#finally I can let the weight of this off my chest

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Six

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, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff, birthdays + Christmas, some emotional instabillity.

Notes — I hope you guys love this one. It's so full of sweetness. A bit of frustration too, but mostly sweetness.

December 2023

The lights in the MTC's build bay always felt too bright. Amelia squinted up at them in annoyance, then turned her gaze back to the car.

Her car.

Not hers in any legal or possessive way — it belonged to the team, to the season, to the wind tunnel and CFD modellers.

But the final profile of the MCL38-AN was a shape that had lived in her brain before it ever existed in carbon fibre form. It had existed exclusively within spreadsheets and flow charts and headaches. Whiteboard scrawls at two in the morning. Phone calls to her dad. Arguments with aero. Hours of simulations. Hours of starting over.

And now it was real. Sitting right in front of her.

Orange and black, sleek and hungry, its chassis caught the overhead lights and glowing.

Amelia didn't move. She needed minute. She just stood beside the rear wing, arms crossed tight over her chest, soaking in the project that had consumed every spare hour of the past two years of her life.

She had half a muffin in her bag from breakfast four hours ago. She'd forgotten to eat it.

The name on the spec sheet was just technical: MCL38-AN. The suffix had started as a quiet claim — her way of signing something no one could take from her. Years ago, her father had passed off one of her ideas as his own. "AN" for Amelia Norris, scribbled on a draft after too much coffee, felt like insurance. But the department kept using it. Zak hadn't stopped them. And now it was printed on the official build list, black ink and daring her to believe it was really hers.

Her name. On a car.

"Staring at it won't make it disappear," came a voice from the other end of the garage.

Amelia didn't look over. "I'm aware," she replied flatly.

Anthony, one of the build engineers, chuckled and walked closer, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. "Just never seen you stand still this long before. Thought maybe you'd short-circuited."

"Internally," she replied. "I'm experiencing the Blue Screen of Emotion."

He laughed again. "Hell of a machine you designed."

She didn't correct him.

Instead, she stepped forward and laid one hand on the side-pod. The material was cold and smooth under her fingers. She could feel the vibration of the building, the faint hum of tools and voices and fluorescent life, echoing back through the structure.

"This was all in my head once," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "And now it's... this."

Anthony, thankfully, didn't say anything saccharine. Just gave a nod and let her stand there.

Amelia walked slowly around to the front of the car, fingers trailing against the bodywork. Her brain was already scanning for imperfections — minor details to flag, alignment to double-check, tolerances to run again. But beneath that, buried under years of ruthless professional calibration, was something quieter.

Pride.

Not loud or dramatic or showy. Just a quiet click of recognition.

This was good work. And it was hers.

"Can we run power systems later today?" She asked.

Anthony nodded. "Soon as Oscar finishes his lunch."

"Tell him I said no mayo on the telemetry."

"I don't even know what that means."

Amelia didn't clarify. She just smiled faintly to herself and stepped back, surveying the car one more time.

MCL38-AN.

Not bad for a girl who used to line up her Hot Wheels in exact weight-to-downforce order as a kid and got sent home from school for correcting her teacher's physics formulas.

She pulled out her phone, snapped a picture of the car, just for herself, then typed out a message to Lando.

iMessage — 14:33pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

Almost ready for testing. I'm so proud it's making me nauseous.

A second later, another text.

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

Or maybe that's just the pregnancy.

—

Amelia sat cross-legged across from Lando, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands despite the lingering warmth in the air. Lando was barefoot, legs stretched out, half a grin on his face as he finished the last bite of cake she'd awkwardly cut with a plastic knife.

They were on Max's boat, rocking gently in the Monaco harbour. They'd stolen it for the day.

"Bit late," he teased, licking frosting off his thumb. "Birthday was like... three weeks ago."

"You were busy," she said simply. "So was I. And also I needed time."

"Time?"

"To figure out what to give you." She said. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, square box; plain brown kraft paper, tied neatly with black ribbon. No card. Of course there was no card. She hated cards — never knew what to write in them.

Lando raised an eyebrow as he took it. "Not socks?"

"No."

He peeled the ribbon open and lifted the lid.

Inside was a tiny frame. Minimalist. Neutral. Inside it, a single page torn from a notebook — lined paper, slightly smudged pencil. On it: a series of racing lines drawn from memory. His best qualifying lap from Silverstone. Annotated in her handwriting with tiny notes. Brake here. Open throttle earlier. Turn-in felt cleaner than expected.

He stared at it for a long moment before speaking. "This is..."

"You told me you wanted to frame that lap. I had the data sheet, but I wanted to draw it from memory," she said, eyes on the water instead of him. "That way it's both yours and mine. More special."

Lando didn't speak. Not right away. Just set the frame down carefully and crawled across the cushions to kiss her — soft, deliberate. One hand cupped her jaw; the other rested over her heart like it was helping him breathe. When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously glassy. "I think that might be one of the best birthday presents I've ever received," he said. "And I love it."

She gave a tiny shrug. "Good. You're really hard to shop for. You buy everything you want as soon as you decide that you want it."

He laughed, pulling her into his chest.

The boat rocked gently, and the sun sank lower, and for once there was nothing they needed to do, nowhere they needed to be. Just a belated birthday, and a perfect lap, and the girl who knew every corner of it better than anyone ever would.

—

The ultrasound room was dim, lit mostly by the soft blue glow of the monitor and the faint flicker of winter sun bleeding through the frosted windowpanes. The air smelled faintly sterile, like clean cotton and antiseptic.

Amelia lay back on the table, her t-shirt folded up over her stomach, the thin paper drape rustling every time she shifted. One hand was clenched tightly in Lando's — not out of nerves, exactly, but out of that taut, quiet focus she always wore when she didn't have full control of a situation.

She eyed the plastic bottle in the technician's hand with thinly veiled suspicion.

"What is that?" She asked flatly.

"Just ultrasound gel," the technician said, chipper and entirely unprepared.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "What are the ingredients?"

The woman faltered, eyes darting to Lando and then back to Amelia. "Um..."

Lando looked at his wife.

Amelia didn't look at him. "I just feel like if we're going to lather something all over my body, I should know whether it contains...you know, petrochemicals or carcinogens or hormone disruptors."

The technician blinked. "It's... mostly water-based," she said finally. "And glycerin. No dyes. No perfumes."

Amelia stared a second longer, then gave a short, diplomatic nod. "Fine."

Lando leaned over and whispered, "You sure?"

"Yes," she muttered.

The technician, clearly deciding she'd earned the right to proceed, gently pressed the probe to Amelia's stomach. She flinched, not from pain, but from the cold smear of the gel, and made a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat.

Lando squeezed her hand once, smiling.

And then the screen flickered. A faint, grainy image bloomed into view, shadow and static and light, and the whole room seemed to still.

"Ah, a very easy one. There we are," the technician said softly, her voice shifting into something gentle. "One very small someone."

Amelia blinked at the monitor. "That blob is a baby?"

The tech chuckled. "That blob is your baby."

Lando's breath caught in his throat. He shifted closer to her side, eyes locked on the flickering movement onscreen — a heartbeat, tiny and fast and impossibly loud once the audio kicked in. It sounded like wings. Like something about to take off.

Amelia didn't speak for a long time. Just stared. Her mouth parted, eyes wide. She looked stunned, like her body had already figured it out, but her brain hadn't quite caught up.

"Is that..." she finally whispered. "That flicker, is that... the heartbeat?"

The technician nodded.

Amelia's mouth wobbled. Her fingers clenched tighter around Lando's. "It's going so... fast."

"Perfectly normal at this stage."

Lando, who had been quiet until now, suddenly straightened and leaned in closer, eyes glued to the screen. "Wait—how fast? Like, beats per minute?"

The technician glanced at the monitor, tapping a few keys. "Right now, it's about 170. A bit faster than an adult's, but that's exactly what we expect this early on."

Lando's eyes widened. "One seventy? That's incredible. Is that—like—normal?"

"Yeah, perfectly normal. It usually starts slower around five weeks and then speeds up."

Amelia's voice was quiet, but steady. "How many weeks are we exactly?"

"About seven weeks from the last menstrual period," the technician replied, smiling gently.

Lando glanced at Amelia, then back to the screen. "So... when's the due date? When can we expect... I mean, when—?"

The technician switched the screen to a small calendar. "Based on measurements, your due date should fall somewhere around August 14th."

Amelia exhaled slowly, eyes still on the grainy image of that tiny flickering heartbeat. "August 14th," she repeated. "Between Spa and Zandvoort, then."

Lando grinned and squeezed her hand. "That's... just over six months away. Feels proper real now."

Amelia's lips twitched in a tired smile. "Yeah, it's a bit overwhelming."

Lando's voice softened. "Overwhelming in a good way?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

He looked at her with such tenderness that it made her throat tighten.

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Maybe," Lando said softly, "instead of letting this make us feel out of control, we need to learn how to trust that our little person is just... doing its own thing."

Amelia closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the flickering heartbeat was still there — small but unmistakably alive. "Okay," she said quietly, "yeah. Okay."

The technician smiled again, dimming the monitor as she packed up. "You're doing wonderfully. We'll schedule your next scan in three to four weeks time, but for now, just try to enjoy this moment."

Lando squeezed Amelia's hand.

—

The Norris house was full of noise — crumpled wrapping paper on every surface, half-eaten mince pies on plates, Christmas music playing softly in the background, and the fire crackling with the kind of persistent warmth only a real log burner could offer.

Amelia sat on the arm of the couch, a mug of peppermint hot chocolate in her hands (the only thing that didn't make her nauseous that week), watching Lando and his siblings messily construct some kind of Christmas LEGO set on the floor.

It was chaos. The good kind. Lando was wearing a Santa hat and trying to boss everyone around. Cisca was curled up in the other armchair watching them fondly, and even Adam was getting involved, despite pretending he was "too old for LEGO" about twenty minutes earlier.

Amelia felt warm. Not just from the fire, or the hot chocolate. But that kind of rooted, grounded warmth she hadn't felt since childhood.

Lando glanced up at her from the rug. His cheeks were flushed, curls a little wild, still in pyjamas. He grinned that stupidly wide grin of his; the one she could never not return.

"Okay," he said suddenly, clapping his hands together. "We've got one last gift."

His siblings groaned dramatically. "You're just trying to win Christmas," Flo said, already suspicious.

"No," Lando said, glancing up at Amelia. "This one's from both of us."

He got up and walked to the tree, pulling out a small box, about the size of a mug, wrapped in deep green paper and a lopsided gold bow. He handed it to Flo, gesturing for her to open it.

She peeled it back, frowned... and then blinked.

Inside was a tiny McLaren onesie, size newborn, folded neatly next to a photo printout of the ultrasound. On the front of the onesie was a little stitched helmet — and underneath it, "Team Norris. Arriving August 2024."

There was a beat of silence.

Flo stared.

"Shut. Up."

Adam whipped around, eyes wide. "Oh my god."

"No way," Flo said, already scrambling up from the floor.

Cisca covered her mouth, eyes wide and glassy. "Are you—? Are you serious?"

Amelia nodded, quietly overwhelmed by the whole thing, but smiling anyway, caught in the centre of a hug from Lando's siblings as they collapsed into her, cheering and yelling and somehow knocking her mug over (Lando caught it just in time).

Flo kept staring at the ultrasound photo like it was a sacred relic. "I am going to be the best auntie."

Adam walked over to Lando and gave him a tight hug, a forehead kiss, and a pat on the back.

Cisca hugged Amelia gently, brushing her hair back. "I had a feeling," she whispered. "You've had that glow."

Amelia laughed. "The glow is just sweat from the constant nausea. But thanks."

Lando wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, chin on her shoulder, warm and soft and safe."Merry Christmas," he murmured.

She leaned her head back against his. "Merry Christmas."

—

January 2024

The new apartment smelled like fresh paint.

It was bigger, with big windows and tiled floors and way more space than their old place. But in that exact moment, it mostly looked like a war zone. A mess of cardboard, bubble wrap, and various limbs sticking out from behind furniture.

"Why does your wife own so many pairs of shoes?" Max asked, squinting as he pulled box after box labelled Amelia: Shoes from the back of the moving van.

"She likes having options, Max," Lando replied from inside the apartment. "You wouldn't get it."

"I've already seen three pairs of the same sneaker!"

"Sometimes she wants them to look newer, sometimes she wants them to look worn!"

Amelia stood frozen in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around a single lamp. Not because it was heavy, it was from IKEA, but because she'd very quickly reached her max input for the day.

People talking, laughing, doors slamming, someone (probably Charles) putting a Spotify playlist on the TV at full volume, Celeste asking where the boxes marked kitchen - fragile had gone (answer: behind the miscellaneous - Lando's gamer shit), and her mom trying to organise snacks that everyone had insisted they didn't need but everyone was happily eating.

It was chaos. Warm, well-meaning chaos. But chaos all the same.

"Breathe, baby," came Lando's voice, suddenly right behind her. His hand gently closed over hers, guiding the lamp to the floor. "Let go."

"I'm fine," she said quickly.

"You're vibrating."

"I'm self-regulating."

"You're about to pop like a champagne bottle on the podium."

She blinked at him. "Lando."

"It's fine," he whispered, kissing her cheek. "Go sit. I'll turn down Charles' shit music."

She nodded once and retreated to the kitchen, or, well, what would be the kitchen, once all the boxes weren't stacked like a cardboard skyline.

Her dad followed her a moment later, holding a garbage bag full of what looked like packing peanuts. "Need anything, sweetheart?"

Amelia, dazed, looked up at her dad. "A new brain."

"I meant, like, a juice box."

"Oh. Do we have any?"

"I'll ask your mom." He laughed and kissed the top of her head before disappearing to the balcony.

Celeste popped in with a stack of throw pillows and collapsed beside her. "Remind me never offer to help anyone move again."

Charles, sliding by with a box labeled guest bathroom, raised his hand. "You're all weak."

"You hired movers," Max called from the hallway.

"Because I am smart," Charles countered.

Eventually, they made enough of a dent in the chaos to pause; boxes stacked in corners, the couch unwrapped, the kitchen sort of navigable. Everyone collapsed onto furniture, floor cushions, or each other.

Lando dropped next to Amelia with a thud. "Jesus," he said. "I'm never standing up again."

Tracey passed around bottles of water.

And then, without thinking, because she was tired, overwhelmed, and slightly frantic, Amelia looked at the empty room across the hall and said aloud. "Oh, cool. I'll be able to start putting the nursery together."

The silence was instant.

Zak froze mid-sip. Tracey turned so fast she almost knocked over Celeste. Charles blinked once, then again. Celeste slowly tilted her head like a confused golden retriever.

Only Max continued scrolling on his phone. Lando looked suspiciously casual, but his eyes had gone wide.

"Sorry," Charles said slowly. "Did she just say nursery?"

"She did," said Tracey, standing like she was ready to break into dance or faint, unclear which.

Amelia, blank as ever, looked up. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"You're pregnant?" Celeste screeched, immediately launching across the couch.

"About eight weeks," Amelia said matter-of-factly.

"Oh my gosh—"

Lando, grinning now, tugged Amelia into his side. "We were gonna wait a while. But she's obviously forgotten the whole secrecy part."

"Not forgot," Amelia said. "Just... didn't filter."

Tracey shrieked. Charles stood and clapped. Celeste immediately demanded to know every detail. Her dad was just staring at them, his jaw slightly ajar.

Max looked at Lando and deadpanned, "Told you she'd blurt it eventually."

"You knew?" Tracey barked.

"Of course I did." Max said.

Celeste swatted him. "I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

Amelia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, buried in a couch cushion, legs tucked under her, chaos all around her, but warm. Safe.

Loved.

"I'm going to have to help you build nursery furniture, aren't I?" Charles asked.

"Yes," said Lando.

—

Amelia sat on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter, wearing her comfort pyjamas and cupping a warm mug in both hands. Her mom was rifling through a drawer looking for teaspoons and her dad was standing far too close for someone who'd said "I'm not gonna hover."

"You're hovering," Amelia said without looking up.

"I'm not," Zak replied, absolutely hovering.

Tracey gave him a look as she passed. "Sit down, Zak."

Amelia smirked faintly.

Zak pulled a stool out beside her but didn't sit. He just sort of... rested one hand on the counter and stared at her in that way dads do. "You keeping anything down?" He asked.

"I'm eating a lot of toast," Amelia said. "And drinking ginger tea."

He looked vaguely panicked. "Should we be calling someone? We have dietitian's, or—?"

"Dad."

"What?"

"I'm pregnant. Nausea is normal."

Zak muttered something about "precautionary measures" and "just checking" and "your iron levels, you never know," and finally Tracey grabbed his sleeve and tugged him to the other side of the kitchen.

"Let her breathe," she said, soft but firm.

He sighed but relented, pouring himself a cup of tea and stealing a look at Amelia like he still couldn't believe it. Like some part of him was seeing her as a baby again in his arms; not a woman, not a race engineer, not someone capable of growing a human. Just his daughter.

"I'm going to be a granddad," he said eventually, more to himself than anyone else. He blinked a few times, then smiled like he'd just realised it wasn't a prank.

Amelia raised her eyebrows, lips twitching. "Has he only just realised that?"

Tracey chuckled. "Oh no, honey. He's already ordered some books on newborn safety."

Zak tried to look insulted. "One of us has to be prepared."

Tracey ignored him and turned her attention back to Amelia, warm eyes softening. "You know," she said gently, "that first night at dinner, when you got all worked up about Lando... I just knew."

"Knew what?"

"That this was going to be something magic," she said. "You had that look on your face. Not the 'I'm in love' one, not yet. But that one you get when you've found something you'd fight for. And I thought, ah. There it is."

Amelia blinked, caught off guard. Her mouth opened, then closed again, unsure how to respond.

Tracey smiled knowingly. "You've always been complicated. Precise. A little special in a systemised way. But with him? You were safe. Not smaller, not quieter; just... steadier."

Zak, finally sitting, looked from his wife to his daughter, then back again.

Tracey walked over and touched Amelia's hair, smoothing it back without thinking. The kind of motherly gesture that was muscle memory. "We're very proud of you," she said softly. "Not just for the baby. For the life you're building. For letting yourself build it."

Amelia didn't answer right away. Just looked down into her tea and let that sit in her chest like a warm ache. "Thanks," she said finally, quiet.

Tracey smiled. "Now come sit with us in the living room and let your dad lecture you about your fiber intake."

"Oh no."

"I made a PowerPoint," Zak added helpfully.

Amelia stared at him. "I—I eat enough fibre. I swear. I promise. Don't make me sit through one of your terribly constructed PowerPoints."

—

Five hours later, the apartment was finally quiet.

The kind of quiet that only came after the storm; post-laughter, post-chaos, post-Max dropping a full pizza box face-down on the kitchen floor and Charles chasing Celeste with bubble wrap around his head like a helmet.

Everyone was gone now.

Some boxes still weren't unpacked, the dining table was holding an array of loose screws and takeout containers, and there was one singular sock hanging off the new lighting fixture that neither of them remembered installing.

But it was quiet. And theirs.

Lando lay stretched across the couch in sweats and a hoodie, one leg propped up on a box labeled BED LINENS???. Amelia was curled on top of him like a blanket folded in half, her cheek resting against his chest, arms wrapped around his middle.

She was half-asleep, her body finally relaxing after hours of overstimulation and problem-solving and people asking where things were that she did not know. "Is it weird I don't feel like this is real yet?" She murmured.

Lando looked down at her. "The apartment?"

"All of it. The space. The nursery. The fact I told everyone because I accidentally emotionally short-circuited. I mean, who announces a pregnancy like that?"

"You," he said, brushing his fingers through her hair.

She huffed a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan. "My brain was tired. My mouth just... decided."

"Hey." He tugged gently on a loose strand of her hair until she looked up at him. "It was perfect. So you. I mean, Tracey looked like she was about to cry and throw you a baby shower in the same breath."

Amelia groaned and buried her face back into his hoodie. "She's going to buy so many pastel things. I'm not emotionally equipped for pastel."

Lando laughed. "We'll make a blacklist. No tulle. No gingham. No text that says 'Born to race' or anything cringe like that."

Amelia was quiet for a moment. "Do you think it's okay we're doing this now?"

He didn't ask what this meant. He knew.

The baby. The life. The shift. The permanence of it all.

"I think it's us," he said simply. "And I think whatever that ends up looking like is okay."

She let out a breath. "I don't know how to do any of it. Not even the parts people think I'm supposed to be good at. I couldn't find the dish towels today."

"That's what the box labels are for."

"And you?"

"I'm just here to kiss you when your brain melts and tell you you're brilliant anyway."

She finally looked up at him again. Her eyes were tired — not with sadness, just the fatigue of too much change all at once. But they were also soft. "You're annoying," she said.

"What, being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly handsome is annoying now?" He teased.

"You're a good human weighted blanket, so I won't argue with that."

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "It's a privilege, honestly."

They lay there for a while, the hum of Monaco outside their windows, the buzz of city life just distant enough to feel like background music. Inside, it was soft. Warm. Familiar.

Eventually, Amelia whispered, "We really live here now."

Lando tightened his arms around her. "Yeah, we do."

"And we're gonna have a baby here."

"Mmhm."

"I have to start nesting. Like... soon."

"Tell me what you want built. I'll blackmail Charles and make him do it."

She laughed quietly against his chest, a sound full of exhaustion and affection.

Then, softer, almost to herself, "I think I'm happy."

Lando didn't say anything right away. He just turned his head and kissed her temple again, slow and sure, before whispering into her skin, "I know."

—

The morning had not been kind.

Amelia had thrown up twice before she even made it out of bed, once more in the sink when the smell of coffee drifted through the apartment. Her stomach had settled into that weird, hovering nausea, not quite sick, but never okay, and everything around her felt a little too much.

Too bright.

Too loud.

Too far from stillness.

The apartment was still full of half-unpacked boxes. One of them had exploded into a mess of packing peanuts by the bookshelf because Lando had tripped over it while trying to carry a lamp. That had made her laugh, for a moment. But now even that memory felt distant and staticky.

She hadn't eaten anything. Her body felt too heavy and too floaty at the same time.

So she wandered into the room off the living room and stood in the doorway, barefoot and still in one of Lando's shirts, staring at the swing.

The sensory swing hung from a reinforced hook in the ceiling, an enclosed hammock-style cocoon of soft dark grey fabric.

She hadn't used it yet.

But now... now she needed to be held by something.

Amelia walked over slowly, pulled the soft stretch of the fabric down, and climbed inside like she was folding herself into a shell. It wrapped around her shoulders, her hips, her knees. A full-body compression hug.

She let herself swing gently, letting the quiet motion do what words and plans and spreadsheets couldn't. The light filtered through the gauzy curtain. The outside world muffled. The only sound was her breathing.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Her muscles finally, finally relaxed.

And then, maybe because the relief was so sharp in contrast to how awful she'd felt all morning, or maybe because everything just hit all at once, Amelia cried.

Just soft tears slipping down the sides of her face into the swing's fabric as her body unclenched. She didn't even try to stop them. Didn't need to understand them. Her hands cradled the soft swell of her lower belly as she rocked gently in the cocoon, the comfort so complete it almost hurt.

The motion, the weightlessness, the compression; it was like someone had pressed a reset button on her nervous system.

"I love you very much," she whispered, hand on her stomach, words falling into the soft dark of the swing. "Even if you are already making me throw up five times a day." She gave a little wet laugh. Then sniffled. Then rocked some more.

Eventually, Lando peeked his head around the doorframe.

He didn't say anything. He saw her there, bundled up like a sleepy moth, puffy-eyed and peaceful, and his whole expression softened.

"You good, baby?" He asked gently.

She nodded, still sniffling, half-smiling. "It works."

He smiled back. "Good" He walked over and pressed a kiss to the fabric where her shoulder must've been, still swaying. "Want toast when you come out?"

"Only if it's with the nice jam. The apricot one we got from the market last weekend."

"Anything you want. We're celebrating the swings debut, after all."

"Dramatic." She said.

"I know," he grinned.

And then he left her to swing, warm, wrapped up, and for the first time all day — completely okay.

February 2024

Amelia woke to the smell of espresso and something sweet (cinnamon, maybe) and the distinct sound of someone failing, very quietly, not to clatter around in the kitchen.

She blinked, groggy, and rolled over to find Lando's side of the bed empty. A sliver of warm morning light streamed in through the curtains. The apartment smelled like flowers and coffee and... possibly burning toast.

By the time she made it out of bed, hair a mess, t-shirt halfway sliding off one shoulder, she found him standing in front of the kitchen island, proudly staring at a tray of slightly overdone croissants, a half-burnt omelet, and a mug that said engineers do it with precision.

He turned the second he heard her. "Don't say anything," he warned, waving a spatula at her. "This is a labour of love."

"I can see that," she said, amused. "How's the toast?"

"Charcoal adjacent."

She padded over and leaned into his side, arms looping gently around his middle. "Morning."

Lando pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Happy birthday, baby."

He guided her over to the table, where a small stack of wrapped gifts sat beside her laptop — one of them unmistakably from Oscar if the cartoon scribble on the tag was anything to go by. Another looked suspiciously like it had been wrapped by Max's girlfriend Celeste, given the glittery ribbon and note that just said DO NOT OPEN NEAR ZAK.

"Did you do all this this morning?" Amelia asked, eyeing the slightly lopsided croissants.

"Well," he said, handing her the mug, "I tried to sneak out of bed early. But then you curled up in the blankets and made that sleepy sound you make and I lost, like, twenty minutes just watching you sleep."

Amelia sipped the coffee. Ugh. Decaf. "Weirdo."

"Your weirdo."

They sat together, eating what they could salvage of the breakfast. Lando gave her a small, leather-bound notebook for scribbling car notes (with custom embossing: A. Norris, Race Strategist / Best Mummy Ever). She rolled her eyes, but she didn't stop smiling.

Later, while she was cleaning up plates, he appeared behind her with one last gift, this one small and velvet. Her breath hitched when he opened it. A pendant: a tiny silver disk with a barely-there engraving.

A heartbeat. The one they'd seen on the ultrasound.

"I wanted you to have something that was just... for you," he said quietly.

She touched the charm gently, thumb brushing the engraving. "I love it," she said, voice slightly wobbly.

He kissed her temple again, arms wrapping around her. "I love you."

The rest of the day was full of small joys; visits from friends, a video call with her mom, cupcakes delivered from a café Oscar insisted was life-changing. Max and Celeste swung by with a gift bag full of baby-safe skincare and a framed photo of the four of them.

At one point, her dad had messaged her.

Happy birthday, kiddo. Love you so much. See you soon.

To which Amelia replied.

Love you too.

That night, after the guests had left and the candles had flickered low, Amelia found herself curled up in her sensory swing by the window, legs folded up under her, pendant resting in the middle of her collarbones. Lando lay on the sofa nearby, watching her with quiet contentment.

"I think this was one of my best birthdays," she said softly.

He smiled. "Even with the burnt toast?"

She nodded. "Especially with the burnt toast." And then, after a pause, "Next year, we'll have someone else around to help us celebrate."

Lando's eyes softened. "Next year," he echoed.

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2024 F1 Grid

George R.

Welcome to the 2024 rookies!

Oh wait.

LOL.

Nevermind

Lando N.

Someone get this man a rookie asap

Charles L.

Bro we are all still here 💀

Alex A.

Just the same 20 people trying not to crash into each other

Esteban O.

Consistency is key 😂

Oscar P.

George is out here welcoming imaginary friends

Carlos S.

Rookie of the year is the Ferrari catering team

Lewis H.

I vote my physio as rookie of the year tbh

Yuki T.

I still feel like a rookie emotionally 😮‍💨

Fernando A.

I feel younger every season 😎

George R.

Ok ok I made one mistake

I was being polite

What if someone snuck in overnight. Like a stealth rookie

Pierre G.

Bro this isn't among us

Max V.

Let him live he tried ✋

Lando N.

He tried and failed. Spectacularly

George R.

Blocked. All of you. I'm blocking all of you.

—

The main presentation hall at the MTC was cold, the hush of anticipation a physical thing. Staff, engineers, drivers, media teams, and execs milled around in soft clumps, all eyes drawn to the shrouded figure on the platform. Silver satin draped across carbon fibre; sleek, taut, and humming with promise.

Amelia stood off to one side, arms crossed over her chest, one foot tucked behind the other like she was bracing herself against something invisible.

It was familiar, this room. She'd stood in it a dozen times. But this time was different.

This was her car.

She heard footsteps and didn't have to look to know it was Lando. He came to stand beside her, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, gaze fixed on the covered car like it might move if he blinked.

"It looks like a spaceship," he murmured.

"It's as complex as one," she said simply.

He grinned. "I'm gonna drive a spaceship."

"You're going to win in it."

Her dad walked out onto the stage, some carefully crafted speech on hand, but Amelia barely registered it. Her ears rang with something heavier; a low, surging pressure that sat in her chest and refused to settle.

She heard her name, heard Zak referencing her as lead technical design engineer on the project, and the soft ripple of polite applause. She didn't move. Didn't blink.

When the cover was pulled back and the MCL38-AN was finally exposed under the lights. Lean, mean, shimmering with graphite and papaya — the room went reverently silent.

It was beautiful. Sharp and elegant and mean in all the right places.

And hers.

Her hands trembled slightly where they were folded. Lando noticed. He reached down, laced his fingers through hers without saying anything. She didn't look at him, but she held on.

Oscar appeared at her other side, chewing a protein bar. "It looks fast," he said through his mouthful.

"It is fast," Amelia replied, deadpan.

He nodded. "Good. I hate slow cars. Bad for my numbers."

Lando snorted. "Your numbers are fine."

"I want more numbers."

Amelia ignored them both. Her eyes were fixed on the low spoiler, the curve of the side-pod, the subtle detailing near the rear suspension she'd fought tooth and nail to implement — backed up by three sleepless weeks of CFD simulations and one argument with the floor design team that she'd very nearly won with sheer stubbornness alone.

"Do you want to go look at it up close?" Lando asked, gentle.

Amelia shook her head. "Not yet."

He didn't press. Just stayed beside her as people filtered forward. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs strobed. Somewhere, someone asked Oscar to smile more. Zak was already doing a walk-around with Sky Sports.

But Amelia stayed back, hand in Lando's, watching as her car, her beautiful, terrifying, finely-tuned monster, greeted the world for the first time.

Finally, Lando leaned in, voice low against her ear. "I'm so proud of you."

Her mouth twitched, just a little. "I know," she said.

Then, after a beat, "I'm proud of me too."

—

There were two weeks until they were due to fly out to Bahrain for testing.

The smell of carbon composite and metal dust still clung to the air. Most of the lights had been dimmed in the engineering wing of the McLaren Technology Centre, but not in Bay 2. Bay 2 was lit up like a crime scene — bright, clinical, unrelenting.

And Amelia was pacing.

"You changed the front wing flow guide without flagging it to me." Her voice was flat, but her tone cut sharp enough to peel paint. "It's not a minor tweak. It alters the pressure delta across the entire front third of the car."

Across the table, three senior aero engineers; experienced, respected, and visibly nervous, stood their ground, albeit quietly. One of them, Benji, cleared his throat.

"We didn't go behind your back," he said carefully. "It was discussed at the Friday meeting—"

"I wasn't at the Friday meeting," she snapped. "I was with Oscar for simulator calibration. You knew that."

"We had to lock a version in for pre-season aero scanning," said another engineer, trying to be the reasonable one. "You were behind schedule finalising the nose cone parameters—"

"I was behind schedule," Amelia repeated, eyebrows arching dangerously, "because I was rewriting your cooling duct schema so it wouldn't explode in Bahrain."

Silence.

Lando stood quietly just inside the doorway, arms crossed, watching. He wasn't saying anything — yet. But his eyes never left Amelia.

"You've added drag," she said after a beat. "I ran the updated airflow map through CFD myself after I saw the render. It introduces wake turbulence at high yaw, and we already struggle with straight-line pace. You've made us slower on the straights to gain — what? Four points of front downforce?"

"Four points could help balance in the high-speed corners," Benji offered.

"At the expense of the entire overtaking window!" Amelia barked. "You want Lando and Oscar to defend for twenty laps in DRS zones with a car that drags like a parachute because you like the numbers it spits out on paper?"

Someone muttered something; too low to catch. Amelia's head snapped around like a hawk.

"Say it louder," she said. "You clearly thought it was clever enough the first time."

The engineer paled slightly. "I just said... maybe you're too attached to this design."

Lando stepped in before Amelia could respond.

"No, see, here's the thing," he said, tone deceptively easy. "You don't get to say that. Because her attachment? That's why this car is visibly better than last year's. She is the reason why we had the third-fastest chassis on average post-Zandvoort last year. Because she gives a shit. And if Amelia says it's wrong? Then it's wrong."

The room froze. One of the engineers swallowed hard.

Amelia, though, didn't say anything for a full five seconds. She just stood there, arms folded, staring down the table like she was willing the numbers to change.

Then, calmly, "You're reverting to the previous design."

"We can't. Not until—"

"I'll update the approval file myself," she continued. "I want the renders sent back through me. If you're going to make changes to a car with my name on it, you'll run it by me first. Not the group chat. Not Zak. Not the test team. Me."

Stillness.

Eventually, Benji nodded, his jaw tight. "Alright."

She left the bay without another word, her footfalls even, deliberate. Lando followed a few paces behind, catching up only once they hit the corridor.

"You didn't have to jump in," she muttered.

"I know," he said. "But I wanted to."

They reached the elevator. Amelia punched the call button too hard.

"They're not wrong," she said quietly, not looking at him. "I am too attached."

Lando nodded. "Yeah. And that's why you're the only one I trust with it."

—

The hum of the wind tunnel was a low, constant growl behind the soundproof glass. Screens lined the wall of the operations room, flooded with live data — airflow vectors, pressure maps, drag coefficients, temperatures.

Amelia sat perfectly still in the front row, staring at the monitor.

The numbers were wrong.

Not wildly, not catastrophically. Just... wrong enough.

Behind her, the aero lead, one of the few who hadn't been at the shouting match in the engineering bay days before, was going over test notes in a too-cheerful voice. "And that's run twelve with the revised front-wing guide and standard rear beam. A bit of turbulence in the crosswind scenario, but nothing unmanageable."

Amelia's fingers twitched against the armrest of her chair.

Zak stepped in beside her. "They've already locked the transport containers for Bahrain," he said in a low voice. "The old spec wouldn't make it through the scans in time."

"I know," Amelia said without looking at him.

"We'll revert before Melbourne," Zak added. "That's the plan."

"I know."

She said it again, like repetition might dull the edge.

Zak hesitated. "I get it. I do. But it's one race."

"It's the first race," Amelia said quietly. "It sets the baseline. The whole development curve starts from that data. Every upgrade, every refinement — it's all going to skew unless we compensate."

Zak didn't argue. He didn't need to. They both knew she was right.

But it didn't matter.

Because the parts were packed, the plane was leaving in 48 hours, and the wrong spec was going to touch asphalt in Bahrain.

She stood abruptly. The chair creaked as it slid back.

"Amelia," Zak said. "I know this is hard for you."

She turned, her voice clipped but steady. "It's not hard. It's inefficient."

And she left the room.

—

The lights were low. Her desk lamp cast a soft amber glow across a table full of design sheets and scribbled notes, crossed-out margins, red-circled flaws, annotations that no one else in the department could read but her.

Her iPad was open to the Bahrain track layout. She wasn't crying — not even close. But her jaw was clenched hard enough to ache. Her hands flexed, restless, unable to do anything.

She hated that feeling.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Go away," she said without looking.

It opened anyway.

Lando leaned in, holding two takeaway drinks. "I come bearing peace offering. Decaf vanilla chai for my beautiful, smart wife."

She didn't move.

"I know," he said gently. "It sucks."

"I'm not angry anymore," she said.

He gave her a look. "Don't lie to me, baby."

She finally looked up, and he crossed the room to set the drink beside her keyboard.

"I spent a year making it perfect," she murmured.

Lando touched her shoulder. "And it still will be."

Amelia looked back at her notes. "I hate being forced to let something go when I know I'm right," she said. "Just because I'm one person versus an entire team — and I know that it's not fair to expect them to just blindly trust everything I say, but it makes me so mad.'

"Okay," he whispered. "Time to go home, I think."

—

"Do you need six pairs of sunglasses?" Amelia asked, holding Lando's McLaren duffel open.

Lando didn't even look up from where he was rolling socks. "Yes."

"You only have two eyes."

"It's called fashion, baby."

She rolled her eyes and shoved the sunglasses back in, making sure the soft case separated the orange-tinted pair from the purple ones, because God forbid they get scratched.

Their bedroom looked like a tornado had touched down; open suitcases, half-folded clothes, a stack of electronics chargers that Amelia had labeled with colour-coded cable ties two seasons ago and still didn't trust Lando to keep organised.

Her own packing was... slower. More deliberate. She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her own suitcase, a checklist open on her iPad and a faint, lingering wave of nausea rising every few minutes like a passive-aggressive tide.

"Are you sure you're okay to fly?" Lando asked for the third time that afternoon.

Amelia clicked her Apple Pencil against her teeth. "I'm pregnant, not ill."

"Still."

"I have packed ginger chews and compression socks."

He looked up. "You hate ginger chews."

"I also hate throwing up at 30,000 feet. Sometimes compromise is necessary."

He grinned. "That's very mature of you."

Amelia waved vaguely in the direction of the ensuite. "Can you grab the skincare bag? Not the one with my regular stuff — the one with the unscented moisturiser that doesn't make me gag."

"Yes, your highness."

She threw a sock at his head.

The packing process stalled every few minutes for various reasons: Amelia needed a snack; Lando forgot where he'd put his phone; Amelia remembered she hadn't downloaded the Bahrain telemetry files onto her personal iPad; Lando insisted on reorganising his racing gloves by colour.

Eventually, Amelia sat back with a soft groan, rubbing a hand over her belly. Not that there was much to feel yet, no bump, just the persistent hum of her body shifting quietly into something new.

She felt... heavy. But not in a bad way. Just full of lists, of responsibilities, of life. Literally.

"Hey," Lando said gently, crouching in front of her. "You okay?"

She nodded, slow. "Yeah. Just... tired. Everything feels like it takes twenty-percent more effort."

"You want to skip testing?"

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "Lando."

"I'm just saying—"

"No. Don't even suggest that. I need to be there for Oscar and I want to be there for the cars first proper run. I have to see how it holds up."

He smiled softly. "Just checking. That's my job now, remember? Worrying about you."

Amelia's expression softened. "I'm fine. I'm just slower than usual. I'll sit. I'll drink plenty of water."

Lando stood and offered her a hand, helping her up off the floor with the ease of long practice. They zipped the last suitcase together, and she stared at the organised chaos around them with a long, contemplative sigh.

"Think this baby is gonna like Bahrain?" She murmured.

He shrugged. "Hot. Loud. Feels like it's already genetically predisposed that baby is not going to have a good time."

She laughed, quietly, the sound curling in her throat.

They were flying out in the morning. Testing started two days after that. And in a few more weeks, the  2024 season would roar to life; full throttle, no mercy, no brakes.

But for now, there were just bags and chargers and familiar, cluttered rhythms. And them.

Just them.

For now.

[ineedpaigebuckets]

Hey! Can you do paige playing fortnite but azzi wants her to come to bed and gets a little offended, so paige ends up picking azzi up to have her on her lap and continues

come to bed

“paige.”

azzi said her name softly from the doorway, her voice laced with just enough irritation to be heard over the tinny crackle of gunfire and chaotic shouting through paige’s headset. she was in one of paige’s old hoodies, oversized and swallowing her frame, the sleeves pulled over her hands like she always did when she was tired and a little cold. her hair was damp from a shower, her legs bare, face sleepy. she looked like home.

but paige didn’t turn around.

she was hunched forward on the edge of her gaming chair, fingers moving rapidly over the controller, headset slightly askew, eyes flickering over the screen like her life depended on it.

“yo, build—build!” she shouted, completely immersed. “they’re pushing from the left—bro, i said left!”

azzi crossed her arms. waited a beat. the said her name again—firmer this time.

“paige.”

nothing but a distracted, half-hearted hum in response.

azzi blinked. leaned her shoulder into the doorframe. “it’s literally one in the morning.”

still nothing. paige leaned even closer to the screen, jaw clenched in determination. the little LED lights from the monitor flickered across her face, casting her in blues and purples and oranges. she muttered something under her breath, the controller clacking in her hands.

azzi let the silence hang. just long enough.

“i’ve been waiting in bed for almost half an hour,” she said finally, voice quieter now. edged with something more vulnerable, like the princess she is. “but clearly i’m not as fun as—what is it?—fortnite duos with kk.”

that got paige’s attention.

her eyes flicked sideways toward azzi just for a second, as if she’d only just realized she was there at all. then back to the screen.

“i’m almost done,” she mumbled. “top five.”

azzi didn’t respond. just shifted her weight and turned to go. not dramatically—just quietly. tired. the kind of disappointment that didn’t announce itself but lived in your spine. paige heard it anyway. heard it in the sound of azzi’s socked footsteps turning away, the pause at the end of the hall before she disappeared back into their bedroom.

paige sighed.

“yo,” she said into her mic, “i gotta get off after this one.”

riley groaned. “bro, we’re about to win.”

“yeah, and i’m about to lose my girlfriend. priorities, man.”

she disconnected two minutes later—didn’t even wait to see if they won. the second she turned the console off, the room felt too quiet. too cold. she stood slowly, stretched, then padded down the hall in her sweats and socks.

azzi was lying on her side in bed, facing the wall. the covers were pulled high, and her shoulders were curled up tight. she didn’t say anything when paige walked in.

paige didn’t say anything either. not at first.

she just climbed up behind her, blanket rustling, and wrapped her arms around azzi’s waist. pressed her chest to her back and kissed the spot where her shoulder met her neck.

“you mad?” she whispered.

“no.”

a pause.

then azzi added, “you just ignored me for forty minutes.”

paige winced. kissed her again. “i didn’t mean to. i just—got locked in.”

azzi didn’t respond.

paige shifted, tucked a leg between azzi’s. “you know i’d pick you over any game, right?”

“but you didn’t.”

that stung. paige rested her forehead against the back of azzi’s neck, breathed her in. “i know. and i’m sorry.”

she waited. azzi didn’t move.

so paige slowly slid her hand under azzi’s hoodie, warm palm pressing over her stomach. her touch was soft. tentative. but familiar.

“i missed you,” she murmured. “you looked so cute in my hoodie, i almost rage quit on the spot.”

azzi finally shifted then, just a little, not turning fully around but letting her fingers wrap around paige’s where they rested over her ribs. paige smiled into her shoulder.

“you’re still mad,” she said gently.

“i’m not—mad. i just…” azzi exhaled. “i wait for you all day. and then you come home and stare at a screen.”

paige sat up slowly behind her.

then, without warning, she leaned down, slid an arm beneath azzi’s knees and the other under her back, and lifted her straight off the bed.

“paige—what are you doing—”

“fixing it.”

azzi squirmed half-heartedly in her arms. “you’re literally insane.”

“yep,” paige said, grinning as she carried her out of the bedroom, “crazy in love.”

“stop.”

paige lowered herself back into her gaming chair with azzi now curled in her lap, legs folded over one side, torso pressed to hers. she reached for the blanket off the back of the chair and draped it around them both. azzi blinked at her, trying not to smile.

paige tucked the blanket around them like it was instinct, like she’d done it a thousand times before, and maybe she had. azzi settled in slowly—tentative at first, like she was still deciding whether she was mad or not—but her body relaxed the second paige’s arms wrapped fully around her waist.

“you’re ridiculous,” azzi muttered, letting her head fall against paige’s shoulder.

“you love it,” paige said, kissing the crown of her head.

“unfortunately.”

paige grinned and nudged her softly. “okay. you’re here now. might as well learn how to play.”

“no, thank you,” azzi mumbled into her collarbone. “i’m just here for the free heat and the apology cuddles.”

paige chuckled. “uh-uh. no freeloaders allowed. if you’re in the chair, you’re in the game.”

“that’s not a rule.”

“it is now.”

azzi huffed a long, dramatic sigh. “fine. but only because i want to beat you eventually.”

“bold of you to assume you could.”

“bold of you to ignore me for forty minutes.”

paige winced. “ouch. okay, deserved.”

she reached for the controller and guided azzi’s hands over it, gently repositioning her fingers. her touch lingered with every adjustment—thumb grazing over azzi’s knuckle, palm smoothing over the back of her hand as she moved it into place.

“this one makes you jump,” she said softly, speaking just against azzi’s ear now. “and this one shoots. don’t mix them up, or you’ll jump into bullets instead of dodging them.”

“sounds like something you would do.”

“excuse me, have done. multiple times. i own it.”

azzi smirked and let her thumb press down hesitantly. her character spun in a slow, clumsy circle on the screen.

“oh god,” she whispered. “i’m terrible.”

“no, you’re adorable. it’s very different.”

paige’s arms were still around her, chin hooked over azzi’s shoulder, their legs tangled underneath the blanket. she wasn’t even pretending to give her personal space. she was fully wrapped around her like she needed all points of contact activated just to function. azzi didn’t mind. not even a little.

“okay,” azzi muttered, eyes focused on the screen, “so how do i move?”

“left stick forward. right stick to look around. try to aim and shoot at that guy.”

“which guy?”

“that one—by the bush. yeah. shoot!”

azzi pressed the wrong trigger. her character threw a grenade at her own feet and launched herself into a tree.

paige laughed so hard she snorted.

“i can’t believe you just blew yourself up ten seconds into the game.”

“i panicked!” azzi cried, mock-offended. “you were breathing on me!”

“you like when i breathe on you.”

“not when i’m holding a weapon!”

they both dissolved into laughter, azzi twisting in her lap just enough to look at her, their foreheads almost bumping together. paige was grinning like her whole chest hurt from it, eyes soft and full and impossibly in love.

“you’re so bad at this,” paige whispered, leaning in.

“and yet,” azzi murmured, inching forward, “you’re still obsessed with me.”

“yeah,” paige said, brushing their noses together. “weird how that works.”

azzi kissed her then—soft and smug and victorious, like she knew exactly what she was doing. paige chased her mouth like a reflex, deepening it for a second before she pulled back with a dazed smile.

“okay,” azzi said, settling against her again. “teach me how to not blow myself up next time.”

“yes ma’am.”

“and no more ignoring me for dumb games.”

“never again.”

“good,” azzi said, pressing her cheek to paige’s shoulder. “but if i get one kill, you owe me a back massage.”

paige looked scandalized. “you haven’t even made it out of the loading screen.”

“i’m manifesting.”

“fine. and if you don’t get a kill?”

“then you still owe me a back massage.”

“wow.”

“you knew who i was when you picked me up.”

“yeah,” paige said, letting her fingers trace lazy circles over azzi’s thigh beneath the blanket. “and i’d pick you every time.”

[avenging-fandoms]

SHOWER FUCK WITH JOEL

this is way more than a shower fuck, but it is in here! i just love joel and made it long and slow burny :')

-

Jackson hasn't always been your plan, but that's where you'll live with Joel and Ellie for the time being. You've been with them for a few years and enjoyed helping Joel out when he needed it and keeping an eye on Ellie because she needed it, sometimes it was easier to come to you with certain issues. You knew you couldn't stay with them, it was too dangerous.

Joel thought there was no time for love in the apocalypse, and he sure as hell shouldn't risk the heartbreak of possibly losing them. He already went through a terrible one and is doing his damndest to not go through it again.

Then you came along.

A mixture of dry and wet leaves give you away beneath your feet as you head through woods, trying to find somewhere to rest. You had been walking, sprinting and running from many different people and things.

You find a big tree and let out a loud sigh, letting your back hit the bark and you fall slowly to the dirt. Your muscles burn as they finally rest after miles of walking, your eyelids fighting to close. You gave up, letting them shut and finally feeling relaxed.

Click.

"Wake up," A deep voice commands. You shoot your eyes open and jump, gasping loudly as the barrel of a gun points at your nose, your hands immediately going up. "Who are you?"

"I-I-I I just needed a place to rest, I've been running from these people who-" The man shifts his weight, adjusting his grip. "My name is Y/N, I just want to sleep," you say exasperated.

Your fingers tremble in the air, the brown haired man dropping his weapon after staring at scanning his eyes over you for a minute. You were clearly younger than Joel but a little older than Ellie. "Are these people far behind?"

You nod a little too quickly. "They're days behind, I'm quick on my feet." A small curve forms from the corner of your lip and the burly man's eyes follow it, then falling to his shoes.

"We need sleep too, you can sleep with us for the night, then we'll split in the mornin'," the man says tiredly and you nod. "I'm Joel, and that's Ellie." He nods to the young teen, her hand giving a small wave and a warm smile on her face. "You two go on 'head and sleep, I'll take first watch."

"Thank you, Joel. Thank you so much." Tears nearly burst out at your gratefulness for a peaceful sleep. You set up a sleeping area, wasting no time getting as comfortable as you can and closing your eyes.

"Do you have to leave her, Joel? Why can't she come with us?" Ellie asks and your eyes open a bit to see Joel sitting, Ellie standing over him with her hands on her hips. "She seems nice."

"Yeah, seems, Ellie, we don't know her," Joel quietly snaps back and the teen rolls her eyes.

"Well, you seem like an asshole but you're not all that bad. I gave you a chance and you gave me one, right?" Joel looks at Ellie, who gives him a shit-eating grin.

"Go to bed, Ellie. You need your rest," Joel commands and Ellie salutes. You close your eyes again and Ellie sets up a few feet away from you, and the two of you get a restful sleep.

Joel knocks on the door but enters without an answer. "Hey, I'm heading to the bar, did you want to tag along?"

You lay on your bed on your stomach reading your recent find, looking up at the salt and pepper haired man. "A drink sounds fantastic." You mark your page and hop off, grabbing your shoes.

Joel chuckles low in his chest. "Alright, I'll be downstairs waiting for ya, sweetheart. No rush." He nods before leaving. You hide a squeal and put on a tank top with jeans and your sneakers, the warm Spring weather creeping up. You head down after a few minutes and Joel greets you downstairs with a half smile.

"I was worried you'd leave without me," You sigh with a step on the floor. Joel shakes his head and offers his arm, to which you wrap your arm under his and hold his bicep as you two walk to the bar.

Joel holds the door open for you and you thank him with a curtsey, earning another laugh. You two settle at table by the window, ordering two shots and two whiskey neats.

You hold up the tiny glass, looking at Joel. "To teenagehood- why parents drink." Joel finally lets out a real laugh and you can't help but join in.

"I'll sure as hell cheers to that." He picks up his glass and looks at you, a small sparkle in his eye. "To Ellie, to you, to me," He adds on.

You grin and clink your glasses, faces twisting as the liquid burns down your throat. "Oh, how I needed that shot," you groan, Joel shaking his head with a smile as he crosses his arms.

"Are you liking it here?" Joel asks and sips his whiskey and you mimic his move, taking a bigger sip.

"It's really nice, the people are really nice," You begin, holding your glass with both hands as you stare at the brown liquid, "I've been meaning to.. talk to you."

Joel's eyes find yours but you can't look at him. "Is everything okay? You alright?"

You nod, glancing at his face. "Yes, Joel, I'm fine. I just think I should.." your eyes dart around the table, landing on his broken watch. "I think I should leave Jackson."

Joel's ears started to ring. There it is, he thought. The reason I didn't want her around — when she leaves, it'll break me.

"I, uhm," Joel mumbles, chewing on his lip. "If that's what you want, I can't stop you." He takes a sip once more.

You stare at him, trying to find words, but you had nothing. You wanted him to say more, you thought you two had been getting along. You wanted him to wish you well, maybe even try to stop you.

The whiskey in your glass is gone in an instant and you set it on the table. "I'm going home. Thanks for the drink," you grumble, squealing the legs of the chair on the floor as you stand up and leave, the bell dinging above your head.

Joel stares down and watches as he swirls his liquor around his glass, the only thought racing through his mind being you. When he found you, when he got hurt and you healed him, when you got hurt and he helped you heal, all the small moments.

He finishes his drink and pays, following you back to the house. His heavy boots carry him inside where he kicks them off by the door, heading up the stairs, hearing the shower turn on. Ellie was on patrol so he knew it was you and he knocks a few times.

You open the door, steam pouring out as you stand in front of Joel in your tank top and underwear, Joel's Adam's apple bobs as he realizes your pants are behind you on the tile.

"Y/N.. I don't.." He takes a step closer, hand twitching by his side as it aches to touch you, to hold your face. His big brown eyes lock with yours, and he reaches up to cup your cheek and runs his thumb over the smooth flesh. "I don't want you to go, sweetheart."

Joel's voice starts to break and your body starts to melt. You lean your face into his calloused hand, smoothing your hand up his arm and holding the back of his hand that held you. "Joel.."

"I can't lose you, Y/N," He starts, eyes memorizing every last inch of you in case it is the last time. "I didn't want you around, but goddamn it, sweetheart I'm wrapped around your finger. I've dreamed about you, how happy you make me. I didn't want to admit it because I didn't want to lose you, but now I'm losing you, and I need you to know.. I need you to stay." Joel pushes his fingers to hold behind your neck, his thumb running along your jaw with his nose brushing against yours. "Stay with me, Y/N," He pleads in a broken whisper.

He tilts your head up and your fingers grip his flannel, pulling him into the bathroom as you slam your lips on his. He growls and closes the door behind him, your fingers desperately undoing the buttons and pushing it to the floor, gripping his exposed biceps.  

His rough hands explore your body, pushing his hands into your underwear and gripping your ass, kissing you roughly and placing you on the counter. His tongue pokes at your lips and you part them slightly, Joel audibly moaning as your tongues press together. 

“Y'taste so good, sweetheart,” He breathes, peppering kisses down your neck, his large hand pulling your hips forward. Joel pushes the tight tank top over your head, pushing his hands up your bare back and gripping your hair from underneath. A gasp escapes your throat when he tugs your head back, giving him a clear view of your bare torso.

Only it wasn't bare. There was a bite mark on your ribs, but it was healed, like Ellie's. You forgot it was there until you feel Joel's fingers run over it and you start to breath heavy, trying to break from his grasp but he shushes you.

"You're alright, baby, I won't hurt ya," Joel says, assurance laced in his voice as he presses his body to yours. Joel arches your body up and finds the bite again, tracing it lightly with his finger. "You're immune?"

You shrug. "My cousin and I got in contact with spores. She turned, I didn't. It doesn't make sense to me either, I know the vaccines before this whole thing didn't make me immune," You shrug and Joel twists your body, placing his lips tenderly on the scar and he feels your rib contract. You inhale a shaky breath. "I didn't want to tell you and risk people finding out there's two, and they kill you to take us." He kisses every inch of the scar and hums in understanding, curling his fingers into your underwear and pulling them off your body, tucking them in his shirt pocket with a wink.

"Better not keep wasting that water." Joel stands with a smirk and you eagerly pull off his shirt, licking your lips with a devilish smile. You rip out his belt and hop off the counter, opening the shower curtain. "Y'better wait for me, sweetheart," The man warns and you step in, humming as the warm water hits your body.

Joel drops his jeans and throws his socks in the pile, ripping open the curtain. "I couldn't waste anymore water." You watch the water fall down Joel's grey hair, down his neck and chest, and you stop at his belly button.

He grabs your neck again, kissing you desperately and curling his body into yours. Your arms snake around his neck, grabbing his curls in your knuckles. Joel's hands massage your ass, his fingers teasingly brushing against your pussy.

"Joel.." you whimper against his mouth. He pulls away from the kiss and grabs the bottle of shampoo, squirting some into his hands and scrubbing it in your hair.

"You were gonna take a shower, right?" He gives you a half smile and you roll your eyes, enjoying his fingers massaging your scalp. You switch places and tilt your head back with your eyes closed, rinsing the shampoo out.

Joel stared at you like you were prey, ready to pounce and feed every ounce of his body that missed the feeling of someone else, devouring you until he was satisfied.

His left palm rests on your neck, his pinky keeping your head up but careful enough not to get water on your face. His right hand smooths over your chest, toying with each nipple, pushing a finger slightly into your stomach as he falls down to your clit.

You exhale a moan when he rubs your clit between his fingers, the tips of his fingers moving the sensitive bud in small, slow circles. You try to look at him but he pushes his hand up higher, keeping your head up as he slides his fingers inside of you.

"There y'go, sweetheart, let me hear ya," Joel breathes as your moans dance in his ears, your foot resting on the edge of the tub. His fingers pump faster, dropping his left hand to move on your clit. Your moans grow louder and you grab on the metal bar for support, your eyes fighting to stay open as your orgasm quickly approaches.

"Joel.. wait," you gasp and grab his wrist, stopping his movements and dropping your wobbly leg. You kiss him gently and fall to your knees, kissing the tip of his hard, thick cock.

"Oh, sweetheart." The nickname rumbles in his chest and he pushes his fingers through his wet hair, pushing his head back and groaning incredibly loud as you wrap your mouth around his tip. You bob your head slowly, dragging your tip along the bottom of his cock as you pull away. “Baby, I’m gonna cum quick, and I don’t wanna do it in that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Joel has you stand by holding your jaw, kissing you hard and pulling you into his body once more. This wasn’t how he imagined the first time, he imagined being dry, in the bed, taking his time and getting to know you.

That was going to have to wait. Joel hooks his right arm under your knee, holding your leg up and slapping his cock against you. Your fingers find his hair again, his hair falling in his face as he watches his dick push into your pussy slowly.

You push a hand against his chest, shaking as you adjust to the very foreign feeling. "I've got you, sweetheart, you're okay," Joel trembles against your mouth, "Tell me when you're ready."

You press your forehead against his, looking him in his eyes and nodding. Joel's eyes stay locked on yours when he begins to thrust, huffs of air and moans falling from his lips.

You try to kiss him but your lips fall weak and Joel takes the opportunity to bite your swollen bottom lip, and his jaw shortly falls open, left arm wrapping tightly around your back with his nose pressing deep in your neck.

"Sweetheart, I'm not going to last much longer." You whimper in agreement, kissing him passionately as his thrusts quicken. "Oh my stars," Joel grunts as his seed pours into you, pulling your hips down onto him as your body shakes from your orgasm.

Joel pulls out of you slowly and sets you down, holding your face like you could break. "Fuck, Joel," you huff and he laughs, kissing the top of your head and grabbing your conditioner. He quickly puts it in your hair and washes his hair with his shampoo, then washing off your bodies before anymore water was down the drain.

Joel gets out first, wrapping a towel around his waist and opening the curtain, holding the towel open and wrapping you in it to keep you warm. He pecks your nose and takes you to his bedroom, setting you on the bed and getting you another towel for your hair. While you dried off, he went and retrieved the clothes from the bathroom, keeping his flannel in a safe place and changing into sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Here, I know you have clothes but I'd love to see you in my clothes." Joel holds out a flannel and a pair of sweatpants and you happily take them from him. You stand and drop the towel, looking at Joel as you slide the sweatpants on, hands on your hips with your chest still very naked.

"There are a little long, no?" He didn't notice. "I'll just roll them up, they're very comfy." Joel clears his throat when you reach for the flannel, licking his lips as you slide it on.

He walks over to you and grabs the bottom of the shirt, starting with the bottom button and working his way up. He uses this opportunity to tease you; rubbing his fingers with a feather touch against your skin so you shudder, his fingers lingering certain places for a while so you move your body closer to his.

Once you're all dressed, he stands back and bites his lip, nodding. "Even more beautiful as I thought you'd look," Joel mumbles, kissing you slowly. Your hands fall down his bare back, digging the pads of your fingers in to bring him even closer. He pulls away and closes his eyes, moving his nose against yours. "Will you stay with me, Y/N?"

You smile wide and push your fingers in his hair on the back of his head, pecking his lips. "I'll stay with you until the sun stops shining, Joel."

For once in his life after the apocalypse, he believes someone wasn't going to leave him. He believes in you, in you and him, and he'll do everything and anything to keep you and Ellie safe.

[sshnzsr]

YOU’RE THE ONLY GOOD THING IN MY LIFE

warnings: (short) smut, heavy angst, unprotected sex, drug use and addiction, mentions of childhood trauma, grief, mentions of overdose, lmk if I missed anything

wordcount: 4.5k

masterlist

You’re late. Again. Sunghoon checks his watch a limited edition one that cost more than most people’s yearly rent. The lights of the alley across the street flickers, casting shadows on the cracked pavement.

This isn’t his world. It’s yours. A world of deals in dark corners, hushed whispers and the kind of danger that makes his skin crawl.

But he’s here. For you.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from you. “Five minutes. Don’t be mad.” He scoffs, but his lips twitch into a reluctant smile. You always do this push his patience to the edge then reel him back with a single word or touch. He hates how easily you do it. Hates how much he loves it.

Five minutes stretch into ten. He leans against a lamppost, arms crossed.

Park Sunghoon, a lawyer who’s put away cartel bosses and corrupt CEOs, standing in a seedy alley for a woman who’s probably the most wanted name on half the city’s watchlists.

You’re not just a dealer. You’re the dealer. The one they can’t catch. The one who slips through every trap with a smirk and a stash no one can find. It drives the cops insane. It drives Sunghoon insane too but for entirely different reasons.

When you finally appear it’s like the air shifts. You’re in a black leather jacket, tight jeans hugging your thighs and boots that click against the pavement with every step. Your hair is messy, eyes glinting with that wild energy that makes his heart race and his fists clench. You’re trouble. Always have been. But you’re his trouble.

“Hey baby” you drawl, voice low and teasing. You stop a few feet away, hip cocked “Miss me?”

“You’re late” he says, voice clipped. He’s trying to stay composed but the way your lips curl into a knowing smile makes his pulse jump.

“Had to handle some business.” You shrug, stepping closer. The scent of your perfume something cheap and sweet mixed with something sharp like acetone hits him. It’s intoxicating in the worst way. “You gonna lecture me now? Tell me I’m bad for your reputation?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead his eyes scan you, taking in the slight flush on your cheeks, the way your pupils are just a little too wide.

You’re high. Not enough to be sloppy but enough to make his stomach twist. He hates this part of you. The part that drowns in whatever you’re using to cope with the life you’ve chosen. Or maybe the life that chose you. He’s never been sure.

“Don’t start” you say before he can open his mouth. You’re close now, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off you. Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing the lapel of his suit jacket. “I’m here aren’t I? That’s what matters.”

“You’re not yourself when you’re like this” he says, voice low, almost a growl. He grabs your wrist, not hard but firm enough to stop your teasing touch. “I hate it.”

You tilt your head, studying him. For a moment the mask slips and he sees the real you the one who’s tired, who’s carrying a weight no one else can see. “I’m always myself with you Sunghoon” you murmur. “Even when I’m a mess.”

His grip softens but he doesn’t let go. He can’t. Not when you’re looking at him like that, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground. He knows your story or at least the parts you’ve let him see. A childhood spent in shadows, no one to hold you when the world got too heavy. You’ve spent years running from that pain, building an empire out of powders and pills to fill the void. And somehow he’s become your safe place. The one you turn to when the high fades and the world crashes down.

He pulls you closer and you don’t resist. Your body fits against his like it was made to, your head tucking under his chin as you press yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you, one hand resting at the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair. He feels you relax, your breathing slowing as you melt into him. It’s always like this. No matter how far you stray you always come back to him.

“Let’s go home” he says, voice softer now. He’s not talking about his penthouse or your dingy apartment in the underbelly of the city. He’s talking about the space you create together, where the world can’t touch you.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching his face. “You sure you want me there? I’m not exactly… presentable tonight.”

He cups your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “I want you. Always.”

Your lips part like you’re about to argue but then you don’t. Instead you lean up and kiss him. It’s not gentle. It’s hungry, desperate, your teeth grazing his bottom lip as you press yourself closer. He groans into your mouth, hands tightening on your waist as he kisses you back with equal intensity. The alley fades away, the city’s noise drowned out by the sound of your breathing, the feel of your body against his.

You break the kiss first, panting slightly, your forehead resting against his. “Take me home Sunghoon” you whisper. “Make me forget.”

-

Sunghoon’s penthouse is a stark contrast to the alley you met in. Floor to ceiling windows offer a view of the city’s glittering skyline, the kind of view that makes you feel like you’re floating above the chaos. The furniture is sleek, modern, all clean lines and muted colors. It’s a world away from your life of dirty cash and burner phones. But when you’re here sprawled across his king sized bed you fit like you belong there.

He’s shedding his suit jacket as you kick off your boots, the leather jacket already discarded on the floor. You’re watching him, eyes tracking every movement as he loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt. There’s something about seeing him like this polished and perfect but unraveling just for you that makes your blood hum.

“You’re staring” he says, a smirk playing on his lips as he tosses the tie aside.

“Can you blame me?” you shoot back, crawling across the bed toward him. Your jeans are tight, clinging to every curve and you know exactly what you’re doing when you arch your back just a little. His eyes darken, the smirk fading into something hungrier.

He’s on you in an instant, hands gripping your hips as he pulls you to the edge of the bed. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until you can feel the hard line of him through his slacks. He’s already half hard and the thought sends a thrill through you. You love that you do this to him, that you can make the “untouchable” Park Sunghoon lose control.

“Fuck you’re gonna kill me one day” he mutters against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers splaying across your stomach as he pushes the fabric up and over your head. You’re not wearing a bra and his breath hitches when he sees you, bare and unashamed under his gaze.

“Good” you say, voice teasing but laced with need. “At least you’ll die happy.”

He doesn’t bother with a reply. His mouth is on you, kissing a hot path down your throat to your collarbone, then lower. You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair as he takes one nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue until you’re gasping. His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

You tug at his belt, impatient and he chuckles against your skin. “Eager tonight huh?”

“Shut up and fuck me Sunghoon” you say, voice raw. You’re not in the mood for games. Not tonight. You need him to drown out the noise in your head, the weight of the deals you made earlier, the close call with a cop who got too curious. You need him to make you feel something other than the chaos.

He doesn’t make you wait. His pants hit the floor, followed by his boxers and then he’s pulling your jeans off, rough and quick, until you’re both bare. He pauses for a moment, looking down at you like he’s trying to decide where to start. You don’t give him the chance to overthink. You pull him down, kissing him hard, your nails digging into his shoulders as you wrap your legs around him again.

He enters you in one smooth thrust and you both groan at the sensation. He’s thick, stretching you in a way that’s just on the edge of too much but exactly what you need. He doesn’t move right away, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours as he breathes heavily.

“You feel so fucking good” he says, voice low and rough. “Every time.”

“Move” you demand, hips rocking against him, urging him on. He does, pulling back only to thrust in again, setting a rhythm that’s hard and fast, just the way you like it. The bed creaks under you, the headboard thumping against the wall, but you don’t care. All you can focus on is him the way he fills you, the way his hands grip your thighs, the way his eyes lock onto yours like you’re the only thing that matters.

You’re loud, unapologetic, moaning his name as he fucks you deeper, harder. He loves it when you’re like this raw and open, no walls between you. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you cry out as he works you with skilled fingers, pushing you closer to the edge.

“Sunghoon fuck don’t stop” you gasp, nails raking down his back. You’re close, so close and he knows it. He always knows.

“Come for me” he says, voice a low command that sends shivers through you. “Let go.”

And you do. The orgasm hits hard, your vision blurring as pleasure crashes over you in waves. You clench around him, pulling him deeper and he follows you over the edge with a guttural moan, his thrusts stuttering as he spills inside you. For a moment you’re both still, panting, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sweat.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You go willingly, curling into his chest, your breathing still uneven. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek, grounding you. This is what you chase every time the safety of his arms, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, not a criminal with a rap sheet longer than his case files.

“I love you” he says quietly, lips brushing your temple. “No matter what.”

You don’t say it back. You never do. But you press yourself closer, letting his warmth seep into you, chasing away the cold that lingers in your bones. For now it’s enough. For now you’re his and he’s yours and the world outside can wait.

-

You wake with a gasp, heart pounding so hard it hurts. The room is dark, the only light coming from the city’s glow seeping through the curtains. Sunghoon’s penthouse. You’re in his bed, the sheets tangled around your legs, your skin slick with sweat. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, but the dream clings to you, its claws sunk deep. The tears come before you can stop them, hot and silent, streaming down your face as you curl into yourself.

Sunghoon stirs beside you, his arm instinctively reaching for you even in sleep. His hand finds your shoulder and you flinch, the touch too much too soon. His eyes snap open, instantly alert and he’s sitting up in a heartbeat, the sheet falling away from his bare chest. “Hey” he says, voice soft but urgent. “What’s wrong?”

You can’t speak. The words are trapped behind the lump in your throat, the weight of the nightmare still pressing down on you. Instead you turn into him, burying your face in his chest, your tears soaking into his skin. His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, pulling you close as he murmurs your name like a prayer. “I’ve got you” he says, one hand stroking your hair, the other resting at the small of your back. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

You cling to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you try to ground yourself in his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He doesn’t push you to talk, doesn’t ask questions you can’t answer. He just holds you, his lips brushing your temple, your hair, anywhere he can reach. It’s the kind of comfort you never had as a kid, the kind you didn’t know you needed until he gave it to you. And it breaks you open, makes the tears come harder, because you don’t deserve this don’t deserve him but you’re too selfish to let him go.

“I’m sorry” you choke out, voice muffled against his chest. “I’m so fucked up.”

“Shh” he soothes, tightening his hold. “You’re not. You’re here. That’s enough.”

You don’t believe him, but you want to. You want to believe that you’re more than the sum of your scars, more than the deals you’ve made and the lines you’ve crossed. In his arms it feels possible, like you could be someone else someone whole. But the nightmare, the trauma is still there, lurking in the corners of your mind, whispering that you’ll never outrun who you are.

-

This time Sunghoon wakes with a jolt, the bed cold beneath his hand where you should be.

The room is dark, the city’s glow filtering through the curtains, but it’s too quiet. Your absence hits him like a punch to the gut. He sits up, heart racing, scanning the shadows for any sign of you. Your jacket is gone from the floor, your boots missing. His stomach drops.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification. A text from you, sent twenty minutes ago. “I’m sorry. I’ll do it again. I’m so sorry.” The words twist like a knife in his chest. He knows what this means. You’ve run back to the one thing he begged you not to touch. He’s out of bed in seconds, pulling on a shirt and jeans, not bothering with anything else. His keys are in his hand before he’s fully awake, the fear driving him forward.

The drive to your apartment is a blur. City’s streets are quiet at this hour, the neon signs flickering like warnings. Your place is in a part of the city he hates, all cracked sidewalks and boarded up shops, the kind of place where eyes watch from every shadow. He parks haphazardly, not caring about the lines, and takes the stairs to your third floor walk up two at a time. The hallway smells like mildew and burnt plastic and he bangs on your door, the sound echoing in the empty corridor.

No answer.

He tries the knob and it’s unlocked. That alone makes his blood run cold. You never leave your door unlocked.

Not you, the woman who trusts no one, who carries a switchblade in her pocket and knows how to use it.

He pushes the door open, heart in his throat. The apartment is a mess. Empty bottles clutter the counter, a halfeaten takeout container sits on the coffee table and the air is thick with the acrid scent of something chemical. He finds you in the living room, sitting cross legged on the floor by the window, staring out at the city like it’s a painting. The streetlights cast a sickly glow across your face and when you turn to look at him, his breath catches.

You don’t look like you. Your eyes are wide, pupils blown so large there’s barely any color left. Your smile is wrong, too bright, too vacant, like a doll’s. You’re wearing an oversized tshirt, one of his, the hem frayed and slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is tangled, sticking to your sweaty forehead. You look fragile, like a porcelain figure teetering on the edge of a shelf and it scares the shit out of him.

“Sunghoon!” you say, voice high and childlike, nothing like the sultry drawl he’s used to. You clap your hands together, the motion clumsy, like you’re not sure how your body works. “You came! Look, the lights are so pretty tonight. Like stars, but closer.”

He crosses the room in three strides, kneeling in front of you, his hands hovering over your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll break if he touches you. “What did you take?” he asks, voice tight, trying to keep the panic at bay. “Tell me.”

You tilt your head, still smiling, like he’s asked you about the weather. “Just a little something. Makes everything soft. No edges, you know? No bad dreams.” You giggle, but it’s wrong, too high, too brittle. “You’re so serious all the time. Relax, baby.”

He grabs your face gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. “This isn’t you. What was it? Tell me so I can help you.”

Your smile falters, just for a second, and something flickers in your eyes fear, maybe, or shame. But then it’s gone, swallowed by that eerie blankness. “I don’t know” you say, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Found it in a stash. New guy brought it. Said it’s better than the usual. And it is! I feel… new. Like a baby. Everything’s so big and shiny.”

His heart sinks. Something stronger than your usual. He knows what that means. You’ve always been careful, in your own reckless way, sticking to what you know, what you can control. But this this is different. He can see it in the way your hands tremble despite your smile, the way your breathing is too shallow, too fast. He’s seen enough overdose cases in court to know the signs and the thought of you slipping away like this makes him want to scream.

“Stay with me” he says, voice low, urgent. He pulls you to your feet, and you sway, giggling again as you lean into him. He steadies you, one arm around your waist, the other cupping your face. “You’re gonna be okay. I’m gonna take care of you.”

You blink up at him, slow and dazed, like you’re trying to process his words. “You’re always so good to me” you mumble, your voice slurring now. “Why’re you so good? I’m… I’m not good. I’m bad. So bad.”

“You’re not bad” he says, the words fierce, almost a growl. “You’re just lost sometimes. But I’m here. I’m not letting you go.”

He guides you to the couch, sitting you down as he grabs his phone, dialing the one person he trusts to handle this without calling the cops. His friend Heeseung, a doctor who owes him a favor from a case last year. “I need you here now” he says when Heeseung picks up, giving the address. “Overdose risk. Bring what you need. Hurry.”

You’re humming now, a tuneless little melody, your head lolling against the couch. He kneels in front of you again, taking your hands in his. They’re clammy, too cold and he rubs them between his own, trying to warm you up. “Look at me” he says and you do, but your eyes are unfocused, like you’re seeing through him. “You’re gonna be fine. Just stay with me.”

You giggle again, but it turns into a cough, your body shuddering. “I’m sorry” you whisper, the words barely audible. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted it to stop. The dreams. The noise.”

“I know” he says, his throat tight. He pulls you into his lap, cradling you like a child, his arms tight around you. “I know baby. I’m here.”

You curl into him, your body small and fragile in a way he’s never seen before. Your breathing is uneven and he can feel your heart racing against his chest. He’s terrified, more than he’s ever been in his life, but he keeps his voice steady, murmuring reassurances against your hair. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just hold on.”

Heeseung arrives ten minutes later, a black bag in hand, his face grim as he takes in the scene. “What’d she take?” he asks, already pulling out a stethoscope and a vial of something Sunghoon doesn’t recognize.

“Don’t know” Sunghoon says, his voice cracking. “Something new. Stronger than her usual. She’s been like this since I got here.”

Heeseung works fast, checking your pulse, your pupils, asking questions Sunghoon can’t answer. He administers something through a syringe, talking in low calm tones about counteracting the effects, watching for signs of worse. Sunghoon doesn’t let go of you, his hand stroking your back as you cling to him, your earlier giggles replaced by soft whimpers.

“She’s stable for now” Heeseung says after what feels like an eternity. “But she needs to be monitored. If she took what I think she did, she’s lucky you got here when you did.”

Sunghoon nods, his jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. All he can do is hold you, his lips pressed to your forehead, as Heeseung packs up and promises to check in later. The apartment is quiet again, just the sound of your shallow breaths and the distant hum of the city.

“I love you” he whispers, not sure if you can hear him. “Don’t do this again. Please.”

You don’t respond, but your fingers curl weakly into his shirt, and it’s enough. For now, it’s enough.

-

Sunghoon wakes with a gasp, his chest tight, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like damp cloth. His heart pounds, the images vivid: you in his arms, your vacant smile, your trembling hands. It felt so real, every touch, every word, every tear. But as his eyes adjust to the dim light of his penthouse, the truth crashes down.

You’re not here. You haven’t been for months.

He sits up, the sheets cold against his skin, his hands shaking as he drags them through his hair. The clock on the nightstand reads 5:47 AM, the city outside still cloaked in predawn gray. His throat burns, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push away the dream, the memory, the ache of you. But it’s no use. You’re everywhere in his bed, in his mind, in the empty space beside him where you used to sleep.

It wasn’t real. Not this time. But it was real once all of it. The late night meetings in alleys, the way you’d melt into his arms, the nights of passion that left you both breathless, the fights over your addiction, the way you’d cling to him when the nightmares came. And that final night, the one he can’t escape, when he found you too late, your body still on the floor, the light gone from your eyes. The dream stitched it all together, a cruel tapestry of everything he loved and lost.

He forces himself out of bed, the weight of it too much to bear. He moves mechanically, splashing cold water on his face, pulling on a black sweater and slacks, his movements precise but empty. The mirror shows a man he barely recognizes. Hollow cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, a jawline too sharp from months of barely eating. He looks like a ghost, and maybe he is. Part of him died with you.

The drive to the cemetery is quiet, the city waking up around him, oblivious to the hole in his chest. He stops at a florist on the way, picking up a small bouquet of white lilies, your favorite. The woman behind the counter gives him a pitying look, recognizing him from his weekly visits. He doesn’t meet her eyes.

The cemetery is a quiet place where the noise of the city fades into birdsongs and the rustle of leaves. Your grave is toward the back, under a cherry blossom tree that’s bare now, its petals long gone. The headstone is simple, just your name and dates, too short a span for someone who burned so brightly. He kneels, placing the lilies at the base, his fingers lingering on the cool stone.

“Hey” he says, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “It’s me.”

The wind picks up, stirring the air, and he imagines it’s you answering, your teasing drawl calling him lawyer boy. He closes his eyes, letting the memory wash over him. “I had a dream about you last night” he says, his voice steadier now. “Felt so real I thought… I thought you were back. Thought I could save you this time.”

He laughs, a bitter sound that catches in his throat. “Stupid right? I couldn’t save you then. Can’t save you now. But I keep trying. Every fucking night I try.”

He traces the letters of your name, the stone smooth under his fingertips. “You said you didn’t mean to go that far. I wanted to believe you. I still do. But you left me anyway.”

His voice breaks and he presses his forehead against the headstone, the cold grounding him. “I should’ve done more. Should’ve locked you in my apartment, dragged you to rehab, anything. I should’ve fought harder. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The tears come then, quiet and steady, dripping onto the grass. He doesn’t wipe them away. He lets them fall, lets the grief spill out, because here, with you, he doesn’t have to be the untouchable person he usually is. He’s just Sunghoon, the man who loved you, who still loves you, even when you’re nothing but a name on a stone.

“I miss you” he says, the words raw, like they’re being ripped from his chest. “Every day. Every second. I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t want to.”

He sits there for a long time, until the sun rises higher, casting long shadows across the cemetery. The lilies glow in the light, their petals soft against the gray stone. He imagines you smiling, not the vacant smile from his dream but the real one, the one that made his heart skip, the one that promised trouble and love in equal measure.

“I love you” he says, one last time, his voice steady now. “Always will.”

He stands, brushing the dirt from his knees, and takes a deep breath. The world keeps turning, and he has to keep moving with it, even if every step feels like a betrayal. He glances back at your grave, the lilies a small piece of him left behind and walks away, carrying you with him in the only way he can in his heart.

[hearts4pbaz]

Operation: Package Retrieval

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Words: 1.6K

Warnings: mentions of sex, mentions of sex toys

Synopsis: After a long week of practice, Paige and Azzi finally get a night to themselves—until a private delivery ends up in the wrong hands. Now, they're racing against time (and their teammates) to keep a secret from unraveling in the most awkward way possible.

The UConn practice gym echoed with the thudding rhythm of sneakers on hardwood. For a full week, the women’s basketball team had been grinding harder than usual – extra drills, film sessions, conditioning. Coach was on one, and CD was just as relentless. The weight of preseason expectations bore down on them like a full-court press.

But now, finally, they had a night off.

Paige Bueckers lay sprawled across the couch of her off-campus apartment, her head in Azzi Fudd’s lap. Jana and Allie having long retreated to their respective rooms. The TV glowed dimly, but neither girl was watching it. They were a tangle of limbs and exhaustion, emotionally charged from the week and physically drained.

Azzi trailed her fingers through Paige��s hair, her voice barely above a whisper. “We survived. Barely.”

Paige chuckled, eyes closed. “I’m 80% sure Coach tried to kill us through conditioning. This is premeditated.”

Azzi laughed. “It’s his love language.”

They fell into silence again. Paige reached up and gently tugged Azzi down for a kiss. Azzi deeping it. Tension bled out of their bodies, but something else sparked in its place – the kind of chemistry that practice schedules and team curfews always made hard to indulge.

Later, they lay in Paige’s bed a tangle of bare limbs, a soft cast of practiced intimacy filling the room. 

Azzi rolls over and says, “You know what would make our nights off even better?”

“What?” Paige mumbles groggily into her pillow.

Leaning in, lips grazing Paige’s ear, Azzi replies, “A new toy.”

“What can a toy possibly give you that I can’t?” Paige says, brow raised as she whips her head to look at her girlfriend.

Azzi gives her the look and it’s decided.

Paige reaches over to her nightside sighing dramatically, a small smirk creeping onto her face.

One impulse Google search later, and they were scrolling through pages of the top rated “bedroom accessories,” joking to each other, gawking at the most outrageous ones. And after too much debate and some intense review scrutiny, a purchase was made. The toy was small, something that could be easily hidden from the prying eyes of their teammates, it also claimed to be virtually silent, another plus, and the most important detail, if you were to ask Paige, it’s purple.

With their purchase confirmed the pair went to bed with a new found anticipation settling in both of their chests.

“I picked your apartment address, right?” Azzi asked as she snuggled into Paige’s side.

Paige blinked, her brain already halfway into sleep. “Yeah. Totally, trust.”

The Next Morning

Paige squinted at her phone screen as the sun peeked in through the blinds. A notification blinked at the top:

FedEx: Your package has shipped! Estimated delivery: Tomorrow. Shipping to: 2158 Jim Calhoun Way, Storrs, CT, Werth Basketball Center

Her heart stopped.

“What. The. Fuck.” Paige sat bolt upright, jostling Azzi awake.

Azzi rubbed her eyes. “Wha…?”

“Azzi. The package. The toy. It's going to Werth. Not my apartment.”

Azzi sat up faster than a fourth-quarter substitution. “No. No, no, no. How?”

Paige was already scrolling through the order details. “I must’ve clicked the wrong default address. I didn’t even check. Oh my God.”

Azzi buried her face in her hands. “You know the staff sort through deliveries and drop them off in the locker room, right?”

Paige groaned. “We can’t let anyone open it.”

“It better be discreet packaging.”

“It's never discreet packaging when you need it to be.”

They sat in stunned silence for a moment, processing.

And then it began: Operation: Package Retrieval.

Phase One: Reconnaissance

They arrived at the gym early – unreasonably early – the next morning. The plan was to intercept the package before anyone else could see it.

Unfortunately, so had CD.

“Morning, ladies,” she said, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t just destroyed their day with two words.

“CD! What are you doing here so early?” Paige asked, voice an octave too high.

CD narrowed her eyes. “Some of us have work to do.”

Paige and Azzi shared a look. Strike one.

The package was nowhere in sight – not in the mail room, not in the locker room, not at the front desk. It was in transit. Every minute ticking down brought them closer to disaster.

Phase Two: Contingency

Their new plan? Wait for the mail guy and intercept it before it landed in the sorting bin. But first: misdirection.

“KK,” Azzi said casually at breakfast, “you ever get something delivered here by mistake?”

KK Arnold raised a brow. “Once. I ordered hair gel and hadn’t realized I shipped it here. I checked the apartment mail room for days until I realized it was here.”

Not helpful.

Jana El Alfy overheard and chimed in. “I get books delivered here all the time. I just ask the staff to hold them.”

Paige froze. “Do they… open them?”

Jana shrugged. “I mean, they check if it’s for the team or personal, but usually no.”

Azzi smiled tightly. “Cool. Good to know.”

But the girls’ paranoia skyrocketed. If Jana’s textbooks weren’t safe, neither was a... ‘personal massager.’

Phase Three: The Recovery Trap

There were many things Paige could tolerate for the sake of basketball: blisters, bruises, Coach’s sarcasm, CD’s death-stares. But this? This was agony.

“Recovery is mandatory,” CD had said after practice, her voice brooking no argument. “No skipping. I don’t care if you’re sore, tired, or spiritually deceased.”

And so, Paige and Azzi found themselves submerged in one of the training rooms cold tubs, legs numb from the icy water, nerves frayed by the minute.

“Why now?” Paige whispered, clutching the sides of the cold tub like it could ground her.

Azzi’s teeth chattered. “Any other day, I’d thank CD for making us do recovery. Today, I want to scream.”

The mail was supposed to arrive between 10:00 and 10:45. It was 10:30. They were stuck until 10:50.

Azzi craned her neck toward the hallway. “What if it’s sitting in the locker room right now? Just… waiting to be opened like a cursed scroll.”

Paige buried her face in her towel. “This is a nightmare. We’re gonna walk in and KK’s gonna be on live doing an unboxing.”

Just then, Ice Brady walks in. She stops. Looks at the pair. Then says, “Damn P, you look tense as hell. Azzi, when was the last time you got your girl off? She looks like she’s about to burst.”

“Ice!” The pair yells pink blooming on both of their faces.

They both sat in freezing, miserable, awkward silence for the next fifteen minutes, hearts pounding harder than during suicides. As soon as the athletic trainer gave them the all-clear, they launched out of the tubs, practically slipping on the wet tile in their rush to change.

“Skip the socks,” Azzi said, yanking on her sweats with one leg still wet. “Time is everything.”

They bolted out of the recovery room, hair damp, sweatsuits clinging to them like wet blankets.

Just as they turned the corner into the front lobby, they saw him.

The FedEx guy.

He was pushing the dolly out the front door. Empty.

“Wait!” Paige shouted.

The man paused, mid-step, glancing back. “Delivery’s in. Packages are in the mail room. Staff will sort.”

“Nooo,” Paige muttered, already dashing toward the door – too late. The door clicked shut behind him. The box, their box, had been intercepted.

Azzi skidded to a stop beside her. “We missed him. We actually missed him.”

They both turned slowly toward the entrance to the training wing – and the locker room.

The path of the package had been derailed and taken back into the mail room to be sorted, beginning on a new journey. A cursed journey.

Azzi exhaled. “This is bad.”

Paige nodded grimly. “This is war.”

Phase Four: The Locker Room Trap

For the rest of the day both girls were visibly tense until the team’s lift that evening.

As the pair walk into the locker room, their eyes dart to where the mail is dropped off.

Low and behold, the package had been placed right on top of the mail pile in the corner of the locker room. KK, Ice, and Jana were circled around it.

“P… What’s this?” KK asked, poking the box. “VelvetTouch? Sounds fancy.”

“It’s probably like, lotion or face stuff,” Ice offered.

“Or one of those massage guns?” Jana guessed.

Paige stepped in fast. “Just some recovery tools. Y’know, for tight... muscles.”

Azzi made a noise halfway between a cough and a laugh.

KK squinted at her. “Then why are you red?”

“Walked here from the apartment, must’ve gotten sunburnt,” Paige lied, grabbing the box shoving it into her bag and tailing out of the locker room toward the weight room.

“It’s October, how did she get sunburnt?” Sarah Strong questions.

Phase Five: Debrief

Back at the apartment, after lift, Azzi collapsed onto Paige’s bed, hugging the box like a trophy. “I cannot believe we pulled that off.”

Paige was pacing. “We didn’t pull it off. That was a disaster in slow motion. Coach knows. CD knows. KK is suspicious. I think Jana might google the return label.”

Azzi giggled. “At least they didn’t open it. Mission successful.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then they both started laughing. Loud, unfiltered, tear-streaming laughter.

“Okay,” Paige said between wheezes. “Next time, we double-check the shipping address.”

“No more covert ops,” Azzi agreed. “Too much cardio.”

Paige shoves the package into one of the many shoe boxes crammed in her closest.

And then – like some perfect punctuation mark on the week – Paige’s phone buzzed again.

Fedex: Your subscription package has now shipped! Estimated delivery: Tomorrow. Shipping to: 2158 Jim Calhoun Way, Storrs, CT, Werth Basketball Center.

Paige froze. Azzi looked over her shoulder.

“You bought a subscription?!”

They stared at each other, horrified.

Then, in unison: “NOPE. NOT AGAIN.”

[lazysoulwriter]

my first place. - lewis hamilton.

content: explicit smut, praise kink, rough sex, aftercare, swearing, emotional comfort.

---

The door barely clicks shut behind him before you're in his arms. No words. Just the sound of his breath catching as you bury yourself in the front of his hoodie, arms winding tight around his waist like you’d fold him in if you could.

He smells like sweat and champagne and exhaustion. But to you? He smells like victory.

“P4,” he mutters into your hair, voice low and bitter. “Should’ve been better.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes — those impossibly dark ones that always carry the weight of the world, even when he smiles. “Baby,” you whisper, and kiss the corner of his mouth like a secret. “You were perfect. Like always.”

He doesn’t believe you. Not fully. But he wants to.

So you let your hands slip beneath his hoodie, your palms tracing the heat of his bare waist, fingernails dragging slow.

“I’m proud of you,” you murmur against his skin, kissing down his jaw. “Always proud of you. Doesn’t matter what place.”

“You say that now,” he says, but his voice cracks, betraying how badly he needs this. You. The only person who never makes it about points or podiums.

“I’d say it if you finished last,” you smile. “Still want you. Still love you.”

And just like that — like always — something snaps.

His hands grip your hips, spin you toward the bed, and next thing you know you’re crawling backward over the sheets, breathless, heart thudding, heat pooling low.

“Get that off,” he growls, tugging at your top like it offended him, and you’re already wet because this is the side of Lewis no one sees. The one who wins even when he thinks he’s losing. The one who fucks like he needs to prove something — to the world, to you, to himself.

“Lay back,” he orders, voice rough.

You do.

He takes his time — teasing, biting, dragging his fingers between your thighs like he’s trying to memorize you all over again. The first drag of his tongue pulls a sharp cry from your lips. You fist the sheets. Your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby,” you gasp. “You’re—god, you’re so—”

“What?” he smirks, lips slick with you. “Say it.”

“You’re perfect,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

He kisses up your thigh, your stomach, your chest, leaving open-mouthed bruises like declarations. Then he’s inside you, deep and fast, fucking you like he just crossed the finish line with your name on his lips.

His hips slam into yours. Again. Again.

“You take it so well,” he pants. “Always so good for me, yeah?”

“Y-yeah—Lewis—fuck—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your legs shake around his waist. He’s saying something — filthy, reverent — and you can barely hear it over the slap of skin and the moans you don’t even recognize as your own.

“You’re mine,” he growls into your neck. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you cry. “Yours, yours—fuck, I’m—”

You break apart under him, mouth open in a silent scream. He follows fast, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

And then —

Stillness.

Just heavy breathing. A heartbeat slowing back to earth. Sweat cooling on flushed skin.

Lewis doesn't move at first — just presses his forehead to your collarbone and lets the moment wrap around him like safety. Like home.

“You okay?” he finally whispers.

“Mhm,” you hum, arms curling around his back. “More than okay.”

He lifts his head, eyes scanning your face, then your body — and winces. “Shit. I marked you up, didn’t I?”

You glance down. Purple bruises blooming on your chest, your hips, your thighs.

You both start laughing.

“You look like I fought you,” he grins.

“You did,” you giggle, kissing his nose. “And I won.”

He rolls off with a mock groan, dragging you with him until you’re lying tangled together on the cool sheets.

“Still think I’m perfect?” he teases, thumb stroking your sore skin with aching tenderness.

“Always,” you whisper, curling into him like you never want to let go. “P4 or P1. You’ll always be first to me.”

And he just holds you. Tighter than before.

Because some nights, you’re more than a lover.

You’re the finish line.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[enhaeil]

UN-THINKABLE ! ☆ 박종성

"moment of honesty..someone's gotta take the lead tonight, who's it gonna be? i'm gonna sit right here and tell you all that comes to me...if you have something to say, you should say it right now.."

un-thinkable - alicia keys

c/w: situationship to lovers!jay, suggestive, angstish.. fluff.

✩ ₊˚

the night's gone soft as you sit on jay's leather couch, material suddenly feeling hot against your skin.

he's leaning back, hands clasped, gaze locked on you. no sense of urgency on his end, just quietness. waiting.

you'd been dancing around this for weeks. it felt like longer.

the glances that linger too long, the late-night hookups, the conversations that felt too intimate. the way he can find you even in the most crowded rooms, looking at you like he knows something you haven't even admitted to yourself yet.

it's almost too quiet, if it wasn't for the hum of the TV.

"i... don't know what you want me to say." you finally mumble.

"you don't have to say anything you don't want to," he starts. "but i'm not gonna keep pretending i don't want you."

he's not angry, yet his words carry weight. your chest tightens again, eyes wandering everywhere but in front of you.

"you think i don't see how scared you are?" he says softer. "that every time we get close, you pull away?"

he leans foward, elbows resting on his knees.

"i'm not scared, y/n. i've already made my mind up about you."

this sentence hits the air like a confession. almost makes you physically flinch. you attempt to laugh it off, not letting the weight of his words affect you.

"i'm not what you want, jay." you say, eyes focused on your freshly done manicure. "trust me."

he blinks, slowly. but you don't miss the way he shifts in his seat.

"how do you know what i want?"

you fall quiet again. he's right. but did he have to say it like that?

he lets out something between a laugh and a scoff. "i know exactly what I want. and it's you."

you finally meet his eyes, after what felt like days of no eye contact. he doesn't seem upset, or even annoyed with you. he looks at you like you're carrying the world in your hands and heaven between your thighs. and you kind of like it.

"jay ..." you start to say, yet nothing else comes out.

"if you're gonna break my heart, do it now. but if you're ready, come here and show me." he leans back comfortably as if he were okay with whatever option you chose.

after a few moments of silence, your feet move on their own, hesitantly making your way towards the couch jay sat on. he welcomes you with open arms, your body finding warmth in his lap.

it isn't rushed, it isn't frantic. he holds you for as long as you need to be held, a silent vow towards you.

minutes pass, just like that. neediness does eventually fill the air, tension becoming thicker. your kisses linger on his neck, enough to make him exhale through his nose.

you pull back, eyes landing on the light marks you made on him as if he were a canvas.

"can i touch you?"

your breath catches. not because you're surprised at the question, but because of how he asks. like he's not asking for your body, but for you.

"jay..." you whisper. "you don't have to ask. we've done this before."

"i do. and i will every time, until i know you mean it." his hands still rest on your waist, waiting for your permission.

your lips part, as if you had more to say, but your words get stuck in your throat. that's when you finally nod.

"yeah," you whisper. "please touch me, jay."

he exhales, hands finally moving across the body he's learned so well, one hand sliding up your back, and the other landing on the side of your neck.

he kisses you, deeply. not rushed, but purpose with every movement.

that night jay touched you like it was his first time, as if you'd disappear if he did too much at once.

the kind of touch that reminds you that he sees you. he wants you. and he's never been afraid of you.

a/n: ok i wont write any non requests UNTIL I FINISH SOME REQUESTS. I GOT TOO MANY. i just had to get this out my system i fawkin LOVE THIS SONG. also i need to write abt another member for once. i see some sunghoon asks

[eloiseloves]

My Robby x Abbot Season 2 Hopes:

it’s Abbot running the show on night shift and he’s been dreading it for weeks, knowing the Fourth of July is a tumultuous time for him. Torn between wanting to stay home and forget about it or go to work and hopefully be distracted.

Robby is off, done with his day shift and ready to sleep, but he can’t turn his brain off, well aware what day it is and what the ER will look like for Abbot. He worries, he worries a lot, and he can’t sleep. He knows maybe more than anyone else in Jack’s life how PTSD affects him though the other man is not very forthcoming about it and all he can think about is Jack shouldering everything alone tonight.

Robby passes the time watching tv, reading, watching fireworks on the news, etc. but he can’t stop wondering if Abbot is okay. His texts go unanswered but that can be chalked up to the ER craziness. Sleep does NOT come for him and eventually he gives up and decides he’s not going to be able to rest until he sees Abbot. So at 2am he makes his way back to the hospital, under the guise of popping in to help, or picking up something he forgot, he hasn’t decided his excuse yet but everything slips away when he shows up and Bridget clocks him with an immediate “Thank God you’re here.” And a nod to the roof.

Robby bypasses everyone, cuts through chairs, ignores the surprised calls of his name until he reaches the roof. Jack’s not on the edge, like he semi expected, and the absence of him sends his heart racing in a way the image of him ready to jump doesn’t. Has he already done it?

But no, Robby spots Jack tucked into a corner between the wall and a generator, knees pulled to his chest and eyes blank, thousand yard stare obvious a mile a way. His stethoscope lies across the ground like it fell there and went unnoticed. Fireworks are bright but muted noise on the horizon and Robby imagines it doesn’t help with wherever Jack's mind has taken him to. Robby instead places himself in Jack's line of sight, sitting cross legged on the ground across from him, large frame blocking out the fireworks behind.

Abbot still stares right through him, and Robby know better than to touch him, but he begins to talk to him, tells him a bunch of nonsense hospital gossip, the shenanigans his cat pulled lately, the dismal state of his favourite hockey team, until a little recognition begins to flicker through Jack's eyes.

Once Robby is sure Jack has recognized him and knows he's there, Robby reaches out and ever so gently pries his fingers, white-knuckled, from around his legs, and draws his leg out across his lap. Robby slowly and softly takes the pant leg of his scrubs and rolls it up, giving him ample time to stop him. This is intimate, even for them, close friends as they are, but it feels right and apprehension is no where to be found. When Robby's warm hands close around his stump, and gentle fingers begin unbuckling his prosthetic, Jack's eyes finally meet his, awareness fully back with him now.

Robby removes the prosthetic but doesn't let go of Jack's leg, dragging a gentle hand over his stump in a tender massage. A move that Jack - fiercely independent and proud - has never let anyone do. He doesn't say anything, just let's Robby touch him and breathes into the comforting space between them. "You can tell me about it, you know? If you ever feel like talkin'." Robby breaths. Jack never discusses his tours with anyone, beyond clinical facts or surface level details, but Robby knows he struggles with the things he doesn't say.

For a long time, Jack doesn't answer. Robby thinks he isn't going to say anything at all, but eventually, he murmurs, "I don't want you to have to bear this weight too, I don't want this to hurt you like it hurts me. I can't do that to you."

It takes Jack a long time to get out of this mindset, but he eventually brings himself to talk to Robby, first in little snippets, whispered between them to gauge his reaction, then eventually bigger, heavier experiences. Eventually one night, Jack shows up on his doorstep sweaty and wrecked from night terrors and Robby shepherds him inside, stands with him in the shower so he doesn't slip, and tucks him into bed. In the blackness of night, Jack begins to talk about everything and slowly, Robby becomes integral to his PTSD support system, figuring out how to manage and live with it, how to get Jack out of flashbacks, etc.

They evolve from friendship into a full blown relationship as they care for each other, but it seems like a small thing compared to everything else. It doesn't change much between them, nor does it change their day to day besides the addition of sex and moving in together. They don't tell anyone at work, but they do tell Dana because they know she'd clock it a mile away anyways, and they tell her by inviting her and her husband over for dinner, sharing laughs and gossip and wine, and it's not a big thing either, but the trust between them and between Dana is steady and reassuring, and Dana's grinning ear to ear because she saw this coming years ago.

[zorosgirlfriend]

Can I have a Sanji comfort request it can be about anything I just got in a car wreck (I’m fine my car isn’t) and I just really need my comfort character right now thanks

omgg i hope you AND the car will be okay soon 😭😭, I hope this is enough to comfort you! :)

Vinsmoke Sanji ~ !! Your Arms, My Safe Place.

warnings: implied car crash, reader is maybe a bit traumatized.

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

You could still feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you stood by the side of your wrecked car, heart racing.

The flash of the accident kept replaying in your mind.

How the world seemed to slow,

The sound of screeching tires,

The sudden jolt.

And even though you were physically fine,

The shock of it all still hadn't quite settled.

Your hands were trembling slightly as you clutched the phone,

Dialing the number you'd known you needed to call.

When you heard the familiar voice on the other end,

You felt the tears threatening to spill.

“Sanji... I— I just... I’m okay, but my car—”

You broke off,

Voice cracking,

Unable to finish the sentence without sounding too weak.

The other line was quiet for a moment,

And then you heard the unmistakable sound of his voice,

Calm yet firm,

As though he was already on his way.

"I'm on my way, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Stay where you are, okay? I’ll be there in a few."

A shudder of relief ran through you as you ended the call,

The tears threatening to fall,

But you kept them in check.

You leaned against the wrecked car for support,

Silently staring at the crumpled metal.

It didn’t feel real.

How could something like this happen so suddenly?

It only took a few minutes before you saw him.

Sanji's unmistakable blond hair and determined stride made it impossible not to notice him coming toward you,

His concern clear even from a distance.

He didn’t waste any time once he reached you,

Immediately pulling you into his arms,

His warmth enveloping you as he whispered softly.

“Are you hurt? You’re okay, right?”

His hands cupped your face gently,

Scanning over you,

Eyes full of worry.

You nodded weakly,

But it didn’t stop the tears from finally spilling over.

They rolled down your cheeks as the weight of everything hit you all at once.

The shock,

The relief,

The confusion.

You were fine physically,

But emotionally,

It was a lot to process.

Sanji didn’t hesitate.

He pulled you closer,

Cradling you to his chest as you let out the quiet sobs you had been holding in.

"I’ve got you, darling. You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now. The car can be replaced, but you? You’re irreplaceable.”

You clung to him,

Feeling his steady heartbeat against your ear,

A rhythm that grounded you in the chaos of everything.

He kept murmuring soft reassurances in your ear,

His voice calm and soothing.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like for you. But you’ve got me now, alright? Just breathe. Take your time.”

His hands ran soothing circles on your back,

Grounding you even more as he held you close.

After a while,

The sobs started to lessen,

And you finally pulled away,

Wiping your eyes.

Sanji smiled gently,

Brushing a lock of hair out of your face.

“There we go. There’s that beautiful face of yours again.”

His voice was filled with tenderness as he cupped your cheek.

“I’m so proud of you for staying strong, even through something like this.”

You gave him a weak smile,

Grateful for his words,

But mostly for his presence.

He always knew exactly how to comfort you,

Even when you couldn’t find the right words yourself.

He looked down at your car,

Frowning as he noticed the damage.

“We’ll deal with that later. For now, I’m just glad you’re alright.”

His lips pressed against your forehead,

The gesture full of affection and care.

“I’ll take care of everything from here on out, so just focus on resting and calming down. Got it?”

You nodded,

Feeling a weight lift off your chest simply by being with him.

No words needed to be said as he took your hand,

Leading you away from the wrecked car and toward his warmth and protection.

Sanji didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night,

His comfort a constant reminder that you didn’t have to face things alone.

[postredevainilla]

US WHEN? p3 of the ":3 with benefits" series

pairing: college aged loser yuuta x college aged lesser loser freader

summary: he sends the wrong porn. you get off anyway and make yuuta give you the lay you deserved the first time around. fluff ensues.

cw: explicit smut, gooner tendencies, overstimulation, begging, soft dom/sub dynamics, excessive oral/fingering, cum kink, mildly unhinged Yuuta, praise, consent-focused, riding, overstimulation, cumplay, praise kink, emotional vulnerability, accidental love confession, reader takes control, subby!Yuuta, crying (of pleasure), aftercare themes

it’s been about a week and a half since you and yuuta accidentally fell into… whatever this is.

no label. no discussion. just doujinshi trades, anime binges, and overpriced ramen from the same spot that knows both your orders by heart now. you’ve started slipping into each other's dorms like it’s second nature—sometimes with drinks, sometimes with boba, once with a usb drive full of bl that was questionably legal to obtain.

the weird part? he never brings up the hookup. not even once. it's like that night never happened—like you imagined the whole thing, the ceiling posters, the way he manhandled your tits like they were made of mochi. he doesn’t even try to touch you again. no sleazy comments, no “remember when i folded you like origami?”, just anime and awkward blushes and your favorite matcha drink waiting for you outside after your monday lecture.

which is exactly why you’re caught so off guard when he sends… that.

you’re lying in bed, lights off, texting links back and forth like usual.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ oh maybe you’ve heard of this one, i saw it on twitter the other day and bookmarked it to send to you!!

you open the link.

it is not a doujinshi.

it's a video. grainy, reposted from some twitter porn account. a girl is straddling a guy on a couch, kissing him slow, deep. his hands slip down her pajama pants, and her moans—soft and a little whiny—fill the room.

you jolt. clutch your phone like it burned you. your dorm is silent except for the breathy, intimate audio playing from your screen. thank god you have a single.

your hand hovers over the keyboard.

um, i don’t think this is what you meant to send

you hit send.

the response comes in immediately.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️  OH MY GOD I DIDNT MEAN TO SEND THAT I MEAN I MEANT TO SEND PORN BUT NOT THAT KIND OF PORN IM SO SORRY

your phone buzzes again.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ i’m so sorry i promise i wasn’t being gross i had like 3 tabs open and twitter is evil and i didn’t mean to be weird i’m so sorry you’re so cool i swear i didn’t mean—

you stop reading after that.

because unfortunately, you’re not mad.

you're horny.

your cheeks are warm, your thighs pressed together, and somehow—without even thinking—your hand is already slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. it’s instinctive at this point. the video’s still playing, and even though it’s not super explicit, it’s intimate in a way that makes you ache.

you imagine yuuta’s hands instead. his voice. the way he looked when he said your name last time, all fucked-out and breathless like it broke him a little. you remember the weight of him on top of you, the way he stared at your chest like it was holy.

ten minutes pass.

your breathing's slowed. your head's clearer. your phone’s still lighting up with apology texts.

you scroll down. you bite your lip nervous.

you type:

us when?

there’s a beat of silence.

then:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ wait are you serious like actually serious? is this a bit or are you like asking fr

you grin, staring at the screen, the afterglow still humming in your blood. you don't reply right away.

you like letting him sweat.

yuuta’s typing. then stopping. then typing again.

poor guy’s probably pacing a hole into his dorm carpet.

finally, a new bubble pops up:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ do you want me to come over

you smirk.

yes also can u bring that strawberry matcha too btw

there’s a solid minute where nothing comes through.

then:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ On my way! rn

. . .

fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at your dorm.

you open it to find yuuta standing there, disheveled as ever, hoodie thrown over some wrinkled t-shirt, hair a mess like he didn’t even look in the mirror before running over. his hand is shaking a little as he holds out the drink.

“uh… hi.”

you take the matcha and sip casually, eyes not leaving his.

“you ran, didn’t you?”

“i didn’t wanna make you wait—”

he trails off. his eyes flicker down your body. you're wearing sleep shorts and an oversized tee, nothing crazy, but something shifts in his expression anyway. that glassy look you remember from the dorm. the one that led to your legs being shoved behind your ears while he moaned something embarrassing into your neck.

you step aside.

“come in.”

the tension is palpable.

he sits at the edge of your bed like he’s not sure he’s allowed to exist in your room. you sit across from him, sipping your matcha slowly. his leg bounces. he keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

so you say it first.

“you watch that video after you sent it to me?”

yuuta chokes on air.

“i—i mean—”

“because i did.”

he stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted.

“like… while you were apologizing.”

you take another slow sip. it’s petty. it’s cruel. it’s also very deserved.

yuuta makes a strangled sound and covers his face with his hands.

“i thought i scared you off,” he mumbles behind them.

“nah,” you say, standing up and walking over to him. “you just made me really, really horny.”

his eyes snap to yours.

you take his drink from his hands, set it on the desk, and straddle him like it’s the most casual thing in the world. he freezes.

“still scared?”

he shakes his head, dumbly.

“good.”

you lean in, slow and deliberate, until your lips are just brushing his.

“then shut up and kiss me right this time.”

he does. a little clumsily at first, then like he’s been waiting to for weeks. like he’s been jerking off to the memory of your moans since the last time, and maybe he has.

you grind down against him, and he groans into your mouth, hands finding your waist like they remember how to hold you. like his body never forgot. you’re not sure where this leaves either of you—but you know where it’s going tonight.

and you’re not stopping him.

not when he’s already whispering, voice shaking:

“can i touch you again? please?”

before you can answer his hands are all over you the second you straddle him. nervous at first, then desperate. like he can’t believe you’re letting him touch you again. like he’s still scared he’ll wake up and realize this was just another post-nut hallucination.

you pull back, catching your breath, and say:

“you remember what happened last time?”

he pauses. swallows.

“y-yeah.”

“yeah?” you echo, tilting your head. “you remember how you came? like… a lot?”

he nods quickly, wide-eyed. definitely still picturing it.

“and i didn’t.”

that lands like a punch to the chest. yuuta immediately looks like you just kicked his cat.

“oh my god. i’m so sorry—i thought—i mean, i wasn’t trying to be a selfish dick i just—fuck—i’m—”

you press your fingers against his mouth to shut him up.

“relax. you’re gonna make it up to me, right?”

he nods, again. this time slower. eyes heavy-lidded.

you lean close, lips brushing his ear.

“good. because you’re not gonna stop until i cum all over your pretty face.”

he’s on his knees within seconds.

dragging your shorts down slow like he’s unwrapping something sacred. he kisses up your thighs, murmuring praises between each one:

“so pretty…” “so warm…” “i missed this. i missed you.”

you thread your fingers through his hair and pull—just to hear him whimper. his breath hitches, but he doesn’t complain. he just flattens his tongue against your slit, slow and messy, like he’s savoring the taste.

his hands are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you pinned to the edge of the bed. you gasp when he starts to moan into your pussy, like he’s the one getting off on it.

“god, yuuta—”

he pulls back just enough to pant:

“i could do this forever. please—lemme make you cum. i want it so bad.”

then he dives back in.

his tongue circles your clit just right, obscene and wet, while two fingers curl up inside you with a desperation that has nothing to do with experience and everything to do with obsession.

he’s gone. lost in it. gooner-mode fully activated.

you’re grinding down against his face without even realizing it, his name falling from your lips over and over while he chases every twitch of your body like it’s gospel.

“f-fuck, yuuta—fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

you cum hard. shaking. hands buried in his hair.

he doesn't stop.

doesn’t even slow down.

he keeps going like a man possessed—fingers still working you open, tongue still lapping you up, moaning every time you clench around him like he’s the one getting off from it.

you squirm, overstimulated, but he just groans:

“give me another. please. just one more. i need it.”

“yuuta—fucking hell—”

“i’ll die if you don’t cum again i’m serious—i’ll pass away right here with my face in your pussy and you’ll have to explain it to the RA—”

you laugh, breathless, but then your back arches again because somehow this bastard keeps going. a second orgasm slams into you like a freight train and you cry out, thighs shaking, legs locking around his head.

he groans, almost possessive, and grinds his face against you like he’s trying to fuse with your soul.

you tug his hair hard to get him to stop. he finally pulls back, face flushed, lips shiny, eyes dazed.

“oh my god,” you gasp. “what the fuck—”

he’s still panting. still hard. you haven’t even touched him.

he looks up at you, wrecked and glistening in your juices.

“did i make it up to you?”

you grin.

“not yet.”

you smile—slow and sweet like poison in a teacup—and push him gently by the shoulders until he’s flat on your bed.

yuuta lets you climb on top like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like this is church, and you’re what he’s here to worship.

you reach between his legs, pull his sweatpants down just enough to free his dick—and fuck, he’s hard as a rock. dripping. twitching.

“god,” you whisper, wrapping your fingers around him. “you’re a mess.”

he moans like you just blessed him. the moment you start to stroke him, he’s already bucking up into your hand.

“please, please—i want it so bad, you feel so good—”

“yeah?” you murmur, hovering over him. “you want me to ride you, baby?”

“yes—fuck, please—ride me, use me, i’ll be so good—”

you don’t give him a second to think. you line him up and sink down onto him slow—too slow—because you want him to feel everything. every inch. every squeeze. every second of being inside the pussy he’s been obsessing over since the moment he saw you on his dorm bed the first time.

yuuta screams.

no exaggeration. the moment you bottom out, his whole body tenses and he chokes out a sob.

“ohmygod—oh my fucking god—”

“shh,” you tease, rocking your hips just once. “can’t tap out yet, baby. you haven’t made it up to me.”

“i—i can’t—i’m gonna cum—”

“no you’re not.”

you squeeze around him just enough to make him whimper.

“not until i say so.”

and then you ride him.

hard. slow. deep. a little inexperienced but fuck if yuuta cares.

every bounce of your hips is calculated to pull a new sound out of him. his fingers dig into your thighs, but he’s not moving—he wouldn’t dare. you’ve got him trained, gooned out and glassy-eyed, tears beading at the corners from how good you feel wrapped around his dick.

“you're so tight—you feel so good—i can’t take it, i can’t—”

“you will. you made me wait last time. so you’re gonna take it now, baby. all of it.”

he nods furiously, babbling. you’re not even sure what he’s saying anymore—something about how perfect you are, how soft, how warm, how he’d let you kill him with your pussy if you wanted. his eyes are wild, unfocused. his chest is flushed. you bounce faster.

“you close?”

“i’m gonna fucking die,” he sobs. “i love you, i love your pussy so much, i love you—”

you freeze. still fully seated on his dick.

yuuta gapes like a fish. realizes what he said.

“i—i meant your pussy—i meant—i love that—not that i—”

too late.

you lean forward, caging his face with your hands, staring right into his panicked, gooner-brained eyes.

“say it again.”

“w-what—”

“the part where you said you love me.”

he looks up at you like he’s about to cry again—but he swallows and says, small and wrecked:

“...i love you.”

“good boy.”

and then you grind down hard, making him cum so violently he sees stars. he lets out a raw groan, clutching you like you’re the last stable thing on earth as he fills you up. he’s still whimpering, still moving a little—he can’t stop even though he’s shaking from it, overstimulated beyond sense.

you stroke his hair as he pants beneath you.

“wasnt that so much better than last time?”

he nods into your chest, tears drying on his cheeks.

“i don’t even remember what day it is.”

. . .

your dormroom is quiet now.

yuuta’s breathing has finally evened out, and the weird porno twitter tab is mercifully closed. he’s curled up beside you, arms around your waist, cheek resting against your chest like he needs skin-to-skin to recharge his serotonin levels.

he’s still pink all over. hair damp with sweat. you could honestly say he looks adorable—if he weren’t also the same guy who had just begged to die in your pussy less than ten minutes ago.

you stroke his hair idly, your legs still tangled together.

“you okay?” you ask, softly.

he nods. doesn’t lift his head.

“that was so good,” he mumbles. “like… top 3 moments of my life.”

“only top 3?”

“okay fine. top 1. easily.”

you laugh, and yuuta finally looks up at you. eyes big. earnest.

he opens his mouth, then shuts it again. then opens it again.

“hey… um.”

you blink. “yeah?”

“can i ask you something?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you’re not about to ask if you can eat me out again, right? because i need, like, a hydration break and—”

“no—! i mean—yes eventually—but not what i was gonna say right now!”

you grin. “then what?”

he looks nervous. ridiculously nervous. like he’s about to propose in front of a stadium.

“do you wanna be… y’know…”

“yuuta.”

“...my girlfriend?”

it’s rushed and soft and kind of embarrassing, and he says it while looking down at your comforter like he expects it to swallow him whole if you say no.

you blink.

then grin.

“yeah. i do.”

his head snaps up.

“wait seriously?”

“yes, seriously. you’re cute. you bring me matcha. and your dick isn't half bad, that’s boyfriend material.”

yuuta looks like his soul just left his body in relief. he buries his face back in your chest, groaning.

“oh thank god. i was gonna ask earlier but i was scared you only saw me as, like… your doujinshi plug with benefits.”

“oh, i do see you as that. you’re just also my boyfriend now.”

he groans louder, cuddling closer.

“i can’t believe i get to call you my girlfriend,” he mumbles.

you kiss the top of his head.

“i can’t believe i let a man who unironically uses emoticons hit it raw, but here we are.”

yuuta giggles—actual, giggles—and you both lie there a little longer, wrapped in each other and the gross knowledge that, yeah… this started with a horny hinge match.

but it might just end in love.

taglist: @angelita-uchiha sttaejoon-blog isagistar wankowan

[hey-itsdollie]

ᴛʜɪɢʜꜱ.ᐟ.ᐟ

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ blue lock boys with thick thighed s/o .ᐟ.ᐟ

‧₊˚ ┊featuring » ness. sendo. yukimiya. kurona. nanase.

๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ cw » aged up!, suggestive themes, fem reader, thigh kissing, thigh worship, biting, licking, mainly fluff! use of pet names (hübsche, baby, my love, darling, honey), the word blasphemy was used not to offend anyone.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 -u are here!-, Final Part!

°˖➴ Alexis Ness

"Awe you look so cute!" you squealed running up to your boyfriend who was wearing a wizard cloak. His cheeks turned slightly red as he instinctively held onto your hips, welcoming you into his arms.

"You think so hübsche?" [ᵖʳᵉᵗᵗʸ] Ness tilt his head, his eyes softening as he gazed down at his girlfriend, who wore a matching witch outfit.

"Mhm mhm!" You smiled brightly as you reached and tilt his wizard hat slightly. "You look like merlin!" you stated happily, bringing up the two of yours favorite cartoon, the sword in the stone.

"Hey is that supposed to be a compliment?" Ness questioned with furrowed eyebrows. "Of course!" you laughed as he bent down slightly, hooking his arms under your thighs picking you up effortlessly.

"Alexis put me down! I'm heavy-" you stated with a frown as your hands went to his shoulders immediately. The male scoffed as he moved you to the window seat.

"Heavy? Nonsense hübsche..." Ness whispered with an unmoving gaze as he kneeled before you. You were wearing a form fitting body suit (similar to what Raven wears on teen titans) with a black cloak shadowing your body.

Ness lazily moved his hands up your legs, over knees and onto your thighs. Grabbing certain places before anchoring onto your hip dips. He looked like a begging dog, his eyes pleading you to let him have his treat. The treat being you in his eyes.

The man looked starved. Hearing you speak of yourself negatively felt like blasphemy in his ears. You were his, his treasure, his woman.

His lips seared your skin as his loving kisses leaped from one thigh to another. He adored you. Everything about you. His lips lingered in certain spots, his hands pulling your hips closer to him.

"Alexis not on the window seat..." you whispered knowing where this was going. "What about the Halloween party?" you questioned as he pulled away and stood up leaning forward towards your ear.

"What if we stayed home? Let me make love to you on this seat... hm hübsche?"

°˖➴ Shuto Sendo

You knew of your boyfriend's taste in woman. You seemed far from it. You weren't an actress nor celebrity, simply someone he met after one of his games. Apparently, he lost his earring and you just so happened to find it.

After taking you out it continued happening until he finally popped the question.

Now on his break here he was doing pushups on his bedroom floor as his beautiful girlfriend was sitting on his back. "Shuto, you should rest." you hummed rubbing his back gently, worried your weight was too much for him. "Nonsense... I need to get stronger; you're the perfect one to help with that my love." he smirked huffing softly from his long workout.

Despite his looks he was strong. Lifting you was as easy to him as cutting a piece of cake.

"Nope, time to take a break." You scoffed getting off his back and sitting on the edge of his bed. He groaned sitting up and using his knees to move towards you, his chest was sweaty as you could easily see his muscles.

Sendo exhaustedly laid his head on your thighs enjoying the plush feel to them. "You're magnificent..."

His murmured words left his lips as his blurry eyes gazed into your amused ones. "You did well honey, how about you go wash up and we can cuddle hm?"

"Sounds lovely..." he grinned his words slurring due to how tired he was.

°˖➴ Kenyu Yukimiya

"So, you going to continue to play?"

You questioned as your fingers were busy with braiding small flowers into a crown. Your boyfriend, Yukimiya was mindlessly laying in between your legs his eyes closed giving way to the peaceful environment.

The two of you were on a date, he took you to the country side to have a picnic in a field. He needed to have a break from electronics and well people in general.

"Yes, I can't just give up after everything I've done so far."

The brunette sighed out taking his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose, something he did each time he felt stress.

"I understand Kenyu..." you spoke softly placing the flower crown you made in his hair. He turned his head slightly and placed soft kisses on your thighs.

You brought him immense comfort; someone he deeply held dear to him. When he chose to go along to Blue Lock you cheered for him, telling him you'd be waiting for his return. You were his number one fan whether it be for his modeling career or soccer career.

You loved him and was willing to always be on his side with things. Of course, being this important, you were one of the few that knew of his eye sight.

You witnessed him breakdown in your arms first hand. You were never going to get in the way of his dreams. If he wanted to be the number one striker, so be it.

"I'm so lucky to have you..." he murmured kissing your thighs more, each touch more loving than the last.

°˖➴ Ranze Kurona

Your boyfriend was quite introverted. He didn't speak much but when he did it meant each word he said.

Kurona and you just got back from the aquarium, a date you two had been planning for a while. He grinned as he walked out of the bathroom to see you in one of his shirts hugging your newly bought shark plushie.

"You like your shark plushie? Baby baby?" he questioned joining you on the bed as his words doubled.

He laid on stomach getting comfortable in between your legs. a smile grew on your face as he gently rubbed your skin. "Mhm, it reminds me of you." "Shark shark." he requested making grabby hands at your plushie making you laugh whilst handing the plushie to him.

His arms rose in the air as he gazed at the shark, it's pointed teeth were stitched on the mouth, the color a dark magenta. He handed the plushie back and laid his head on your thigh.

A comfortable silence falling over the two of you. His hands drifted over your stomach something he did often when it was just the two of you. His lips attached to your inner thigh his teeth gently biting into your skin leaving small love bites across your skin.

"Mm, Ranze?" you whispered laying your head back against the pillows as you let your boyfriend's mouth run across your thighs. His touch was gentle yet sloppy, his tongue gently licking the spots he might've bit too hard.

"Baby... can we?" his question hung in the air, something he did each time he wanted to initiate something. You raised your head to meet his needy eyes. "Yes..."

°˖➴ Nijiro Nanase

"Darlin' you sure bout this?"

Your boyfriend's Kansai accent bled through his words as he turned his gaze from the cat in the tree to you who crossed your arms. "I'm sure, the cat needs help Nijiro!" you frowned wanting to help the cat get down.

With a soft sigh, the raven-ette knew he couldn't say no to you nor to helping the feline. He kneeled down before you as you carefully maneuvered yourself onto his shoulders.

Shakily he stood up his hands gripping your thighs to stabilize you. "Let me know if ya need to get down, ya' hear?" he spoke tapping the side of your thigh gently. "I will, now come on."

Your impatience made the male smile as he carefully walked closer to the tree your arms stretching out towards the cat.

"Here kitty kitty- woah!" the cat immediately jumped at you startling you. Nanase's eyes widened as he stumbled back from the sudden startle.

"Woah there, you, okay?" he questioned his grip tightening slightly on your thighs. Your thighs squished up against his face, due to your body tensing.

Afraid of being seen as disrespectful he wouldn't never admit it aloud but god-damn did Nanase love your thighs. The thickness and fullness of them made him weak.

"Mhm! the kitty is safe!" you laughed holding the cat in your arms. The male sighed in relief as he knelt down and helped you off of his shoulders. "I'm glad..."

"Huh, Nanase, why's your face all read?" you tilted your head confused but then you gasped "I wasn't strangling you, was I?!"

"I mean if you were I wouldn't have minded..." he muttered which you didn't hear. "What was that?"

"Nothin' Darlin'!" he quickly said with a bright smile his ears turning redder.

I don't really know what to say :P hope yall enjoyed! Kurona is so cute oml!!!

©hey-itsdollie please don't copy, change, or steal my work. Thank you!

[cherrywriterrr]

ripe pt.2

warnings: sexual content / farmer!rafe / established relationship / rough & passionate / light restraint / overstimulation / dirty talk / “baby” use / he’s obsessed with the reader / mdni

the barn door creaks behind you, thick summer air curling around your ankles.

the floor’s dusty. smells like hay, sweat, and old wood. warm from the sun baking the roof all day. it’s quiet, except for the hum of cicadas outside and the steady thud of your heartbeat.

you barely make it past the doorway before rafe spins you.

his mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and desperation, like he’s been needing this for weeks and not just since he saw you up on that ladder.

he kicks the door shut behind you. it slams with finality.

“take your top off,” he mutters.

you breathe out a laugh against his lips. “yes, farmer.”

he grins darkly. “that’s fuckin’ right.”

you peel your tank top over your head and toss it into a pile of burlap sacks, chest rising and falling. your nipples harden in the warm barn air.

rafe stares, jaw tight. “jesus christ.”

“what?”

“you wanna act all innocent pickin’ cherries, but you come out here braless, wearin’ nothin’ but them little shorts, lookin’ at me with those eyes?”

he steps closer, hand sliding behind your neck, thumb resting at your pulse. “you wanted this.”

you blink up at him. “what if i did?”

he growls and lifts you—just like that—hands gripping your ass and carrying you like you weigh nothing.

you gasp as he drops you down onto a hay bale. it creaks under your weight. loose straw sticks to the backs of your thighs.

he leans over you, caging you in with his arms.

“look at you,” he murmurs, eyes dark, voice thick. “pretty lil’ thing. my baby.”

you drag your nails up his stomach, over the sweat and dirt smeared on his skin. “take your jeans off.”

“no ‘please?’”

“please,” you whisper, breathless.

his pants hit the floor.

he’s hard already—painfully so—and the way his cock slaps against his stomach makes your eyes flutter.

“you see what you do to me?” he mutters. “i ain’t even touched you yet, and look at this.”

you whimper. “then touch me.”

he kneels between your thighs and pulls your shorts down slow, kissing your inner thigh, tongue brushing the sensitive skin until you’re squirming.

he licks once—just one teasing stripe—and smirks when you gasp.

“so fuckin’ wet already,” he growls. “fuck, baby.”

you bury your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, but he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

“nu-uh,” he grins. “you’re not runnin’ this show.”

“but—”

“who makes you feel this good?”

“you do.”

“who’s the only one that gets to taste this sweet lil’ pussy?”

“you.”

“damn right.”

he eats like it’s his job.

no, worse—like it’s his last meal.

lips, tongue, teeth—he gives you everything. sloppy, unrelenting, grunting into you like he’s been starved.

you cry out, hips bucking, thighs trembling around his head.

“stay still,” he growls.

“i can’t—”

he grabs your hips and holds you down, strong hands leaving imprints in your skin. “yes you fuckin’ can.”

you fall apart a minute later—eyes rolled back, mouth open, moaning his name like a prayer.

he doesn’t stop.

he licks you through it, lets you ride the wave until you’re twitching from overstimulation, sobbing, chest heaving.

only then does he finally come up for air, face glistening, chin soaked.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans in and kisses you like he didn’t just ruin you.

“bend over,” he says.

“rafe—”

“bend. over.”

you obey—legs still trembling, hands gripping the hay bale as you lean over it.

he runs a palm down your back.

“look at you. perfect fuckin’ view.”

he slides in slow—inch by inch—until he’s fully inside, buried to the hilt.

you moan like you’ve never felt him before.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, breath shaking. “you always so tight after i eat you out like that?”

you nod, barely able to speak.

“gonna fuckin’ wreck you.”

and he does.

hips snapping, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. his thrusts are deep, filthy, relentless. the sound of skin slapping skin fills the barn, echoing off the rafters.

you’re moaning his name like a song. again and again. dizzy, stupid, ruined.

“say you’re mine,” he pants.

“i’m yours.”

“say it again.”

“i’m yours, rafe. fuck, i’m yours.”

he reaches around and rubs circles on your clit, fast and messy.

you choke on a gasp. “rafe—”

“that’s it, baby,” he grunts. “cum for me. i got you.”

you fall again. hard. legs shaking, vision blurring.

he follows with a deep, broken moan, spilling inside you with a final, punishing thrust.

you collapse onto the hay bale, boneless and limp.

he kisses your shoulder, then your spine. “you alright, baby?”

you giggle weakly. “barely.”

“good.”

he tucks himself back into his jeans and helps you stand, one arm around your waist to keep you steady.

“you still hungry?” he asks, smug.

“i was cherry picking, remember?”

he pulls another from his pocket—stolen from your basket—and holds it between his lips.

“come take a bite, then.”

you kiss him instead.

and bite.

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesfavegf

[ineedpaigebuckets]

Hello. Can you write a comfort Pazzi fic about Paige's first days in the W? Perhaps one set after yesterday's game, where she's happy her friends are there, but she's missing Azzi. She come home tired and beat up, wanting to talk to Azzi, who shows up by surprise and takes care of her. Some vulnerable moments maybe where Paige talks about the adjustment and how hard she's working and how her body is best up from the intensity. Azzi, maybe giving her a massage or bath, and some "gentle ish" sex, where they both are soft with each other, but Azzi really, really takes care of her. And Paige finally has her person with her in Dallas, and someone just to talk to and share the moment with.

yes ma'am (it's kinda like filthy be warned)

home, now

the door clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality. paige stood frozen in the entryway, her keys still dangling from her fingers, the strap of her duffel bag sliding off her shoulder and thudding softly to the floor. her legs felt heavy—like concrete—and her arms hung limply at her sides. she had never known her wrists could ache like this, or that the simple motion of pulling her hair out of a ponytail could feel like too much.

the game was over. the adrenaline had worn off hours ago. the high-fives, the lights, the press. her friends had been in the stands—she’d seen them, smiling and screaming her name, and it had helped for a moment. she’d smiled back. waved. she’d even felt proud.

but now the silence of her apartment pressed against her chest like a weight. she was proud. she was also exhausted. and sore. and just… lonely.

paige didn’t cry. not really. not when she left uconn, not when the draft happened, not even when she stepped on a w court for the first time. but now, here, in the soft dark of her living room, with bruises blooming across her thighs and a dull ache pulsing in her knees, she blinked and felt something wet catch on her lashes.

she rubbed at her face, dropped her keys onto the counter, and dragged herself toward the couch—only to stop short.

the lights were on in the kitchen.

and there, standing by the fridge in a hoodie too big for her and socks pulled halfway up her calves, was azzi.

paige froze. stared. didn’t breathe.

“hey,” azzi said, like she hadn’t just rearranged the entire universe by being here.

“what—what are you doing here?”

“you sounded tired on the phone yesterday. and our schedule finally lined up. so… i flew in. got the spare key from your agent.” azzi walked toward her slowly, like she knew paige might crumple if she moved too fast. “i just wanted to be here when you got home, but im really sorry i couldn't make it to the game.”

paige let out a sound—something caught between a laugh and a sob—and stepped into her arms like she hadn’t seen her in months. because it had felt that long. longer. her head dropped to azzi’s shoulder, her face buried in the space between her collar and neck. azzi’s hands circled her back instantly, one sliding up to her hair, fingers gentle.

“i missed you,” paige mumbled. “i don’t even know how much until right now.”

“i know,” azzi whispered. “me too.”

they stood like that for a long time—until paige’s legs started to shake and azzi was guiding her to the couch, pulling her down gently, cradling her like something precious. azzi helped her out of her shoes, then crouched down in front of her, fingertips brushing over paige’s knees like she was cataloging the pain by feel.

“rough night?” azzi asked softly.

paige huffed. “rough month.”

“talk to me.”

paige swallowed. her throat felt thick. “everything’s faster. harder. i knew it would be. but knowing and living it are two different things. i’m trying. i swear i’m trying. but my body… it’s so tired. i’m so tired.”

“you’re doing amazing,” azzi said, brushing hair from her face. “and you don’t have to be strong for me. not here.”

paige’s eyes fluttered shut. “i just needed… you.”

“you have me,” azzi said, kissing her temple.

they ended up in the bathroom, quiet except for the gentle hum of the tub filling. the light was soft—just the dim glow above the mirror and the flicker of one candle azzi had somehow found and lit while paige was in her haze.

paige leaned against the counter, hips resting against the cool marble, eyes barely open. her sports bra clung to her ribs, damp from sweat, and her shorts were loose but felt suffocating after the game. azzi moved around her with quiet purpose, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

“arms up,” she said gently.

paige obeyed without speaking. azzi pulled her bra over her head with care, folding it and setting it aside. then the shorts, sliding them down slowly, her fingers brushing paige’s skin. nothing rushed. nothing greedy. just presence. reverence. a kind of knowing only built through years of quiet, quiet love.

when paige was fully bare, she didn’t cross her arms or shy away. she just looked at azzi, eyes a little glassy, like she might cry if azzi wasn’t already holding all the heavy things for her.

“in,” azzi whispered.

the bath was warm. not scalding. just enough to pull the tension out, to coax her tired body into letting go. paige stepped in slowly, wincing at first, then sighing deep once she sank beneath the water. azzi got in behind her, pulling paige between her legs like she belonged there. like she always had.

paige’s head rested against azzi’s collarbone, and azzi’s hands started moving—soft circles over sore shoulders, her thumbs pressing gently at the knots by her neck.

“just breathe,” azzi murmured, mouth close to her ear.

paige exhaled shakily, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“hurts?” azzi asked, fingers pausing at a particularly tight spot near her spine.

“yeah,” paige said. her voice was hoarse. small. “everywhere.”

“i’ve got you.”

slowly, azzi let one hand drift down, tracing the line of paige’s arm beneath the water. her fingers dipped below the surface, brushed over her ribs, then lower—along her thigh, where bruises were blooming like violet fingerprints. she cupped one gently, her thumb brushing over it like she could take the pain into herself.

“you’re working so hard,” azzi said. “i know it feels like you have to do it all alone. but you don’t. not with me.”

paige tilted her head, cheek brushing azzi’s jaw. “i didn’t know how much i needed you here until you were.”

“i know,” azzi whispered. “you carry everything.”

“sometimes i wish i didn’t have to.”

“then don’t. not tonight.”

azzi’s hand slid across her stomach, slow and steady. not demanding. just there. grounding. the water lapped gently around them, and azzi kissed the top of paige’s head, then her temple, then lower—along her jaw, soft lips pressing into the places where the tension lived.

paige let her legs float open slightly, the smallest movement, but azzi understood. she always did. her fingers found the inside of paige’s thigh beneath the water, just resting there at first, as if to ask are you sure? and paige’s breath caught, then steadied, and she shifted back into her, answering in the way her hand found azzi’s thigh and squeezed lightly.

“okay,” azzi said, so soft it was almost a breath. “just let go, baby.”

and paige did.

she let azzi touch her, slow and steady, the way only azzi could—like her body was a language she already knew by heart. azzi’s palm moved beneath the water, slipping over soft skin and settling between paige’s legs, but even that didn’t feel like the start of anything rushed. it felt like an extension of the care she’d been giving all night. like an offering. like safety.

azzi’s fingers moved slowly, parting her carefully, like she was trying to memorize every reaction. her other arm stayed locked around paige’s waist, holding her steady. anchoring her. her mouth never left paige’s skin—cheek, shoulder, collarbone—kisses placed gently between each breath, each soft sound.

paige’s breath hitched as azzi’s fingers circled her, a slow rhythm that built with no urgency, just intention. her hips shifted, a subtle roll forward that told azzi everything she needed to know. she tightened her arm around her, guiding her through it.

“you’re okay,” azzi whispered. “i’ve got you.”

paige whimpered—a broken, beautiful sound—and azzi kissed her temple, lips lingering.

“you’re doing so good,” she murmured. “just relax.”

paige’s eyes fluttered shut, her body melting into the space azzi had made for her. everything ached—her knees, her wrists, her back—but not here. not like this. azzi’s touch washed it all away, slow and sure and patient, until all that was left was heat building low in her stomach and the soft press of skin and water and love.

when she came, it wasn’t loud or frantic. it was a quiet unraveling, a slow release that crept up on her like dusk. a soft surrender. a breaking open in silence.

it started in her chest—a tight coil of exhaustion, pressure, emotion that finally, finally gave way. her breath stuttered, shallow and uneven, then deepened into a long, trembling exhale as the feeling washed through her, full-body and fierce. not overwhelming, not this time. just consuming in the way that made her feel known. real. touched in places that had nothing to do with skin.

her legs shook beneath the water, gentle but visible, the kind of tremble that started deep in her core and radiated outward in soft, involuntary pulses. her thighs twitched as the warmth swelled low in her belly, a dull ache that unspooled into pleasure slow and deliberate—like her body had been holding back too long and was finally, mercifully, allowed to feel something that didn’t hurt.

her knees knocked faintly against azzi’s, and her breath caught—shallow and sharp—then spilled out in a shaky moan that barely made it past her lips. her stomach clenched, not with effort but release, every muscle around her hips fluttering beneath the water as she let the feeling crest, then crash. not fast. not overwhelming. just steady. consuming.

her body curled slightly, instinctively, the water rippling around her. she reached behind without thinking, fingers fumbling through the bath until they found azzi’s thigh—smooth and strong and steady behind her. she gripped it—not tightly, not desperate, but with this quiet urgency, like she needed to know something was there. something real. something grounding when everything inside her was liquid and shaking and breaking open at once.

her palm flattened there, splayed wide over azzi’s skin, and in that moment she felt everything. the tension in her own shoulders finally starting to ease. the rush of blood behind her ribs. the softness of the water against her chest. the heat between her legs, still pulsing in slow waves. azzi’s breath at her ear. azzi’s hand still cradling her gently, not pushing, just holding her through it.

azzi didn’t speak. she just held her tighter, fingers easing their rhythm as paige’s body trembled once, then again, then stilled. her mouth was pressed to paige’s temple, breath warm against her hairline. she whispered something too quiet to catch, but paige didn’t need words.

the warmth between them was more than the bath. it was the way azzi wrapped around her like a second skin, like protection. it was the way her hands knew when to keep moving and when to stop. the way her touch never asked, only gave.

paige let her body fall completely limp in azzi’s arms, muscles softening like she hadn’t let herself relax in weeks. her spine curved against azzi’s chest, head tipped back onto her shoulder, neck long and exposed in a way that felt like trust.

her eyes stayed shut. her breathing was unsteady still, little aftershocks in her ribs. but her face—usually so guarded, so tense—was calm now. raw and flushed and peaceful.

she didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. everything was already spoken in the way her body curled back into azzi’s like instinct. like belonging. like home.

and azzi just held her, fingers still moving gently, easing her through every wave until she stilled. until her body was slack and heavy in azzi’s arms, her breathing deep and slow and clean for the first time in days.

“there you go,” azzi said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her temple, her wet lashes. “i’ve got you. you’re home now.”

they stayed there, naked and quiet, water cooling around them, but warmth pulsing steady between their bodies. and for the first time since the season started, paige didn’t feel like she was bracing for the next hit.

she just felt held.

they stayed like that long after the water cooled, azzi holding her like something precious, like her being here was the only thing that mattered.

and maybe, for tonight, it was.

when the bath was over, they moved to the bedroom. paige’s skin was soft and warm from the heat, her limbs loose with exhaustion. she didn’t say anything when azzi kissed her—just kissed her back slowly, gratefully, like she needed to memorize the shape of her again.

and when azzi touched her—soft palms over tired muscles, mouth against her chest, her stomach, her thighs—paige let her. she didn’t feel like a wnba player or a public figure or someone who was supposed to be fine. she felt like a person. her person’s person.

they ended up in bed without really speaking, towels loose around their bodies, hair damp against their shoulders. the light was low. the sheets cool. and when azzi kissed her again—really kissed her—there was nothing hesitant about it.

it was different now. not soft, not slow.

it was need.

paige felt it in the way azzi’s hands roamed lower, bolder, like she wasn’t afraid of breaking her anymore. like she finally believed she wouldn’t. and paige met her there—hips lifting, teeth catching azzi’s bottom lip, hands fisting in the towel still slung around her waist before pulling it off completely. she was done being careful.

because this wasn’t about relaxing anymore. this wasn’t about rest.

this was about remembering she was alive.

and when azzi touched her—soft at first, but building, pressing deeper, harder—paige burned for it.

heat bloomed under her skin, spreading fast, fast, fast. her breath stuttered in her chest as azzi’s fingers traced the slope of her waist, her ribs, the dip of her stomach—each touch grounding and electric all at once. her back lifted off the mattress, body curving instinctively into every point of contact like she’d been starved for it. like this—her—was the only thing that still felt real.

azzi’s mouth followed the line of her torso, open and warm, tongue flicking across her skin in slow, purposeful drags. paige could feel every pass of it—how her stomach jumped when azzi dipped into her navel, how her thighs tensed when azzi’s nails scraped lightly up their insides, how her nipples tightened under the rush of breath when azzi grazed past them again, not stopping, teasing, building.

and when azzi finally pressed her hand between paige’s legs, sliding in slow, deliberate strokes, paige gasped—sharp and breathless, her hips jerking up to meet her touch like a live wire had gone off inside her. slick heat surged through her, low and insistent, her thighs falling open without hesitation now, surrendering to the rhythm azzi set, one that was fast becoming frantic.

everything that had been quiet in her all week—the ache in her shoulders, the hollow in her chest, the dull numbness from forcing smiles through days that demanded too much—came roaring back as want. feral. full-body. her fingers twisted in the sheets, jaw slack as a moan slipped loose, shameless and low, and azzi groaned softly in return, like she felt it too.

“that’s it,” azzi murmured, voice dark and reverent, breath hot against the inside of paige’s thigh. “just like that.”

and paige gave in—hips rolling up to meet azzi’s hand, her mouth falling open as the pressure built sharp and fast. her body moved without thinking, chasing it, aching for it, driven by instinct and hunger and the sheer relief of being allowed to want something this badly. to be wanted this badly. to not be composed or collected or fine—but fucked open and undone, and seen in the fire of it.

every nerve in her body was screaming, raw and awake again.

and god, it felt so fucking good to feel.

pure, physical, full-body want.

“azz,” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut as azzi’s mouth moved down her chest, her ribs, her stomach. “please.”

and azzi didn’t ask what she needed—she already knew. her hands were steady, her mouth unrelenting, and paige’s body answered with sharp gasps and a tremble that wasn’t gentle this time. it was raw. it was desperate.

paige clutched the sheets like she needed something to hold onto. like she might come apart if she didn’t. and maybe she did. but azzi was already there, anchoring her, pulling moans from her throat like she wanted to hear them, wanted to feel how wild she could make her.

and god, she was wild.

it wasn’t quiet now. it wasn’t delicate. it was fast and hot and dizzying, and when it hit her—when she came this time—it felt like a snap. like a match strike. her back arched off the bed, and azzi held her there, let her ride it out, let her make noise.

paige didn’t cry, but it was close. the kind of climax that felt like a reckoning. like something crashing through her chest. her whole body was shaking, fingers tangled in azzi’s curls, thighs trembling as she finally fell back against the bed, slick with sweat and flushed all over.

azzi crawled up beside her, mouth kiss-wet, hair sticking to her cheek. and she looked at paige like she was hers. not like an athlete, or a name on a jersey, or a girl who needed to be taken care of. but like a woman who was fire and fury and feeling, who had come back to herself tonight and let someone witness it.

“you good?” azzi asked softly, brushing paige’s hair from her face.

paige let out a long breath. her lips were parted. her eyes still half-lidded, dazed.

“yeah,” she whispered. her voice was hoarse. “yeah, i’m good.”

and she smiled—not polite, not tired.

real.

hungry.

“you’re gonna kill me,” azzi gasped, breath shaky, fingers curling weakly in paige’s hair.

paige smiled against her skin, slow and dangerous, lips brushing the edge of azzi’s ribcage. “good,” she whispered. “you deserve it.”

azzi had taken care of her. had held her through the unraveling. but she wasn’t tired. not really. her chest was rising fast, yeah, and her lips were kiss-swollen—but she hadn’t been wrecked yet. hadn’t been touched like she touched paige. and paige needed that. needed to feel her come undone. to see the heat in her face shift into something wild, something messy, something ruined.

she pressed azzi back into the pillows, hands moving low, deliberate, greedy. azzi’s breath caught, her thighs parting almost automatically, her body too honest to lie.

“baby—” she tried again, but it was thin, breaking. “you don’t have to—”

“shut up,” paige murmured. “let me.”

and then she was everywhere—mouth, hands, hunger. kissing down azzi’s stomach, biting gently at the skin just above her hip, dragging her tongue over every sensitive place she remembered from long nights and low light. she was slower than shefelt, but deeper. pressing her weight into each movement like she wanted to brand azzi with it. like she needed to make her feel it tomorrow. the next day. every time she tried to walk.

“god,” azzi breathed, her voice gone low and wrecked already. “paige—”

but paige didn’t answer. she just kept going. sucking, licking, curling her fingers just right until azzi’s thighs were shaking, until her hips jerked and her hands slammed into the headboard, fingers gripping the slats like she was holding on for dear life.

paige didn’t stop when azzi begged. didn’t stop when she came, the first time—high and sharp and with a broken cry into the crook of her arm. didn’t even slow. just kept going, mouth soft but relentless, fingers deep and confident, coaxing sound after sound out of azzi’s throat until she was writhing, legs clamped around paige’s shoulders, breath a wrecked mess of “please” and “fuck” and “i can’t—i can’t—”

but she could.

and paige proved it.

with her mouth first. slow, then fast. tongue teasing at first, then deep, purposeful, pressing into azzi like she wanted to ruin her. like she meant to. her hands held azzi open, thumbs dragging soft, dizzying circles over her hips while her tongue licked through slick heat, again and again, until azzi’s back arched and her hand flew to the sheets and pulled. the kind of grip that begged for mercy. the kind of grip that meant don’t stop.

and paige didn’t.

she sucked and licked and curled her fingers into azzi when she started shaking—just two at first, then three, slow but deep, hitting the spot that made azzi cry out and snap, hips lifting off the bed, thighs trembling around paige’s shoulders. the third orgasm tore out of her like a sob, like it had been dragged up from the root of her.

but paige didn’t stop there.

she eased her through it, just enough for the tension to break, then started again—lips sticky, chin wet, eyes wild with it. she shifted her angle, kissed the insides of azzi’s thighs, then went back to her center like she couldn’t stay away. her fingers didn’t falter, didn’t slow. her mouth sealed over azzi again with that same steady rhythm, building it up again, and azzi bucked, already too sensitive, already wrecked.

“paige—” her voice cracked, high and hoarse. “please.”

paige just groaned, the sound low and almost possessive. “you can take it,” she said, mouth brushing wet over her. “i know you can.”

azzi came again, harder—hips jerking, legs locking, both hands shoved into her own hair like she didn’t know what else to hold onto. tears welled in her eyes, spilling out at the edges when she gasped paige’s name like a prayer she couldn’t stop saying.

and still—still—it wasn’t over.

paige climbed up her body, kissed her face, her throat, bit at her collarbone, and said, “one more.”

“i can’t,” azzi choked out, voice shredded.

“one more,” paige whispered, breath hot in her ear. “let me, baby. please. i need to.”

and somehow, azzi did. she let her.

paige moved her leg over azzi’s thigh, bodies sliding together, flushed skin on flushed skin, slick and wet and raw. she lined them up, pressed in, slow and devastating, her hips grinding just enough to pull a choked moan from azzi’s throat.

it was too much. and exactly right.

azzi clawed at paige’s back, her body lifting to meet her, rocking helplessly as paige proved it with every roll of her hips. every kiss. every breathless whisper of “i love you” against her ear.

azzi shattered again—legs trembling, thighs slick, voice gone—and this time, she didn’t even make a sound. just a breath, a sob, her whole body seizing beneath paige, then going utterly limp. twitching.

and paige finally stopped.

her mouth pressed to azzi’s cheek, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. her hand stroked through her hair, whispering “you’re okay, you’re okay, i’ve got you,” over and over until azzi could finally breathe again.

azzi’s arms tried to lift, then dropped. spent. tears still clung to her lashes. her lips parted, eyes unfocused, voice slurred when she mumbled, “you win.”

and paige smiled. soft. proud. completely in love.

“i know.”

azzi didn’t move for a long time. not even a twitch. she just lay there, breathing shallow, lips parted, her entire body slack beneath the damp sheets. paige hovered above her, catching her own breath, chest rising and falling with quiet pride and something even deeper—something like awe.

eventually, azzi stirred.

“you’re a menace,” she croaked, voice absolutely wrecked, the smallest smirk tugging at her mouth. “i’m gonna have to be stretchered into the next team meeting.”

paige grinned, not even a little bit sorry. “you’re the one who showed up unannounced.”

“to take care of you,” azzi groaned, dragging a hand across her face. “and now i need my caregiver.”

“well,” paige said, shifting down and kissing her belly button, “consider it mutual destruction.”

azzi let out a hoarse laugh. “i can’t believe you kept going. i think my soul left my body on orgasm number four.”

“number five,” paige corrected. “but who’s counting.”

“you were,” azzi said, eyes fluttering shut as she grinned. “sicko.”

paige rolled to the side and gently pulled azzi with her, wrapping her up in her arms. azzi was limp but pliant, head falling against paige’s collarbone. their skin was sticky, overheated, slick with sweat and everything else, and still, neither of them pulled away.

“you good?” paige murmured into her hair.

azzi made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum. “i’m alive,” she said. “barely.”

“wanna rinse off?”

“i can’t walk, bro.”

“so dramatic,” paige teased. “you’re an elite athlete.”

“not anymore,” azzi groaned. “i’ve been retired by your mouth.”

paige laughed, full and warm, and kissed her temple. “okay. i’ll carry you.”

and she did—half-lifting, half-guiding her into the bathroom again. the lights were low, the air warm. paige ran a soft stream from the showerhead and let it trickle down azzi’s back while she held her steady, soaped her up gently, kissed the slope of her shoulder every time azzi leaned too heavily into her.

“this is actually nice,” azzi murmured, finally able to stand on her own as paige rinsed her arms. “i think i forgive you.”

“think?”

“jury’s still out.”

once they were clean and dry, paige tugged azzi back into bed, this time under the covers. she made sure to lotion her shoulders, run her fingers through the knots in her hair, kiss the soft spot behind her ear just because she could.

“you okay now?” azzi whispered after a while, voice drowsy.

paige looked over at her, and something in her chest softened, like all the fight had gone out of her.

“yeah,” she said quietly. “i am now.”

“good,” azzi said, tucking herself into paige’s side. “i don’t ever want you to have to go through something big without me again.”

paige kissed the top of her head, pulled the blankets up around them. “then don’t leave.”

“wasn’t planning on it.”

and they drifted like that—bodies tangled, skin warm, every ache eased by the presence of the other. there was nothing left to prove. just this. just them.

safe. loved. home.

[mmochammoss]

Omg your without you fic killed me😭 I need some more Shoto content pls. Smth like same as that vibes hurt/comfort with a mix of smut. ILYYY and thanksss

My kind of vibe 🙂‍↕️🤏🏾————————————————————————

The Morning

Shoto Todoroki works hard, sometimes too hard, like tonight.

He was called in to deal with a high-stakes rescue mission and felt as though he was only barely able to save the civilians who were caught up in the danger. As a hero, he knows he shouldn’t let close calls like these weigh too heavily on his mind. He couldn’t. But sometimes, he just couldn’t help it. And tonight is one of those nights.

You’d been home, watching everything unfold on the news, heart climbing into your throat each time the footage replayed on the tv. The cityscape decorated with flashing emergency lights, the buildings collapsing, the panicked civilians. And then, finally, the flash of ice and fire as Todoroki arrived on the scene.

By the time he walked through the front door of your shared apartment, the energy around him was heavy. You don’t need to ask how it went. You already knew. You could practically feel it.

He was quiet. Shoulders tense. Still in his hero costume that was now wrinkled and dusty in some places, streaked with soot and faint marks of the rescue. You barely had to say his name before he was wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says softly.

You shake your head, stroking his hair. “You’re not late, you’re home. And that’s all I care about.”

You press a kiss to his lips and take his hand, leading him gently toward the bathroom.

“Come on, hero,” you murmur. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You don’t try to ask him about the mission. Not yet at least. His complete silence spoke volumes to you. Todoroki was by no means the talkative type, but you’d been together long enough to know when his silence was circumstantial. Instead, you helped him strip off his costume piece by piece, scorched fabric sliding down his arms and falling to the floor with a soft clatter. His body was warm under your fingertips, tense and worn thin. He lets you undress him without a word, eyes heavy with something unreadable.

Once the last of his gear is set aside, you guide him into the shower. The water is already running for and you test it once more before pulling him in with you.

Todoroki stands still at first, head bowed beneath the stream. The water trails over his shoulders, down his chest, carrying soot and stress with it. You reach for the washcloth and lather it with your favorite gentle body wash, then move to clean him slowly and carefully.

He exhales when you press it to his skin, a quiet sound, like he’s been holding his breath since he left the agency just hours ago.

You wash his arms, his chest, the curve of his back. You drag your fingers through his damp hair, rinsing the strands clean. You kneel down to gently scrub away the grime clinging to his legs. Not once does he stop you. Not once does he say anything beyond the occasional soft ‘thank you.’

You’re not expecting him to. This isn’t about conversation. This is about being there for him when you know he needs you most. Being his calm in the storm.

Once he’s clean and the steam has started to fade from the room, you help him out of the shower and wrap him in a towel. You dry his hair gently with another, then guide him back to the bedroom where you search for a pair of fresh pajamas for you both.

He dresses slowly, like his body is heavier than usual. Like the weight of everything he carried today is still clinging to his skin.

You pull on your own clothes. Some soft cotton shorts, and an oversized t-shirt. You climb into bed, lifting the covers so he can join you.

The second he’s under the blankets, you reach for him. He shifts into your arms like it’s the only place he wants to be. You press him close, tuck his head under your chin, and begin stroking his back in soft, slow motions.

“You did so amazing today, my love,” you whisper against his hair. “I watched the whole thing. You saved so many people today, Shoto. You were incredible.”

His arms wrap tighter around your waist at the compliments. You keep going.

“They made it home. You made it home. You’re a hero. You’re my favorite hero.”

He doesn’t say anything. But you feel the way his breathing shudders. The way his shoulders finally start to relax.

“I’m so proud of you, love,” you murmur. “Always.”

His voice is hoarse when it finally reaches your ears. “I almost wasn’t enough today.”

You stroke his hair. “You know that’s not true. You were enough. You’re always enough.”

He pulls you closer, like he’s trying to disappear into your touch. You hold him as long as he needs, whispering soft reassurances until his body finally starts to go limp with sleep, breaths evening out against your chest.

You kiss the top of his head one last time, and let your eyes slip shut, too.

Wrapped up in each other, safe and warm, you drift off together.

As the morning approaches the light that filters through the curtains is soft and golden. The sun, slow and quiet, warms your room in a way that makes everything feel gentle.

You wake up before he does.

Todoroki is still curled against you, arm slung around your waist, breath warm where it fans across your collarbone. His face is peaceful now, completely relaxed. The tension that gripped him last night finally gone. You smile to yourself, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

He stirs a little when your fingers graze his skin. A slow blink, a sleepy hum.

“Morning, lovey,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple.

His voice is low and raspy. “Mm. Morning my love.”

You smile at the sound of the pet name, glad that he’s feeling like himself again.

He doesn’t move from your arms. If anything, he snuggles in closer. You let your hand lazily drift up and down his back, still coming out of your own sleep. “You slept okay?”

Todoroki nods into your shoulder. “Because of you.”

Your heart warms a little at that. “I’m glad.”

There’s a quiet pause as he breathes you in, content and still half-asleep.

Then he says, soft but certain, “I don’t think I could do any of this without you.”

You blink, caught a little off guard by the weight of his words.

“Yes you could,” you reply gently. “You’re so strong, Shouto. You can do anything.”

His hand tightens around your waist. “I’m strong because I know you’re here, at home waiting for me.”

You can’t say anything to that. Not at first. You just hold him tighter, tucking your chin on top of his head.

“I kept thinking about you last night,” he murmurs. “When I was at the scene. When everything was going wrong. I kept thinking about how I needed to come home to you.”

You press another kiss to his head as you feel yourself get a bit misty eyed. “You’ll always have me to come home to.”

“I know,” he says. Then, quieter: “That’s what makes everything else bearable.”

There’s another long moment of silence, but it’s warm now. Full of things that don’t need to be said.

Then he lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes still sleepy but shining with emotion. “I love you.”

You smile. “I love you, too, Shou.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your lips. Then another to your cheek. Then one to your nose.

And then your lips again.

The kiss is slow, deep and needy. Like the both of you are in competition to prove to the other that you love them more. He kisses you again. And again. And again. Until you’re breathless and warm all over.

You giggle as you hold him a bit tighter, brushing his hair back. “Someone’s in a good mood this morning.”

He smiles sheepishly, pulling you closer. “I just… I want to show you how much I love you. And how grateful I am for everything you do.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine. Like it’s not just about comfort anymore. Like he needs you in a different way now.

You glance down and realize he’s already half-hard, pressed against your thigh.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask softly, fingers trailing down his arm.

“I’m more than okay, love,” he says, mouth already finding yours again. “Let me show you. Please.”

And just like that, the mood shifts.

The softness remains, but there’s heat building beneath it, gentle and sweet, but undeniable.

Todoroki starts kissing down your jaw, his hand smoothing over your side.

“You made me feel so safe, so loved,” he murmurs. “I want to make you feel loved, too.”

You nod, heart fluttering.

And he kisses you again, somehow needier than before, as his hand slips beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.

His fingers are warm as they slide lower, parting you gently, stroking through the slick already gathering between your thighs. He groans softly against your lips at how wet you are for him, at how quickly your body responds to his touch.

“I love how ready you are for me,” he whispers. “So soft, so warm. You’re perfect, my love.”

You arch slightly into his hand, breath hitching as two fingers dip between your folds, teasing you open with practiced ease. His pace is unhurried, deliberate, his lips never straying far from yours. He kisses you through every sigh, every moan, every roll of your hips.

“I want to take my time,” he murmurs against your cheek, pressing a sweet kiss to your skin. “You were so good to me last night. So gentle and patient. Let me take care of you now.”

You nod, already half-gone from all the attention, from the way his voice runs through your bones like electricity.

His fingers stroke you in gentle circles. He watches you closely, eyes heavy with love and want, cataloguing every reaction as if he’s memorizing how to please you perfectly. You whimper out his name softly when he curls his fingers just right, your hand clutching at his forearm as you rock your hips forward.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Just like that, beautiful. You’re doing so good.”

His praise only spurs you on, warmth blooming in your chest and lower. You cry out softly when he adds just a little more pressure, his mouth returning to yours in a deep, hungry kiss that leaves you dizzy.

Your fingers tangle in the hem of his shirt, tugging slightly, and he gets the message, sitting up and slipping it off before returning his attention to you. His bare chest presses against yours as he kisses you again, then trails kisses down your jaw, your neck, your chest. peppering every inch of skin he can reach as his fingers work you over the edge.

When he finally pulls his fingers away, you whine softly at the loss.

“Shh,” he soothes, nudging your cheek with his nose. “I’ve got you.”

He sits up on his knees again, slides down your sleep shorts and pulls his own off, settling back into the bed beside you. He turns on his side, his chest pressed to yours, and lifts your top leg over his hip. He snakes his other arm underneath your head like a pillow, pulling you into his embrace for stability.

Then, slowly, carefully, he slides into you.

Your mouth falls open in a gasp, his arm tightening around your thigh.

He leans in to kiss you again, groaning low into your mouth. “Fuck—you always feel so perfect.”

You wrap an arm around him, gripping his shoulder, grounding yourself in the sensation of him slowly stretching you open. He doesn’t move at first. Just holds you, cock buried deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours like a safety net.

“You okay?” he whispers, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m ready.”

He begins to move.

Each thrust is gentle but full, his hips rocking against yours like a tide. His free hand explodes your bare body. fingers stroking your chest, your stomach, your thighs, always moving, always touching. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your jaw. Like he’s trying to remind you just how loved you are with every inch of his body.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I’d fall apart without you.”

You choke on a soft sob and bury your face into his chest, overwhelmed by how intimate this all feels.

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “Every good thing in my life leads back to you. I need you, my love.”

You can’t find the words, so you just tilt your head up and kiss him, whispering short ‘I love you’s and ‘I need you too’s into his mouth, not wanting to ruin the mood.

He groans into your mouth again as his hips stutter slightly. He screws his eyes shut and throws his head back as the rhythm starts to fray as pleasure builds.

“I’m close,” he whispers, forcing himself to look at you. “Can you come for me, beautiful? Please?”

You nod, breath catching as his fingers trail back down between your thighs, rolling over your clit as he fucks you through another orgasm.

You cry out his name as you come undone, body clenching around him, he holds you flush against him as he follows, hips pressing flush to yours as he groans into the crook of your neck.

He doesn’t pull away right away. Just holds you. Breathes with you.

When you both calm down, sweat cooling and heartbeats syncing, he presses one last kiss to your shoulder.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I’ll never stop being grateful for you.”

You pull him into another kiss, soft and slow.

“I’m the one who should be grateful,” you whisper. “I love you, too.”

And then you're both asleep, all tangled up in each other just like the night before. the weight of yesterday having been washed away by the warmth of the morning.

————————————————————————Requests are open!! <3

[glitteringdust]

falling asleep on the other’s shoulder?

It was a known fact by everyone who knew him that Rook was never one to sit still. He'd practice his spells when he should be sleeping, then spar after he woke. He'd pace around any room he was in while lost in thought, no matter how long a day it had been. The fellow Grey Warden simply didn't relax, it seemed to Davrin, especially when he should.

After Weisshaupt was no exception.

Despite the broken ribs and concussion from being slammed into a wall by an ogre, Rook was once again not resting and instead pacing around the main hall of the Lighthouse. From a distance, he appeared unharmed and moving in his usual stride, but as Davrin climbed the stairs he could see the injuries starting to make themselves known— a hint of a limp on his right side, jaw clenching when he took too deep a breath. Bruises were beginning to bloom along his exposed collarbones and down his chest, Davrin could only imagine what the rest of him looked like.

“I know, I know. I should be resting,” Rook breaks the silence, having finally noticed him while he'd been too busy thinking of bruises.

“You're right, you should be. I watched you get thrown like a ragdoll today. I'm surprised you're still standing.”

“I will admit, I am too.” He chuckles for a moment, before his hand flies to his injured side.

“Then why are you?”

Rook is quiet for a moment, unusual for him. “Trying to sleep in an illuminated fish bowl doesn't really help headaches,” pale eyes flick downwards, something left unsaid before continuing, “Can't sleep either?”

How could he? Weisshaupt was gone, a pillar of Grey Warden history destroyed by a god in one night. Losses in the hundreds, a gaping wound worse than even the Hero of Ferelden had to witness. Not to mention the heroic death from killing an Archdemon had been nothing, an unreachable final act.

“Not really, no.”

They stand under the blue glow of the main hall in a shared loss. He knows Rook had to make difficult choices, stand against impossible odds. He navigated danger like it was second nature, never backing down from what he believed in. Always going forward, a fierce flame of hope.

One that was dangerously close to flickering out from exhaustion any moment. The adrenaline must finally be fading, the full weight of the day catching up as Rook sways a bit on his feet.

“Rook, you're going to rest even if I have to carry your sorry butt there.” He rests his hand gently on Rook's shoulder, “So let's make this easy.”

Rook all but leans his entire weight against him as they descend the stairs and head towards his quarters. Going up proves to be much more difficult, but they eventually make their way inside.

Davrin leads him towards the bed, the furthest thing from the Fade light and guaranteed to be dark, “You can take the bed, Rook. Should help with that headache.”

Rook pulls away, eyebrows raised in mild shock, “What? Davrin, you don't have to do this. I'll fit in the chair just fine.”

He shakes his head, “Assan doesn't share that spot with just anyone.” Rook is about to object again but he cuts him off, “If I can do one good thing today, let it be this.”

It quiets Rook's protests, “Fine, but can I ask a favor first?”

“Sure, you name it.”

“Would you… brush my hair? Lifting my arms is hell with these broken ribs.”

It's not a request Davrin expected. Rook was protective of his hair, didn’t let anyone touch it, “Uh, are you sure?”

“If you don't, it'll be even worse tomorrow.” Rook says, a sly smile forming, “Don't worry if it hurts, though, I can handle it rough.”

Davrin chooses his next words carefully, “Oh, I don't know. Why don't we do gentle, see if you're not begging me to keep going.”

Rook blushes, the tips of his ears matching his cheeks. He follows Davrin to the arm chair, sitting gingerly on the floor between the other's legs, using the seat of the chair to rest his back on.

Davrin never understood why Rook had kept his hair so long all these years. It had to be hot in the summers, always in the way at the worst of times, and a hassle to care for…and yet, it was nothing if not beautiful to look at. A silvery blonde, surprisingly soft.

Davrin works his way through the first of the tangles, careful not to pull too hard as he frees the strands. It becomes a rhythm, and Rook melts into it. He gives off a slight hum with every sweeping motion, softening inch by inch.

“For what it's worth Davrin, I'm really glad you're alive.” Rook's voice was murmur, wavering ever so slightly but he says nothing more. Instead, he leans his head against Davrin's thigh.

The motion was so simple, yet Davrin felt a flutter in his stomach. He's only felt that flutter when he's caught Rook staring on more than one occasion, but then again he's done the same to Rook just as many times. He couldn't remember the last time he had someone who understood him. Someone who knew what it was like to leave what you knew behind, how to fight for those who need it most. To be a light through all the darkness.

Rook's hair was more than smooth, now. Davrin sets the brush down when he hears it. Soft snoring.

Did Rook… fall asleep sitting like this? He watches the rise and fall of his shoulders, slow and even. Sure enough, he had.

Well, better to let him sleep for a bit. He sits back, staring at the fire until his own eyelids begin to droop. The weight of the day was still there, yet Rook's weight against him lessened the load.

It's hours before either of them wake.

[charliegyrth]

My Former Best Friend - Part 5 of 5

Our Relationship Changes Forever

Read Part 4 here.

For Landon’s third week, I cooked all his meals with lard. I had no idea how all-purpose lard could be. I didn’t know that you could use it for things like fried chicken, pie crusts, soups, and even roasted vegetables.

Cooking with lard changed the way my entire kitchen smelled, but it seemed to work. Landon couldn’t stop complimenting my cooking. In fact, he gobbled down my massive meals with much less reluctance than before. He was becoming addicted to my food.

In fact, I almost never had to guilt him into finishing his plate. And a few times, he even asked for seconds.

Now that I was aware of his gain, I paid ultra-close attention to his body as he outgrew his clothes. His stomach had gotten a bit bigger (though probably more from bloat than actual gains), but the real change came in his chest. I had no idea how quickly pecs could soften. His nipples were always visible through his tightening shirts.

They must’ve gotten more sensitive, too. A few times while he was eating, he started rubbing his finger over one of his nipples without even realizing it. God, that drove me wild.

I knew he was aware of how his body was changing. He’d been aware since that ill-fated jogging excursion. But he never said anything about it. And he never stopped eating.

I laid out snacks next to his laptop every morning, and by the end of the day, they were gone.

He moved slower now. Sat around more. Constantly had food in his hands. I had turned him into a pathetic glutton, a slob who relied on food to get through the day.

But he wasn’t the only one who changed. I wasn’t gaining any weight, thank God. (In fact, cooking with all that disgusting lard was slowly putting me off my own cooking, and I actually lost some weight on my already-thin frame.) My habits, though… Those really changed. Because I was spending hours at the dinner table with Landon, we actually had the time to bond. I learned more about his life. And his interests. And the way he started to joke with me again reminded me of why we’d been such good friends as kids. He was fun. And funny.

Because I was exerting power over his eating habits, I no longer felt the need to control the conversation.

I also stopped going out with my friends. I hadn’t hooked up with anyone in weeks. I preferred to stay home with Landon.

In the evenings, I started letting him pick what we watched on TV. He was snacking for me, so he deserved to make some choices on his own. (He always picked dumb action movies, which I was fine with.)

Overall, our dynamic was still pretty messed up, but it felt healthier.

By our last week, we even started going out together. I took him to a buffet one night, and then a Chinese restaurant, and then a sushi bar. (All on my dime.) Because Landon had outgrown all his old clothes, his exposed muffin top drew tons of attention from the other customers. I loved that.

Then the unthinkable happened. The last day of the month arrived. In the back of my mind, I knew this day was coming. When he first got here, I couldn’t wait for him to leave, but now, the thought filled me with dread.

Landon walked into my office, his stomach bulging and a bag of chips in his hand, and he asked if we could talk. He hadn’t looked this anxious since Week Two.

“One second,” I said.

I closed out my work documents and followed him into the living room.

He sat in his usual spot, nervously shoving chip after chip into his mouth. “I, um, think I found a place.”

I forced my expression to remain blank. “Oh?”

“It’s a studio apartment on Fairview.” (That was an extremely skeezy part of town.) “I have enough saved up, and… um, the landlord says I can move in tomorrow.”

“And is that what you want?”

He looked away. He reached into the chip bag for another handful, but it came up empty. “It’s… my only option right now.”

I didn’t say anything for a long time. Then finally, I asked, “And you don’t want to keep staying here?”

He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “But the month’s over?”

“I know,” I said. “But if you want, we can extend things. Indefinitely.”

“Really? Joe, this is… You’re amazing!” He tried to jump off the couch, but his belly pushed him down. On the second try, he hoisted himself up and ran toward me. I stood, and he wrapped me in his arms. Overcome with emotion, he mumbled, “God, I’m gonna get so fat for you.”

I pulled away. “What?”

“Oh, um… We’re not supposed to talk about it, right?”

“Talk about what?”

“This!” He grabbed his stomach and jiggled. “This is what you want, right?”

Now I was speechless. I knew I’d been less than subtle in my efforts, but I didn’t expect him to just call me out on it like that.

“Come on, Joe. We can talk about it. We should talk about it. That’ll help… speed up my progress, don’t you think?”

“Your progress,” I repeated.

“Listen, when I came here, I felt horrible. About everything. But you were so freaking kind, opening your doors and taking care of me. And then that first night, when you made me eat off the floor, it was, I don’t know… Incredible. I know it sounds crazy, but I loved how you were exerting power over me, punishing me with food and humiliation. That, well, it felt great. And then you kept overfeeding me and I knew... This guy’s an encourager. He wants to dominate me and wreck my body. And that felt great, too.”

He sat down now, his shirt riding up above his belly button. “But I wasn’t 100% sure. I thought I might be projecting. You know, because of how guilty I felt, and how much I wanted you back in high school. But then after I tried jogging, and I caught you get a full-on erection at the sight of my sweaty belly, I knew you were into it, too. You liked using your power over me just as much as I liked being controlled. And then you upped all my portions, forced me to eat all these snacks, cooked with freaking lard. And best of all, when you paraded me around at those restaurants in my tight clothes. God, it was… incredible. That was all intentional, right? You like me getting fatter, don’t you?”

“I… guess I do.”

“And I like getting fatter for you. Let’s not beat around the bush, Joe.”

All this time, he knew what I was doing. And he liked it.

I slowly stood up, grabbed another bag of chips from the table, and sat on his lap. My eyes locked on his, I popped open the bag and started feeding him chips one at a time. “You liked me in high school?”

“I, um…” (Chew and swallow.) “Loved you, I think.” (Chew and swallow.) “I just didn’t know…” (Chew and swallow.) “How to deal with my…” (Chew and swallow.) “Feelings.”

“Well, you were terrible.”

“I know.” (Swallow.)

“You made me feel helpless.”

“I know.”

“How fat are you going to grow for me?”

“As fat as you want.”

“Fat enough to be helpless? To rely on me for everything?”

“Yes.”

All the chips were gone, so I poured the crumbs into his open mouth.

***

Two years later.

I opened our last picnic box. The other six were already empty.

“What’s in that one?” Landon asked excitedly, the sweat on his fat face gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. His shirtless belly was coated in crumbs and ice cream streaks. One thick stream of strawberry ice cream had slid all the way from his moob to his lap, and I loved how its path had oozed along one of his newer stretchmarks. That was very cute.

“A surprise,” I said, pulling out the first of many chocolate muffins. I’d made these special for him. Extra lard. His favorite.

I held it toward his lips and then pulled it away as he tried to bite.

“Joe?”

“Finish the donuts first,” I said.

He looked confused. He’d already gobbled them all down.

Or so he thought. I reached under his moob and pulled out the last donut. I’d slid it into the crease while I was feeding him, wondering if he’d notice. He hadn’t.

“Sneaky,” he said, and ate it in one blissful bite. The breeze picked up, sending the thin red hairs on the top of head into a gentle dance. He’d gone bald in the last year, and even though he felt self-conscious about the little wisps, I didn’t allow him to shave them off completely.

We weren’t alone in the park. A young couple were walking by, but when they took one look at my 450-pound boyfriend, they hurried off in the other direction. Landon smiled at the humiliation.

“Okay,” I said. “Now it’s muffin time. Please eat this one slowly. I want you to really savor it.”

“Whatever you say, Joe,” he said, with such love in his voice.

He took a huge bite, and even though he tried to eat slowly, he just couldn’t help himself. He barely chewed before swallowing. Then he coughed.

“Dammit, Landon! I said slowly!”

“I tried,” he whimpered. He did everything slowly now except eating. “There was something in it.”

I stared into his eyes, waiting for him to figure it out.

“Oh God. Did I just swallow…?”

“Say it,” I ordered.

“Was that an engagement ring?”

“Landon, will you marry me?”

The proposal had been a long time coming. I knew we were meant for each other, and I was ready to ask him a year ago. But I waited until he passed 400, then 450. Our wedding wouldn’t be perfect until he had to use a motorized scooter to make it down the aisle. And sure, he technically could still waddle down the aisle with his cane, but what’s the fun in that? I wanted all our guests to marvel at him, to see how beautifully helpless he’d become thanks to my constant love and attention.

I couldn’t wait for all his old high friends to see him like this. I knew that Landon would freak out when I told him about the guest list, but he’d go along with it. He always did.

“Yes, Joe! I’ll marry you! I…” He started to cough. His red cheeks got redder. Then he burped right into my face. The ring popped out of his mouth.

I picked it up and slid the wet ring onto his chubby finger.

"I'm yours," he said as he finished his muffin.

The End.

Thanks for reading! You can find all my stories here.