s chest at the first bite—working as a private chef is exhausting. Every single day, new dishes, new expectations, new demands. You love it. You really do. And you’re grateful that your passion pays the bills. But the last thing you want to do when you get home is cook.

Because who in their right mind brings their work home, right?

So you eat the leftovers.

You throw yourself onto your beige couch—the one your mom got you for a suspiciously low price when you bought your apartment.

You stretch like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight, tilting your head until your neck cracks just enough to be satisfying. A deep yawn escapes your lips as you open your laptop.

Specks of dust scatter across the keyboard, forming unrecognizable patterns. You trace a finger through them, leaving a clear trail behind.

Hm.

You’ll wipe it later. Right now, you're too tired.

It’s time to check your emails.

Nothing unusual—job offers scattered here and there, a local bookstore announcing a sale (you’ll definitely order something later), and an overpriced ceramic china set practically handed to you on a golden plate. You toy with the hem of your shirt, debating.

You’ll probably never use it, but it’d be great for special occasions—family gatherings, maybe? You can already picture the jealous grimaces of your distant aunts, their forced smiles twisting at the edges.

Yeah, it’s worth the money.

And then.

Then.

An email.

From you.

Not in your sent folder. Not a draft you forgot about. Right there, sitting patiently in your inbox, mocking you to your face—an email from yourself.

To you.

Your eyebrows knit together as you chew your bottom lip.

What the hell?

Your eyes squint lightly, adjusting to the glow of the screen as it lulls the darkness of your bedroom into sleep. Your breath comes out in gentle puffs.

Then, a chill runs down your spine.

Your palms suddenly feel damp—sweat pooling, clinging. You wipe them hastily on your shirt.

It can’t be. Can it?

You were sure—100% sure—it was a scam.

The sketchy service you paid for when you stole your mom’s credit card at fourteen (earning yourself a lengthy monologue about delinquent behavior) was a scam. It had to be.

But right there, on the screen, words are waiting for you.

Scattered across the desktop, glowing in the dim light. Staring back.

So you read.

"Dear Me,”

You blink.

"By the time you're reading this, you're 28. Jesus Christ, if you're even still alive, you're so old. How does being a granny feel? LOL. Just kidding. I know you're in your prime (or at least I hope so).

So, I don’t know if this is even going to work. A part of me is sure this is a scam, but hey—gotta stay optimistic, right?"

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

Optimistic, huh? Always was, always will be. Or at least, you try to be.

You take a slow sip of the green tea you made after dinner, letting it glide smoothly down your throat. Lately, it has felt as if you're rediscovering life—unraveling its meaning all over again.

And from the words of little you, it seems like nothing has changed.

A quiet chuckle escapes as you keep reading, a small smile still lingering on your face.

"Anyways, how are we, girl?

There are so many things I want to ask you, but I know I won’t get the answers until I become you. Still, I have to ask, okay? Please be patient with me.

First of all—are we a chef? Please tell me we are.

Ever since we went to Italy with Mom and Dad last summer, we’ve been obsessed with food. You remember that kind grandpa who taught us the perfect Bolognese recipe? You know, the one we completely wrecked the kitchen trying to recreate at home? Seriously, Mom was so mad at us—she’s such a drama queen, I swear.

But I’ll keep trying for you. I don’t want to let my future self down."

A soft chuckle slips from your lips as you let the memories bloom—that summer in Italy, when everything changed.

The moment you realized: this is it. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

You remember it all.

Your hands, stained deep red from the fresh tomatoes you and that kind grandpa had picked at the local market. The rich scent of the sauce bubbling on the stove. The way he spoke about Italian food as if it were as vital as nuclear physics—and to you, it was. It is. It always will be.

You remember the countless times you destroyed your kitchen, basking in the mess, determined to get it right. You remember failing. Again. And again.

And then—finally—succeeding.

Your heart swells, beating against the quiet of the room.

You did it.

You tried. And tried. And tried.

And in the end—you made the Bolognese perfectly.

After that, you gave your dream the life it always deserved.

"But if you realized you wanted to do something else with your life, that’s okay—I forgive you.

As long as we’re doing something we truly love, I approve."

Typical you. Always reassuring yourself.

Your heart clenches at the thought of your younger self, sitting at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright with excitement. So full of life. So alive. So imperfectly perfect—even though she never thought she was.

"So, tomorrow is the first day of high school, and I—or you, or we, whatever—I’M SO EXCITED OMG!!!"

You can practically hear the urgency behind the words, feel the restless energy of a girl who thought this was the most important night of her life.

"It’s time to meet new people and make new friendships and I can’t wait. I’m literally writing this because I can’t sleep #soexcited."

High school.

You don’t think about your first day much. Of all the roads you’ve traveled, all the moments that shaped you, this has never been one you revisited.

But seeing it now—her, you, how much it meant to her—

It hits.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you, cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.

"And of course, the AWESOMEST fact in the universe: Jungkook is going to the same school as me (I mean us. This shit is very confusing, okay?).

Oh wait—he just sent me a text on FB. He can’t sleep either. RIP.

We’re taking all the same classes, which means WE’RE GONNA BE DESK MATES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???”

You swallow hard.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about him.

Because not thinking about Jeon Jungkook is impossible.

A ghost of him lingers in you—always there, just beneath the surface.

But it is simply as it is.

He was your best friend. He isn’t anymore.

Life happened. It pulled you apart. So you shouldn’t dwell on it.

But you see her—your younger self, in the back of your mind.

A huge grin stretched across her face, fingers flying over the keyboard as she texts Jungkook about the first day of high school.

Her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

Unspoken words pressing against her ribs.

And suddenly, the memory surges back—sharp, vivid, uninvited.

The way she loved him.

The way she was in love with him.

A reminder you didn’t need. A reminder you don’t want.

“And by the way, since so many years have passed—I gotta ask.

Are we maybe married to Kook? Dating him?

Did we confess?

Did he… like us back?”

You inhale sharply, fingertips drifting to your lips—a bad habit, a nervous tell.

“I don’t know how I imagine that story turning out.”

“Did he reject us?”

A pause.

“If he did, how did we survive that?”

You exhale. Slowly. Deeply.

“I can’t imagine that embarrassment. Ugh.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But there’s a small flicker of hope inside of me that maybe… he confessed or maybe he likes us back, I don’t know”

A flicker.

Something you never snuffed out completely, no matter how much time passed.

“I guess, a small part of me thinks there’s a chance for Jungkook and us.”

“…But I’m not sure.”

Your fingers press harder against your lips, picking even harder, edges of your teeth pulling at the skin inside of your mouth.She sounds so young.

So immature and mature all at once—the messy contradiction of early adulthood.

But mostly?

She sounds hopeful.

Hopeful in a way you no longer are.

She really thought there would be a time for the two of you. Jungkook and you.

And maybe there was.

Maybe, in a parallel universe.

But not this one.

This one is real. This one is raw.

And you survived.

She thought she would perish without him.

But you’re still here.

Standing. Breathing. Living.

And for that, you’re proud of yourself.

Proud for growing out of it.

Proud for learning how to exist without depending on anyone else.

For being whole on your own.

And yet—your jaw clenches. Your throat tightens.

Because maybe, just maybe, a small part of you didn’t survive.

The part that was hopelessly, utterly, and completely in love with the boy you used to call your best friend.

Some wounds are better left untouched.

But this?

Reading this feels masochistic and beautiful at the same time.

It compels you.

You have to remember more.

You sigh.

But you still have to continue torturing yourself, so you drag your eyes back to the words.

“Even if nothing happened with Kook, even if you fell out of love with him—which I find impossible, because CMON, there’s no love if it isn’t written in Jungkook cursive. But if you did fall out of love by some miracle, I know that you guys are still bestest friends in the whole universe.”

Your fingers tense around the edge of your laptop.

Bestest friends in the whole universe.

You inhale sharply, but it does nothing to steady you.

“I know he’s still a part of our story.”

A hollow feeling burrows itself into your chest.

“Tell me, what does he do for a living? Is he a drummer, like he always dreamed of being?”

Your breath stutters.

Drummer.

A dream that stayed exactly what it was.

A dream.

“He told me last night he’s gonna ink himself in a year or two—AND do A BROW PIERCING.”

A pause.

Your lips twitch.

“His mom is gonna tweak out, like HELLO! But he’s gonna be so hot I simply can’t even debate on this—I have to support him.”

A quiet chuckle leaves you before you can stop it.

“He’s so wild in his own dreams, I always feel the need to chase after him.”

Your throat tightens.

Because once, you did.

Once, there was a time you couldn’t imagine a day without him.

And now?

You press a palm to your forehead, massaging the dull ache forming at your temples. Your heart hammers painfully, and suddenly, you're craving nicotine like it's the only thing tethering you to the present.

Jungkook.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—dry, pale, bitten raw.

A memory flickers.

Jungkook, terrified at the tattoo parlor.

Your fingers intertwined with his, grounding him.

You—blushing furiously—as the tattoo artist pulled his shirt up, exposing the smooth skin of his ribs.

You were seventeen then, sneaking into some shady tattoo shop where minors passed as adults. No IDs. Just cash and a little recklessness.

But you wrote this at fourteen.

Fourteen-year-old you didn’t know yet.

She didn’t know that Jungkook would get his ethereal skin inked, his brow pierced. Well she didn’t know for sure. But Jungkook hoped to do so and young her, young you believed in him.

She didn’t know that some dreams don’t survive the weight of reality.

Because Jungkook never became a drummer.

The boy who once swore he’d live off the sound of drumsticks against cymbals had to chase something bigger.

A career.

A paycheck.

A better life.

And in that chase—your friendship, the thing younger you was so sure would last forever—

It got carried away.

Somewhere far.

With him.

You bring a cigarette to your lips and take a slow, deliberate drag. The smoke curls around you like a ghost—familiar, haunting, inescapable. It carves itself deep into your lungs, settles in your bones like something meant to stay.

“UGH, mom is yelling at me to go to sleep.”

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate.

“I’ll be back soon tho, I know you already miss younger you, haha.”

A dry chuckle catches in your throat.

Do you?

Do you really?

“I’m gonna be sending you one email a week for a year through this service, so I’M TOTALLY gonna remind you of our first year of high school.”

Your fingers tighten around the cigarette.

A year.

She’s going to be here for a year.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll steal Dad’s credit card next time so I can pay for another year.”

A scoff pulls at your lips.

Typical.

“I’m unpredictable like that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

Yeah, she was.

“For now, I love you.”

A pause. You take a deep breath.

“Past You, Me, or Us (IM NOT SURE).”

Your teeth clench.

You take another pull of nicotine. The taste is bitter, but you let it linger anyway.

You forgot about this.

About her.

About the fact that the emails will keep coming—one after another, a relentless flood of memories you didn’t ask for.

And now?

Now, it all crashes down on you.

A tidal wave of long-buried memories of fourteen-year-old you, giddy and unfiltered, pouring her thoughts into emails, fingers flying over the keyboard like they couldn’t keep up with her excitement.

She had no idea.

No idea what was coming.

No idea who she and Jungkook would become.

How aparat they would be.

A low groan rumbles from your chest.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You hover over the keyboard.

Your stomach twists.

Your mind screams at you to block the emails. To delete them. To wipe them out before they reopen wounds you’ve spent years ignoring.

But your fingers never move.

Because it feels wrong.

Because deleting them feels like deleting her.

And even if you don’t recognize some parts of her anymore, she was still you.

To erase her would be to erase everything you used to be.

And that?

That would be the real betrayal.

You shut the laptop with a scoff.

The sound echoes through the empty apartment, lingering in the silence. Your feet move on their own, carrying you to the shower. You don’t think. You just go.

By the time you step inside, the water is already scorching hot. You let it burn. Let it sear into your skin, as if heat alone can strip away the weight of forgotten memories.

But it doesn’t.

It clings to you, sticks to your bones like something too deep to scrub away.

Because it’s not dirt.

It’s the truth.

And it won’t leave—not even when you wrap yourself in fresh clothes and sink into the soft cushions of your bed.

Your fingers move on instinct, pulling out your phone, scrolling through Instagram stories. You’re not really looking for anything. But then you see it.

He posted something.

Your breath catches.

It’s the sky.

A sunset.

Splatters of red and orange melt together, the sun shyly emigrating between earth and sky.

You stare.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you click on his profile. Something unnameable courses through your veins.

Is it nostalgia?

The longing for a friendship that no longer exists?

Is it simply missing him?

Your best friend?

Your chest tightens.

You tap on the chat option.

And there it is.

A string of messages.

Nothing devastating.

Just… usual.

A cycle of: "Happy Birthday, I love you so much," and "Thank youu, love you too." A chain of story reactions. That’s all that’s left of you two.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

Is this really it?

Is this what you’ve become?

Two people who once built a universe together, now reduced to annual birthday wishes and the occasional double tap?

It’s mocking you.

Because Jungkook and you—you were never just usual.

You were everything.

The chaos and the calm.

The storm and the warmth of sunlight on a rainy day.

The scent of rain, the comfort of old books, the hush of midnight talks.

You were everything.

And now?

Now you’re nothing.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

A part of you—the reckless part—wants to send something. Wants to test the waters, see if there’s still something left to salvage. But then reality crashes down, heavy and suffocating.

You curse yourself under your breath.

Rekindling something out of the blue—who does that?

Not now.

Maybe another time.

Or maybe…

Maybe this is simply how it’s supposed to be.

Locked away.

Tucked inside your heart.

Safe from the ache of all the what could have beens.

Yeah.

It’s better this way.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97

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elleaitch22 · 11 days ago

Text

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 17: Twenty Nine Candles

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: We’re back from the concussion! I lowkey hate the plot, but we have to move it along for what happens in Chapter 19. I hope y’all love it!! xx Elle

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dom/sub dynamics

Word Count: 9.9k words

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi was bored.

Morgan had taken her to drop Soleil off at school. Then she went to the grocery store to restock fruit and vegetables.

She stared at the blades of her fan going around and around before sitting up.

Walking to the kitchen, she looked at the list Paige had given her for the day.

Affirmations in the mirror

Groceries

10 minute walk

4 cups of water

Journal prompt: do you feel safe and accepted here? what do you need to feel safe?

Share journal w P if you want

She’d done her affirmations as soon as she got up. She’d already gotten groceries. She was going to go on a walk with Soleil after lunch. She didn’t really feel like journaling yet, and today’s question required some thought. She pulled out her phone and saw a text from Nika.

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Have you and Paige talked about the simple stuff, like birthdays?

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: …actually, I don’t think we have lol

When was Paige’s birthday? Azzi knew that the woman already knew hers due to her control issues desire to know everything about people who would be around Soleil.

Her phone buzzed again.

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Well lucky for you, it’s Monday 🙃

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: MONDAY!!!

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: What the fuck omg

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: I’m gonna plan something. Will lyk about what I come up with!

Today was already Thursday. She had the rest of today and maybe tomorrow to plan something good for her girlfriend’s birthday.

Pause.

What can she even afford?

She grabbed her MacBook and pulled up her bank account.

Wait, that couldn’t be right.

Thirty-two thousand one hundred sixty-seven dollars.

She blinked. Refreshed the screen. Stared. Still. Thirty-two thousand one hundred sixty-seven dollars. What the actual fuck?

Well, she had been working for Paige since September, but she’d assumed that it stopped once they got together.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: You’re still paying me

Paige 💗😍🥰: You’re still working for me.

Azzi read the message twice, not quite believing what Paige had said.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Just thought contract stuff was over when you asked me to be your girlfriend…

Paige 💗😍🥰: Yeah, but you’re Lei’s private tutor?

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Oh…😬

Paige 💗😍🥰: You don’t want to anymore?

Azzi 🧸💌💗: I love working with Soleil! Always!!!

Azzi 🧸💌💗: I just didn’t know you were still paying me

Paige 💗😍🥰: You’re working. I’m paying. That’s how it works, love.

Azzi stared at the screen. Paige was typing. Then paused. Then typing again.

Paige 💗😍🥰: And you’re my girlfriend. I like to give money and gifts to people I love. You should be happy I don’t give you something new every time I see you.

The brunette decided to ignore the swarm of butterflies that rumbled in her stomach. She wasn’t expecting that word.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Lol please don’t

Paige 💗😍🥰: Where is all this coming from?

Azzi 🧸💌💗: I looked at my bank account. Was just shocked

Paige 💗😍🥰: We agreed on 5k a week. We can talk about adjusting the amount if you want.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: No. You’ll just pay me more

Paige 💗😍🥰: I’m happy you know me so well.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: 🙄 bye Paige.

Paige 💗😍🥰: Fix your attitude, love.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Sorry.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Bye Paige! 😁

She texted all the girls and asked them if they would be free on Sunday night.

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Yes, why?

Ice 🧊🤍: me, j, and kk were supposed to have a movie night

Ice 🧊🤍: got something better 👀

KK 🤣🤪: girl boo 🙄 nothing is better than a night w me!!!

Nika 🇭🇷😎: You planned something that quick? Damn

Azzi 🩷😇: Not really

Azzi 🩷😇: I just wanted to see if everyone would be available

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Is anyone gonna fill is in orrr…?

Azzi 🩷😇: OH! Sorry!! Going to do a birthday dinner for Paige on Sunday night!

KK 🤣🤪 renamed the chat to ‘PSkii’s Faves 💘’

Ice 🧊🤍: oh. much better than movie night! i'll be there

KK 🤣🤪: rude?? but me too

Nika 🇭🇷😎: I’m free. Can I bring N?

Ice 🧊🤍: not rude if it’s true 💅🏽

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: I’ll be there! Just tell me the time.

Azzi 🩷😇: Of course! Does anyone else have a plus 1

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Sounds good. I’ll be here if you need any help!

Ice 🧊🤍: just kk unfortunately

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: No. But I need to know if there’s a dress code?

KK 🤣🤪: shut up before i tell everyone what happened on tuesday

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: You can never go wrong with all black. But her favorite color…

Azzi 🩷😇: I think black with a little purple would be pretty

Ice 🧊🤍: 🤐🤐🤐🤐

KK 🤣🤪: p would love if everybody had on purple tho

KK 🤣🤪: thats what i thought

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Perfect idea! So all black with a lilac or lavender accent!

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Cool. I’ll text Bob and Katie.

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Me and Ice can help you decorate or plan if you want!

Azzi 🩷😇: I would really appreciate that! I’ll send some pictures later once I finalize a restaurant. Was thinking a steakhouse so everyone could have options?

Ice 🧊🤍: that sounds great Azzi. she's really gonna love it

Azzi let out a sigh of relief. Everyone was going to come, and now she just needed to find a space. She perused the internet until she found a steakhouse with good reviews who would handle everything, and they had a private space! She called to book the space for twelve people.

An uneasy feeling settled over her, and while she tried to remind herself that she was good enough, she didn’t feel like a basic dinner would be enough for the woman who had done so much for her.

Azzi 🩷😇: Are you busy rn

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: No. Need me to come over?

Azzi 🩷😇: Yes please!

The tall Egyptian queen was at Azzi’s in no time at all.

“What do you need help with?” She questioned as Azzi opened the door.

Azzi stepped to the side and went to get a pair of shoes. “I wanted to get Paige an outfit for dinner. Something she would stand out in.” She muttered.

The tall woman’s face lit up with glee. “Yes!” She exclaimed, grabbing Azzi’s wrist. “P never lets me style her anymore, but I have the perfect fit in mind.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two were sitting in Louis Vuitton.

Louis Vuitton.

“Azzi, this is my friend, Elyse. She’s going to help us.” Jana smiled.

The pale woman gave a kind smile before gesturing them to an area to the side.

“Jana told me this is supposed to be a surprise, which I normally wouldn’t agree on, but I’ll do anything for J.” She rolled her eyes affectionately.

Jana nudged Azzi gently, “She’s scared it’s not going to fit her well.” She whispered loudly. “But she doesn’t know I already have all of Paige’s numbers.” She finished loudly.

“What are you wanting to see, Azzi?” Elyse asked.

Azzi couldn’t say anything. Usually went she went to fancier places; people always looked to the person she was with. They never even acknowledged her.

“She’s having everyone wear black with hits of lavender, since that’s Paige’s favorite color.” Jana replied, looking at Azzi weirdly. She hadn’t known the woman to be very quiet, not since she’d been fully integrated into the family.

“Oh, so are we thinking a full lavender set? I have a few pieces I can pull.” Elyse started to turn.

Which was the exact moment Azzi found her voice. “No!” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “I mean, the room will already be a lot of black, lilac, lavender, and purple. I want her to stand out.”

Jana nodded slowly, brows furrowed. “That makes sense. What about an off-white or cream?” She asked thoughtfully.

“I think she’d look like an angel in all white,” Azzi felt her cheeks warm as she envisioned her girlfriend in an all-white outfit.

Elyse giggled at her facial expression. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll be back with some pieces.”

“An angel, huh?” Jana smirked.

It was Azzi’s turn to roll her eyes at Jana. “Shut up.” She said, a smile spreading across her lips. “She’s just so perfect, Jana. I swear she’s my own personal angel.”

Jana smiled softly, “I’m happy you feel that way about her.” She put her hand on Azzi’s shoulder. “She’s deserved someone like you for so long. You make her so happy, Azzi. Thank you.”

“She said I was one of the people she loved today.” She whispered, smile softening. “I wasn’t expecting her to say anything like that. We’ve only known each other for like two months.”

Jana’s brows nearly touched her hair before her face turned pensive. “Well, that’s not surprising. P feels very deeply, and once she decides to let someone in, she’s all in.”

Azzi nodded minutely, “I know, I just am a little…scared I’m gonna fuck it up and she’ll leave.”

“The best and worst thing about Paige is that she stays through everything. I promise that’s not something you'll ever have to worry about.”

As Elyse returned with a rack of white pieces, Azzi straightened up, cheeks still warm but eyes focused.

If she couldn’t give Paige everything, she could still give her this, one perfect night planned with love.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Ice 🧊🤍: Attachment: 3 images

Ice 🧊🤍: all done!!! see you in a few hours

Azzi let out a breath she’d been holding all day. Ice and Jana had made the room look amazing. There was a tasteful balloon arch covering the entire back wall, and it would be perfect for pictures. The table was decorated beautifully, the centerpieces and place settings a lush mix of purple flowers and greenery.

Her phone buzzed again.

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: I’ll be there in 45 with all the luggage and your presents!

Azzi eyes were almost closed with how hard she was grinning. She hoped Paige would love her surprise. Well surprises.

She grabbed the garment bags that held Paige’s outfit and Soleil’s dress before heading upstairs.

“Paige Madison!” She yelled the moment the elevator doors slid open.

She giggled at the quick footsteps slapping the wooden floors.

“What did I do?” Paige gasped as she rounded the corner. She clocked the bags Azzi was holding and her brows furrowed. “What’s that for?”

Azzi huffed, jutting her hip to the side, full of faux attitude. “What you did was not tell me your birthday was tomorrow.”

A pale hand to scratch at the back of her neck, “Well, I just don’t like celebrating my birthday much.” She hesitated. “And it never came up.” She finished, cheeks red.

“Well, to make it up to me, we’re gonna go to dinner. And you’re going to be happy and go put on this outfit,” She thrust the garment bag into Paige’s hands. “And you’re going to go do your hair and makeup and be happy about it.” Azzi finished.

When Paige saw her turning back towards the elevator. “Wait! Can you just…get ready up here with me and Lei?” She asked, brows raised hopefully.

Azzi couldn’t keep up with the mad act. She smiled brightly, “Of course I can! Just let me go get my outfit, then I’ll be right back up! And don’t get Soleil ready, I got her.”

Paige watched her go, lips tugging into a soft smile.

“Soleil! Azzi’s gonna be here soon!” She called, walking back to the living room.

Her daughter turned away from Lilo and Stitch with wide eyes. “You didn’t tell me Azzi was coming ovew!” She shrieked, excitement clear in her voice.

“She didn’t tell me either, Lei!” Paige exclaimed playfully. “You can wait for her here or in your room, but I have to get ready so I don’t get in trouble."

Soleil’s eyes widened. “Yeah, Mommy. You don’t wanna be in twouble on youw biwthday!” She shooed Paige away.

She walked to her closet, hanging the bag on one of the racks. She knew whatever Azzi had picked for her would be great, and it was a gift from the girl she loved, so it would be perfect.

Paige didn’t know what to expect when she opened the bag, but it certainly wasn’t this. She just stared at the cream fabrics, jaw on the floor. She was stuck there until a knock sounded at her door. Instead of a person, all Paige saw when she turned around was a sleek Louis Vuitton shoe box.

No fucking way Azzi spent this much money on an outfit.

Paige was in a bit of a daze as she pulled on the thick pants, monogrammed shirt, and wool vest. She floated across her bedroom to do some light make up and pull the front of her hair back.

When she looked in the mirror, she almost decided to fire Jana and hire Azzi to pick out all her outfits because she looked good.

Not like ‘I want to find a wife’ good.

But like ‘I’m rich and hot and the world’s perfect woman is in love with me’ good.

Like ‘My girlfriend, who I haven’t pressured for sex, might fuck me tonight’ good.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

In another room, Azzi was helping Soleil get ready.

“Whewe we going? We getting fancy, Azzi.” Soleil asked as she sat in between Azzi’s legs.

Azzi finished the last twist in the front of Lei’s head before pulling the rest back into a ponytail. “Well, your mommy’s birthday is tomorrow, so we’re going to celebrate.”

Soleil smiled brightly, “A pawty all fow Mommy?”

“Yes, baby. All for your mommy. I just hopes she likes it.” Azzi smiled. “Do you want a ponytail or a ballerina bun?”

“Ballet bun, please.” Soleil started. “Mommy always tell me when I do something fow hew, she love it the most. She gonna love hew pawty.”

Azzi planted a kiss on Soleil’s forehead as she finished the bun. “You’re all set pretty girl! Just gotta put on your dress and you’ll be ready to go.”

When she unzipped the garment bag, Soleil gasped at the fluffy lilac dress. “I’m gonna look like a pwincess!” she squealed.

As soon as it was zipped up, Soleil darted out of the room to find her mom.

Azzi took the quiet moment to get dressed.

After their day at Louis Vuitton, she and Jana had thirty more minutes before school pickup. And when the Egyptian saw a lingerie shop across the street, she pulled her over with a wink.

The set was simple, but gorgeous. On theme for tonight, it was lavender. The bra was made of lace so delicate that Azzi could see the outline of her nipples through the fabric. Instead of a thong, they decided on cheeky underwear. They made her ass look perfectly round and juicy enough to take a bite out of. The garter belt was the perfect touch, emphasizing her waist perfectly.

Paige was going to lose her mind when she saw Azzi, and she couldn’t wait.

The rest of her outfit was understated but sensual. The square neck displayed a tasteful amount of cleavage. The back dipped past her shoulder blades; Paige loved running her hands all over the bare skin. The silky fabric wasn’t skintight, but it clung just enough to outline Azzi’s curves.

The best part of the outfit? The shoes. The lavender heels were the perfect match to the set beneath the dress. They had satin ribbons that tied into bows on the backs of Azzi’s ankles (her favorite part, of course).

She pulled her hair into a curly updo, her face framing pieces doing their job perfectly. She added a smoked out purple shadow that made her brown eyes pop. A few swipes of lip gloss and blush meant she was ready to go.

Paige and Soleil’s voices got louder as Azzi walked out to the living room.

“Just tell me what Azzi’s planning, Lei. And we can stay home one day next week and watch movies.” Paige tried to bribe.

Soleil gasped dramatically, “But then Sewenity won’t have nobody to play with hew!”

“She can’t tell you anyway,” Azzi started, rounding the corner. “It’s just dinner, like I said.”

Azzi smirked as she watched blue eyes dilate. The heated gaze darted around her outfit, lingering on the cleavage.

“You look perfect, Azzi.” Paige said lowly.

Tanned thighs squeezed together at the low rasp in Paige’s voice that Azzi had never heard before.

“Thank you. You look good too,” Azzi shifted from one foot to the other.

A loud whine broke their trance. “Can we go? I’m hungwy.”

“One second, Lei. I gotta give your mom her present!” Azzi said, already turning toward the elevator. “It’s at my house.”

They rode down to Azzi’s floor, Soleil humming softly as she held Paige’s hand. Everything was quiet and warm, a hush of anticipation in the air.

Inside the apartment, a single white box with a lavender ribbon sat waiting on the entry table.

Azzi stepped forward, her voice low, almost reverent. “Happy birthday, Ms. Bueckers.”

Paige walked over slowly, untying the ribbon with careful fingers, as if rushing might ruin it.

“Azzi…” she breathed.

The purse was stunning. Cream leather was monogrammed with Louis Vuitton’s signature print, only this time, in her favorite color. And it matched her outfit perfectly.

“Look inside! Look inside!” Azzi said, practically bouncing.

Paige opened it and paused. Her eyes widened.

Three plane tickets were tucked neatly into the silk lining.

She looked up, already grinning. “Aspen? I guess it is time to teach Soleil how to ski.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi had Soleil perched on her hip, holding her tightly with one hand and Paige’s hand in the other.

The hostess reached to pull open the door, and the moment they stepped through –

“SURPRISE!!!”

The room was quickly filled with noise – music, clapping, laughing, whistles, and a shout from KK.

Paige’s jaw dropped. Her eyes scanned everything. The ballon arch on the back wall, the towers of lavender and eucalyptus, everyone in all black. Her dad, her stepmom, her little brother. Her sisters and Naheim. All smiling and clapping – the picture of joy.

“PopPop!” Soleil’s exclaimed, reaching for her grandpa.

Bob came over with a grin, “Come here, Munchkin.” He scooped her into a hug, kissing all over her face.

Paige was still frozen, eyes misty. “You did all this?” She whispered to Azzi.

“Well, Jana and Ice decorated. KK’s on the aux. And Nika made sure Bob, Katie, and Drew could come.” Azzi shrugged casually.

KK cut in from across the room. “Don’t believe her, P! She planned everything and paid for everything.”

Azzi turned to glare sharply at her friend. “Kamorea!”

“Baby,” Paige reached out, hand resting low on her back. “Thank you. No one’s ever cared enough to do something like this for me.”

Azzi let herself be pulled into a hug. “I was more than happy to do this for you, Paige. You take such good care of me…I just wanted to do something special for you.”

Large hands slid down the back of her dress, cupping her ass gently through the silky fabric.

Paige leaned in to press a firm kiss to her temple. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Deserve you. But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to show you.”

“Gross, gays!” Ice called out playfully.

“Auntie Ice!” Soleil gasped, “You don’t bully fow love! That’s not kind! You can’t pick who you love!”

The room broke out in more giggles as Ice tried to defend herself.

Everyone moved to the table. Paige sat at the head, Soleil nestled comfortably in her lap.

Food arrived in waves, just as Azzi had planned. Pasta—al dente. Roasted vegetables, caramelized to perfection. Steaks, medium-rare. No seafood, everyone knew Paige hated seafood.

Naheim taught Soleil how to do a proper dap and fist bump. Katie and Bob told stories about Paige getting caught or telling on herself for sneaking out in high school. The girls all took turns talking about their UConn adventures.

Paige’s cheeks were flushed the entire evening, happiness shining in her eyes.

Several times, she leaned over to Azzi and whispered, “Thank you so much, Azzi.”

And each time, her girlfriend responded with a smile and a soft kiss. “You deserve it.”

As dessert was cleared, the waiter brought out champagne flutes and one with sparkling cider for Soleil.

Bob stood as soon as his flute was placed in front of him. “Paige, I didn’t know how you would turn out when it was just me and you. I was scared that I raised you too rough, but you are one of the best women I know.” He said, voice quivering. “You are a good listener, you show up, you’re an amazing mom. You’re raising Soleil to be strong and brave, and I am so proud to be your dad.” He walked over to press a kiss into her forehead. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

From there, everyone went in a circle around the table.

Katie talked about being grateful Paige had been so loving and welcoming, from the moment they met. She praised her for being such a good big sister to Drew. “Everything you’ve been though, and you’re still choosing to let people in. Let them love you. I am so proud of you, Paige. Happy birthday, baby.”

“I was gonna get you a present, but you bagged someone as bad as Azzi, so I feel like she’s your gift.” Drew started, drawing laughter from everyone. “But nah, for real. I think you were the first person I ever looked up to. You always make sure to take care of people; there’s so much you do that no one will ever find out. I couldn’t have a sister better than you. I love you, Paigey.”

KK was crying before she even stood. “You’ve been a role model to me since the day I met you. You’re a leader, but you lead in serving people, not ordering them around.” She breathed out harshly, trying to stop the tears. “Thank you for loving me, P Boogers, and happy birthday.”

Ice called Paige the eye of a hurricane – in all the calamity and chaos, Paige was always someone she could depend on. A safe space. “I’m lucky to know you, Paige Bueckers. I love you so much.”

“My twinnnnn,” Nika started. “I admire you more than you know. You make the best out of every situation, and you make it look easy. You are one of the best, most loyal, kindest people I know. And I am grateful to be one of the people you have chosen to love. Happy birthday, Twin.”

Naheim kept his short and sweet. “I’ve never had a sister, but I don’t think I couldn’t have gotten a better sister-in-law if I tried. I hope this year is everything you’ve hoped for.”

Like KK, Jana was a wreck by the time it got to her. “When I moved from Egypt, Paige made sure I felt like I had family here. She would make breakfast for me, wake me up for classes, make sure I was good at parties. You remember everything, no matter how small it is. You’ve just been the best, and I love you so much. Happy birthday, Paige!”

And finally, it was Azzi’s turn.

“I didn’t know a hot blonde was going to change my life, but you have. From the beginning, you have looked at me and seen me. You haven’t tried to fix me, to rush me. You have been so patient. So kind. So loving to me. You made it safe for me to fall again. You made me brave enough to fall again. So, I hope you know how loved you are, Paige Bueckers. Everyone in this room loves you so much, not for the things you can do for us, but because you’re you.” She cupped Paige’s face gently, “Happy birthday, my love.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige’s penthouse was silent.

KK offered to take Soleil for the night, promising to bring her back upstairs for their flight.

Paige sat on her bed; her vest draped over the back of an armchair. Her fingers were still working on the buttons of her shirt when the bathroom door opened again.

Holy fuck.

Azzi was –

Fuck.

She stepped into the doorway in a lacy lavender set, glowing under the dim light.

Paige wanted to bite her. Lick her. Mark her. Claim her.

“Well,” Azzi said coyly, padding forward until she stood between Paige’s legs, “Aren’t you going to unwrap your present?” Her voice shook slightly, nerves audible.

Paige reached for her immediately, pulling her in by the hips. “You look so good, baby.”

Her hands slid up the back of Azzi’s thighs, drawing a quiet gasp from her lips. Paige pressed soft kisses along her skin, trailing up until she could lick her belly piercing. She smirked against her skin as Azzi’s abs tensed under her lips.

“Paige,” Azzi breathed out.

“Whatchu want, Az?” The blonde rasped.

Azzi didn’t answer right away. Paige tugged gently, pulling Azzi to straddle her legs. The brunette wrapped her arms around her neck, lips hovering over Paige’s “You can do whatever you want with me, Paige.”

Their lips crashed together. Heated, messy, breathless. Paige licked into Azzi’s mouth like she wanted to claim it. Azzi whimpered as Paige gripped her ass roughly. Her hips ground against her pelvis. Paige groaned at the soft moan that escaped her lips.

In one smooth movement, Paige rolled them quickly, settling between Azzi’s thighs, sitting back on her heels to take her in.

Azzi moaned softly, eyes following veiny hands as they finished unbuttoning the shirt.

“Fuck, Az.” Paige said, voice thick with heat. “You’re so perfect for me.”

Her eyes raked over Azzi’s body. The outline of the nipples under the lace. The gleam of her belly ring. The darkening patch of wetness on her panties.

Paige’s hand reached out on instinct, thumbing at one nipple. Mouth watering at the thought of wrapping her lips around it. At the thought of licking all of her.

“You gonna be good for me, baby?” She asked.

Azzi whimpered, a small thrust showing her desire.

Paige leaned over her, “C’mon baby. I need your words.” She muttered, her voice low against her neck.

“Fuck,” Azzi moaned.

She’d never heard Paige like this. This Paige – voice low, eyes blown, completely locked in on her – this Paige was new. She was wrecking Azzi.

“Azzi,�� She said firmly.

Her head and hips moved at the same time, “Gonna be so good for you, Paige.” She nodded.

Any other day, she’d be mortified by how much it sounded like a whine, but not tonight.

“Good,” Paige smirked. “I just want you to relax and feel.”

Azzi tried to sit up a little, “But it’s your birthday!”

Paige placed a warm palm in the center of her chest and gently pushed her back down.

“Yeah, it is my birthday.” She said. “And for my birthday, I want to make my girl cum. I want to fuck you until you cry. That’s all I want tonight.”

Her words were a stark contrast to the gentleness she used to brush curls out of Azzi’s face.

“You said I could do whatever I want. So you’re gonna be good and let me fuck you, alright baby?”

Azzi nodded, lips parted. She lay sprawled across Paige’s bed, silent. She let herself be looked at like she was art..

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Azzi.” Paige whispered reverently.

She kissed her again. Slower this time, even filthier than before. Her tongue licked deep, teeth grazed her bottom lip. Azzi’s hips lifted off the bed, her body begging for more.

Paige didn’t answer her whimpers and pleas with words. She kissed down her body, licking from her jaw to her sternum to her belly, leaving a shiny trail in her wake.

Her hand came up to cup Azzi’s breast gently, “You gonna let me take this off, baby?” She murmured.

“Please, Paige.” Azzi gasped, breath picking up.

But Paige didn’t listen. She wrapped her lips around a lace-covered nipple and sucked hard.

Azzi cried out, hips jolting up again. Paige grinned around the fabric.

“Okay, baby.” She said. Azzi wanted to cheer at her finally unhooking the bra, slipping it down her arms, and tossing it aside.

Azzi didn’t have time to catch her breath before Paige’s mouth was on her again, hot and wet. Her tongue swirled around one nipple, while her hand pinched and pulled at the other.

She moaned louder, thighs rubbing together, desperate for attention.

“Be patient,” Paige warned. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

She kissed down her torso, tongue flicking at the dangling jewelry. She sucked a bruise into her hipbone, just above the lace edge of her panties.

Paige looked up, blue eyes dark with lust. “You want these off?”

Azzi moaned at the lips brushing against her skin and nodded, “Yes, please.”

Paige slid them down slowly, keeping her eyes locked on Azzi’s.

The brunette gasped as the cool air brushed over her warm center.

“Be still, Az. Be good for me.” Paige rasped.

Her mouth watered as she stared at the wet apex of Azzi’s thighs.

“Fuck, Azzi. You’re dripping for me.” She groaned at the sight of her — spread open, soaked, trembling already.

Paige had planned on teasing her a bit more, but Azzi looked like everything she’d been praying for since high school. She couldn’t wait any longer.

She planted a soft kiss at her clit, pulling back a little when Azzi’s hips lifted involuntarily.

“Fuck, please,” Azzi gasped.

Paige licked her lips, groaning at the taste. “Be still,” She repeated firmly.

She licked up her slit slowly, eyes rolling back at the taste. Then she couldn’t stop. Her mouth wrapped around Azzi’s clit like it belonged there.

Paige licked again, slower this time, tongue flat and firm.

A cry fell out from Azzi’s perfect lips.

“You taste so fucking good, baby.” She groaned, tongue dipping into the wet hole. She licked back up to her clit, tongue swirling around the bundle of nerves. Sucking, kissing, and licking harder as Azzi cried out.

She sucked until thighs shook under her hands. Azzi came fast, sob tearing from her throat, hips thrusting uncontrollably.

She pulled off, kissing her thighs and hips, pressing praise into her skin.

“You did so good for me, baby.”

“I knew you’d be perfect.”

“You taste so good, Az. Everything I could ever want.”

When tanned thighs stopped shaking, Paige pulled one over her shoulder and pressed the other wide. She dove back in, tongue relentless.

Azzi arched off the bed, trying to move away from the warm mouth. “Paige, I – I – please, I – fuck. Paige! I can’t,” She begged.

Paige pulled back, “You said whatever I want.” She licked into her. “You can.”

Azzi writhed and babbled, pleas incoherent.

“You’re gonna cum again for me, Azzi. You’re gonna be good for me,” She said, dragging her fingers up and down her slit.

“Please.” Azzi cried out, tears welling in her eyes.

Two fingers slid in easily, the slide easy after the first orgasm. She moaned loudly, hips lifting at the overstimulation.

“Cum for me again, baby. Be good for me,” Paige rasped against her clit, vibrations making wet walls clench around her fingers.

It took three curls and two more sucks for Azzi to shatter again. This time, Paige could hear her tears as she went over the edge.

“Paige — fuck, too much, I can’t — I can’t —” Azzi babbled, her hips bucking wildly.

She let the woman ride her orgasm out as she thrusted her fingers slowly,

Paige withdrew her fingers gently, wanting to lick back into her messy center. Instead, she kissed up Azzi’s trembling body.

“You taste so fucking good, baby.” She groaned, bringing her wet fingers to Azzi’s lips. “Wanna taste?”

Azzi nodded, curls falling against flushed cheeks, mouth dropping open.

Paige groaned loudly as Azzi wrapped her lips around the digits. She ground down on the caramel thigh involuntarily.

“Can you give me one more?” Paige begged, forehead pressed into Azzi’s cheek. “Wanna feel you fall apart on me while I cum with you.”

Azzi whimpered, core clenching. “Uh huh,” She whined.

“Thank you, Azzi. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” Paige scrambled to pull off the rest of her clothes.

She pulled Azzi’s leg high on top of her shoulder, slotting a leg between hers. Paige aligned their cores and ground down.

Loud moans escaped them both.

“Shit, baby, I’m not gonna last.” Paige groaned, leaning down. She hadn’t felt like she was going to cum this fast ever. But she needed Azzi to fall apart before she did.

She kissed at the tears falling into Azzi’s hair and pulled back. She brushed the curls out of her face. She interlaced their fingers, touching leaning closer until their foreheads touched.

Paige’s gaze locked onto wet eyes as she moved her hips again. Their bodies slid together perfectly. Each thrust was hot and slick. Paige rolled her hips hard and deep, grinding into Azzi with precision that bordered on cruel.

Azzi’s grip tightened, moaning so loudly Paige thought she might scream. Brown eyes rolled back as she shattered.

Paige gasped, staring at the woman beneath her.

“Fuck, I lo – Paige!” Azzi sobbed.

Paige’s hips stuttered as her own orgasm crashed over through her, hips bucking against Azzi.

After she felt like she could breathe again, Paige rolled over and pulled the sobbing girl to her chest.

“Shh,” She whispered into her hair. “You were so good for me, baby. So good.” Paige spoke praises into her hair until she stopped shaking.

Azzi was quiet, dazed, eyes still unfocused.

She whimpered when Paige started to pull away.

“Need to clean you up, baby.” The blonde said lowly.

Azzi just wrapped her arms around the blonde tighter.

Paige lifted her on shaky legs and walked them to the bathroom. She spread a towel on the counter so the marble wouldn’t be too cold on Azzi’s skin.

She gently dragged a warm washcloth through both of their centers. A quiet apology when Azzi hissed with sensitivity.

“You okay, Azzi?” Paige said, cupping her cheeks so the brunette could see her.

Azzi’s cheeks were flushed when she smiled at Paige tiredly. “I’m perfect, just a little floaty.” She opened her arms.

“You were perfect, Azzi. Thank you.” Paige said, walking into her embrace.

Azzi tucked her face into Paige’s neck. “I’ve never felt that safe with someone.”

“That’s all I ever want you to feel. Safe, happy, and loved.” Paige pressed a long kiss to her shoulder.

This time, Azzi’s hands cupped Paige’s cheeks. “I love you.” She smiled softly. “That’s not post nut clarity either,” She giggled. “I’m so in love with you, Paige.”

Blue eyes shined with joy and a soft smile graced Paige’s face. “And I love you, Azzi Fudd.”

They fell asleep tangled together, soft and satisfied and full of everything they never thought they’d get the chance to have.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi wanted to cry when her alarm went off the following morning, but the dread was short lived when she remembered they’d be going on vacation today.

She tried to sit up, but she was pulled back down by the arm around her waist.

“Go back to sleep,” Paige grumbled.

Azzi turned in her arms with a pout. “But we have to get ready before Soleil gets back. And we can’t miss our flight; I spent a lot of money on that.”

The blonde head popped up, eyes squinted. “Exactly how much money did you spend on my birthday, Azzi?”

“Um,” She started. Azzi knew she wasn’t supposed to mention anything about money. She figured that Paige wouldn’t even think about money after they’d had sex. And she didn’t. Not until Azzi opened her big fat mouth. “I don’t know. Let’s go get ready, Paige.” She rushed, trying to get out of bed.

Paige’s grip tightened as she rolled to hover over her girlfriend. “Nah, I don’t believe that. But that’s okay, I’ll find out.” She dipped to kiss at her neck. “And I’ll double it since you don’t want to tell me.” She finished, biting her ear.

“About twenty-eight thousand.” Azzi gasped. Paige froze above her, and Azzi rushed to explain herself. “The Louis fit was expensive, and I covered everyone last night. And then the last-minute flights, the VRBO, and the activities in Aspen.”

Paige pulled away, rolling out of the bed. Azzi gasped as the cool air settled over her nude form.

“We can talk about this in the shower. We’re not missing that flight.” Paige tossed over her shoulder.

Azzi trailed her into the bathroom on shaky legs. “Are you mad at me?” She questioned. She leaned against the doorway, watching the muscles in Paige’s back move as got the shower ready.

“No,” the blonde sighed. “I just wasn’t expecting that. It’s almost all of the money I’ve paid you.”

They stepped under the warm water together, Azzi wrapping her arms around Paige’s back. “Yeah, but you do so much for everybody. You’ve done so much for me. I just wanted to make you feel as special as you make me feel.”

“That’s okay,” Paige said, smirking. “I’m gonna make sure you feel exactly how much I appreciate you.”

Large hands trailed down tanned skin before she was stopped. “My legs are still a little shaky, P.”

“I’ll carry you through the airport if I have to, baby.” Paige chuckled, moving to grab the shampoo.

Azzi let her girlfriend wash her hair as they stood under the warm stream. “I like when you call me that.” She muttered.

“What, baby?” Paige questioned. She smiled at Azzi’s shy nod. “What else? You like babygirl too?” Shrug. “What about angel?” A nod. “Pretty girl? Sweetheart?”

“Yes to both.” She replied, cheeks warm. “I don’t hate any of them.”

Paige pulled her into a soft kiss. “Noted, babygirl.”

“Well, what do you wanna be called? Mommy? Daddy?” Azzi teased.

The smiled dropped off Paige’s face quickly. “Soleil calls me Mommy, Az. And fuck no to daddy.”

“What about love?” Azzi smiled softly. “Or ma’am?” She paused. “Oooooh, or my love?”

Paige nodded, “Those are all fine.” She breathed.

They rinsed and dried off quickly. Azzi pulled on a pair of Paige’s boxers and a t-shirt before going down to her place to get the matching sweatsuits she bought to wear to the airport.

The lilac sweatshirts had a white PSA stitched on the cuff for a sentimental touch. She made sure each of them had socks to wear with their purple Crocs before heading back upstairs.

Azzi was greeted with a squeal. “Azzi! Mommy said we gonna go on a aiwplane today!”

“Yeah, baby!” Azzi exclaimed, matching the girl’s energy. “I even brought us matching outfits for the plane!”

Soleil gasped, just as elated as Azzi knew she’d be. “Lemme see, lemme see!” She bounced.

After she pulled her clothes on, Soleil ran to her mother. “Mommy, look! P, S, and A!”

“Yeah, for Paige, Soleil, and Azzi,” She responded, gesturing to each of them. She grinned at Azzi. “Our little family.”

The brunette grinned back at her girlfriend – they really were the perfect little family.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The trio was complemented the entire day.

First by Morgan when she came to drop them off at the airport.

Then by two TSA agents at Chicago-O’Hare.

The cashier from the terminal shop flirted with Paige until Soleil and Azzi came up behind her, dropping chips, candy, and slim jims on the counter. Then, the young woman melted. “You have the most beautiful family. Like your wife and your kid? Geez.”

There were a few people sneering at them – two of them had on those disgusting red hats. Paige planted a firm kiss on Azzi’s lips just to spite them.

They read a few books while they waited for boarding to start.

“First class?” Paige’s eyes widened.

Azzi’s brows furrowed, “You mean to tell me that you, Paige Bueckers, fly economy?”

The blonde scoffed. “Absolutely not. I have a plane, Azzi.”

“What? Was I supposed to reserve your plane or something?”

Paige just raised a brow in response.

“How am I supposed to know how to charter a plane?” She questioned.

“I figured the girls would’ve told you!” Paige exclaimed.

Azzi rolled her eyes playfully. “They didn’t know. It was all a surprise. Well Jana knew we were going somewhere, but she didn’t know everything.”

“Well, I’ll send you the information, so you don’t have to do this next time.” Paige leaned in, pecking her lips.

Despite ensuring that Soleil had her own pod, she didn’t actually use it outside of takeoff and landing. She bounced between Azzi and Paige, pulling a different activity from her carryon each time.

Her nose was pressed to the window as the descent started. “Look, Mommy! Mountains! With snow!”

A driver was waiting outside of baggage claim with “Bueckers Family” written in thick print. And even though Azzi arranged their transportation, she gasped, realizing she really was in the family.

Though the thought filled her with warmth, there was still a part of her heart that mourned the distance she had with her family. She missed them.

Paige looked at her, concern clear on her face.

Azzi just shook her head and smiled warmly.

The ride to their reservation passed quickly.

Pierre, the driver, pointed out a few restaurants that were kid-friendly and some others that were more for romance. He drove past the ski resort where most of their activities would be before driving a few minutes to drop them off at the cabin.

The house was nice. Too much wood for Azzi to live in forever, but just enough to feel warm for a week-long cabin trip. Soleil was ecstatic to see a hot tub out back, and Paige looked at Azzi with a smirk about the same feature.

Wiped from the day of travel and last night’s activities, the trio ate dinner and piled into the bed together.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The skiing trip was going well.

On Tuesday, they went into town to find a ski suits for their lessons the following day. Azzi took a million pictures of Soleil in different patterned suits. She had her favorite – the light pink one with sparkles – but Soleil had the final say. The definitely wouldn’t be able to lose sight of the girl in a rainbow tie-dye snowsuit.

They spent the rest of the day in the city, staying cozy and bonding. Azzi watched as Paige read book after book in the library until Soleil fell asleep in her lap. They walked around the center, grabbing a coffee while they waited for Soleil to wake up.

They enjoyed perfectly. crisped grilled cheese sandwiches and a soup bar at a tavern in town. Soleil ate very carefully, not wanting tomato soup dripping onto her sand-colored sweater.

A local took a picture of them in front of the restaurant. Soleil’s cheeks were rosy from the wind, but she showed all of her teeth as she grinned for the photo. Azzi’s smile was soft, warm as she adjusted the earmuffs on little girl’s head. And Paige just looked at the two of them with so much love that it could be felt through the screen. Maybe one day they’d be mad that they didn’t get a picture where each person was looking, but for now, it was perfect.

On Wednesday, the trio had ski lessons.

Well, Soleil and Azzi had ski lessons. Apparently Paige was already a pro, despite only going skiing once before.

The city had gotten fresh snow the night before. It was fine and glittering, softly crushing with each step. It was the kind of weather people fantasized about when they thought of a ski trip.

The ski class would have been great if Paige didn’t spend the entirety of it distracting Azzi, which then caused Soleil to keep looking back at them and giggling.

“You’re going to teach her on your own then, since you couldn’t let us just learn.” Azzi pouted during lunch.

An hour later, Paige knelt in front of Soleil. They were at the Fawn Slope, one of the easiest for small children. She took great care adjusting her daughter’s sparkly pink helmet and mittens.

Azzi stood a few feet away, wanting to take pictures, but content to stay bundled with her hot chocolate.

“Mommy, it’s all squishy.” Soleil giggled, poking her gloves against her stomach.

Paige grinned, “Yeah, Sunshine. It’ll keep you safe if you fall, like falling on a pillow.”

Azzi moved closer to the bunch as Paige strapped the little boots to the skis.

“You ready, Lei?” She questioned.

Soleil nodded fiercely. “I’m gonna fly!”

Paige giggled, pulling the cover over her nose and the goggles over her eyes. Azzi gasped at how real it became.

“What’s wrong?” Paige called over her shoulder.

Azzi forced herself to relax, sound casual. “Are we sure she won’t launch herself into a tree?”

Paige rose, dusting the snow off her pants.

“Nah, she’ll be fine. Slope’s not too bad, and I’ll be right beside her.”

Azzi nodded, heart in her throat.

Soleil shuffled toward the edge of the gentle slope, skis awkward and much too wide.

Azzi pulled her phone out, recording Paige crouching nearby, grinning and shouting encouragement.

She continued to record short clips, breath catching every time she went down, and sighing in relief when she popped up.

“Ready to try by yourself, Sunshine?” Paige urged.

Azzi stood straighter, looking to see Soleil’s answer. She wanted the girl to be brave and fearless, excited to conquer the slope. But at the same time, she wanted her wrapped in bubble wrap, where she’d be safe.

“Yeah, Mommy!” She nodded firmly.

Soleil trudged back to the top of the slope. Leaving her mom to wait for her at the bottom.

Then she pushed off.

She glided slowly at first, knees bent, skis closer together.

Azzi held her breath.

She reached out in vain when Soleil wobbled a bit.

She made it all the way down the track. A short ten-second run that felt like ten minutes to Azzi.

Paige let out a loud whoop, picking Soleil up and spinning her around.

Azzi was running towards them without even knowing it, smile stretched wide across her face.

Soleil’s giggles filled the air around them. She turned to Azzi with the biggest grin. “MAMA DID YOU SEE ME?! I DID IT!”

Soleil’s voice rang out like a bell, pure and proud.

Mama.

Azzi blinked. Just once. The word echoed in her skull, again and again, until it wasn’t just a sound, it was a truth.

Paige reached out with her free arm, bringing her into their embrace.

Azzi’s brown eyes were glassy as she pulled the face covering off and planted a kiss right on Soleil’s cheek. “Yeah, of course I saw you, Sunny Girl. You were amazing!”

When they got back to the cabin a little later, Soleil was starfished on top of Azzi, napping in front of the fireplace.

Paige dropped down next to her two favorite people with hot chocolate.

“I didn’t tell her to do it, but I’ve been waiting for her to call you that. Wanting her to call you that.” She said, eyes locked on her daughter.

Azzi blinked, eyes misty again. “Me too, I just…I didn’t want to overstep. Feel like we haven’t really talked about it.” She paused. “I know I’m not – I know she’s not mine.”

Paige grabbed her hand, running her thumb across her knuckles. “Maybe not legally, but in every way that matters.” She kissed Azzi’s forehead firmly. “We can work on that though, if you want.”

“I know I’m not supposed to think like this, but you haven’t made me a list this week, so technically, I’m not breaking any rules.” She swallowed. “I just don’t wanna fuck anything up. I’m so scared that something’s gonna happen, and she’ll be the one that gets hurt the most.”

The crease in the middle of Paige’s forehead deepened, and she didn’t say anything.

“Well,” She started after a few minutes. “Even if something happened between us. God forbid, if we didn’t work out, you’d still want to be in her life – still want to be her Mama, right?” She questioned.

“Of course,” Azzi replied. She didn’t need to think to know that. “Not unless you didn’t want me to.”

Paige smiled softly. “Okay, so no matter what happens, you’re her Mama. You’ll always be her Mama.”

This time, when Azzi exhaled, all the tightness in her chest evaporated.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid.

She just lay there — Soleil snuggled on top of her, Paige curled at her side – holding her daughter, next to the love of her life.

Her family.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

On Friday, the night before they were set to return to Chicago, they had a Halloween movie marathon. Halfway through Halloweentown, Paige whispered in Azzi’s ear. “Hot tub after she goes to sleep?”

They had spent time in the hot tub every day since they got to Aspen, but Soleil was always there with them. Which the loved! Any time spent as a family was cherished by both women, but warmth and anticipation flooded Azzi’s system as she nodded at the idea.

Hours later, after Soleil was tucked in and drooling, Paige waited in the hot tub.

Steam curled around her bare shoulders as she sank into the hot tub, the mountain air crisp against her flushed skin. She watched the snowflakes as they floated down, melting before they could get close to the water.

Her head popped up at the sound of the patio door sliding opened.

Azzi was in her favorite color again. The lavender bikini had a cutout on the bottom of the top, her under boob on display.

Paige’s mouth was already watering. Her eyes dragged across Azzi’s body as she climbed in to sit next to her.

They spent the next couple of minutes in silence, eyes watching the steam vanish into the sky.

“You warm enough?” Paige asked, voice low.

Azzi nodded slowly, lips parted. She was content to admire the woman next to her. She traced the slope of her nose, the slight pout of her lips, the texture on her cheeks. Every inch of Paige Bueckers was perfect.

“You’re quiet,” Paige turned to her.

She blinked a bit, snapping out of her Paige-induced trance. “Just looking at you.” She felt her cheeks flush, not from the heat.

The corners of Paige’s lips twitched. “Yeah? What do you see, baby?”

Azzi inhaled sharply and shifted. Her hands settled on Paige’s waits, fingers tracing slow circles against the warm skin.

“I see…” She whispered nervously. “I see everything I want.”

The next second, Paige closed the distance, licking Azzi’s mouth open. The kiss was slow and all-consuming, warm from the heat and the tension. Azzi moaned softly, leaning in, hands running up Paige’s back.

Water sloshed over the edge of the hot tub as Paige pulled Azzi onto her lap, thighs instantly sliding apart. Azzi straddled her, lips trailing down to her jaw. She sucked a mark into the base of her neck as Paige palmed her ass roughly.

The blonde let one hand move up her back, landing in her curls and pulling softly. Azzi moaned into the kiss, pushing her body in even closer.

Paige pushed her hips up while guiding Azzi’s down, the friction eliciting a quiet gasp from the older woman. The motion was subtle but deliberate.

“Want you,” Azzi moaned against her lips.

Paige’s voice was just as wrecked. “Then take me, babygirl.”

Azzi reached behind the woman to unclasp the bikini top before getting frustrated and roughly pushing it over her head with a grunt. Her hands cupped the small mounds reverently, thumbs brushing over pink nipples.

Paige groaned again, pulling Azzi’s hips down again. “Fuck, Azzi.”

She dipped her head, tongue flattening against the stiff peak. Swirling in a slow, deliberate motion while the other was rolled between her fingers.

Paige’s hand tangled in tight curls. “You’re driving me crazy, angel.” She murmured, breath hitching.

“I wanna make you cum,” She pulled away with a pop.

“Yeah?” Paige said, pupils blown. “You will, but I haven’t even started with you yet.”

Before Azzi could say anything, a large hand slipped beneath those tiny bikini bottoms. Paige grinned at the slickness she found. Azzi cried out softly, hips bucking against the two fingers against her folds.

“Mmm, you’re so wet for me already.” She whispered, breath hot against Azzi’s skin. “You’re dripping, and I hadn’t even touched you yet.”

Azzi moaned at her words. Sweet sounds turned into a gasp as Paige bit her neck.

“All this from a little heat and bubbles,” She teased, soothing the bite with her tongue.

Azzi bit her lip, head titling to the side to give Paige more space. “No.” She whined. “All this from you.”

Paige kissed her again, rougher now, tongue demanding, mouth desperate. She thrust her fingers slowly, just two at first. Moving slowly to give her time to adjust, curling only after feeling Azzi tighten.

She moaned, rocking into her roughly, tucking her face into Paige’s neck and holding tightly to her shoulders.

“You’re such a good girl, sweetheart.” Paige rasped. “Just like that, baby. Take what you need.”

Azzi nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” She swallowed. “Oh, fuck. I’m gonna cum.”

Paige brought her thumb up to her clit. It took two, maybe three swipes. Azzi’s vision blurred as she came with a choked gasp, trembling in Paige’s lap.

Her balance was unsteady as she stood, pulling Paige up with her. “Want you in the bed.” She muttered.

Paige grabbed her bathing suit top, rushing in behind her girlfriend.

Azzi was standing in front of the fireplace, situating blankets in front of the flames.

“What are you doing, Az?” Paige chuckled, coming behind her.

Azzi looked over her shoulder. “Don’t wanna get the bed wet, and I don’t wanna be cold.”

She yanked Paige down and rolled on top of her.

“It’s my turn now.” Hands already moving to Paige’s blue bottoms.

A pale hand reached out to grab her wrist firmly. “I think you’re forgetting who is in charge here.” She said with a smirk.

Azzi’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. “But you said I could be next.”

“You are.” She said, cupping her chin, forcing eye contact. “But you’re all keyed up. Relax a little.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Azzi whispered, pulling at one of the threads. “Not with a woman.”

Paige leaned back until she was flat against the covers. “You do what feels right, okay?” She started. “I’ll help you if you need it. But I love you, Azzi. Anything that you do will be enough, I promise.”

The brunette still looked a little nervous, so Paige spoke again. “Can you take your bathing suit off?” She asked lowly, already reaching for her own bottoms.

“God, you’re so beautiful, angel.” She whispered, getting wetter with every inch of skin Azzi showed her.

The brunette sat on her heels, eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Now, you’re in charge sweetheart.” She started. “You can kiss, you can suck, you can lick. Whatever you want baby.”

Azzi knelt between pale legs. “And you’ll tell me if you don’t like it?”

“I promise.”

Azzi brought her face closer, nose brushing against sticky skin. She breathed in, pressing a kiss into one thigh, licking the other.

The taste wasn’t bad. Much different from the bitterness she’d experienced before, not a bad different…just different.

She kissed her way up each thigh, pausing at Paige’s gasp.

“You’re doing good baby,” She smiled. “Just teasing a little.”

The smile sent warmth all throughout Azzi’s body. With a little more confidence, she trailed kissed up each of lips before reaching the apex.

She licked her lips and kissed the soft, swollen heat between her thighs. “Fuck, Azzi.” Paige groaned, hips bucking into her face.

One hand reached up the spread her lips. “You’re so pretty, Paige.” She said, breath warm against the wetness.

She leaned in, tongue dragged through the sticky heat. “Shit, baby.” Paige moaned.

Azzi watched her hole tighten and she dipped down the catch the drop before it could slide down. She moaned against the wet heat at the taste of her girlfriend. Her tongue flicked against the opening, eager to taste more of the girl she loved.

“You feel so good, angel. You’re doing so good for me.” The blonde rambled.

Azzi’s hips twitched at the praise, her own hand circling her clit. She whimpered into Paige.

The vibrations moved through her core, “Fuck, just like that, baby.” She groaned, tossing her head back.

Azzi’s tongue slithered up to Paige’s clit. She licked the sensitive nub softly, mouth following as her hips bucked.

“Oh my – Azzi.” Paige moaned. “Keep going, just like that.” She rode her face, pushing her hips further into her mouth.

Azzi wrapped her lips around Paige’s clit and sucked.

Paige came. Hard.

She didn’t have words, just gasps.

Azzi’s tongue darted back to drink down Paige’s release greedily. Her tongue ran up and down the slit until Paige pulled her face away.

She pulled Azzi up and licked into her mouth. “You were fucking perfect, baby.”

Azzi had a dazed smile on her lips, but that didn’t last long. Her jaw dropped as Paige sucked on the fingers she’d been using on herself.

“Did eating me make you all sloppy and wet?” Paige’s tone was teasing, and Azzi couldn’t help but pout at the thought of her ruined orgasm.

Paige leaned back again, legs spread wide. “Oh, my poor baby, just needs to cum.” She pulled Azzi into her lap. “When we get back, gotta fuck you with my strap, gonna make you ride it. But today, you’re just gonna ride me, okay?”

Azzi nodded, still in a daze, but eager to please Paige and finish.

The strong hands on her hips guided her into place. Azzi pushed down a little, throwing her head back at the sensation.

Their slick centers met, warm and pulsing, friction building with every slow roll of their hips. Paige’s hips rolling slowly, creating the best friction. Azzi whimpered as Paige gripped her ass, encouraging her to move above her.

They moved together, fast and a little sloppy.

Azzi threw her head back in ecstasy as Paige’s hand came up to pluck at her nipple.

“No,” Paige said firmly. “Eyes on me. Looks who’s making you feel like this.”

She nodded, eyes still dazed. Her hips sped up as she chased her orgasm. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Yeah?” Paige sat up, pressing their foreheads together.

The movement changed the angle, and they were both bucking against thighs. Azzi’s moans were high, but quiet as Paige breathed heavily in her ear.

“Come on, love. Cum with me.”

Azzi nodded, breath stuttering in her chest.

Their orgasms hit like waves, overlapping and pulling them under. Azzi tried to keep her eyes on Paige, wanting to see how beautiful she was when. She came, but her eyes rolled into her head.

The only sound was their breathing, synced and heavy, surrounded by the low crackle of the fire. Paige’s hand found Azzi’s, fingers curling tight. “You’re mine,” she whispered against her temple.

Azzi didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. She just smiled into Paige’s shoulder, body limp, heart wide open.

They stayed like that, tangled in skin and love, warm in every possible way.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

A/N: I might turn my anons on. I miss seeing y'all react to chapters, and I feel like less people are sending things in. But if those kinds of messages are sent in, I'm gonna have to delete my account 😭 So please remember to be kind :) Love you guys!!!

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #elle's fics #terms of endearment

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dduane · 4 months ago

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A homebrew Iliad project

I've been fiddling with this for a long time.

Backstory: I've been dabbling in various depths of the great wine-dark sea of the ancient Greek classics since I was about seven or eight. (Might have been earlier, but I have no data to confirm that.)

I know Greek mythology like the back of my hand. (...Insert here the inevitable sound of Scotty whacking his head into an Enterprise bulkhead.) I know... a lot. And—leaving all the other stuff I know about that no one here is gonna care about one way or the other—I've read the Iliad and Odyssey probably about twice a year for the last fifty years or so. Or maybe more.

To my grief, I don't have enough classical Greek (or good enough Greek of any kind) to do any kind of respectable new translation of the work. That's far beyond my scope, or my level of scholarship. But I can sure as hell do... a retelling? A restatement? I have a number of favorite translations to use as guides, and the Perseus digital library... and, you know, dictionaries. And I'm not afraid to use them. :)

...And I'm a storyteller, and have no shame about the possibilities inherent in going where lots of others of my tribe have gone before—in restatement or in fiction. So let's just call this "a homebrew version of a work that hasn't been out of 'print' for thirty-five hundred years" and leave it there. (Is this ὕβρις? Yeah, seems likely enough. Whether this is going to be a manifestation of the downfall of the Greeks, or of the Geeks, remains to be seen.)

Anyway: my plan is to start publishing books (i.e., chapters) of this homebrew Iliad in the Fic Foundry writing website that will be opening up at last sometime over the next couple of months. The first few books will be open-access: after that they'll go subscription. They'll come out at irregular intervals (because there'll be paying work going on as well. [resigned sigh: So what else is new.])

When starting a project like this it seems like it might be wise to, in a general way, set out the goals.

Ease of accessibility. Lots of people have never read this story, or have experienced it only in one kind or another of paraphrase. (Yeah, well, here comes another one.) For maximum accessibility, I think this means what I want to do is a prose retelling. Nor am I going to get too hung up on anachronisms in the prose style. I'm reaching for the around-the-campfire sound, a little; or the story told after dinner, in episodes (and let's not throw the beef bones at the bard, she's doing the best she can).

Fidelity to the source material. This is an old, old story that both ascends to surprising heights of feeling and amazing depths of cruelty. There are things in it that some modern readers are not going to like at all: particularly the graphic gore and violence of what is repeatedly described as "the world's greatest war story". But these aspects of the Iliad, and the frequently callous, cruel and misogynistic understructure of its story, come with the territory of the original. I will in appropriate ficcer's style add trigger warnings where I think they're needed.

Completeness of the story. The temptation is always going to lurk for an adapter to decide what's important and what can be thrown out. I'm hardly immune. But it's my intention to leave the structure as intact as possible. Some people will disagree with my choices. (shrug) People have been disagreeing about ways to handle this work for centuries. What'll a few more be, among friends?

...So that's the plan. When this material starts to be ready to appear online, I'll let people here know where they need to go to access it. And after that... we'll see how things go.

I'll start this story as its first tellers did, and ask the Goddesses of epic storytelling to stand by me and lend a hand telling this one. At the end of the day, it all comes down to one angry young man: Achilles, only son of King Peleus. Achilles was completely possessed by a bitter rage that brought a whole host of troubles down on the great army of the Greeks. That unquenchable fury sent many a strong man’s soul to the Underworld, and left their bodies feeding the dogs and the vultures, while Heaven’s intentions moved inexorably on toward the Gods’ final goal...

#a homebrew Iliad #Greek mythology #epics #Iliad

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zerocoded · 2 months ago

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summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: this is very self indulgent and not your typical vamp!au. pls read the tags before starting this one. this is the prologue, just to set the vibe. this story is seen better in dark mode!

warnings and tags: soulmates concept • mentions of sex • dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing • enhypen live together and are mentioned all the time • vampire!enhypen • vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader • HEAVY ANGST • poor attempt at comedy • fluff if you squint • bad writing • sunghoon is 633-years-old and reader is 23 LMAO.

word count: 5.8k

previous chapters: series masterlist.

it had been theirs for so long. the whole floor. silent, still, untouched by anything that could interrupt the quiet sunghoon’d learned to rely on.

he’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone this close. and being the creature that he was, with the privileges he’d earned long before this city was ever built, sunghoon couldn’t help but be curious. tired, but curious — about the human life brought so suddenly, so carelessly, within reach.

about you.

sometimes he thought curiosity was the only thing left in him that hadn’t turned to stone. when you are six hundred and thirty-three years old, at some point, the news, the wars, the seasons — all of it stops meaning anything. life ends up being nothing but a blur.

some of his mates still lived like there was a tomorrow they didn’t know, like there were things left to feel surprised about.

but he had seen everything. the wars, the loves, the taste of absinthe in 1880s paris, watching jazz get born in a basement in harlem, affairs with queens, duels at dawn, crimes.

niki would joke that it was because he was the oldest — the supposedly strongest vampire among them and the most experienced. even though heeseung, jake and jay had lived longer human lives, it was sunghoon who carried the weight of stronger suits and deeper stories to tell.

he didn’t care for that, along with the many other things he didn’t care on his vampiric life, each of them filled their days differently.

jay still walked through the city like it belonged to him — expensive coats, sharp shoes, always returning just before dawn with the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him, though he never smoked.

heeseung worked in a gallery in gangnam, all clean lines and polished marble floors, standing quietly among paintings that cost more than most people’s lives. he said it passed the time.

niki was always moving — fixing the things no one else cared to fix. the old elevators that still shuddered on their way up, the tangled network of wires behind the walls. sometimes he disappeared for days, slipping into parts of seoul sunghoon no longer bothered to map.

they had found ways to pass the time.

sunghoon, on the other hand, had stopped trying.

the seonghyeon building remained the same. the long hallways, the locked doors, the windows that watched over a city none of them had been born in.

and now there was you across the hall. a girl. young, human, carrying with her the soft, fragile scent of something that had not yet been broken by time.

your first encounter was an accident. your mail had been delivered to their door by mistake, and sunghoon was the one chosen to return it. why? because his brothers were rarely seen at home during the nights.

he rang the doorbell five times before you opened it, a towel wrapped loosely around your body, hair still wet and clinging to your skin. he felt a little bad. you were visibly uncomfortable with the unexpected visitor, shifting your weight, one hand gripping the towel tighter — but he was just doing a favor.

“oh you must be the neighbor next door”, you thanked him with shy eyes and pink cheeks. “i kept hearing noise during nights but never seen anyone at the corridors”.

“we’re noisy sometimes, i apologize”. sunghoon said and left, clearly unbothered by the way you eyed him and seemed interested in starting a conversation. he delivered your package and went back to the coven.

he didn’t pay much attention to the way you eyed him, the way your gaze lingered longer than it should have, tracing the sharp lines of his face with something close to disbelief.

he didn’t notice that, for you, it was the first time you had been struck silent by beauty. not admiration, not attraction — but something closer to awe.

you wanted to ask his name, ask what did he mean by saying “we”, but he left before you could ask that.

sunghoon was used to the curious eyes following him. he was a vampire, after all — people tended to have that reaction around them. they looked at them as something too ethereal for humanity, even though, over the years, some humans had begun to approach that same untouchable beauty.

the human world was getting bigger, louder, messier — while the covens quietly disappeared. aesthetic procedures had become more common, more seamless, blurring the line between natural beauty and something manufactured.

it made recognizing a vampire — one truly blessed with longevity — harder than it used to be.

their history was reduced to bullet points in textbooks and museum exhibits. he didn’t blame you for the curiosity, most humans lived entire lives without ever meeting one.

the politics, the power, the endless cycle of protecting what was theirs — it didn’t feel urgent for sunghoon anymore. it just felt old.

and you — you seemed like the kind of person who knew about their kind in the same way everyone did now.

you’d learned about vampires in school, probably. seen the documentaries, skimmed the news articles, maybe overheard a story once about someone who claimed to have met one.

but you didn’t really bother looking up, thinking you’d never meet one in real life.

that was exactly what sunghoon had in mind the second time he saw you — when you appeared at their door, shivering, apologizing, not realizing what you were walking into.

your dried hair was long, the color pretty enough to draw sunghoon’s attention. your voice was the same he remembered from two nights ago, shy and jovial.

sunoo jumped from the couch at the sound of your voice, nearly spilling his glass of hibiki — the rare whiskey he kept for nights when his favorite mexican telenovela reprise was on. his mouth turned into an “o” before his features contorted into a frown, the fact that they never had visitors making him scared.

sunghoon watched from where he always did, leaning just out of the light, letting the others fill the space first.

you explained — almost freezing in your apartment, standing there in your blue pajamas, shivering, no idea how to work the thermostat.

niki was the one who helped, eager, slipping on his sneakers before anyone could stop him. he seemed more than willing to visit your apartment, bright-eyed at the sight of your silky hair, your warm skin, the way you smiled in gratitude.

he left their sight and heeseung tsked at him, knowing he was in for a ride if he decided to get involved with their neighbor, of all people. niki was young and naive, just turned into a vampire 65 years ago, but none of them could pinpoint exactly what was wrong with that, not really.

they all had their phases, after all.

jake had a partner now — a human girl he swore was his soulmate, like that made it any less predictable.

heeseung used to have one, too, years ago, but now he mostly kept to himself, reading philosophy books and drinking overpriced wine like he wasn’t still haunted by it.

sunoo was practically celibate at this point — voluntarily, or so he claimed, though they all suspected it was just laziness.

jungwon had chosen power over companionship. he had made peace with the sharp, necessary parts of what they were. he didn’t look for softness, didn’t ask for it. he carried the weight of all of them — their violence, their survival — like it was just another tailored coat he’d thrown over his shoulders before stepping out for the night.

and then there was jay.

jay burned through life like he thought he could outpace the centuries by moving fast enough, killing often enough, fucking hard enough. he liked the blood. liked the ritual of it, the power, the intimacy. that was why jungwon kept him close — a weapon that knew how to wield itself, but only just.

sunghoon was the opposite of it, wanting to keep it calm after years of forcing his strength on mankind. he liked things peaceful, that was his trait for being the most experienced and unbothered.

sunghoon was still thinking about that — about their lives, their loves, and how it always went with their kind — when niki’s voice cut through the apartment, bright and human in a way none of them really were anymore.

he came back from your apartment, shrugging off his shoes and grinning like he’d just come back from a field trip.

he dropped onto the couch next to sunoo, who was still nursing his glass of hibiki, eyes fixed on the muted telenovela playing across the screen.

for a second, niki just sat there, catching his breath, hands drumming against his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do with all his leftover energy.

then, finally:

“her kitchen tiles are all pink,” he said, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

sunghoon didn’t look up, not really interested in the younger one’s shenanigans.

niki kept talking — about your apartment, your kitchen tiles, your laugh — until sunoo finally complained that he wanted to watch his novela in peace.

the youngest rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and left the room, already talking about some party he needed to get ready for.

sunghoon stayed where he was, silent, still, as the bright sounds of the television filled the space, too loud for how late it was — but no one told sunoo to turn it down.

your shivering figure kept replaying on his head, curious of how a young soul like you could end up in a place like seonghyeon.

——

being the owner of a luxury apartment complex had its perks. one of them was that the rules didn’t apply to them. no noise complaints, no curfews, no awkward meetings with building management about renovations or guest policies.

they just did what they wanted.

sunghoon supposed that was part of why they’d stayed in seonghyeon so long — not just the history, not just the privacy, but the simple fact that here, no one told them what they could or couldn’t be. they owned it. the whole floor. the garden. the elevators. the library. the sauna.

it meant sunghoon could spend hours tending to the greenhouse on the rooftop without anyone asking questions — without anyone asking why a creature who didn’t need air or light or warmth would care about something as fragile as plants. but he did. he always had.

the garden had been his for decades now, shaped slowly by his hands and his moods, a place that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the quiet practice of control. rows of white camellias stood in perfect symmetry along the inner walls, their waxy petals always immaculate, while midnight violets sprawled low in the corners where the light softened in the late afternoon. a line of blood-red amaryllis stretched defiantly across the back wall, always blooming too early, too violently, as if they’d learned impatience from him. climbing wisteria looped lazily over the old wrought-iron trellises, hanging in pale lavender sheets that dripped scent and memory.

watering them wasn’t about necessity. it was about the fact that they could still die if he wasn’t careful. about knowing there was still something in this place — in this life — that required attention, precision, presence. he liked that. maybe more than he should have.

and maybe that was why, on your second week in the apartment, he noticed you standing there in the garden, just beyond the misting system he had just adjusted, your figure soft and unexpected against the geometric order of the plants. he hadn’t heard you come in. one minute, he was watching the fine spray bead on the thick green leaves of the orchids, admiring the slow accumulation of moisture, and the next — you were there. you stood in that tentative way humans always did when they weren’t sure if they were trespassing, your gaze moving from the camellias to the violets to the amaryllis like you didn’t quite know where to settle.

the doors to the rooftop were usually supposed to be locked, but being the owner of the building made sunghoon never lock anything. he hadn’t thought anyone would find their way in — no one had for years — but here you were, standing in the one space he’d kept mostly to himself, looking around like you didn’t quite know if you were allowed to stay, but too curious to leave.

you wore a grey puff jacket, zipped up carelessly like you’d just come in from outside — and you probably had — with a pair of clear-washed jeans that shaped your body in the kind of effortless way sunghoon knew wasn’t really effortless, but still looked like it was. your hair was tied back, loose strands falling against your cheek, and your phone was in your hand, its pink case bright and stupidly soft-looking, practically begging for attention even as your eyes stayed elsewhere, lost somewhere in the rows of flowers you didn’t yet understand.

you noticed sunghoons presence seconds after you almost tripped over a ceramic vase tucked near the base of the trellis, your body pausing mid-step, that quick human flicker of embarrassment crossing your face before you steadied yourself. sunghoon didn’t move. he waited, curious in that quiet, distant way he always was, just to see if you would stay when you saw him or if you’d do what most did — apologize quickly and rush off, pretending you hadn’t intruded.

sunghoon didn’t mean this in a bad way, but you didn’t look like you belonged in seonghyeon, not in the way the others did. the residents here wore discreet wealth and predictable detachment. he wondered, absently, how you’d ended up in a luxury complex like this, being so young and, from the look of it, so alone. you didn’t wear your money, if you had any. your clothes were simple, practical, none of the curated casual that most of the residents draped themselves in.

they knew the old owner of your apartment, of course. everyone did. a grey-haired woman with a sharp tongue and a perpetual scowl who’d refused to rent the place out, even when she could’ve made a small fortune doing so. stubborn as hell, but private, always private.

sunghoon hadn’t seen her in years, not since the last time she’d walked through the hallway, muttering about the elevators being too slow. she must’ve sold it to a distant relative, or maybe she’d passed, and her family sold it off to make their clean exit. he didn’t know, hadn’t asked.

either way, now you were here. standing there, looking nothing like the old woman he knew was the previous owner, staring right back at the man dressed in all black and with dirt in his hands.

the awe in your face made sunghoon suppress what might’ve been an annoyed frown, barely, keeping his expression as blank as it always was, waiting — with the same tired patience he carried everywhere — for your voice to make its debut in the quiet space he hadn’t intended to share.

“are those… hydrangeas?”

your voice broke the silence, flat but curious, as you stared at the pale clusters blooming stubbornly near the base of the trellis, their soft petals full and heavy in a season where nothing should be.

you frowned, shifting your weight like the flower itself was personally offending you.

“what the hell are they doing alive right now?” you muttered, then glanced at him, squinting. “pretty sure these things are supposed to give up by, like… october.” you paused, then, after a second, added, quieter, “wish i had that kind of energy.”

sunghoon’s eyes drifted to the small crease at the edge of your jacket sleeve, the way your fingers kept fidgeting against the fabric, tightening and releasing like you couldn’t quite decide whether to stay or go. your voice, too, had that persistent edge — soft but insistent, pushing through the silence he offered like you refused to be ignored, even though most people would’ve walked away by now.

he could’ve told you the hydrangeas weren’t real — not in the way you meant — but he didn’t.

he just stood there, perfectly still, expression unreadable, like he hadn’t even heard you at all.

“you know, the pink ones don’t even look real,” you said, crossing your arms, staring at the hydrangeas like they’d personally wronged you. “like someone’s out here spray-painting flowers at midnight for instagram.”

you kept talking, which was… annoying, probably. but also maybe kind of charming, depending on the angle. “do you, like… spray-paint them?” you asked, glancing at him. “because honestly, that would be some next-level dedication to aesthetic.”

still nothing.

sunghoon crouched down beside the nearest planter, adjusting the soil with careful, practiced hands — like you weren’t even there. like you were part of the wind or the background noise. he could see you clear your throat, trying again.

“so… are you a florist or just a very intense hobbyist?”

again, silence. you were now officially having a one-woman conversation in a secret garden with the hot neighbor who either hated you or literally couldn’t hear you.

you hadn’t even decided what your next brilliant line was going to be when his voice finally cut through the stillness, low and even, almost like it wasn’t meant for you at all but just the space between you.

“you’re the new neighbor.”

simple. detached. obviously not what you were expecting.

“you remember me,” you said, grinning a little too wide, like an idiot, but whatever — small victories.

he didn’t say anything to that, didn’t confirm or deny it, just stood there like he always did, still as the damn hydrangeas.

“i’m sorry — i don’t want to sound ridiculous,” you said quickly, even though, at this point, you already absolutely did. “it’s just… i saw movement around here these days and kind of wondered what this place was. i mean— this building’s so big, i get lost sometimes…” you trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the flowers, like they might somehow back you up.

sunghoon didn’t say anything.

just kept standing there, quiet and still, watching you with that same unreadable expression that somehow made the whole thing feel even more absurd.

sunghoon was quietly enjoying your suffering, your ridiculousness — the way you stood there, talking about plants you didn’t even know the name of, trying so hard to say something that would make you sound interesting, or smart, or at least not completely unhinged.

hell, he might even start to feel bad for you at some point.

but right now, all he felt was… entertained.

and that, in itself, was surprising, considering the fact he always won the nonchalant competition among his brothers.

sunghoon watched you for another long, weighted second, letting the awkwardness sit there just a little longer — not because he wanted to make you uncomfortable, but because he didn’t feel any particular need to make you comfortable either. you’d come into his space, after all.

“you’re not from here,” he said, not a question, just an observation, as flat and certain as everything else he said.

if you’d been expecting something softer — comfort, maybe, or even mild curiosity — that wasn’t what you got. your expression shifted, barely perceptible, a micro-flicker he wouldn’t have caught if he weren’t so instinctively attuned to such things. disappointment, perhaps, but he didn’t bother parsing it further.

especially because you kept talking — as you always seemed to do.

“no… i’m not,” you said, shifting your weight, your fingers tightening reflexively around your phone, the pink case creaking softly under the strain. “it was… my grandmother’s place. she passed it down to me. not really her place, i guess, because she didn’t even live here, but… she was the owner. or something like that.” you let out a small breath, frowning at your own explanation. “i don’t really know. we weren’t… on talking terms. like… ever.

and then, as if suddenly realizing how that sounded, you rushed to clarify, gesturing vaguely in his direction — even though it made zero sense to be over-explaining your family drama to a stranger, here, now, at this hour.

“not that she was a bad person!” you blurted out, your hands lifting automatically like they could somehow catch the words before they fell. “we just didn’t have much contact. she… kind of didn’t like my father. and then made my mom divorce him and…”

you trailed off, finally hearing yourself, finally realizing how absurd it was to be standing here, next to a man you didn’t even know, unloading all this like he’d asked.

“i just moved in. i’m starting college this semester.” and then, because you couldn’t help yourself, because silence around him felt too heavy, too final, you added with a small, awkward laugh, “so… yeah. this place is huge. i get lost. a lot.”

sunghoon didn’t smile, but there was something almost like recognition in his eyes, some small flicker of understanding that passed before he looked away again, toward the hydrangeas, as if they were suddenly more interesting than your confession.

“it’s a big building,” he said simply, like that explained everything, like that was all the conversation you’d need — like you hadn’t just overshared half of your family trauma in a single breathless sentence.

you wanted to hide your face in the fucking dirt right then and there, to disappear between the neatly arranged hydrangeas and never be seen again, because congratulations — you’d just made a complete fool of yourself in front of the cute neighbor.

“yes, it’s big,” you blurted out, immediately wanting to die all over again, because what the fuck kind of recovery was that.

but sunghoon just stood there, silent as ever, his eyes flicking briefly to the hydrangeas, then back to you.

he wasn’t particularly interested, not really. not in your family — he’d gotten what he was curious about; you were Miss Han’s granddaughter and that was… fine, that was enough. not in your college status, not in your awkward over-explanations or your objectively terrible flirting attempts.

he just found you… weird. and, honestly, kind of a perfect match for naïve little niki, but he wasn’t about to get deeper on that.

but still, as he watched you standing there, fumbling through your stupid, nervous words about plants and getting lost and college, sunghoon felt it — that sudden, unfamiliar pull right in the center of his chest. not curiosity, not concern, but something quieter, something older, maybe even something he’d almost forgotten how to recognize.

the urge to not leave you alone with your own awkwardness, sunghoon felt the pull right as his eyes came in contact with your neck.

the ridiculousness of it — of you, of his weird and sudden fixation on that part of your skin — should have made it easy to let the conversation die, to turn away, to retreat back into the silence he’d always preferred.

but instead of leaving, he exhaled softly — almost imperceptibly — and shrugged out of his outer coat in one smooth, practiced motion, folding it over the back of the wrought-iron chair beside him like he wasn’t even thinking about it. then, without a word, he crouched down beside the neat row of haworthia at his feet — their dark green, ridged leaves fanning out in perfect, geometric spirals, small and sharp and quietly alive — and started tending to them, his long fingers moving methodically through the soil, checking the roots, adjusting the placement of a few stones that had shifted.

it was just past eight in the evening, the kind of quiet, transitional hour where the last traces of the day’s heat had already bled out of the air and the garden slipped into something softer, colder, more his.

sunghoon ignored your boots, even though they were tracking faint streaks of dirt across the polished stone floor, ruining the clean lines he’d so carefully maintained.

he ignored the fact that you were still standing there, hesitating like you weren’t sure whether you were meant to stay or leave.

he ignored the way he could distinctly hear your pulse from across the winter garden, could track the subtle rise and fall of your chest, and almost taste the scent of your plasma in the cold air.

why was it so distracting?

you shifted slightly, as if sensing his hyperfixation on your breathing, your boot scraping softly against the stone, the sound sharp in the otherwise muted space.

“do you… live here?” you asked, your voice careful, like you weren’t sure if it was a stupid question or not, but you had to say something, anything, to puncture the silence.

he didn’t look up right away, his focus still on the plants at his feet, his fingers moving absently through the soil as if your presence hadn’t already disturbed everything.

“yeah.”

simple. flat. like the answer wasn’t even worth more than that.

you nodded, swallowing a breath, your grip on your phone tightening again.

“alone?” you asked, like an idiot, like there was anything cool about standing in a winter garden awkwardly interviewing your neighbor. “i just… moved in,” you tried again, your voice a little too high, a little too eager to fill the space he left open. “across the hall.”

he knew that, obviously.

but he didn’t say it.

just made this quiet, non-committal sound — something between acknowledgment and indifference — before brushing a bit of soil off his palm and shifting the smallest succulent in the arrangement by half an inch, like that was somehow more important than responding to you.

you were just standing there, shifting your weight, fidgeting with your stupid pink phone case, breathing too fast, smelling like soap and cold air and something he couldn’t quite name but could almost taste in the back of his throat.

god, he could literally taste you. why was that?

that quiet, metallic sweetness of human blood — not sharp, not urgent, but there, unmistakable, teasing the edge of his senses in a way he hadn’t let it in years.

and it wasn’t just that.

it was the way you smelled different.

not perfume, not anything artificial. just warm skin, faint nerves, the clean press of cotton from your jacket, and underneath all of it, that subtle, unavoidable pulse — your body doing what human bodies always did, announcing itself in ways it didn’t even know how to hide.

it was distracting.

unnecessary.

sunghoon couldn’t remember the last time his body reacted like this to anyone, let alone someone so… ordinary.

you weren’t doing anything special — just standing there, awkward, fidgeting, your breath fogging faintly in the cold air.

and yet, something in him was already responding, already tuning itself to the rhythm of your pulse, already marking the way your warmth cut through the sharp edge of the winter air like you belonged here, like you’d always been part of this place.

he didn’t like that.

he didn’t like that his focus was slipping — that this old, instinctive part of him, the part that was supposed to be dormant, was sharpening, waking up, paying attention.

he hadn’t let it in for years.

he hadn’t needed to.

he could hear every beat, every shift in your breath, every flicker of hesitation as you started moving, walking slowly, carelessly, past the rows of carefully arranged plants, getting closer to him like you thought maybe he wouldn’t notice.

you stopped just beside him, close enough that he could feel the faint change in temperature, the heat radiating from your body cutting through the cold air that clung to the winter garden.

you tilted your head, curious, peering down at what he was doing, your hands tucked awkwardly into the sleeves of your jacket.

“are you deaf?”

your voice broke the quiet again, small and casual, like this was just another normal interaction, like you hadn’t just crossed some invisible boundary neither of you knew how to name.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away, finding your question hilarious.

he didn’t move, didn’t even look up, didn’t give you anything to read.

but inside —

his hands had gone still, fingers curling slightly into the cold edge of the pot he’d been tending, anchoring himself in the familiar texture of the soil because the simple fact of your proximity — the smell of your skin, the sound of your breathing — was enough to send a low, sharp pulse through his body that he hadn’t felt in decades.

sunghoon adjusted the last pot in the arrangement, brushing a trace of soil from his fingers with a practiced efficiency, then finally straightened up to his full height, his eyes flicking to you — not with interest, not even with annoyance, but with that same quiet, unreadable detachment he wore like armor.

“you shouldn’t be in here.”

his voice was calm, even — not accusatory, just factual, like you’d accidentally wandered into an employees-only section at a museum.

then, without waiting for your response, he stepped past you, moving down the narrow path between the plants with the kind of smooth, controlled grace that only made you feel even more awkward for still standing there.

you hesitated for half a second, then — stupidly, impulsively — followed.

he didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t turn, just kept moving, stopping at the old stone basin tucked into the corner, turning on the cold water with a smooth twist of the brass tap and rinsing the soil from his fingers like this was just another routine moment, like you weren’t trailing quietly behind him.

“why shouldn’t i?” you asked finally, your voice lighter than you felt, more curious than confrontational. you glanced around, gesturing vaguely at the space. “isn’t this a… common area of the building?”

he dried his hands on the edge of his coat, not looking at you, not offering anything more than a simple, quiet:

“not really.”

“what do you mean?” you asked, frowning slightly, still trailing after him as he dried his hands. “are you… the owner or something? i thought this was a common area, and, as a resident, shouldn’t this be ok?”

sunghoon didn’t pause, didn’t even look at you when he answered, just kept walking toward the exit, his voice calm and detached, like he was reading from some impersonal list of facts.

“i’m the owner.”

then, after a beat, almost as an afterthought, he added:

“the seven of us live in the penthouse. this is our building. we have our rules.” another pause as he pushed open the door, the cold air slipping through. “one of them is to not circle around after nine p.m. without previous notice.” and then, with the same offhand finality, like it didn’t even matter: “and yes. this area is privately mine. i bought it. it’s my part of the deal.”

your breath caught for half a second — not because of what he said exactly, but how casually he said it, like it wasn’t the most intimidating thing in the world.

you blinked, following him out the door like some stubborn ghost of your own embarrassment, still trying to catch up with everything he’d just revealed.

“oh,” you said, brilliantly. then, after a beat: “oh my god, i didn’t know… i thought you were just— i don’t know— some guy who lived with his roommates or something. i mean— there is seven of you?”

sunghoon finally glanced at you then, and for the first time, really looked.

his gaze wasn’t unkind — sharp, yes, unreadable, yes, but something in it softened just slightly at your flustered panic. the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to pass for one if you weren’t being too picky.

“we are strangers, so it’s not a surprise you don’t know,” he said simply, like that settled it. “what happened to your grandma?” he asked right after, almost flatly, but the question hung heavier than he meant it to. that was the only curiosity left in him.

you shifted, hesitating.

“she died,” you said, voice quieter now, not sure about his sudden interest about your family after ignoring you for the last ten minutes. still, stupidly, you answered. “a few months ago. no one told me until after the funeral. i think… i think she left the apartment to me just to spite my mom. she never mentioned seven guys living in this area, she actually rarely was here or so i thought...”

you tried to laugh, but it came out too small, too hollow to be anything but a ghost of amusement.

sunghoon didn’t press further. he just nodded, slow and deliberate.

he didn’t stop walking. didn’t turn. just kept moving toward the last exit with that same smooth, unbothered rhythm, like you hadn’t just trespassed on his private space and asked him a string of questions he had no intention of answering properly.

and maybe it was that — the sheer fact that he was just going to leave, that he hadn’t even given you the basic politeness of his name — that made you blurt the next thing without thinking, desperate to catch at least one thread before it all slipped through your fingers completely.

“what’s your name?” you called after him, your voice softer now, but still stretched tight with nerves — like the words had to fight their way out of your chest. and then, as if some part of you panicked at the silence he left in his wake, you added the kind of thing people say when they’re trying too hard to seem casual, even though it only made you feel more ridiculous the second it left your mouth:

“i’m sorry. i don’t really know anyone in seoul yet. i thought maybe… i could make friends here.”

you winced internally as soon as it was out there, like hearing it aloud confirmed how pitiful it sounded. but it was also the truth — raw and a little embarrassing, hanging between the two of you like a thin thread waiting to snap.

sunghoon paused at the door, his hand still resting lightly against the iron handle, fingers curled like he was weighing whether to just keep going, to let you stand there with your awkward apology and your too-late question hanging uselessly in the cold air.

but then, without any particular urgency, he turned.

for the first time, really turned — not that distant, impersonal glance he’d given you earlier, but a full, deliberate look, his dark eyes cutting through the space between you like he was finally seeing you, not just another tenant or a passing distraction, but something else entirely.

and then —

he smiled.

small, barely there, more reflex than intention, like his body had decided to acknowledge you even if his mind hadn’t fully signed off on it yet.

“sunghoon,” he said simply, his voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier indifference, just… plain.

and for a second — just one — his eyes stayed on yours, steady, almost curious, like he was letting you take the name, hold it, decide what to do with it.

then, just as easily, he turned back, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the hall without another word, the sound of his boots fading smooth and even against the marble floor until it was like he’d never been there at all.

author's note: this wasn’t proofread yet, so i’m sorry if the mood is a little weird. i still don’t know where this is going, but already started the first chapter. if you read this, pls tell me what you think of it. i'm sorry if this is trash, just give it a shot pls. nonchalant sunghoon until he is obsessed with reader hehe. send me a request • my masterpost

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