#i could literally go on about this all day

[luvergirl-535]

meet cute, but, like, wayyy worse

part - 2

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 8.3k

c/w - smut (iktr), paige is a loser in the streets and a freak in the sheets (lol), horrifically unedited to the point where idek if it’s legible so bear w me 🥀

a/n - writing this made me realize i’ve literally forgotten how to write smut 😔 bc why’d i keep trying to make it funny. i’m actually a little concerned that ive been doing too much unserious stuff i won’t be able to go back to normal writing anymore lmao maybe i’m the problem…

paige has had an absolute shitshow of a night. actually, scratch that—the entire year has been a shitshow. maybe even the past two years. she doesn’t like to dwell on it.

she hates the way her friends look at her these days, with cautious smiles and sympathetic eyes, like all they ever do anymore is feel bad for her. she hates the way they speak to her when she starts drinking, like she’s an unpredictable, wild thing. like they’re afraid of what she’s doing to herself.

honestly, she’s fine. they just don’t get it. the fame, the work, it’s a lot. she’s in shape. her basketball has never been better. she’s bringing girls home every night.

it’s not like she’s addicted to coke or anything. since when is it a crime to need a few beers every now and then?

(it’s every night. and some mornings, too.)

(she finds herself forgetting—birthdays, anniversaries, names—more than ever.)

(she used to fucking hate alcohol.)

(she is a little afraid of herself, too.)

anyway.

the cruise has been fun. a team-bonding experience, meant to build their chemistry off the court, to take their minds off the upcoming season for a little while. a week of relaxation. a week to destress. for paige, it’s been hard. she cannot justify sneaking off to day drink to her teammates, and they’ve been steering clear of alcohol like their lives depend on it. she only gets to drink at night, after the rest of the girls have gotten too drunk to care about what she does. the rest of the time, she’s forced to be painfully sober.

it all goes from ‘difficult’ to ‘burning gates of hell’ when she throws up on the love of her life—who does not know she’s the love of paige’s life—azzi fudd. an angel on earth, the most beautiful girl paige has ever seen. like, better than zendaya. for real.

after that, she wants nothing more than to jump off ship and be lost at sea forever. when kk offers to take azzi back to paige’s room, she swears she could kill her.

and then, almost consecutively: her stupid little crush is exposed, she’s forced to cut a dress off azzi’s body, and then—this.

her first thought, after the phone call, is mental image of her fist pumping, because, duh. and then comes the, oh my god, i get to fuck azzi fudd, followed by a brief moment of panic, followed then by the realization that of course she is not going to fuck azzi tonight. or ever.

she is both relieved and disappointed by this knowledge.

“i’m…” azzi says, staring at her phone as if she could magically make chad call her back again. paige expects something, like maybe an explanation on why the fuck she’s telling her ex-boyfriend they are going to fuck tonight, but instead, azzi just tosses the phone onto the bed as if she’s been burned and says, “i’m going to change.”

paige has half a mind to leap in front of the door and barricade azzi in the room with her until she gets an explanation. she doesn’t, because she can barely act like a normal person around azzi, let alone confront her like that.

azzi disappears into the restroom. paige sits. and waits—not so patiently.

she pulls at a fray in the comforter until it comes loose. taps her foot against the bedframe. thinks about how azzi’s voice changed on the call—quieter, but not exactly embarrassed. maybe satisfied? there was something in it that didn’t sound like regret. that’s the part that’s screwing with her the most.

she gets up from the bed to pace, the back-and-forth a feeble attempt at wrapping her mind around what just happened. when that doesn’t work, she drops to the floor and does some sit-ups, because when she was a kid her dad told her if she let the anxiety build in her body she’d explode and that the only way to get rid of it was to do sit-ups. he’s a bitch for that, but she’s also spent a lifetime with nice abs, so she can’t really be too mad. but not even the magical sit-ups really work, so she does the last thing she can think of:

she pounds on the bathroom door.

“jesus!” azzi’s voice is high-pitched, nervous. “you tryna knock the door down?”

“uh, no,” paige says, a little unsure of what she’s going to say now that she’s here. “you’ve just been in there for awhile so…”

“don’t worry about it.”

oh, she’s worried. though not particularly about azzi. “can you just come out?”

“why?”

at this point, azzi is just playing in her face. because what does she mean, ‘why?’. is it not a normal thing to come out of the bathroom once you’re done?

the most alarming thing about all this is that paige has yet to question her undying crush, even as azzi is turning out to be a possible psycho. actually, even worse—it might be turning paige on?

now she is doubly worried. perhaps she should focus on one thing at a time.

paige’s silence must have stretched long enough to spark concern, because azzi speaks again, a hesitant, “paige?”

paige sighs, a hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose, a pose she might have adopted from her coach. “you know you owe me an explanation, azzi.”

another sigh, as equally annoyed as paige’s, from the other side of the door. and then, its opening, and azzi’s standing there in paige’s clothes, looking altogether too soft and sweet for the diabolical things she did ten minutes prior. “i know, i just…i don’t really have one.”

paige’s eyes flick down azzi’s body without permission. the loose uconn t-shirt hangs too long on her—paige knows that shirt, it’s the one she used to let her ex borrow. something about azzi in it makes her stomach twist. not in a bad way. in the worst possible way.

paige steps back, allowing azzi back into the bedroom. “you mean you don’t have an explanation for telling your boyfriend we’d…” paige isn’t usually shy about sex, she’s a grown adult, for god’s sake, but this is azzi fudd and she can’t really find her words in normal conversation, and certainly not this one, “you know…” she trails off awkwardly.

azzi bites her lip, half-sheepish, half-trying to charm her way out of it. and, yeah, maybe it’s working a little.

paige realizes with a little bit of a start that she’s staring at azzi’s lips. she glances up and away quickly, turning around to give herself something to do before motioning to the phone on the bed. “you should…call him back.”

“hell no,” azzi sneers.

“well it’s either that or we fuck,” paige retorts before she can think. she’s glad she’s faced away so azzi can’t see the way blood flushes her cheeks.

azzi’s silent for a moment. almost long enough that paige turns around, but then she speaks. “maybe there’s another option,” she says.

paige senses trouble.

❀❀❀

kk’s jaw is on the floor.

she looks between a guilty-looking azzi and a tomato-red paige before letting out a shocked laugh. “now why would you tell him that?”

kk asking all the most important questions.

“it was the first thing that came to mind!” azzi says, voice high and defensive. paige can’t help but think it’s adorable.

“why, though?” kk asks, a small, suspect grin spreading over her face.

azzi gives her a look, something that clearly says cut it out, and paige doesn’t doubt that kk spilled all the beans about her crush to azzi earlier.

“uh-huh,” kk responds, making a small ‘mcht’ sound.

azzi gives that warning look again. “shut up, kk.”

“that isn’t even the main thing,” paige points out, jumping between their tense interaction. “what we came to tell you is azzi had an idea.” an outlandish, admittedly odd one, but an idea nonetheless.

“an idea,” kk repeats.

azzi nods. she’s hesitant, clearly, but paige has already assured her kk will be on board. she’ll laugh in their faces first, sure, but then she will help them go through with azzi’s little…plan.

“okay,” she says doubtfully. “tell me this lil’ idea.”

azzi glances nervously at paige. “well, i can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right,” she explains.

kk nods. “obviously.”

“and i can’t go back to my room tonight.”

“okay…”

“so i’m going to stay here,” she continues, taking a deep breath as in gathering courage for the teasing about to come. “and i’m going to take…suggestive pictures with paige, in paige’s bed. and we’re just hoping you can help.”

before azzi’s finished, kk’s eyebrows have already raised to her hairline. she lets out a half-shocked, half-ifuckingknewit scoff. it’s enough to have paige jumping in to try and make it look better. “her boyfriend’s really an ass, kk, like, she needs to get him back.”

azzi nods. “paige heard him on the phone. she knows.”

“i know,” paige agrees.

kk looks between the two of them, both so earnest and oh-so oblivious, and just laughs. “i believe you. oh, i believe you.”

“so are you going to help us?” azzi asks.

“help with what, exactly? do i need to ref? do i need to make sure it stays pg in there?”

paige immediately blushes, squeaking an awkward “what? no!” before azzi can even react. when she does, it’s a much more nonchalant, normal person answer: “don’t be weird, kk. answer the question.”

kk gives paige a pointed look. “for the record, this is stupud. y’all are stupid. and i don’t condone such behavior.”

“oh, shut up, kk,” paige says.

“but i will help,” kk finishes, getting up from her kitchen stool. “i’ll make sure y’all look as, what’d you say? suggestive, as possible,” she grins.

azzi, bravely, doesn’t so much as redden. “cool. thanks.”

“what friends are for,” kk replies easily. she walks toward them, slinging an arm around both their shoulders and pulling their heads close. “and after tonight, we are definitely friends,” she tells azzi.

“except on the court,” azzi points out.

“unless you come to uconn.”

“you tryna recruit me? to a team that always loses against us?” azzi laughs, pushing away. “you’re funny.”

“trust, we wouldn’t lose with you on our team,” kk says.

paige rolls her eyes. “can we just get this over with?”

“aight, cranky pants. let’s get it.” kk motions toward the bedroom. “go start taking y’all’s clothes off. i’ll get the camera ready.”

“oh, brother,” azzi sighs, at the same time paige mutters, “worst fuckin’ idea,” under her breath.

❀❀❀

azzi looks—fucked out, to be perfectly honest. more specifically, like a scene straight from one of paige’s many azzi-centered wet dreams. not that she has azzi-centered wet dreams or anything. but if she did, like hypothetically, azzi would look exactly like this.

lips plumped with oil. braids pulled back messily. mascara re-applied and then carefully smeared. she studies herself in the mirror as she adds the final touch: a dark bruise above her collarbone, created with deft fingers and dark blush courtesy of kk. paige sits on the toilet seat, watching azzi work. she’s been staring for the past thirty minutes. azzi has yet to notice. kk, on the other hand, has spent the entire time sending her not-so-subtle signals, such as disguising a ‘talktoher’ with a cough, and whispering ‘go offer to do that for her,’ when azzi started applying the hickeys.

paige has not taken this advice. she’s still a little tipsy and azzi looks too enticing and she’s awkward enough that she’d much rather observe than try to interact at the moment.

before azzi finishes applying the final fake hickey, kk is fiddling with angles, mumbling about “golden hour lighting” even though they’re inside and it’s past midnight. paige’s gaze is caught in the mirror—not on herself, but the reflection of azzi in front of her. she imagines reaching over. just touching azzi’s wrist. she doesn’t. she clenches her hands together in her lap instead.

“you know,” azzi says idly, still dabbing at her collarbone, “you’re not nervous enough.”

paige blinks. “about what?”

“pretending to fuck me. in pictures. that we’re going to send to a real person.” azzi’s voice is light, teasing, but there’s something layered beneath it.

“what, you want me to panic?”

“a little. would make me feel better.”

paige laughs—quiet and dry. “i’m panicking plenty. just…internally.”

“uh-huh.” azzi licks her thumb before dabbing at her neck, turning her chin this way and that in the mirror. “do i look good?”

“you look bad,” kk says, nodding appreciatively. “as hell.”

azzi smiles a little shyly. “thanks.”

she knows it’s stupid, but a pang of jealously hits paige. she wishes she had kk’s natural instinct to flirt with girls. and it’s true paige has this instinct sometimes, but with a girl she really likes? with azzi fucking fudd? it’s best for everyone if she just keeps quiet and lets kk charm her instead. after this whole thing, she’ll go back to her indulgent bedtime fantasies of she and azzi in domestic situations and wet dreams.

“okay,” azzi says, pulling her phone out of her pocket and snapping a quick selfie in the mirror before turning to the two of them. “we ready?”

“i been practicing my photography skills,” kk says (she got a new camera app last week and has been taking candid, objectively bad photos of the team ever since). “never been readier.”

“don’t think that’s a word,” azzi points out, then looks at paige. “paige?”

“yup,” paige says, slapping her thighs before standing up in an attempt to get rid of the chalant written all over her face right now. “super ready.”

“now why you sound all excited to cozy up in bed with fudd?” kk quips. paige gets warm all over, glancing furtively at azzi to see her reaction—seriously, kk’s going to make azzi think paige is weird or something—but she just gives a little laugh before leading the way into the bedroom. “okay, let’s do this then.”

paige is maybe beginning to reconsider the this in question—their great plan. nothing’s even been done yet, for god’s sakes, with phase one—making azzi look as fucked out as possible—barely being finished. yet still paige is already uncomfortably damp between her legs: hence, the reconsidering. but, lord save her, azzi is already crawling into paige’s bed much too seductively, and it would look downright suspicious of her to pussy out now. no, she’s going to go through with this faux-sex photoshoot like a man, goddamit.

“get in there, twin,” kk says, pulling her phone out from her back pocket.

paige gingerly sits on the edge of the bed while azzi lays back, propped up on her elbows as they watch kk navigate around the device. “you know,” azzi says, “i wasn’t thinking you’d actually take the pictures for us. i thought you’d just, like, tell us what looks good.”

paige is a little surprised to hear this, and at the offended expression on kk’s face, she panics—her friend has a liking for dramatic storm-outs, and paige cannot have her leaving right now. “but this works too,” she jumps in, shooting azzi a warning look. “right?”

azzi places her palms upright, surrendering. “i mean, yeah, i guess. i was just sayin’.”

“well i ain’t here to be a third opinion or nothing,” kk says haughtily.

“you’re not,” paige says quickly. “you’re our creative director.”

“yeah,” azzi adds, already settling deeper into the pillows like this is just another thursday night. “we trust your vision.”

kk narrows her eyes at them like she’s sniffing out sarcasm, but apparently decides she accepts it. “creative director,” she repeats, pleased. “i like that. okay. azzi, scoot a little more to the left. paige, behind her. lean in like you just got done doing something y’all shouldn’t have been doing.”

“we haven’t even started yet,” paige mutters.

“don’t kill the vibe,” kk says. she gestures wildly. “go on. get close. more. closer.”

paige shifts behind azzi on the bed, legs folding automatically. azzi leans back slightly to rest against her, and the contact sends a shock through her skin like she’s short-circuiting. this is fine. totally fine. normal behavior for two near-strangers in a definitely-not-suggestive photoshoot.

“hand on her waist,” kk calls, adjusting her phone. “and azzi, tilt your head back, like you’re worn out.”

paige’s hand finds azzi’s hip, fingers splaying across the soft cotton of her borrowed t-shirt. azzi does as told, and for a second paige’s vision blurs. the curve of her neck, the flushed heat of her skin from alcohol or earlier makeup efforts—it’s all a little too real.

“jesus,” kk mutters, half to herself. “this looks…kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

paige groans. “can we not—comment on that?”

“okay, okay,” kk says, still snapping. “let’s switch it up. azzi, crawl into her lap. yeah, like that. lean back a little, like you’re laughing at something she said. paige, smile. not like you’re being tortured.”

“so, you are taking the pictures for us, then?”

“i’m close enough he won’t be able to tell it was taken by someone else,” kk huffs. “now, go. c’mon.”

“i’m not a model,” paige mutters, but she does her best to grin.

azzi wiggles into place, her thigh slotting between paige’s legs. “sorry,” she whispers.

“don’t apologize,” paige says automatically, which is a mistake, because then azzi looks at her, and they’re way too close for that.

“aaaand pause,” kk says, not looking up from the phone. “i think i need y’all to look a little messier. paige, mess up your hair. azzi, can you tug the shirt off your shoulder a little? you look too put together.”

paige drags a hand through her hair, trying not to stare as azzi obliges, the shirt slipping just enough to expose the faux-hickey she’d applied earlier. kk catches it in the next snap and lets out a sharp whistle.

“he’s gonna cry when he sees these,” she says gleefully.

azzi’s lips twitch. “that’s the goal.”

more posing. more directions. at some point paige gets bolder, draping an arm around azzi’s stomach. azzi leans back into her without hesitation, as if it’s natural, like they do this every day.

kk crouches to get a shot from below and then pauses, frowning at her screen. “hold up,” she says. “jana’s calling. gimme a sec.”

she stands and walks out, phone already at her ear, voice lowering as she steps into the other room.

the silence she leaves behind is heavy.

paige shifts slightly. azzi doesn’t move off her lap.

“so…” paige starts, voice low. “this is probably the weirdest way i’ve ever spent a night.”

azzi chuckles softly. “same. but kind of… weirdly fun?”

“yeah,” paige admits. “yeah, it kinda is.”

they lapse into another pause. paige thinks she should move, but azzi hasn’t, and she’s scared that if she does, she’ll mess up whatever weird little truce they’re holding onto.

“hey,” azzi says suddenly, voice softer now. “can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“do you hang out with your team very often?” she asks. “because, i mean, i see y’all on tv and at social events and stuff but—i dunno. you’re never in any of their tiktoks or anything.” azzi winces. “not that i’ve been paying attention.”

paige stiffens slightly. “uh. i dunno. just—trying to focus. this year’s important.”

“yeah,” azzi says quietly. “it is.”

azzi looks down, to gather her thoughts, maybe, and seems to realize that she’s still on top of paige because her breath hitches and then she moves, rolling off so she’s sitting beside her. “sorry,” she murmurs.

“you’re good.”

the quiet stretches again, heavier this time.

“truth?” paige says suddenly.

azzi turns toward her a little more, her thigh still between paige’s, their knees brushing. “truth.”

“i’ve been drinking too much,” paige blurts. “i’m not like an alcoholic or anything,” she’s quick to defend, because alcoholism is for deadbeat dads and stuff, right? not for celebrity college athletes. “it just, lately, it got kind of bad, and people started noticing, and it’s hard to be around them now. they all look at me like they think i’m gonna…i dunno. fall apart or something.”

azzi’s eyes soften. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay. i mean—it’s not,” paige shrugs. “but it’s…i had this breakup a few months ago. really bad. i thought it was going to be forever, you know? and when it wasn’t, i guess, and it was kinda my fault, and i—the team took me to parties, to get my mind off it. i learned pretty quick that drinking helped me forget. and now, i mean, i’m mostly over it, i guess, but it helps with other things, too. like when i’m stressed about an exam, or worried for a game, or something. it helps.”

she stares off into space, then catches herself, glancing over at azzi, who’s staring her with an imperceptible look on her face. “damn, my bad. didn’t mean to overshare with a stranger like that.”

“you’re not a stranger,” azzi says, her voice quiet. “not to me.”

paige blinks. “i didn’t think you knew anything about me.”

“i do,” azzi says. “we’re not close, but…i’ve kept up with you, since usa. i’m a people-watcher. very perceptive.” she elbows paige, raising a smug, teasing eyebrow. “and i think i’ve got you all figured out.”

paige exhales, glad for the mood lightener. “oh yeah? and who am i?”

“you’re…a twenty-two year old college student,” azzi starts.

paige laughs. “wow, super perceptive. how’d you figure that one out?”

“shut up, smart-ass, i’m not finished,” azzi snips, and paige is almost surprised at the sass, at the teasing that she herself loves so much. “lemme continue. i think you’re someone who likes to think you’ve got your life together. you walk around like you’re so sure of everything, like your whole future is planned out, and you know it’s all gonna end well for you. so you act like you don’t worry, like you don’t…care.”

paige raises an eyebrow. “but…?”

“but,” azzi says, “you’re a twenty-two year old college student. of course you don’t have your life figured out. you get stressed out trying to decide what you’re gonna eat for your next meal. your shoulders are constantly tense. you’re always wringing your hands before games, did you know that? during time-outs, too.”

paige looks over, startled, to find azzi looking just as surprised. “you watch me play?”

azzi fumbles for something. “i’m a basketball player. you didn’t expect me to watch basketball?”

“i didn’t expect you to watch me,” paige says.

azzi opens her mouth. closes it. looks away, at the wall ahead. “i guess i didn’t realize i was doing it.”

paige doesn’t know what to say to that. she feels seen and it’s terrifying.

“truth?” azzi says after a moment.

“truth.”

“chad’s been cheating on me,” she says. “i haven’t caught him, but i know. it’s been obvious for weeks.”

paige looks at her, waiting.

“and he’s mean,” azzi continues. “not, like…evil. just sharp. cold. the kind of mean that makes you feel stupid for crying or asking to be treated better. tonight was just—my last straw, i think. i didn’t want to go back to that room and feel like shit again. so i came here.”

“you didn’t have to come with us,” paige says. “i would’ve just, like, venmoed you for the shoes.”

azzi meets her eyes. “i think…i think i wanted to come here.”

paige’s breath catches.

before she can figure out what that means—what to say—kk’s voice cuts in from the hall. “yo! i gotta bounce for a sec, emergency meeting. jana’s constipated for real, imma bring over some laxatives. i’ll be back in like twenty.”

they hear the cabin door open and then click shut.

“you think we should keep going?” azzi asks after a beat.

paige nods, voice suddenly thick. “yeah. okay.”

wordlessly, they rearrange, moving closer. azzi sits with her knees up now, leaning into paige’s shoulder, one hand splayed across her thigh.

they take a few selfies this time. azzi guides her hand behind the camera, adjusting the angle to catch just enough skin, just enough closeness. their shoulders press. their cheeks touch. at some point, paige’s hand finds azzi’s knee, and azzi doesn’t move it.

by the time kk returns, azzi is in paige’s lap again, one hand hooked around the back of her neck.

kk pauses in the doorway. “well damn.”

“we figured we’d keep going,” paige says, eyes wide.

“uh-huh,” kk says knowingly. “y’all definitely got the shots now.”

she walks around, checking a few pictures. “these are good. like…y’all could win a grammy for best fake situationship or something.”

paige laughs, a little too loudly. “we just wanted to sell it.”

“mission accomplished.” kk pockets her phone. “i’ll edit mine and get them to you, azzi.”

“thanks,” azzi says. “seriously. for everything.”

kk just grins. “get some sleep, y’all. and don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

when she’s gone, paige and azzi look at each other.

“that was—” paige starts.

“insane,” azzi finishes.

they laugh, even though nothing’s really funny.

❀❀❀

the clock on the stove reads 4:36 a.m. the suite is dark and quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. paige is sitting at the counter, a half-empty glass of water in her hand, the condensation dripping slowly down to form a ring beneath it.

she can’t sleep. her skin’s still buzzing, brain too full. not from alcohol—for once—but from azzi. from the way her voice had gone soft. from the weight of her in paige’s lap. from the echo of that not-quite-confession: i think i wanted to come here.

the room creaks. faint footsteps pad across the floor.

paige looks up.

azzi appears in the doorway, her braids wrapped in kk’s spare bonnet, bundled in one of paige’s old huskies sweatshirts that’s big enough to swallow her whole. she looks warm. sleepy. somehow both tentative and certain.

“couldn’t sleep,” azzi says, voice scratchy.

paige offers a quiet smile. “same.”

azzi shuffles forward, hugging her arms around herself. “can i hang with you?”

“uh-huh.”

azzi climbs onto the stool next to her. their knees knock under the counter and neither moves to pull away. azzi steals a sip from paige’s water without asking, and something about that—something about the easy familiarity of it—sends a warm, unsteady ache through paige’s chest.

they sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that settles between people who are too tired to lie but too uncertain to speak first.

finally, azzi says, “i didn’t think today would end like this.”

paige snorts quietly. “me either.”

“i thought i’d be crying to some emo playlist and wondering why i ever trusted him.”

“and i thought i’d be drinking alone in my room, again,” paige admits. “so…silver linings, i guess?”

azzi turns slightly to look at her, and the light from the fridge reflects in her eyes, soft and shimmering. “i meant what i said earlier. about wanting to come here.”

paige looks at her. “yeah?”

azzi nods, then smiles softly to herself. “it’s been a lot of fun, despite…everything.” she gestures at their surroundings. “i don’t think i’ve laughed like that in months, to be honest.”

“i don’t think i’ve felt…wanted like that in months,” paige says, quieter now, fully aware that what she’s saying is pathetic and induced by the last dregs of alcohol in her system. “even if it was fake.”

azzi’s voice is even softer. “it didn’t feel fake.”

that—that does it.

paige’s breath catches, heart thudding loud in her chest. she glances at azzi, who’s already looking at her, mouth parted, gaze open in a way that makes something deep inside paige tremble.

“can i—?” paige starts, voice hoarse.

“yes,” azzi breathes.

paige leans in slowly, giving azzi every chance to pull away. but she doesn’t. she leans in too, and when their lips meet, it’s soft. hesitant. careful, like they’re both afraid of shattering something delicate.

azzi’s hand finds paige’s hoodie, clutching at the fabric. paige cups her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. the kiss deepens in quiet pulses, not rushed, but heavy with the weight of something new.

when they finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, paige whispers, “sorry. i didn’t—i wasn’t trying to make this weird.”

“it’s not weird,” azzi says, eyes still closed. “it’s…good. i think it’s really good.”

they sit like that for a long beat, breathing the same air.

then azzi whispers, “can i stay with you? i just…don’t want to be alone tonight.”

paige nods immediately. “yeah. of course.”

azzi takes her hand. her fingers are cold, but her grip is sure.

they walk quietly through the dark apartment. it’s a short walk, but it feels like it takes years. the lights are all off, but paige’s room glows faintly with the soft blue light of the tv she’d left on, a 2000s sitcom playing on mute.

paige opens the door and lets azzi step inside first. she watches her for a second, silhouetted against the light—still in the oversized hoodie, bare legs, face bare and soft. she’s never looked more unreal.

paige swallows hard, her pulse thudding in her ears.

azzi turns to face her. “you coming?”

paige steps in and closes the door behind her. something buzzes under her skin, in both a turned-on way and a bug-crawly way.

it’s dawning on her, now, with azzi standing there giving her bedroom eyes in her bedroom—she just kissed azzi fudd. she threw up on her then proceeded to be incredibly awkward for the entire tonight before trauma-dumping and has now pulled her.

azzi fudd. the fucking—love of her life. the celebrity crush of her goddamn dreams. is standing before her like some kind of bisexual goddess waiting to receive the best head of her life. and oh, will paige make sure it actually is the best head of her life. much better than chad’s, that’s for certain. if he even gave her head. he seems the type of guy to say it’s ’too gross’.

“paige?”

oh god. she’s been staring.

“hey,” azzi frowns, stepping towards her. “you okay? i can leave, or…”

“no,” paige says vehemently, also stepping forward, closing the gap between them. she wants to reach out, to pull azzi in, but she’s not sure if that’s what azzi really wants. maybe she just wants to sleep? not that paige isn’t down for snuggling, but she’s already hyped herself up for that whole head thing, and she’s not super willing to back down now. “i just…”

azzi looks at her, eyes searching her face before she looks down. her lips quirk up, and when she looks back at paige, she’s clearly amused. “i clocked you so hard earlier.”

“i…what?” paige asks.

azzi points. “your hands.”

paige looks down, and sure enough—she’s wringing her hands. like a nervous little wimp. she scoffs, pulling them apart and wiping them on her sweats before making a split-second decision, pulling azzi in by the waist. “you didn’t clock shit.”

“no?” azzi asks, smile growing a little. her hands are soft as they roam up paige’s arms before circling around the back of her neck. “so you’re not super nervous right now?”

“i’m not nervous,” paige is quick to correct. “just wondering what you want.”

azzi’s eyebrows rise, just a little. “oh?”

paige hadn’t really meant to say it, but what the hell. “uh-huh. you wanna tell me?”

“hm.” azzi looks up at her like she’s deliberating something, then smiles, coy and dimply, before stepping back slowly, taking paige with her. “i think…” she whispers, walking them back as if the room were her’s, until her thighs hit the edge of the bed. “i think i want you to give me some real pictures.”

paige quirks an eyebrow, sitting azzi down before kneeling in front of her, playing into the game. “for chad?” she wrinkles her nose as she says it. even his name is a turn-off. paige has no clue how azzi managed to have sex with that man. she imagines azzi saying something like, “oh, chad, yes!” and it turns her teasing smirk into something more like a barely-contained laugh.

azzi’s expression breaks, and it looks a little like she’s fighting a smile of her own. “ew, don’t say his name.”

unable to help it, paige chuckles, leaning her forehead against azzi’s thigh. “what do we call him, then?”

“nothing,” azzi says firmly, lifting paige’s chin and bending down so their nose-to-nose, biting her lip slightly as she studies her face. “i want you to give me those pictures,” she mutters, “let me prove him wrong. and then i want you to make me forget him.”

oh, paige can definitely do that.

without another word, paige surges forward and kisses her. it’s surer this time, steadier, now with the knowledge of what’s to come, not just tonight but tomorrow, and maybe—if paige lets herself dream—maybe even longer than that. based off the way azzi presses her tongue against the seam of her lips, paige thinks she might feel it, too.

paige opens up for her, pliant and willing, ready to do whatever azzi asks of her. azzi’s tongue is warm, wet, slippery against paige’s own and she groans at the feel of it, at the minty freshness of her own toothpaste that azzi had used.

“paige,” azzi breathes against her lips. paige hums, leaning forward again to close the small amount of distance. but azzi pulls back, just slightly, and when paige blinks her eyes open azzi’s looking at her urgently, pulling her up by the shoulders. “paige,” she repeats.

paige swears, she usually has so much more finesse in the bedroom. she once made a girl come in under sixty seconds. she convinced her ex to call her daddy, for god’s sakes. but this—this is azzi. and thus, she just stares blankly at her, mind trying desperately to figure out what azzi’s saying while her cunt pulses desperately in her boxers. “…huh?” she says after a moment.

azzi sighs, but there’s something in her eyes, and when paige looks hard enough she thinks maybe it’s fondness? but she doesn’t have time to discern that properly because then azzi is hooking her arms under paige’s armpits and all but hoisting her up into her lap, and that’s just…really fucking hot. paige doesn’t think she’s ever been hoisted before.

hands finding their ways to azzi’s shoulders, paige exhales, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to regain some of her rizz. “you’re really strong,” she says instead.

azzi presses her lips to the hinge of paige’s jaw, mumbling against her skin, “good observation.” her arms are steady around paige’s waist, holding her close, allowing for the best access, and paige shifts, hips moving subtly against azzi’s thighs.

azzi’s lips trail higher until she’s nipping at paige’s earlobe, and paige can so clearly hear the little noises coming from her now; soft pants and exhales like she’s trying hard to contain herself. and that just—that does it.

wordlessly, paige presses against azzi’s shoulders, urging her to lay down. azzi looks at her quizzically but goes willingly, getting comfortable against the pillows as paige crawls on top of her. she leans down for another kiss but azzi presses a hand to her chest, stopping her.

“want this off, first,” she says, tugging at the hem of paige’s shirt. “wanna feel you.”

paige is quick to oblige, reaching behind her head to pull the neckline, azzi helping her until the shirt’s off, discarded somewhere to the side. azzi’s eyes roam shamelessly, but not as shamelessly as her hands, which trail over her abs, her ribs, the taut muscles in her back.

“you’re—” she swallows hard, “you’re pretty strong too.”

paige mentally fist-pumps. “good observation, baby.”

shivering against the cool air of the room, paige presses one last kiss to azzi’s lips, lingering there and thinking she could stay like that forever before remembering her job. photos. head. make azzi forget chad.

she shifts down, dipping her head into azzi’s neck to kiss the warm skin there. she smells good, like hair products and perfume. her hands wander of their own accord, lifting azzi’s shirt just enough to reveal a small sliver of skin, a glinting belly piercing. god, she doesn’t think she’ll get enough of this girl.

“want this off you, too,” paige instructs quietly, searching azzi’s eyes for any hesitation, but there’s only heat as she pulls her shirt off in one swift motion. it take’s paige’s brain a few seconds to catch up with what her eyes are seeing—azzi, topless, skin dark against the white bedding, nipples pebbled from the temperature change.

paige makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat, completely aware she’s staring but unable to do anything about it, because she’s surely not going to look away. not when azzi is staring up at her like—like that, with hooded eyes and a small, teasing smile. she knows exactly what she’s doing, exactly what it’d do to paige by letting her find out for herself she isn’t wearing a bra, and it’s going to drive her fucking insane.

“paige,” azzi says.

paige’s eyes snap up from azzi’s chest, somewhat guiltily. “yeah?”

“you have me really fucking worked up right now,” azzi says bluntly. “and as much as i love watching you stare at me, i need you to actually come here and do something about it.”

that gets paige moving.

it’s instinctual, the way she dips her head down, nuzzles into the valley between azzi’s breasts. the way her tongue darts out to taste her skin, the way her palms cup the underside of azzi’s tits and push them up before she takes the stiff peak of one into her mouth.

azzi sighs, this small, satisfied sound which only serves to encourage paige further. she relaxes a little, allowing herself to get out of her own head because she knows this. she’s good at it. she knows without a doubt she can make azzi feel good and if she dies tomorrow, then she’ll die happy knowing she at least got to have this first. got to flick her tongue over azzi’s nipple and revel in the soft moan it elicits from her.

the sound sends a jolt of heat through paige’s stomach, straight to the apex of her thighs. she’s acutely aware of the way she and azzi’s legs are slotted together, the sinewy muscle of azzi’s bare thigh between her own, hovering just beneath her. paige has to make a conscious effort not to bear down onto her, not to search for any of the friction she so desperately needs.

paige pulls off azzi’s tit with a slight pop, admiring the way it looks now, glistening with her saliva. she had planned on making her way down the length of azzi’s body, but now she’s stuck here, watching intently as she rolls azzi’s nipples between her fingertips, loving the way azzi arches up into her. she glances up to catch her expression, and what she finds—mouth slightly ajar, eyes fluttered shut—has her leaning back up to capture her lips in another searing kiss. azzi groans, surprised at the contact, and when paige licks confidently into her mouth, she groans again, this time sounding a little strangled.

paige chuckles against her lips, trailing away to nose against her cheekbone. “what, you need sum’?”

azzi huffs, arms around paige’s neck pulling her insistently closer. “you’re teasing me.”

“well, i’on know what you want,” paige says, pressing soft kisses against azzi’s jaw.

azzi’s nails scratch a little punishingly into paige’s back. “i told you what i want.”

paige shudders at the pain, the starkness of it, the shivers it sends down her back. “yeah,” paige agrees, leaning up on her elbows to look into azzi’s eyes, “but you ain’t told me how you want it.”

azzi’s eyebrows furrow, a slight pout forming on her lips, and the expression is so cute compared to the compromising situation they’re in that paige almost gives in then and there. but she’s a spent the entire night making an absolute fool of herself in front of azzi, and this feels like her only opportunity to show her just what she can do, what she can be, when she wants to.

and, shit, does she want to.

“gotta use your words, mami,” paige tells her, looking down at her with something like sympathy even as her tone is commanding, and it has the desired effect: azzi’s breath hitches, cheeks flushing, eyes squeezing shut like she’s collecting herself before she meets paige’s again.

“want your mouth, paige,” she whispers, almost like she’s embarrassed to be saying it out loud. “your tongue.”

somewhere in her aroused haze, paige registers that this must mean they’re soulmates or something, that they both want the same thing. she tucks that little thought away for later (she knows kk will agree when she tells her about it) and then nods, pressing a kiss to azzi’s forehead, just below her bonnet. “good girl,” she murmurs, testing the waters, and based off the way azzi exhales this shaky little whimper, she figures she’s probably into it. also good to know.

paige takes azzi’s forearms in her hands and withdraws them from around her neck, sitting back on her knees in between azzi’s legs. she hooks her fingers around her own basketball shorts, which sit tantalizingly on azzi’s hips—she doesn’t think she’s ever described basketball shorts as tantalizing before—and raises her eyebrows at azzi. azzi nods, lifting her hips off the bed, just enough that paige is able to easily pull them over the swell of her ass. azzi lifts her feet up, allowing paige to pull the fabric completely off and toss them away before she presses a kiss to each of her ankles. azzi watches her closely, hands fondling her own breasts in a way that makes paige want to put her mouth back on them, but then she’s glancing down at the exposed core between azzi’s thighs and there is nothing else that could possibly be more important than that, ever.

she sets azzi’s legs on the bed before shifting, laying herself flat on her stomach with her arms propped up beneath her until she’s hovering over azzi’s pelvis, admiring the smooth skin there and the belly ring that sits a few inches higher. she bends down, nuzzling her nose against the soft, curly hair she finds there, pressing a kiss and then many more along the expanse of skin until she reaches a hipbone. she bites, just roughly enough to make a mark, and azzi hisses above her.

paige’s eyes flick up, double-checking, but azzi looks more than okay—in fact, she looks downright impatient. when their eyes meet, she nods urgently at her. “get on with it.”

paige raises an eyebrow at the attitude but doesn’t comment on it just yet, instead pressing a kiss to the other hipbone before saying, “oh, you want more?”

azzi sighs at the coy tone in paige’s voice. “paige.”

“mm,” paige hums. “you sound frustrated, baby.”

“yeah, well,” azzi shifts uncomfortably, “it’s frustrating when you tease me like this.”

“yeah?” paige asks. she rests her cheek against azzi’s thigh, allowing her fingers to trail up and down the inside of her other one, getting close to where she needs her but never close enough. “you’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?” she muses.

“fuck you,” azzi says, no real venom there as annoyance mixes with amusement in her eyes.

“i will,” paige promises, kissing her thigh, “princess.”

azzi opens her mouth to speak again. paige cuts her off with a harsh bite to the place she just kissed, turning her almost-sentence into a high-pitched whine instead.

“fuck,” azzi mutters.

paige inspects the bite—that will definitely be a mark tomorrow—and then shushes her gently, brushing her lips over the spot. “if you catch an attitude with me again,” she murmurs, almost sweet, “you’ll find how much worse i can be.”

azzi’s hips lift, surprise etching itself slowly into the lines of her face as she registers the words, but paige doesn’t take the time to look too close. azzi is spread before her, enticing, dripping, caramel brown giving way to soft pink, and she finally lets herself do what she’s dreamed of doing since she was in high school—she buries her fucking face in it.

azzi’s reaction is immediate and more intense than paige expected it would be, her back and hips arching off the bed as she groans, loud. paige doesn’t even care that arousal has just been smeared all over her forehead. she’s far too busy committing the way azzi tastes, sweet and salty, to memory.

the build-up paid off, as it always does, and azzi’s soaked. paige’s tongue laves wet heat from her entrance to her clit, building her up to a slow rhythm. she lingers a little each time at her entrance, where the taste is the strongest, unable to conceal her own choked sounds as azzi grinds against her face. she glances up to where azzi is playing with her nipples, propped up on her elbows to get a better look at what paige is doing, and the knowledge that she’s being watched so intently has her doubling down on her efforts.

when paige’s movements speed up, azzi’s head tips back, rolling against her shoulders. “oh, paige,” she breathes, sensual and dirty, “oh, baby. feels…”

paige presses her own thighs together at the pet name before flicking her tongue back and forth against azzi’s clit, applying pressure until azzi falls back completely, head thumping against the pillows as she whines. distantly, paige thinks kk could almost definitely hear them if she were to listen for it. she finds she doesn’t really care at the moment.

“feels good?” paige asks, pressing a few soft kisses to azzi’s cunt.

“mm-hmm,” azzi hums, eyes closed as she focuses on the feeling. her hands travel south until they’re gripping the back of paige’s head, and then she’s tugging her closer, back into her heat. “keep going, baby. please.”

“since you asked so nice,” paige teases, letting azzi’s hands guide her forward. she opens her mouth a little wider, sucking hard against azzi’s hole as if trying to draw more precum out of her before she kisses sloppily against it. azzi’s legs fall further open at the feeling, but paige quickly misses the feeling of thighs pressed against her head and loops her arm under the brunette’s legs, surrounding herself with soft brown skin.

the new angle brings her impossibly closer to azzi’s center, and paige sticks her tongue out, seeking azzi’s entrance before pressing inside as far as she can.

“oh my fuck,” azzi groans, gripping paige’s head tighter, almost possessive. “keep doing that, right—“ she chokes on her own words as paige begins a slow thrust, “right there.”

paige nods, unsure whether azzi can feel the acknowledgment, but it has her nose bumping up against azzi’s swollen clit and azzi cries out. she moves her tongue, feeling around the spongy inner walls of azzi’s cunt, a new wave of arousal pumping out until it’s dripping down paige’s chin onto the bedsheets below.

the room isn’t quiet, but it sounds like sex, azzi’s breathy moans and the filthy wet sounds of her cunt filling the room. she sounds so good, tastes so good, smells so good—paige is only vaguely aware that she has her own pelvis pressed into the mattress, absentmindedly searching for friction as she gets off on pleasing azzi.

she’s so focused on tonguing her that she doesn’t notice the way azzi’s breathing changes, becomes more rapid, or the way her fingers fist up paige’s hair in a way that’s almost painful. in fact, it’s not until she presses her thumb to azzi’s swollen clit while she tongue-fucks her that azzi manages a broken, “oh my god, i’m fucking—!“ that paige realizes she’s going to come.

azzi’s orgasm hits her in waves, it seems, with her hips pressing into paige’s mouth so intensely she can’t breathe for a solid thirty seconds before she’s abruptly pulling away, thighs shaking with the effort. paige watches in something like amazement as her stomach tenses, her cunt pulsing and clenching around nothing, clit twitching almost imperceptibly. it is—fucking beautiful, actually. a work of goddamn art. an image that belongs in the louvre right next to the mona lisa and the venus de milo.

she’s about to dive back in and get another taste of it when azzi uses her grip on her hair to urge her up. reluctantly, paige lets herself be pulled, kissing a gentle path up azzi’s stomach before coming face-to-face with her, thumbs brushing her cheeks as she comes down. eyes still closed, azzi pulls her closer, bumping their foreheads together.

“so pretty,” paige can’t help but mutter, watching azzi’s lashes flutter against her cheeks, lips plump and shiny and parted. “so good for me, baby. did so good.”

after another few moments, azzi opens her eyes, looking at paige like she hung the stars in the sky or something.

“i think i just fell in love with you,” she croaks, and paige laughs, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. “heard that one before.”

azzi smacks her lightly, then pulls her head down, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before urging her to lay on her chest. paige presses her cheek to azzi’s heartbeat, their breathing gradually syncing up as they lay together. azzi’s nails scratch light patterns against paige’s back, nearly lulling her to sleep, before she abruptly stops and says, “oh, shit.”

“what?” paige asks sleepily.

“we forgot to get pictures.”

paige swears her ears perk up, and she thinks she might be just a little insatiable because she doesn’t feel so tired anymore as she lifts her head with a wicked grin. “damn,” she says. “guess we’ll have to go again.”

the next day, kk gives them hell for keeping her up all night, and gives azzi many earfuls about how she ‘told her so.’ paige offers up their room for the rest of the trip, even though they ultimately proved chad wrong with some certain photos, and azzi is all too quick to take her up on it.

and when, a year later, azzi transfers to uconn? let’s just say kk will swear up and down that she’s the reason they never lose another game to ucla.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Three

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, so much fluff, strong language

Notes — This is a long one, so grab a snack and send me your thoughts afterwards! I'd love to chat about our favourite Norris'.

2023 (Qatar —Brazil)

Somewhere just outside Milan, on a golf course a little too sunny and a little too posh, Amelia was exactly where she didn’t want to be — but wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

She was reclined awkwardly in the shade of the golf cart, legs folded beneath her, sunglasses perched high on her nose, and an iced coffee sweating on the dashboard beside her. Her phone was in one hand, but she hadn’t looked at it in twenty minutes — not since Oscar had taken his second swing of the day and nearly decapitated a green shrub.

Lando stood at the tee in a white polo and beige shorts that she’d ironed for him that morning, right after threatening to dump them in the villa’s pool if he left them all crumpled on the floor again. He adjusted his grip with unnecessary flair, smirked at Oscar, then lined up for the next hole like it was Sunday at Augusta.

Amelia watched with a lazy smile.

“I am incredibly bored,” she called, not bothering to move. Her voice was flat, deadpan. The kind of tone that could mean anything — annoyed or fond or quietly amused.

Lando glanced back over his shoulder, grin sharp. “Just think about the nice tan you’ll get, baby! Lots of vitamin D!”

Damn him and his awareness of her vitamin D deficiency anxiety. Her specialist had said she was borderline again after Austria and ever since, Lando had taken every opportunity to drag her into the sun like she was a bloody houseplant. She didn’t mind. Not really. But she liked to pretend to mind, just to see the little grin he gave when he knew she was pretending—being playful.

Oscar, standing ten metres away and swearing under his breath about a divot, shook his head. “Amelia, you literally planned this.” He looked at Lando. “Like, she literally booked the tee time. And now she’s complaining?”

Lando’s grin widened. “Because she loves me.”

“I do,” Amelia sighed, leaning further back in the seat. “Unfortunately.”

She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up here — but it was a victory celebration that she’d come up with after their double podium in Japan.

Lando loved golf with a level of passion Amelia could only describe as dangerous. Oscar was… trying his best. And Amelia?

Well, she liked watching.

Not the game, exactly. But them. Lando, focused and fluid and maybe a little smug. Oscar, messy and determined and weirdly graceful even in failure. The two of them chirping at each other between swings, betting stupid things on who could land closer to the pin — the loser having to make the others smoothies for the next three race weekends. (Amelia was very invested in who won that one; Oscar’s smoothies always tasted like grass—then again, Lando’s weren’t much better.)

And every so often, one of them would glance back at her. Just to check. Just to make sure she was still smiling, or sipping her drink, or willing to give them a thumbs-up from her perch in the cart. She didn’t have to say much — they always knew when she needed a break from noise or heat, or when to dial it back on the loud bickering if she was getting overwhelmed.

That was the nice thing about being known; and seen.

Oscar swung again. The ball shot off at a violently wrong angle, bounced twice on a paved path, and disappeared into a hedge.

There was silence.

Amelia winced. “You’re getting better!” She attempted.

“I hate this game,” Oscar muttered, trudging off after his ball.

“You said it would be fun,” Lando reminded him.

“I was lying.”

Amelia tucked her chin into her shoulder to stifle her laugh. Lando finished his own swing — smooth, effortless — and then jogged back toward the cart with that little bounce in his step he always got when he was pleased with himself.

“Did you see that?” He asked, bending slightly to meet her eyes.

She blinked up at him behind her sunglasses. “You’re very talented.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That was sarcasm.”

“No. I swear. I’m so incredibly impressed by your ability to hit a little white ball hundreds of meters away and then having to run to go and get it — its like you’re playing fetch with yourself. It’s endearing.”

Lando snorted. “You’re such a supportive golf wife.”

Amelia nodded solemnly, her lips twitching. “I know. You’d be so lost without me here to cheer you on.”

Oscar wandered back from the hedge, ball retrieved, some small twigs in his hair. “Are we getting food after this?”

Lando offered him a bottle of water from the cooler. “Depends. Are you going to finish a single hole under ten shots?”

Oscar drank half the bottle in one go, then gave a deeply unbothered shrug. “Probably not.”

Amelia leaned her head back against the seat and smiled, letting the sun brush her cheeks. This — the warmth, the jokes, the sheer absurdity of two F1 drivers whacking balls into oblivion on a golf course while she heckled from the sidelines — was exactly the kind of celebration she liked.

Not loud. Not flashy.

And as Lando walked to the next tee box, she slipped a hand into her pocket and curled her fingers around the worn, yellow golf ball she kept there.

The original.

It had been their first date, if you could even call it that, back when everything was still a terribly-kept secret. Before she’d joined Red Bull and Lando was a rookie, and no one knew how many nights he’d driven out to Oxford just to spend time with her.

He’d taken her to a golf course in Surrey. Not posh. Not fancy. Quiet enough to remain private. Lando had grinned the whole time, letting her sit in the cart, tossing her snacks like they were bribes. At some point, he’d handed her a yellow golf ball and said, “This one’s lucky. Keep it.”

She had.

She’d held it in her hand through simulator tests and race briefings and long-haul flights when the cabin lights were too bright. She kept it on her desk at the MTC now. Sometimes in her pocket.

Today, it was both comfort and talisman.

“Hey,” Lando said, reaching into the cart’s storage bin. “Got you something.”

She turned, and he tossed her another golf ball — same shade of yellow, brand new.

Her mouth twitched. “A replacement?”

“An expansion,” he said, crouching beside the cart. “New memory.”

Amelia reached into her pocket and held up the original.

The difference between them was obvious. One was scratched, smoothed from years of anxious handling. The other gleamed in the sun like a lemon drop.

“No replacement,” she murmured, brushing a thumb over the old one’s surface. “This one’s forever.”

Lando’s eyes softened. “You want to keep it?”

“Yeah. You gave it to me.”

Oscar walked past, grumbling something about sand traps, and muttered without looking, “God, you two are so married.”

“We really are,” Amelia agreed, gaze still on the yellow ball in her palm.

Lando leaned in, kissed the top of her head, then tucked the new ball into her drink holder beside the iced coffee. “For the new balcony. We’ll put it in a plant pot.”

Oscar lost another ball on the next hole. Lando birdied the ninth. Amelia stayed in the shade, sipping her coffee, and let her mind wander.

—

A long white table ran the length of the patio, dotted with bowls of olives and carafes of wine, sunflowers in thick glass jars, and one very lopsided chocolate cake that Lando’s mum had proudly made herself. There were candles too — thick ones, flickering despite the breeze — and the scent of grilled vegetables and lemon roasted chicken drifted on the late summer air.

It was Flo’s birthday. Lando’s little sister. The youngest and loudest of the Norris siblings. She’d chosen the playlist, and she’d chosen the theme — which, according to the group chat, was “dressy but casual.”

Lando had interpreted that as white linen and loafers. Amelia had chosen a soft navy dress and her noise-dampening earrings shaped like small silver stars.

Lando reached for her hand as she approached the table, tugging her into his side briefly.

“You okay?” He murmured.

She nodded. Hummed. “Just wanted to wash my hands.”

He smiled, brushing a kiss over her temple. “I’ll sit you close to the good bread.”

True to his word, they slid into seats near the far end of the table — close to the outdoor kitchen, shaded from the worst of the noise. Oscar had already arrived and was sitting cross-legged on a bench, sipping lemonade and chatting with Flo. Lando’s dad was carving meat, and his mum waved cheerfully the moment she spotted Amelia.

“Amelia, darling, come try this courgette thing — I don’t know what I did, but it’s actually edible!”

Lando nudged Amelia’s side with his elbow. “Just give me a look if you need a save.”

Amelia smiled tightly and stepped forward, spooning a small portion onto her plate. “I believe in your courgette abilities.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mum said, then touched Amelia’s arm very gently — just fingertips. “You look lovely.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to. That kind of touch, soft, expected and all very mum-like, was generally fine. She tucked her hair behind her ear and murmured a shy, “Thanks,” before slipping back to her seat and letting Lando press his knee against hers under the table.

She was still learning this, sometimes. New family dynamics. Casual affection. Birthday celebrations that she wasn’t explicitly in charge of. She supposed that she was part of the Norris family now — she even had their last name — but they were still exuberant in a way that sometimes made her chest tight.

And when she did get overwhelmed, too many voices, too much movement, Lando always knew. Always shifted closer. Gave her a little squeeze behind the knee. Changed the subject for her when someone asked a question she wasn’t quite ready to answer.

Now, he passed her a basket of warm bread and whispered, “There’s a little set-up in the kitchen if you need a break, baby.”

“Don’t need it yet,” she said, quietly grateful.

Dinner was lovely, in that charmingly chaotic way that big families managed. Conversations overlapped like sheet music. Lando’s dad was telling a story about Lando’s first karting accident and how he’d tried to bribe the mechanic with stickers to fix the engine faster.

Lando himself was perfectly at ease. His sunglasses were perched in his hair, his cheeks sun-warmed and dimpled from laughter. Every now and then, his hand found Amelia’s beneath the table and just rested there, thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

She didn’t mind the noise when it was like this; soft-edged and loving. Familiar.

Halfway through dessert, Flo leaned across the table and grinned at Amelia.

“So, how does it feel being the only person here who can boss both my brother around?”

Amelia blinked. “Technically, my dad can too.”

Lando snorted. “Zak just thinks he can.”

Amelia took a bite of cake to hide her smile.

Later, when the sun had dipped low and the candles burned brighter than the sky, the group moved to the lounge chairs near the pool. Some of the family peeled away — Lando’s auntie went to put her toddler down for a nap, his older brother disappeared into the house to take a call. But Lando stayed with her. Always with her.

Amelia ended up curled sideways in a chair, her head resting against Lando’s shoulder, his arm slung loosely around her waist. Oscar sat on the patio steps, legs stretched out, gently dunking his feet in the water.

Amelia thought it was nice that Lando’s mum had extended the invitation to Oscar. He spent too much time alone while he was in England.

There was a small yellow flower tucked behind Amelia’s ear — courtesy of Flo, who’d been decorating everyone like it was a midsummer festival. It smelled faintly like lemon balm.

Lando looked down at her and murmured, “You did well today.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“You did,” he said softly. “You did, baby.”

She stared at him.

He knew what it cost her, to hold space in her mind for noise and chaos and unstructured celebrations like birthdays and holidays. To make room for people, even people she liked (loved, even), when her energy ran on such strict reserves.

But she’d done it, because this was her family now, and she loved them. “Your mum always makes me feel comfortable,” she said. “And she gave me the recipe for the courgette thing.”

“She texted me earlier asking if you liked the cake. She was sat two chairs away.”

Amelia smiled. “It was very… chocolatey.”

Lando grinned. “That’s your polite way of saying dry?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Beside them, Oscar stretched and yawned. “I give this night a 9 out of 10.”

Lando looked over. “Why not ten?”

“No fireworks,” Oscar said, dead serious.

Amelia frowned. “Don’t give Flo ideas. I hate fireworks.”

Oscar gave her a look. “How do you handle the Middle Eastern races then?”

She made a face. “Industrial grade ear defenders.”

As the laughter rose behind them, cousins chasing each other around the grassy area, Amelia let herself settle. The soft buzz of family. The gentle weight of her husband’s arm. The quiet, private pride that came from navigating something that once would’ve been a big no-no.

She reached into her pocket, thumb brushing absently over the ridged edge of her yellow golf ball. Still there. Still grounding.

Still hers.

—

The kitchen was quiet.

The last of the plates were stacked, the dessert forks rinsed and tucked into the drying rack. Somewhere out in the garden, Lando and Flo were arguing over which card game they were going to play.

Amelia stood barefoot on the cool tile, hair up now, sleeves rolled. She was drying glasses — not because anyone asked her to, but because she needed to be doing something with her hands. Her yellow golf ball sat tucked by the fruit bowl, close enough to reach. Just in case.

Across the counter, Lando’s mum moved with practiced ease. She wore a loose cardigan over her dress now, and her hair had been tucked into a clip, strands slipping free around her face. She handed Amelia another wine glass, careful not to clink them together too loudly.

“I’m so glad you came today, sweetheart,” she said fondly. “It’s always lovely to have you were — I told Lando to warn you that things can get loud on birthdays.”

“He did,” Amelia replied, not looking up from her towel work. “I brought my earplugs. But I’m used to it, now. Thing being a bit loud.”

Lando’s mum smiled. “Lando’s always been noisy. Even before he could walk.”

There was a companionable quiet then, filled only with the sounds of cloth against glass, the occasional scrape of a chair shifting outside.

After a while, Lando’s mum leaned her hip against the counter, holding the last dish towel in her hands. Her voice softened. “Have you had a nice evening?”

Amelia nodded once. “Yes.”

“Not too much stress?”

“No. It was fine.” Amelia told her.

Another pause. Then Cisca said, “I’ve really enjoyed having you around. Not just tonight — all of it. The last few years.”

Amelia tilted her head, not quite sure what to say to that. She didn’t do small talk, didn’t do the light layers of meaning most people danced through in social niceties. But she knew this wasn’t fluff. This was sincerity. So she answered plainly. “I like being part of the family.”

Lando’s mum’s eyes softened. “You are. Completely. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” Amelia said. “Mostly because everyone keeps feeding me. Which is a pretty strong cultural signal.”

That made Lando’s mum laugh — a soft, surprised sound that echoed off the tile. “You’re good for him, you know,” she said after a moment, folding the towel neatly. “You keep him grounded. Focused. I think he relaxes more around you than he ever has.”

Amelia blinked. “He says I make him brave.”

“Well.” Her mother-in-law smiled. “Then that goes both ways.”

They stood in that gentle stillness for a beat longer, until the quiet grew warm again, full of the kind of silence that didn’t need filling.

And then, casually, Lando’s mum glanced toward the garden and mused aloud, mostly to herself, “God, imagine little ones running around out there. I don’t know how they all used to fit on the swings as kids. One day I’ll need to put in a second set.”

It wasn’t a prompt. Not really. Not an intrusive question. Just a meandering thought.

But Amelia, as ever, didn’t do subtle. “Oh,” she said brightly, setting down the towel. “You want grandkids? That’s great. I want three babies.”

Lando’s mum froze.

Amelia carried on, gaze wandering as she thought out loud. “Probably two or three years apart. It gives me more recovery time and better age grouping. Closer than that and it can get overwhelming, but too far apart and they don’t grow up together.”

There was a long beat of stunned silence.

Amelia looked up, completely unbothered. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“I—” Lando’s mum blinked, gripping the edge of the counter like she might sway. “Are you… have you already started to plan this?”

“Well, yeah,” Amelia said simply, eyebrows lowering. “Me and Lando are married. We love each other. Babies come next.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that you said that so—” She paused. “So casually.”

Amelia tilted her head again. “Should I not?”

“No, no! I just—” Her mother-in-law laughed, flushed and delighted and mildly overwhelmed. “That was just very matter of fact. I thought we were still at ‘maybe one day’, but you’re already planning!”

“Well, I have stage one endometriosis and some hormone instability, so I’ll probably need to plan anyway,” Amelia added, as if discussing what to get at the supermarket. “Might as well think about it now.”

Lando’s mum blinked again, then laughed — this time fuller, warmer.

“Okay,” she said. “Three grandbabies. Wow.”

“They’ll have your curls if I’m lucky,” Amelia said, very seriously. “I like your hair genetics.”

“I—thank you?”

“And your nurturing instincts,” Amelia added, as though building a character profile. “You’re very good at intuitive parenting. Lando always says you were the reason he felt safe growing up.”

At that, Lando’s mum had to sit down. She pulled out a chair and dropped into it, hand over her heart, laughter laced with sudden emotion.

“You’re going to kill me,” she muttered, smiling behind misty eyes. “You’re too much.”

Amelia tilted her head again. “I thought you liked me.”

“Oh, darling.” Lando’s mum reached over and squeezed her wrist. “I adore you.”

Amelia smiled then, soft and genuine. “Good. Because I think you’re going to be an excellent grandmother.”

“Well now you’ve really done it.” She sniffled.

They stayed like that for a while, one sitting, one standing.

Out in the garden, Lando’s voice floated through the open window, calling her name.

Amelia turned toward the sound, then glanced back. “I should go. He gets fussy when he’s ignored.”

“He gets that from me,” his mum said proudly.

Amelia paused just long enough to scoop up her yellow golf ball from the fruit bowl. Then she turned, light on her feet, and disappeared out into the garden — barefoot, sun-warmed and so loved.

And behind her, Lando’s mum sat back in her chair, hands pressed to her mouth, and whispered, just to herself, “Oh my God. Three.”

—

The link came through on the Thursday.

Amelia was halfway through a review of McLaren’s rear wing iterations for Quatar, coffee long gone cold beside her laptop, noise-cancelling headphones pushed down around her neck. The screen pinged — a message from Celeste, attached to a Rightmove URL.

iMessage — 17:09pm

Celeste

How cool is this? x

—

Amelia blinked, opened it, and paused.

It was the manor. Their manor.

The property where she and Lando had gotten married — tucked into the countryside, ivy-streaked and storybook quaint, with sweeping fields behind it and that crooked old sycamore where the marquee had stood. Where her dad had cried into the champagne tower, and Lando had held her hand all day long (other than when he was throwing himself around on the bouncy castle), and her dress had caught a tear in the gravel and she hadn’t even cared because her heart had been full to bursting.

It was for sale.

Amelia clicked through the gallery, something slow and tight pressing behind her ribs. The listing was full of charming estate-agent nonsense — “refined country character,” “versatile entertaining spaces,” “historic orchard with development potential.” But all she could see were memories. The long garden path where she and Lando had snuck off to breathe after the ceremony. The kitchen where she’d sat cross-legged on the floor in her wedding dress, eating crisps while the caterers cleared the dessert plates. The upstairs window where she’d caught him staring at her during golden hour, grinning like he’d won the lottery and couldn’t believe it. His camera has been in his hand — but she’d never seen those photos. He was keeping them for himself.

But the manor. It was right there. Available. Real.

Amelia stared at the asking price, did quick maths on the equity they had, the rental yields on their current apartment in Monaco, how much they were planning to invest into the two bedroom in Monaco, and what their joint savings could comfortably stretch to. The answer was: probably, if they were strategic. Not now-now. But soon. With a plan.

She opened a fresh Notes doc, typed.

‘Manor as UK based family house? Logistical breakdown’

She listed costs, zoning requirements, timelines for permits. She checked the regional council site for restrictions on redevelopment and found that yes — the orchard could potentially be converted into a private home with the right architectural submission. She bookmarked three firms. Two hours later she’d drawn up the outline of a house. Open-plan lower level. South-facing windows. Space for a workshop or sim room. A sensory room. And three children’s bedrooms.

She added a note.

‘Would need to bring in autism-specialist designer for stimulus-neutral planning.’

And then.

Bedrooms: 5. One guest. Three kids. One master.

Gap between each baby: 2.5 years (ideal).

She stopped typing, blinked at that for a second. Then nodded once, satisfied.

The door opened behind her — quiet but familiar. Lando padded into the room, hair damp from the shower. He glanced over her shoulder. “Architectural planning?” he asked, brow quirked. “That’s not your Quatar doc.”

Amelia turned the screen toward him. “Celeste sent me a property listing.”

He leaned closer. Then froze. “…Is that—?”

“Yup,” she said. “The manor.”

Lando stared. “Our manor?”

“They’re selling it.”

He stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, staring down at the screen like it might vanish. “That’s so weird. I haven’t thought about it in ages.”

“I have,” Amelia said. “Not constantly. Just sometimes. It was a good day.”

“The best,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair.

She gestured at her notes. “I’ve been planning.”

Lando blinked. “Planning what?”

“Buying it. Not, like, the whole thing. Just the orchard part. If it goes through zoning, we could build a house. Make it something generational. Keep it in the family.”

His silence wasn’t disapproval; she could tell from the way his hands tightened, his breath caught. “A house,” he echoed.

“A big one,” she said. “Made for… us. Not for show. But for living in. Long-term. Home base. With a playground in the garden. And plenty of open space. And a pantry big enough for your ridiculous cereal collection.”

He laughed under his breath. “Do you… want that?”

She paused. “I didn’t know I did. Until I saw the listing.”

Lando slipped around her chair and crouched in front of her, eyes warm. “Are you sure? You’re not just being nostalgic?”

She met his gaze. “Lando — that place… it made sense. Felt like somewhere I belonged. We could make it ours.”

Lando looked at her. Then at the screen. Then back. “You’ve already done zoning research, haven’t you?”

“I found three architects,” she said. “And checked school catchments, just in case.”

Lando blinked, then grinned. “Of course you did.”

She hesitated, then added, quieter, “I’d want to be pregnant there. Eventually. Not soon, but… there.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t joke. Just leaned up and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her ring finger. “Okay. Then we’ll make it happen.”

And just like that, it was decided.

Amelia turned back to the screen, updated her note.

Step 1: Contact estate agent. Arrange viewing. Step 2: Call Dad. Warn him. Step 3: Pick floor tile suitable for future tiny baby feet.

Behind her, Lando pulled her onto his lap. She let him. The tab stayed open. So did the idea.

And somewhere deep in the marrow of her bones, Amelia felt it: rightness. Not the adrenaline spike of racing, not the sharp pride of strategy well executed — but the slower, steadier thing. The one that sounded like footsteps down a future hallway. Familiar laughter echoing through the orchard. A house. A home.

Theirs forever.

—

Qatar

The air was heavy with desert heat, painfully dry even in the mid-morning. Most people moved slowly here — in the heat, haste became impractical. But Amelia strode with her usual focus, clipboard tucked under one arm, iPad in her hand, and a thin layer of sweat collecting under her collarbones. She didn’t seem to notice. She was watching brake wear overlays and updating cooling parameters and trying not to think about how much she despised the dry, cloying heat.

She was halfway through checking a piece of data that’d come straight from the factory about the new airflow model when she felt someone fall into step beside her, shadow overlapping hers. She didn’t need to look.

“Morning, Lewis.”

“Morning, Amelia.”

She glanced at him. He was dressed well (always was), sipping a bottle of electrolyte water, sunglasses perched just so. There was something about the way Lewis moved — quiet, deliberate, like he had nowhere to be and yet was always where he needed to go.

“You’re braver than I am,” he said. “Out here without a parasol.”

“I hate carrying them,” she said with a sigh. “They pinch my hands.”

Lewis chuckled. “They do. I’m sure if you asked, McLaren would have someone walk around and hold it for you.”

Amelia blinked at him. “Would they?”

He gave her an amused look. “Of course they would.”

She nodded slowly. “I might ask next time.”

They walked a little further, the chaos of the paddock continuing to hum around them. Team radios crackled. Engines whined in the distance. Amelia’s eyes kept darting to the telemetry, to the graphs, to her overlays — but she was listening. She always listened.

“Hot day,” she said eventually.

“It’s Qatar,” he replied. “Always is.”

A beat passed. Then, “You’ll do well this weekend,” Lewis said. “Oscar’s looking sharp.”

“We’re not taking anything for granted.”

“You never do.”

They stopped outside the Mercedes garage. Amelia turned to him. “You’ve been consistent lately. Steady.”

His smile tugged up again, softer this time. “Just trying to keep these kids honest.”

She inclined her head. “You’re still the benchmark. Even if some of them won’t admit it.”

He tapped her tablet gently with one finger. “Keep an eye on your tire deltas. It’s gonna be a degradation race.”

“Already modelling it.”

He gave her a look. “Of course you are.”

And then he was gone, moving through the crowd like water, slipping between people without ever breaking stride.

Amelia stood there a moment longer, adjusting her headphones, refocusing — until someone whistled.

“Ah, Amelia. Don’t tell me you’re fraternising with the opposition.”

She turned around and beamed.

Fernando stood in the corridor between the Aston Martin trucks, arms crossed over his chest, half a smile on his face. He looked relaxed — but then again, he always did.

“I’ve missed you!” She exclaimed, walking to him and giving him a hug. “You had such a great first half of the season and I feel like I hardly saw you throughout any of it.”

Fernando sighed. “No stress. We have both been busy, no? I am just pleased to see you doing so well.” He said. “Despite the fact,” Fernando began, “That I still think it is a crime that Verstappen let you go so easily. You made his car sing.”

She didn’t respond.

“I mean it,” he continued. “Some engineers are smart. Others are intuitive. You are both, mi nina. That’s rare.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” she said simply.

“That may be,” he replied, “but if I were Lawrence, I’d be doing everything I could to steal you.”

As if summoned, a new voice entered the conversation. “I have been trying.”

Amelia turned.

Lawrence Stroll stood there, eye-waveringly expensive suit slightly wrinkled from travel, sunglasses pushed back into his greying hair, hands in his pockets. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you, Amelia.”

She narrowed her eyes, only slightly. “This isn’t about Oscar, is it?”

“No,” Lawrence said, with a slight chuckle. “It’s about you.”

Fernando, sensing the shift in tone, raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll let you two talk.”

Lawrence ignored him. His gaze stayed on Amelia. “I’ve watched your work closely for many years now,” he said. “Your leadership. Your race management. The way the drivers respond to you. It’s not just talent — it’s control. Trust. Those things are hard to build.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “You’re not being very subtle.”

“I don’t have time to be,” Lawrence said. “I’m building something. Something long-term. And I want the best. You’re on that list.”

“I’m already taken,” she said bluntly.

“I know,” he said. “But contracts can end. Or change. As you know very well.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Lawrence tilted his head. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask.”

“I will.”

He nodded once, then disappeared down the paddock with the weight of ambition in his wake.

Amelia watched him go, arms crossed now, her mind shifting back into gear. Already, the data was pulling her back in. Already, she was recalculating.

But there was a spark of something new in her chest.

Just a reminder of how valuable she’d become.

And how many people had finally noticed.

—

Her walk through the paddock was steady, breath tight in her chest, like if she exhaled too sharply, the whole moment would dissolve. Oscar’s voice had still been in her ears when he crossed the line. Still calm. Still contained.

“You did it, ducky. Sprint winner. Incredible driving.”

And his response?

A simple, stunned, “Oh. Wow.”

Now the world was echoing that same disbelief back at them — media swarming, mechanics clapping, the orange corner of the grandstand nearly shaking itself apart. And there he was, standing under the canopy of the cool-down room tent, race suit half-peeled, hair wild and wet with sweat.

Amelia saw him before he saw her.

Oscar looked dazed, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite cleared, and the gravity hadn’t quite landed. Mark was stood next to him, one hand clapped firmly on his shoulder, saying something low and fast and proud in that unmistakable Aussie drawl.

It was the way Mark was looking at Oscar — like he’d always known this would happen, and yet it was still better than expected — that made Amelia’s throat catch.

Then Oscar’s eyes found hers.

He blinked. Straightened. And smiled — wide, slightly crooked, boyish in a way he rarely let slip.

“Ducky,” she said simply, coming to a stop in front of him.

He laughed at the nickname. “That’s me,” he said. “Your statistically improbable Sprint winner.”

“You were perfect,” she said, all dry precision. But her eyes, bright and damp and more open than usual, gave her away.

Oscar’s grin faltered into something smaller, realer. “I kept waiting for the tyres to drop off. But they didn’t. It just… held.”

“You managed them. Just like we practiced.”

“I couldn’t hear you properly on the cool-down lap.”

“I didn’t say much,” she admitted, voice softer now. “I was… I was a little busy staring at the sector deltas and stimming like a lunatic.”

Oscar stepped forward then, ignoring the chaos beyond the ropes. He pulled her into a tight hug — unexpected, grounding, a little sweaty. Amelia stiffened for half a second, then melted into it, her fingers fisting into the back of his Nomex suit.

“You did it,” she whispered. “Oscar, you actually did it.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just held her tighter. When he pulled back, his eyes were a little glassy. “Thanks for… I don’t know. For always being ten steps ahead. And for being so brutal in debriefs.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and meant it.

Mark joined them then, grinning like the proudest man alive. “You’ve created a monster,” he said to Amelia, gesturing at Oscar with exaggerated disbelief. “I mean — who does that to Max Verstappen?”

Amelia gave Oscar a mock-critical look. “Apparently Oscar.”

Oscar flushed.

Mark stepped in and offered Amelia a quick hug of his own. She stiffened, jaw tight and uncomfortable, but let it happen. “He needed someone who’d challenge him. You’ve given him more than that.”

“I’ve given him too many Excel sheets and an unhealthy obsession with braking telemetry.”

Mark laughed. “And he’s bloody better for it.”

They turned to watch Oscar be ushered toward the podium staging area. Media was already beginning to descend like buzzards, but he turned back once, just once, to catch Amelia’s eye.

She lifted a hand. Just a little wave.

He beamed.

And she smiled too — that rare, bright thing she usually reserved very carefully. It stayed on her face even as the chaos pulled him away, even as the noise grew again.

Because this was just the start.

—

The floodlights above Lusail beamed down like a thousand moons, bleaching the tarmac into shining silver, catching every sparkle of champagne, every fist pump, every celebration grin.

They had done it again.

Second and third.

Oscar, steady and instinctive, had held off Mercedes. Lando, smart and ruthless and near-flawless, had chased Max all the way to the flag. Both cars on the podium; again. But it felt even more electric this time. Not because it was a surprise, but because it wasn’t.

They expected this now. And they’d earned it.

Amelia stood frozen on the edge of parc fermé, headset still hanging around her neck, fingers curled tight into the sleeves of her fireproof undershirt, like she was holding herself together physically.

She’d watched the data with locked knees and clenched teeth — the tire drop-off, the rising temps, the wild degradation that almost threw Oscar’s balance completely out of sync. She’d tracked Lando’s closing distance to Checo with obsessive exactness, whispering split times under her breath like a mantra.

And when they crossed the line, second and third, orange and papaya gleaming beneath the lights, she hadn’t cheered, but her hands had started to shake.

Not from fear. Not even from the intensity of the race.

From release.

From joy so big it didn’t know where to go. It had to come out somewhere.

Zak had clapped her on the back — a proud, grounding weight — but she hadn’t looked up. She couldn’t, not until she’d pressed the backs of her hands to her eyes and pressed hard until the burn became manageable.

“You alright?” Will asked quietly beside her.

“I need a second,” she said, voice hoarse. “Just— I’m good. Just wait—”

She exhaled hard through her nose. Pressure valve, she reminded herself. It’s just joy. It’s okay to feel it. Let it happen.

So she did.

Right there on the edge of victory lane, Amelia rocked forward slightly on her feet, fingertips tapping a sharp rhythm against the back of her neck. She bounced a little on her heels, grounding, focusing, reining in the swirl of movement and sound and heat. She let out a breath in four-second beats.

In. Two. Three. Four.

Out. Two. Three. Four.

And when she opened her eyes again, she saw them.

Lando was laughing on the cool-down room couch, hair soaked with champagne, hands gesturing animatedly as Oscar flopped down beside him, face flushed and alive with adrenaline.

Oscar turned his head toward the glass and saw her watching.

He pointed.

Amelia flinched.

Then he mouthed, slow and dramatic, “Golf?”

She choked on a laugh and covered her face again.

God.

Her boys.

—

The paddock was quieter now.

The air still shimmered faintly from the heat of the day, and the sharp edges of celebration had dulled into a hum — softer now, half-hearted claps and fading laughter in the distance. Most people were halfway to a plane, or dragging their feet back toward the garage with radio kits slung over their shoulders and eyelids sagging.

Amelia lingered just behind the McLaren garage, leaning against a cargo crate under the metallic halo of the floodlights. The desert breeze hadn’t made it this far — the air was thick, warm against her skin. Her braid was stuck slightly to the back of her neck, her headset long since abandoned, replaced by the hum of low, far-off chatter.

She was just about to leave — phone in her pocket, half-formed message to Lando abandoned — when she caught a familiar flash of navy and orange in her periphery.

Max.

He walked slowly, alone, like he wasn’t in a rush to do anything or be anywhere — like the weight of a whole championship had finally lifted off his shoulders, or maybe just settled into them more comfortably than ever. His fireproofs were still on, peeled to his waist, Red Bull cap in one hand and a half-drunk water bottle in the other. There was something tired about his expression, but not worn out — no, it was a softness. A quiet. The kind of emotional fatigue that only came with finishing something enormous.

Amelia stepped out from the shadow.

“Hey,” she called softly.

Max turned immediately. His eyes found hers with ease — and his whole face changed.

“Zusje,” he said, voice warming. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

She smiled as he closed the distance. Even though they hadn’t worked together since the end of 2022, the nickname had not changed. She was still the woman who used to throw a pen at him across the engineering office when he refused to hydrate. Still the one who used to walk him through telemetry until midnight, murmuring grip differentials and weight distribution while he paced behind her chair like a caged animal.

And she was still, always, proud.

“Congratulations,” she said sincerely. “Three consecutive championships. That’s… incredibly impressive.”

Max’s mouth pulled into a smile, but not a smirking one. There was no sharpness to it tonight, just something full of gravity and warmth. He nodded slowly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling yet.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How fast everything goes?”

Amelia nodded. “Feels like you were just yelling about turn-in balance in the sim room.”

“You were the one who was yelling,” Max corrected, faintly amused.

“You weren’t listening,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

That pulled a small laugh out of him, tired, but real. Then he quieted again. His eyes found hers in that way that people do when they’re trying to say something more.

“I’ve been thinking about you all weekend,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Max said. “You built me this car. The RB19. I know it’s not the official story, but I can tell, Amelia. I can tell.”

She opened her mouth to wave it off, to deflect, like she always did when people tried to give her credit, but Max held up a hand to stop her.

“No,” he said, firmer now. “Listen to me. The RB19 wouldn’t exist without the 18. And the 18 wouldn’t have won anything if you hadn’t been there.”

The words landed like something heavy and warm in her chest.

Amelia looked at him, trying to push past the way her throat suddenly tightened. “You would’ve done it without me.”

“No,” Max said again, quieter this time. “I wouldn’t. Not like this. Not this fast.”

He took a step closer, and for a moment, Amelia thought he might just say goodbye and leave it at that. But then he opened his arms and pulled her into a hug — without hesitation, without warning.

It was a tight hug. Not the kind people give out of politeness, but the kind that says thank you and I missed you and I’m so glad you’re still here all at once.

Amelia froze for half a second, then melted into it. She tucked her face against his shoulder, arms around his middle, letting the weight of it press into her ribs like the safe kind of pressure she craved when the world was too loud.

“Thanks for not going to Ferrari,” he mumbled into her hair.

She snorted, eyes stinging. “They never offered me enough money.”

Max laughed, still hugging her. “Then they’re idiots.”

They stood like that for a few seconds longer before pulling apart. His eyes were glassy now, though he blinked it away quickly — ever the professional, ever the calm public face.

Amelia nudged him gently. “You want a cake?”

Max blinked. “What?”

“I’ll make you one. For winning. Three tiers. Orange frosting. Maybe a little fondant helmet on top.”

He grinned. “You still bake?”

“I live with Lando. I bake a lot.”

“God help him.”

“I know. Poor thing.” She said flatly.

He shook his head, but the joy on his face didn’t fade. He reached out and squeezed her arm once, then let his hand drop. “Proud of you,” he said softly. “Really. McLaren’s lucky to have you.”

Amelia looked away, slightly flustered, always awkward when praise was pointed at her directly. “Thanks.”

Max smiled again, then gave her a salute with the neck of his water bottle. “Don’t be a stranger. We’ll do dinner in Monaco soon, yes?”

“Only if we can order in and have a movie night.”

“Deal.”

And then he turned, walking slowly into the night — a champion with one more trophy to pack, one more piece of history behind him.

Amelia stood alone again, the air still hot and dry, her skin buzzing faintly with old memories and new ones colliding in the quiet. She pulled out her phone, thumbed open a note, and started typing orange food colouring, almond extract, fondant, because she didn’t joke about cake.

And because Max, her brother in every way that mattered, deserved to be celebrated.

—

The hotel room was dark when they entered — not pitch-black. Lando immediately cracked the sliding door to the balcony, ensuring it was cracked open just enough to let in the dry desert breeze. Warm. Quiet. Comforting.

Amelia dropped her bag by the dresser and toed off her shoes with a tired sort of precision. She was past adrenaline now, past even the soft ache of overstimulation. What was left was weight — the good kind, the kind that came from surviving something huge and being allowed, finally, to stop holding herself together.

Lando went back to lock the door behind them. He was still half-damp from the champagne showers, still glittering faintly in spots from podium confetti. His curls were crushed under the McLaren cap he hadn’t removed since the post-race interviews. But his eyes found her immediately, soft and alert, scanning like always — a systems check, not for damage, but for peace.

“You need quiet time?” He asked gently, already moving to mute the TV.

Amelia nodded. “Just for a bit.”

She went to the bathroom first, washed her face — the water too warm, but the sensation grounding. She peeled off the layers of her race-day skin like armour; the undershirt, the sweat-dampened team hoodie, the lanyard that had been irritating her collarbone since sunrise.

When she came out, Lando was in one of the hotel robes, hair towel-dried, stretched sideways across the bed with her comfort yellow golf ball balanced on his stomach like it was a precious artefact.

“You left this in your bag,” he said, offering it to her without moving.

She climbed onto the bed beside him, took the ball, and rolled it between her palms. “Thanks.”

“Still your favourite?”

“Always.”

He reached out and traced a slow line down her arm, from elbow to wrist, just enough pressure to say I’m here without demanding anything from her. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, “Another double podium. We’re making a habit of it.”

Her throat tightened. “I know. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah. All because of you.”

Amelia leaned into him, resting her forehead against his collarbone. The room was wrapped in that perfect post-race quiet — not silent, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that only came after noise. After glory.

After survival.

He kissed the top of her head. She hummed.

“Are we sleeping in tomorrow?” She murmured, not moving.

“I already told the team that we’ll unreachable until noon,” Lando said. “I told them that I take protecting my wife’s peace very seriously.”

“You are my peace.” She mumbled.

He smiled against her hair. “Damn right I am.”

They stayed like that for a while — no TV, no phone lights. Just the low hum of the AC, the rustle of sheets, the subtle, syncopated rhythm of two people perfectly in tune with each other. Amelia’s fingers tapped lightly on his ribs — 4-4-3-1. Her grounding pattern. Lando didn’t ask, didn’t flinch. Just let her do it.

Eventually, she pulled back and tilted her face toward his. “I want to talk about the race now.”

“Okay,” he said, instantly alert but calm. “Do you want analysis or emotions?”

Amelia smiled tiredly. “Both. But I’m gonna start with this — Oscar should not have gone medium-medium-soft, but I understand why you both pushed for it.”

“We had to risk it. Track position mattered too much.”

“I know. I’m not mad.”

“You were right about pit windows again.”

“And you were right to stay out on Lap 32. I was going to make Will force you to box, but you felt something I couldn’t see in the data.”

Lando grinned, proud. “Yeah, I did.”

Amelia pressed a hand flat against his chest, directly over his heart. “You were… amazing.”

“You said that already.”

“I’m saying it again.”

They reviewed the race for nearly an hour in soft voices and tangled limbs, swapping data with half-formed sentences and coded phrases only they understood; Brake fade was smoother this time, Oscar felt twitchy into Turn 11, You covered the undercut like a bastard, I wanted to cry but I didn’t.

And when the words ran out, Amelia simply curled herself into his side and let her brain slow down. The stimming eased. The tapping softened to nothing. She traced lazy shapes on his chest — circuits and corner maps and invisible telemetry lines — until her hand stilled altogether.

“You good?” He asked, barely audible.

She nodded. “I’m so good.”

“Want me to read you something?”

“Yeah. That New Yorker piece on wind tunnels.”

“You are such a romantic.” He teased.

“I’m your wife. Everything I do is romantic.” She returned.

He chuckled, reached for his phone, and pulled up the article she’d bookmarked a week ago. As he read aloud, his voice lilted steady and familiar, her own version of white noise.

And somewhere between "computational fluid dynamics" and "thermal efficiency profiles," Amelia fell asleep — yellow golf ball still in her hand, Lando’s arm around her, her heart beating steady and unburdened in her chest.

—

The trophies sparkled.

Four of them. Lined up on a low table in the MTC atrium, beneath the glow of glass ceilings and beside a freshly wheeled-in faux bowling lane, complete with inflatable pins and McLaren-orange carpeting.

Oscar had walked in, taken one look at the setup, and said, “No one’s ever going to take us seriously as a team ever again.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lando grinned, flipping a trophy in one hand like it was a cricket bat. “I am deadly serious.”

Amelia, leaning against the edge of a bench, arms crossed and sunglasses still on indoors, said flatly, “You’re wearing socks with little trophies on them.”

“They’re on theme!”

“They’re ridiculous.”

Will entered last, clapping his hands like a game show host. “Alright, legends. Social team wants chaos, let’s give ‘em chaos. Two teams. Four frames. Trophy bowling.”

“Are the trophies the pins or the balls?” Oscar asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Will blinked. “God, no. The trophies are prizes. You get to keep yours if you win.”

Lando squinted. “Don’t we already—”

“Shh.”

Amelia let out a long, dry sigh, then pushed off the bench and rolled her shoulders. “Fine. Oscar, you and me.”

Oscar’s eyes widened in glee. “You’re choosing me over Lando?”

“He eats cereal with a fork. It’s a strategic decision.”

“That was one time!”

The McLaren comms team were already filming — phones up, boom mic wobbling overhead, a graphic artist hovering with cue cards shaped like little helmets. The whole thing felt like an inside joke, but Amelia didn’t mind. There was a certain charm to letting the world see this side of them — messy, loud, unfiltered. Human.

—

Oscar stepped up first. He rolled with more enthusiasm than technique, hurling the plush bowling ball down the lane with the kind of commitment that made Amelia wince in anticipation. It clipped four pins and skidded off into the foam barrier.

“Respectable,” Amelia said, patting his shoulder.

“You mean mediocre.”

“Mm.” She shrugged.

Her husband was up next, stretching like he was about to serve at Wimbledon.

“You’re taking this too seriously,” she muttered.

He smiled back at her, all dimples and trouble. “That’s because you’re not taking it seriously enough.”

He bowled like he drove: smooth, fast, calculated. Seven pins. Not bad.

Will followed with a bizarre overarm motion that somehow knocked down two and a camera tripod.

“Bonus points?” He asked.

“No,” Amelia said.

Then it was her turn.

She approached the line, calm and blank-faced, and underhanded the ball with the mechanical precision of someone used to high-pressure motor coordination. Strike. Ten pins. Easy.

The whole room exploded. Lando pointed at her like a WWE opponent. “You’ve done this before!”

Amelia shrugged. “Bowling is one of the only things I enjoyed doing as a kid.”

Oscar fist-bumped her. “My engineer is the GOAT.”

“I hate that acronym so much,” she murmured.

—

Will tried to distract Oscar by humming the F1 theme tune while he bowled. It worked. Two pins. Oscar cursed creatively.

Lando and Amelia shared a brief, subtle eye-contact moment that the cameras missed — the kind that passed entire volumes between them.

He walked past her and whispered, “If I win, you have to wear my trophy socks to the track.”

She looked him dead in the eye. “If I win, you make dinner every night for a month.”

Lando paled. “Harsh.”

“High stakes.”

His bowl went wide. Five pins.

Will somehow managed a bank shot that knocked down six and hit the snack table. Everyone cheered anyway.

Amelia took her time. She lined up, read the angle, adjusted her wrist — and bowled another strike.

Lando threw his arms up. “That’s cheating! You’ve got bowling angles in your head!”

“I’m just better than you,” she said calmly, collecting a high-five from the intern on drinks duty.

—

Oscar, determined to contribute something of value, nailed an eight and did a little celebratory shuffle that Amelia politely ignored. Lando stared at him, muttering, “You’re lucky I like you.”

Will slipped and fell into the pins.

Amelia, in sunglasses and zero emotional affect, simply bowled her third consecutive strike.

The room lost it.

The social media manager screamed. Someone triggered a confetti popper. Lando clutched his heart like a wounded soldier.

“She’s unstoppable,” Oscar said reverently.

Lando slumped dramatically to the floor. “I married a bowling superstar.”

Amelia walked over, bent down, and plucked the little trophy from his hand. “You married a winner.”

He reached up, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her gently down until she was seated beside him on the floor. The foam pins lay scattered around them like trophies of a different kind.

“You tried your best,” she said, voice low enough for only him to hear.

“Doesn’t make me feel any better,” he replied. “I’m shit at bowling.”

Oscar appeared behind them, brandishing his own trophy like a microphone. “Any words for your fans, Amelia?”

She blinked. “Yes. I’m going to put this trophy on my desk and carve my name into it with a nail file.”

Lando covered his face with one hand. “No!”

The camera zoomed in just in time to catch Amelia flicking Lando’s ear in triumph.

—

United States

The chequered flag had waved, the dust of the Texas tarmac still settling when news of the post-race disqualifications broke.

Back in the garage, the McLaren team pulsed with cautious celebration — engineers exchanging tired smiles, mechanics packing up with a bit more spring in their step. Amelia remained still, standing beside Oscar’s car, headset clutched loosely in one hand, her eyes darting between lines of data on her tablet.

Oscar had retired early — front wing damage from a Lap 1 squeeze that spiralled into floor and sidepod issues. It had been a helpless sort of race. Amelia had stayed composed on the radio, her voice steady even as her brain burned through every what-if.

Now, the sting was still there, hot in her chest.

But when she returned to the hotel hours later, the suite was already humming with something warmer. Softer.

Lando was at the window when she entered, silhouetted by the glow of Austin’s city lights, phone still buzzing with congratulations. His race suit had been peeled away in favour of a soft hoodie and shorts, but his grin hadn’t dulled with time.

“Third place,” he announced, voice teasingly casual, like he hadn’t just scored his sixth podium of the year. He dropped his gear bag by the door.

Amelia closed the door behind her, sighed, and padded in quietly. “Congratulations,” she said, her voice warm despite the weight in her limbs. She set her tablet on the desk and kicked off her shoes. “Accidental success.”

Lando snorted and crossed the room in three quick steps, looping his arms around her from behind. “Hey,” he murmured. “I know today sucked. For you, I mean.”

Amelia exhaled. Not with dismissal, but with tired honesty. “Part of the job,” she murmured, leaning into his hold. It had become her go-to response.

“You’re brilliant, you know,” he said, lips brushing her temple.

She turned in his arms, finally meeting his gaze, soft and steady. “You’ve gotta say that. I’m your wife.”

Lando grinned. “Damn right you are.”

They kissed once, light and quiet, the kind of kiss that felt like breath, then she slid past him and collapsed onto the couch with a groan. “Now order me food.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

—

Mexico

The noise in Mexico was different — brighter, higher-pitched, almost celebratory even before the lights went out.

Lando had started 17th. A disaster in qualifying, a flurry of yellow flags, mistimed laps. But the race itself? It was his to reclaim. One by one, he picked them off — a clean, flawless charge through the midfield. Lap after lap of controlled aggression. A display of exactly who he’d become as a driver.

Fifth across the line. From seventeenth.

Amelia had barely unclipped her headset before someone was already patting her shoulder — an engineer, another team member, someone mumbling something about “hell of a recovery.” But she barely heard it. Her eyes had never left Oscar’s pit board. Her mind was still full of numbers, brake traces, engine modes. Oscar had made it home — 14th, battered floor, another deflated kind of race. But he’d finished. He’d toughed it out, listened to her voice through every adaptation.

That night, the hotel room was quiet, high above Mexico City.

Lando lay sprawled on the bed, race highlights playing dimly on his phone, the glow flickering over his face. Amelia crawled into the bed beside him, dragging the duvet up, curling against his side like she was trying to fit herself into the rhythm of his breathing.

“That was a good one,” she murmured, voice sleepy-soft, fingers resting over his stomach.

Lando tapped the screen, paused the replay. “Yeah?”

She hummed. “The start. The passes. The way you forced Russell wide in Turn One. Clinical.”

He kissed the top of her head, fingers slipping into the ends of her braid. “Did you just call my driving clinical? Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

She laughed under her breath. “Shut up. Take the compliment.”

—

Brazil

Interlagos sang like it always did — fast, frayed around the edges, a racetrack built on guts and glory.

Lando’s pace had been stunning all weekend. P2 in the Sprint. Another P2 on Sunday, this time only behind Max. There was a moment — brief but real — when it looked like the win might be his. He’d stayed with Max, hunted him, pushed him. It had taken everything Red Bull had to stay ahead.

Amelia’s race had been less beautiful. Oscar had been clipped early. A spiralling nightmare of overheating tyres, turbulent aero, and a damaged rear. Amelia had stayed calm, her voice like metronome rhythm in his ear, guiding him through a salvage run. Still, the frustration clawed at her ribs.

But then there was the podium. Orange-clad team members cheering in the background. Lando grinning.

Later, back in the hotel, it was just the two of them — Amelia curled into his lap on the window seat, arms wrapped around his torso, city lights glittering through the glass behind them.

“Another podium,” she whispered, sipping her drink slowly.

Lando rested his chin on top of her head. “Feels good to be in it. To actually believe we’re not just relying on luck anymore.”

“You’re not,” she said firmly. “You’ll be winning soon.” She pressed her face into the side of his neck, then kissed the mole just beneath his ear — the one she loved most. “I promise, Lando. I promise.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just held her tighter. Then he exhaled into her hair and whispered, “Love you so much.”

Her fingers found his. Interlocked.

There was still so much season left. But in that quiet moment — high above São Paulo, with champagne still drying on his race boots and her voice steady in his chest — it felt like everything was going to be just fine.

NEXT CHAPTER

[bucketsorbueckers]

Paige Bueckers Day

Paige X Azzi

one shot - dual POV - 5.5K words

warnings: NONE. this is pure fluff. inspired loosely by spring into summer by lizzy mcalpine

Summary: They named a day after her. Put her face on a billboard. Turned her hometown into a headline. And still, in the hours before her first WNBA game, all Paige Bueckers can think about is the one person who said she wouldn’t be there—the only person she really wants to see in the crowd.

A/N: wrote this right after the announcement of paige bueckers day and literally couldn’t stop spiraling about how soft it could all be . i know azzi probably isn’t there today but in my delusional little brain? she is. she always is. also shoutout to the anon who asked if i’m capable of writing happy things—this is me trying. pls tell me if it counts <3

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The truth is, when she first heard the news, she didn’t think it was real.

KK had sent her a text. No preamble. Just a link and a blurry screenshot of a city proclamation that maybe, maybe, had her face on it.

She assumed it was a joke. One of those strange internet jokes she was always just slightly outside of. Designed to stir people up or make them laugh, depending on which corner of the internet you landed in.

But the longer she stared at the post—and the verified seal on the city’s website—the harder it became to deny that, somehow, this was very real.

Her hometown, Hopkins, Minnesota, was renaming itself for one day. 

To Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.

There was even a line in the official proclamation—something about athletic excellence and community pride—followed by the words: “Hereby declared: Paige Bueckers Day.”

She read the line twice, then once more, because it felt like her brain had forgotten how to process the English language.

Welcome to Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.

It was the kind of thing that sounded like a prank. Or a punishment. Possibly both.

She called KK.

“Tell me this is fake,” she said, skipping hello entirely.

KK didn’t even try not to laugh. “Pack your bags! We’re going to Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, girl.”

Paige sat down on the edge of her bed, like maybe that would steady her. “I haven’t lived there in years.”

“You don’t have to live there to belong to it,” KK said, voice taken in a slightly more serious tone. “They’re proud of you.”

She was quiet for a second. “They renamed the whole town.”

“Only for one day.”

“Still,” she said, tugging at a loose thread on her sleeve. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

“You’re playing your first pro game in Minnesota. They wanted to do something special.”

Paige stared at the wall, at the framed photo of a lake that could’ve been anywhere. “A gift would’ve been fine.”

KK laughed again, softer this time. “You’re such a freak about this stuff.”

“I’m not a freak.”

“You are. You deflect. You downplay. It’s, like, your love language or something.”

Paige didn’t answer, just pulled her knees up and rested her chin on top of them. Her new apartment was quiet in the way new places always were—climate-controlled and just a little too clean, like no one had ever really lived inside it.

“They’re putting up signs,” KK added. “Like, real ones. Metal. Highway font. I think there’s even a parade.”

“Oh my God.”

“Just don’t wear sunglasses and a hoodie like you’re in witness protection, okay? Let people be happy for you.”

Paige sighed and let herself fall back onto the bed, her hair fanning out across the pillow.

She was proud. Of course she was. Proud and grateful and maybe a little in disbelief that it had all led to this. Her first pro game. In Minnesota, of all places. In a stadium that used to feel too big for her dreams and now felt too small to hold them.

Still, there was something terrifying about being celebrated like this. Like you were already the person they thought you were. Like there wasn’t still so much to prove.

“I’ll try,” she said finally.

“Try harder,” KK said, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll save you a corn dog.”

“You think this is the State Fair?”

“I think it’s Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, and anything can happen.”

Paige smiled despite herself, then hung up and laid there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. 

It was early. The Dallas skyline still dark and soft around the edges, the kind of quiet that made you feel like the only person awake in the world. Azzi was probably still asleep.

She’d never been a morning person. Not even at UConn, when early lifts and bleary-eyed conditioning were part of the daily ritual. Paige used to wake first and sit in the stillness for a few minutes before nudging Azzi’s shoulder, watching her groan dramatically and pull the covers over her head like they were shielding her from the cruelty of time.

Paige glanced at her phone, then set it back down without unlocking it.

She wasn’t going to text. Not yet. Not when Azzi had just gotten back from vacation the night before and finally had the rare luxury of a morning without alarms or obligations.

Still, she missed her. In that quiet, persistent way that didn’t knock you over so much as settle in—background noise that never really faded. It had only been a few weeks—three, technically—but it felt longer. 

At UConn, they’d been wrapped into each other’s lives so completely, it had been hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Same practices. Same flights. Same off days spent curled up on the couch, a half-watched show playing as their legs tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Back then, distance had been theoretical. Something that happened to other people. Now it lived in time zones and FaceTimes and the way Azzi’s voice cut in and out on bad WiFi. It felt like they were running parallel. Close enough to see each other’s outlines, but just far enough apart not to touch.

Paige rolled onto her side, her hand brushing the place on the bed where Azzi wasn’t. It was one thing to miss someone in theory. It was another to fall asleep reaching for them, and wake up with nothing but sheets.

With a sigh, she opened her phone, ignoring the flood of texts about the latest announcement. The headlines, the reposts, the dizzy blur of congratulations from people. 

At the top of the list was one from Dijonai. Three minutes ago. She guessed no one in Dallas could sleep. 

they really gave me the teammate that’s got cities renaming themselves 😭 couldn’t just give me a hooper, huh? had to be a whole cultural moment  lmk when the parade is. proud of you fr.🫶🏽

Paige snorted, a real laugh catching in her throat before she could stop it. And then her eyes dropped to the only pinned message.

Azzi.

Last text: 12:03 a.m. sorry babe. its been an impossible day. call you tomorrow. love you

Paige read it twice, even though she’d already memorized the shape of it. The lowercase softness, the familiar apology. She knew Azzi meant it, knew she would call, just like she always did. But still. It stung in that quiet way absence always did. Not sharp, just dull and constant, like pressing on a bruise to make sure it still hurt.

She didn’t text back. Not yet.

Then she scrolled up. Past the memes, the check-ins, the goodnights. Until she found the one she kept reading even though she already knew it by heart.

The third, or maybe fourth, apology Azzi had sent since calling to say she wouldn’t be at Paige’s first WNBA game: 

i hate this. i really do. i just can’t say no. not this time. it’s a huge opportunity. and if i skip it, it might not come around again. i’m sorry. i wanted to be there more than anything.

Paige had read it in the middle of Trader Joe’s. Standing in front of a pyramid of honeycrisp apples, her cart half-full and suddenly too heavy. She’d stared at the screen for what felt like forever, then set her phone face-down and walked out without buying a single thing.

She’d told Azzi it was okay. That she understood. That she was proud of her. And all of that was true. It was just also true that it wrecked her a little.

Not because Azzi was choosing something else. But because they were finally learning how to choose themselves. How to want things separately. How to grow without growing apart.

She closed her eyes.

It was so much easier when they moved in tandem—same goals, same team, same mornings and nights stitched together. Now everything was a little more delicate. A little more sacred. Because the love was still there. But the space between them was starting to mean something, too.

She groaned, rolling over in bed, looking out the curtains she had left open. The city lights twinkling as the sky warmed. The morning breaking through. 

She missed Azzi. In the soft, persistent way that lingered in empty spaces—in the quiet before practice, in the stretch of her own bed, in the apples she never bought. But she knew things were fine. 

They were Paige and Azzi.

Even with states between them, even with calls that came too late and texts that came too early, even with the ache that never really went away. They were still them.

And that was enough for Paige Bueckers. 

It always had been. 

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With the game opener days away, practice had become more intense. Not in a bad way, just in the way it does when you know everything’s about to count a little more.

The drills ran sharper. The passes came faster. Everyone moved like they were trying to outrun nerves without admitting they had any.

And Paige felt it too. In the tightening of her chest before scrimmage. In the way she tied her shoes a little slower, a little tighter, like maybe that would help her stay grounded.

She wasn’t scared, exactly.

Just… aware.

Aware that all of this—this new chapter, this team, this new city she called home—was real now. No longer a thing she could imagine or plan for. It was happening. With or without the comfort of the familiar.

And ready or not, she’d have to step into it.

She was the last one off the court, staring out at the paint like it held the answer to some impossible question.

Nai came and stood beside her, arms crossed loosely over her chest, gaze following Paige’s like they might both see the same thing if they looked long enough.

“What’re we lookin’ at?” she asked, voice low, like she didn’t want to scare the thoughts away.

Paige shifted her weight, one sneaker scuffing lightly against the hardwood. “Just thinkin’.”

Nai tilted her head, a rare softness flickering across her features. “You nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Paige shrugged. “Not nervous. Just… awake.”

Nai laughed, low and scratchy. “Girl, I’ve been awake since you showed up with a whole damn ZIP code named after you.”

Paige groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I’m gonna remind you daily. Until they take the signs down. Might steal one, hang it in the locker room.”

She sat beside her on the court, stretching out long legs, unbothered.

“You’re allowed to feel weird about it,” Nai said after a beat. “Big things feel weird.”

Paige let the silence sit for a second before answering. “It’s just a lot, I guess. And I’m used to having someone around who knows what to say.”

Nai nodded, not pushing. Just sitting with her.

Then: “Azzi?”

Paige glanced over. “She can’t make it.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But she believes in me. That helps.”

Nai nudged her shoulder. “I believe in you too, Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please stop.”

“Absolutely not.”

And for the first time that morning, the knot in her chest loosened, just a little. Because maybe this new life didn’t have to look like the old one to still be good.

After practice, there was a wave of notifications on her phone. Mentions, texts, a new batch of graphics with her face on them.

But only one that mattered.

One missed call. Azzi Fudd.

Paige had to physically stop herself from abandoning all her stuff in the locker room just to call her back. Instead, she moved on autopilot: packed her bag, got through treatment, said goodbye to her teammates (who had cracked one too many jokes about Paige Bueckers, Minnesota), and made her way to the parking lot.

As soon as she slid into the driver’s seat, she exhaled. Long and slow, like she’d been holding her breath all day and didn’t realize it.

She didn’t even start the car. Just pulled her phone from the cupholder, the screen lighting up in her hand like it knew where she was going. She hit Azzi’s name and held the phone to her ear, already smiling.

It rang once. Then again. And then: 

“Paige, hey,” came the voice she’d been waiting for, soft and warm, and instantly home.

Paige leaned her head back against the seat. “Hey,” she breathed. “You called.”

“Of course I did,” Azzi said. “You didn’t think I’d leave you hanging, did you?”

Paige’s throat tightened. “No. I just—miss you.”

There was a pause, and then Azzi said it in the way she always did. Gentle. Certain.

“I miss you too.” And just like that, the space between them felt smaller. Not gone. But less like a canyon and more like a bridge.

“Now,” Azzi said, voice curling at the edges with a smile Paige could hear, “how was practice?”

They slipped easily into their rhythm. The one they’d built across dorm rooms and hotel hallways, FaceTimes in airports and calls stretched out across time zones. A back-and-forth that felt less like catching up and more like coming home.

When the conversation lulled, Paige could hear the soft rustle of sheets, the subtle shift of weight. Azzi settling into bed on the other end of the line.

“So,” she said, drawing it out like she already knew the effect it would have. Paige could hear the smirk without needing to see it. “Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, huh?”

Paige groaned, letting her head fall back against the seat.

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” Azzi said, absolutely delighted. “And I’m never letting that go.”

“It’s for one day,” Paige muttered.

“Still counts.”

Paige huffed a quiet laugh, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s very on brand.”

“I’m serious. The mayor cried.”

Azzi laughed, the sound low and lovely and a little sleepy. “Of course he did. You’re a hometown hero. Let people love you, P.”

Paige went quiet for a second, the praise sitting warm in her chest.

She closed her eyes and imagined Azzi there with her—knees tucked to her chest in the passenger seat, hair still damp from a shower, reaching over to lace their fingers together.

“I wish you were here,” she whispered.

“I know,” Azzi said. “I do too.”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

It was two days before the game, and Azzi had been a bit…quiet.

Not distant, exactly. When they talked, it still felt like them. Familiar and warm in that way nothing else was. But the responses came slower. The calls shorter. They hadn’t FaceTimed since earlier in the week, which wasn’t like them.

Paige told herself not to read into it. That people got busy. That schedules conflicted. That even the people who knew you best were allowed to disappear for a day or two.

Still, something buzzed under her skin. Not worry, not quite. Just that quiet hum of noticing.

She’d sent a photo earlier. Something dumb from practice. Normally, Azzi would’ve replied within minutes. With something that made her laugh. With a heart. 

Instead: nothing. Just the message, sitting there, delivered but unread.

She locked her phone, shoved it deep in her bag, and tried to let it go.

But the truth was, she missed her. Missed her in the specific, impossible way that made everything feel a little dimmer. Like she was walking around in half-light, just waiting for Azzi’s voice to flip the switch back on.

“Didn’t know Paige Bueckers brooded,” Nai said, eyeing her from across the locker room.

“I’m not brooding,” Paige argued, her voice landing a little sharper than she meant. She caught herself, exhaled. “Just…thinking.”

“Pretty much the same thing,” Nai said with a shrug, tugging her hoodie over her head.

Paige leaned back against the bench, letting her shoulders drop. “Was it tough?” she asked after a beat. “The first few years…for you and Lyss?”

Nai didn’t answer right away. She sat down beside her, elbows resting on her knees.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “It was. Different cities. Missed calls. One of us always waking up while the other was crashing.”

Paige nodded, like her body already understood it even if her heart didn’t want to.

“But we figured it out,” Nai went on. “Not all at once. Just…piece by piece. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about showing up. Even when it sucked. Especially when it sucked. 

Paige looked at her. “How’d you know it was worth it?”

Nai cracked a smile. “Because I’d rather miss her than not love her.”

The words landed heavy and easy all at once, like something that had been lived through instead of just said. Paige swallowed.

Paige glanced at her. “That ever scare you?”

Nai shrugged. “Sure. But love’s never been about convenience.”

Paige sighed, leaning back against the locker. 

“I guess I just hate that she’s missing this,” she said quietly. “Even if I understand why.”

“You can hold both,” Nai said. “Doesn’t make you ungrateful. Just makes you human.”

Paige nodded, grateful for the wisdom. They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t need filling.Then Nai nudged her knee. 

“Anyway, stop brooding. It’s messing up your aura.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

Nai chuckled, standing up and stretching. “I’m just sayin’,” she said. “Sometimes the best shit shows up when you’re not lookin’ for it.”

And then, she was gone. 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

Paige woke up on Paige Bueckers Day—which was still a sentence that didn’t feel real—with one thought running through her head:

She was about to play in her first WNBA game.

It was the thing she’d dreamed about since she was a kid. Not just in the casual, it-would-be-cool kind of way. But in the way you build your whole life around. The way you say no to normal things, and yes to everything that hurts a little, because someday it might be worth it.

And now someday was here.

She lay still for a moment, her heart already beating a little too fast, as if her body knew what the day meant before her brain had caught up. The dream hadn’t vanished, it had just changed shape. From posters on her bedroom wall to press conferences and shootarounds and teammates with names she used to scream at the TV.

From something imagined to something real. And weirdly, the real part was the scariest.

Because once you’re in it, once it’s yours, you don’t get to chase it anymore. You just have to live it.

Rolling over, she grabbed her phone and blinked at the brightness, thumbing through a few unread texts.

The newest was from DC.

Her name was on a billboard.

An actual, honest-to-God billboard. Bold letters, dramatic lighting, probably wedged somewhere between a life insurance ad and a reminder to buckle up. She hadn’t seen it in person yet—just the photo Nai sent, which was blurry and aggressively zoomed in, like she’d taken it from the passenger seat of a car moving too fast. 

The text just read: 

u famous famous now

Paige stared at it for a long beat, then let the phone fall back onto the sheets beside her.

Some days, all of this still felt like a story she’d made up as a kid. Except now, other people were reading it too. Out loud. On billboards.

She sighed and picked the phone back up, thumb dragging lazily across the screen until she found it.

A message from Azzi.

good morning, superstar. sorry i missed your call last night. i was wiped. but i’m thinking about you. a lot. today’s huge. proud doesn’t even cover it. love you.

Paige read it once. Then again, slower. She smiled, small and private, like the kind you save just for yourself.

Proud doesn’t even cover it.

She let that settle in her chest for a moment before typing out a reply. Something short. Something honest.

miss you. love you. wish you were here.

She hovered for a second before hitting send.

And then she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, planted her feet on the floor, and stepped into the kind of day she’d been dreaming about her whole life.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

The bus ride to the arena was loud. Jittery voices bounced around the aisle. Half nerves, half adrenaline. The kind of energy that couldn’t sit still.

Paige sat near the window, headphones in but nothing playing. Just the hum of white noise, her own breath tucked in between.

She was trying to focus.Trying not to think about how she hadn’t heard from Azzi since last night.  No text. No call. Just silence where there was usually something. And maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was travel, or timing, or just one of those things. But it still found its way under her skin.

She finally hit play on a song, turning the world down a notch, and stared out the window. Trying to remember the girl who used to dream of this moment. And trying not to wonder why it suddenly felt like something was missing.

Beside her, she felt someone's presence, turning to find DC.

“G’mornin’, Bueckers,” she said, dragging the word out like a tease. “Big day.”

Paige pulled one headphone out. “You don’t say.”

Nai leaned back, one arm slung over the seat. “You got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The I’m not nervous but also haven’t blinked in four minutes look.”

Paige huffed a laugh, soft but real. “I’m fine.”

Nai didn’t push. Just leaned back, stretched her legs out like she owned the whole row.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few beats before Nai said, offhand, “Funny thing about quiet days.” Paige glanced over. Nai didn’t look at her. “They don’t always stay that way.”

Then she yawned, put her hood fully up, and returned to her seat by Lyss. 

Azzi’s POV

Azzi checked her phone again, even though the time hadn’t changed in the last thirty seconds.

The plane was starting its descent, and her stomach did that thing it always did during turbulence, flipped, like it wasn’t entirely sure about gravity.

But if she was being honest, turbulence was easy compared to keeping secrets. 

She was terrible at keeping them. Especially from Paige.

They talked every day. Multiple times. Sometimes about nothing—what they ate, what their teammates said, which reality show they were secretly watching without the other—but sometimes about everything. The big stuff. The heavy stuff. The I don’t know how to do this without you kind of stuff.

Which made this particular silence feel loud.

She’d texted last night, told her she was proud. Told her she was thinking about her. Both true. Both incomplete.

What she hadn’t said was that she was sitting on a flight confirmation and a suitcase she packed two weeks ago. 

Paige thought she wasn’t coming. Azzi hated that part.

But the surprise had become its own kind of promise. A way to show up when it mattered, even if it wasn’t how they used to. No more shared hotel rooms or warm-up playlists made for two. 

Just this: effort and timing and showing up in ways that took more planning than they used to, but meant more, too.

The plane dipped lower, and she pressed her forehead to the window, watching the city come into view, familiar and strange at the same time.

Somewhere down there, Paige was probably staring out her own window. Probably thinking too much. Probably trying not to.

Azzi smiled, small and quiet.

She has no idea.

Paige’s POV

The Target Center.

She’d been here a hundred times, maybe more. But never like this. Never as a player.

Always a fan. A kid in the stands, craning her neck to see past grown-ups, gripping nachos in one hand and possibility in the other. She knew the echo of the place. The way it swallowed sound and spit it back louder. She knew how the court looked from every angle except this one.

Now she was walking through the tunnel, jersey on, sneakers laced tight, her name stitched across her back like it had always belonged there.

It hadn’t hit her fully. Not yet. But it was starting to.

She wasn’t thinking about the billboard. Or the headline. Or the fact that somewhere out there, people were calling this Paige Bueckers Day like that was a normal thing to say.

She was thinking about the game. About the first possession. The first pass. The rhythm of the offense. Where her feet needed to be and how fast she could get them there.

There was a small part of her, tucked somewhere under all that focus, that still ached for the familiar shape of Azzi beside her. But it was quieter now. Sort of. 

Warmups were underway. And what started with shaky knees, hands that wouldn’t quite settle, was slowly morphing into something steadier. The ball hit her palm just right. The court stopped feeling like a stage and started feeling like home again.

Her body knew what to do. Her mind was catching up. 

The nerves didn’t disappear. They just shifted. Got quieter. Folded themselves into her rhythm. And she focused. Because today wasn’t just a game. It was the first day of the rest of the life she always wanted. 

Azzi’s POV

Her heart thudded.

That old, familiar rhythm she’d never been able to shake.

Paige, Paige, Paige.

She grinned as she climbed the stairs of the Target Center, hood down, hair pulled back like she had nothing to hide, even though she absolutely did. There was something electric about walking in without Paige knowing. Like slipping into a scene before your cue.

The ticket had shown up in her inbox two nights ago, sent from Dijonai with a single message: Got you. Front row. She’s gonna lose it.

Azzi could only hope. 

The man at the security checkpoint scanned her ticket, gave her a polite nod. “You’re good. Down the hallway to your left. Courtside.”

Azzi walked slowly, her hand brushing the railing as she went. She adjusted the jersey as she walked. BUECKERS across her back. Not subtle. Not even close. But subtle hadn’t felt right today.

She’d ordered it two weeks ago, expedited the shipping like a lunatic, even though she told herself she wasn’t going to wear it. It felt too obvious. Too loud.

And then today happened. And there was no version of this where she didn’t want Paige to see it. 

The hallway opened into light and noise and movement, and she stepped out into it like she’d crossed a threshold. The court was already alive, players jogging through layup lines, shoes squeaking, the low thrum of music pulsing under it all. 

And then, she saw her. Paige.

Not just Paige the way the world saw her—face on billboards, name in lights, the kind of talent that demanded attention—but her Paige. Hair pulled back. Jaw set. Moving with the kind of focus that made everything else feel blurry.

And for a second, Azzi forgot how to be casual. Forgot how to sit. Forgot how to breathe normally in a room where Paige Bueckers existed like that, on fire, and also entirely in control of it.

She found her seat, second row, directly behind the bench. Lowered herself slowly like she was afraid to make a sound. And watched.

Paige didn’t see her at first. Which made it easier to look. To really look.

She looked like everything Azzi had ever believed in. Everything she’d ever rooted for. The kind of person you hoped the world wouldn’t break. And somehow, despite the spotlight, the pressure, the weight of expectations that would’ve flattened anyone else, Paige had made it through.

Achieving everything she ever wanted, and still keeping her goodness intact.

Azzi’s chest tightened. The pride of it. The ache of loving someone so much you could barely sit still in your own skin.

Azzi had just been pulled into a conversation with a younger girl who had recognized her, eyes wide as she asked about playing in college, about shooting form, about favorite sneakers. Azzi had leaned in, smiling, answering every question. 

She wasn’t facing the court when it happened. But she felt it. That pull. That electricity she knew too well. She turned, slowly, and there Paige was. Staring straight at her.

Azzi’s heart jumped, then took off sprinting. She grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. Couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t have wanted to.

And on Paige’s face: that flicker of surprise, like the world had just tilted an inch and she was trying to find her balance again. That heartbeat behind the eyes.

Azzi didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. She just held her gaze.

Happy Paige Bueckers Day.

Paige’s POV

A water break was finally called. 

She grabbed her towel and drifted toward the sideline, eyes skimming the lower rows of the arena. Not searching, just taking it in. The blur of signs and navy and white. People wearing her jersey. Not unusual. Not today.

And then her gaze snagged on one.

A girl in the second row, just behind the bench, chatting with a younger fan. Baggy pants. BUECKERS stitched in bold across her back.

Paige didn’t think much of it at first. People wore her jersey now. That was still weird, sure, but not surprising. Not today.

But there was something about her. The way she sat. The way she tilted her head mid-conversation. A familiarity Paige couldn’t quite place but couldn’t shake either.

Her heart moved before her brain did.

Azzi.

No. That wasn’t possible. Azzi had told her she couldn’t make it. That the timing didn’t work. That she was proud, but far away. And yet…

Her heart thudded, like it was screaming: You know this.

And then the girl turned.

Paige’s heart stopped. Or stuttered. Or maybe just launched itself into her throat. 

Azzi, courtside. In her jersey. Sitting like she had every right to be there. Which, to be fair, she did. But Paige had been so sure she wasn’t coming.

For a second, Paige didn’t move. Just stood there, towel in hand, caught between disbelief and something else she didn’t have words for yet.

And then Azzi smiled. Not a small, polite smile. Not the kind you give for cameras or fans or polite conversation. No, her whole face lit up, bright and sure and unapologetically happy to see her.

It was, objectively, the prettiest smile Paige had ever seen.

And for one terrifying second, she genuinely didn’t know how she didn’t sprint across the court, hurdle the row of folding chairs, and pull her into the kind of hug that knocked them both over.

“Told you quiet days don’t always stay quiet,” Nai murmured, bumping Paige’s shoulder as she passed.

Paige turned, eyes narrowed. “You knew?”

Nai raised both brows, unapologetic. “Helped.”

Paige stared at her. “You helped her do this?”

Nai grinned. “Watching you mope all week was painful. But this?” She gestured toward the stands, where Azzi was still seated like she’d always belonged there. “So worth it.”

Paige shook her head, trying not to smile. Trying harder not to look again. Failing completely.

Warmups ended, and Paige knew she probably shouldn’t. But she couldn’t help it.

Couldn’t help but follow the invisible string that always pulled her to Azzi, no matter the distance, no matter the day.

She walked straight toward her.

She knew the arena was watching. Cameras. Fans. Commentators already sharpening their angles. Some would call it unprofessional. Say she wasn’t locked in. Use the moment to prop up whatever criticism they’d already decided on.

But if she was being honest? She didn’t care. Because Azzi was here. She was here. And that mattered more than whatever version of her someone might try to write later.

Paige reached her, stepped into the space like it had been waiting for her, and wrapped her arms around the love of her life. She buried her face in Azzi’s neck, let herself breathe.

“Az.”

Just one word. An exhale. A prayer. A thank-you so full it shook in her chest.

Azzi held her tighter. Didn't say anything right away. Didn't need to.The world could wait. Just for a second.

She smiled against Paige’s skin the way she had since she was sixteen. Soft, hidden, private.The kind of smile that belonged to them and no one else. 

Paige and Azzi.

Always circling back. Always finding each other, like gravity had opinions. Like the universe held a soft spot for their kind of love and girls who didn’t know how to stay away.

There was never a moment where they said we’ll always choose each other. They just kept doing it.

“Should you be doing this?” Azzi whispered, lips brushing just beneath her ear.

And Paige laughed, low and unapologetic. “It’s Paige Bueckers Day, baby. Pretty sure that means I can do whatever I want.”

[xaviever]

˖ 𑣲 nerd!xavier thought dump …

cw. (afab!reader) 🔞 mdni. nerd!xavier + virgin!xavier (implied). he’s shy but he’s not a sub. hickeys, masturbation, cunnilingus, fingering, possessiveness obvi it’s xav. use of “pretty girl”.

nerd!xavier who’s just such a cutie pie. introverted and faintly aloof, countless honors awards under his belt (and hopefully you next). tousled hair, his thin glasses above his nose accentuating his gorgeous face, deep, blue eyes as alluring as his intelligence. eager to learn, always on time to lectures, bright-eyed, and bushy tailed.

nerd!xavier who has always thought you were breathtaking. watching you saunter into class the first day is majority of the reason he’s still taking the uninteresting gen ed class you two have together. he often finds himself staring at your side profile, looking away quick with his ears turning red the few times you’ve returned his gaze with a smile and wave.

nerd!xavier who just has to know you. he’s typing out everything but a literal transcription of your professor’s lecture the one day he notices you’re absent, earnestly handing you neat copies next time he sees you.

nerd!xavier who wants you so bad. his once extremely school oriented brain now frenzied over his almost elementary crush on you. he’s stuttering through your conversations, daydreaming sickeningly romantic thoughts of you, scheduling his days down to the minute just for the sweet possibility of spotting you on campus. he’s whipped.

nerd!xavier who sometimes has more… unsavory thoughts about you. still stemming from his pure adoration, he’s overwhelmed by his want, no, need for you and ends up here.

when he can no longer focus on his studying, his mind falling back to the way you rubbed his arm earlier, or giggled at his joke last week, or said his name— he’s tugging at his cock before he even realizes. pants and huffs of your name spill from his pretty pink lips as he fucks his fist to the image of you. he’s hunched over his desk, notebooks crinkling under his free hand’s grip. he’s not a pervert, really! he doesn’t even touch himself often, you’re making him go completely haywire.

nerd!xavier with such a sensitive cock. you’re palming him through his jeans, certain you found his tip when you feel a wetness start to seep through onto your thumb. you’re kissing, him moaning into your mouth before he pulls away and burrows his face in your neck, breathing you in slow to try and calm himself.

“i’ve never…f-felt this way.. mmph! before...” he confesses into your shoulder, his big hand wrapping around yours that was teasing him to halt it. xavier brings his head up, glasses crooked, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. just absolutely wrecked for you. he hisses as you squeeze him through his jeans once more with a sweet smile.

“you want me to touch you, xavier?” it’s dizzying how those words hit him, his name from your lips akin to something religious. he could cum in his pants.

“i do. please.”

nerd!xavier who is very committed to learning how to fuck you right. when he’s face to face with your pussy, looking up at you with so much anticipation, his pretty blues half lidded and misty. he kisses the inside of your palm when you cup his chubby cheek, his hand shaking only a little when he holds your intertwined ones at your side, diving down to attach his lips to your aching clit.

his shy kitten licks quickly drive you insane, and then you’re saying his name again, moaning it, xavier, fuck! xavier, more please! he counts on his lucky stars as he realizes the surge of possessiveness he feels. other people? are supposed to experience this with you? that’s when he channels all the enthusiasm of his first time into his tongue, noting every movement, every single thing that gets a reaction from you. vowing he’ll make you cum so hard you’ll forget other people even exist.

nerd!xavier who’s leaving splotch after splotch of purple, red on your inner thighs. you’re squirming, yelping with each suck, and while he doesn’t necessarily want to hurt you he just can’t help himself. sitting back and admiring his canvas of hickeys, pride overwhelms him, satisfied with his mark on you. at least now, whoever’s next will know. (it’s all for him, he will sooner flunk out then let anyone else be between these legs for the rest of the semester).

nerd!xavier who’s so good with his fingers. he’s slow to push inside you, watching your face for all the minuscule tells you have. you’re so tight he lets out a groan, the thought of pushing his dick inside you next making his big brain fuzzy. xavier curls and stretches and pumps, curious of the other sounds and reactions he can pull from you.

“you’re such a pretty girl…” xavier mutters, shallow breaths fanning your face as he leans into you. “i’m so lucky.”

you beam at the praise, finding his lips again in a kiss with a ferocity you never would’ve initially expected from the quiet boy. the squelches of your needy cunt intensify as you close in on your peak, gasping into his mouth as it washes over you suddenly. he thinks that’s a good thing, right? all he knows is your expression is priceless, and he’s so hard it actually hurts. just as you’re about to dreamily sigh out how good that was, xavier’s blurting out the only way he can think to see you again so soon.

“…do you need help studying for that exam next week?”

— authors note. me when i try to do simple headcanon style but i love xavier so much i fell too far down the rabbit hole. xavier girls pls rally with me :3

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 16/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : angst, mention of harassement, not graphic just imply (not from Lando)

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 16 : SMAU

Text messages :

Lando:

I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes I see your face from that night. How hurt you looked. How I did that.

Lando:

I don’t know how to fix it. I just know I want to.

Lando:

I didn’t trust you. And you didn’t deserve that.

You gave me something real and I let fear destroy it.

Lando:

I'm sorry. God, Ari. I’m so sorry.

Lando:

Just… if you never want to see me again, I get it.

But please don’t leave me not knowing where I stand.

Please don’t leave me like this.

Lando:

I keep thinking if I had just held your hand and listened that night… none of this would’ve happened.

Lando:

Do you hate me now?

Lando:

I’d understand if you did.

Lando:

But I really, really hope you don’t.

No Reply

@landonorris

Sometimes you only learn to miss someone once the silence starts to echo.

@f1updatesfan

 uhhh is Lando okay? 😟

@softlandoenergy

 he’s been posting like a sad playlist in human form lately 💔

@f1gossipqueen

 don’t attack me but this feels like an heartbreak

@carbonfiberballet

 remember that girl from the ballet posts?? 👀

@tangledupincurls

 he posted this and didn’t even caption it with an emoji. something’s wrong wrong

@gridgirldiaries

 🕯️manifesting healing for this poor man 🕯️

Texts messages :

Lando:

I will land in Paris in the morning.

I don’t even know if you’ll see this, but… I’ll be there.

I just want to talk. Just five minutes. I’ll wait anywhere you say. You don’t even have to look at me. Just let me say I’m sorry in person.

Lando:

Please, Ari.

Lando:

Can you at least tell me if you’re okay?

Message Not Delivered

Lando:

…no.

Lando:

You blocked me.

Lando:

You actually blocked me.

Lando:

I deserve it.

I’d block me too.

Lando:

But it still fucking hurts.

@landonorris (Instagram Story)

Song:

 🎵 “All I Want” – Kodaline

 “But if you loved me, why'd you leave me?

 Take my body, take my body

 All I want is, and all I need is

 To find somebody… I’ll find somebody like you…”

@f1softestboy

 okay but lando posting "all i want" by kodaline in complete silence...

@gridtearz

 he really said: no caption. no context. just pain.

@slowburnlando

 sir. who hurt you and why did YOU let them go 😭💔

@landowithluv

 I’ve been fine all week but that song choice?? during this phase of his life??

@burntballetflats

 this is 100% about the ballerina.

@f1moonenergy

 he’s not posting lyrics to be poetic he’s literally screaming for help in sad indie boy dialect

@f1gossipcentral

BREAKING NEWS ✈️ Lando Norris spotted at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris this morning.

The McLaren driver appeared noticeably somber as he made his way across the tarmac, despite being expected to remain in Brazil with friends for another week.

Fans at the terminal described him as “quiet, polite, but distant” and several reported he stayed seated alone for nearly 20 minutes after landing before being picked up.

No official statement from him, but many are speculating why the sudden detour to France… and why he looked like he hadn’t slept in days and if it's not related to a certain ballerina 👀

@lan_donothing:

He looks so cold and small wtf someone hug him 😭

@ballerinaburnbook:

nah this is about the ballerina 100000% he shortened his trip AND dropped that sad story

@maxpowered:

I thought he was living it up in Brazil with the boys?? He just ghosted the vibes.

@slowburnlando:

And the ballerina also came back earlier from her "solo trip" after her injurie

@pastelf1soul:

He’s not even TRYING to hide it 😩 Man is in is heartbreak era.

@gridgirldiaries:

Okay but imagine the girl walking through arrivals and seeing him like THAT 🥹

@f1rumourmill:

allegedly seen near Palais Garnier earlier today 👀Which… we ALL know who that links to.

@cherryribbons:

Hate how this saga has me acting like I’m in a sad indie film

@arianariverria

Back to Paris, back to dancing, back to healing

Comments have been desactivated

@royaloperahouse_official

It is with great gravity that we announce the immediate termination of our lead principal dancer, Marc Bertrand, following multiple internal reports of inappropriate conduct toward several female colleagues within the company.

An internal investigation is currently underway. While we are committed to ensuring privacy and dignity for the individuals involved, we want to make it unequivocally clear that the Royal Opera will no longer employ, endorse, or support Mr. Bertrand in any capacity moving forward.

We remain committed to fostering a safe and respectful environment for all our artists. Updates will be provided when appropriate.

@balletteaaa wait wasn’t he dating Ariana Riverria?? 😧

@dramatica.london they broke up like a year ago but he was still acting like they were together 💀 creepy af

@truthwhispers There’ve been rumors about him cheating and being rough w/ some of the younger dancers… maybe now ppl are finally listening.

@arianaxparis I’m just glad Ariana left the Royal Opera and went back to Paris. She looks so much happier now 💕

@teaandtoeshoes Kinda weird how they’re keeping it internal. If it’s harassment, why not take it to court?

@ballerinaroyal if Ariana was his ex and she saw this behavior up close… no wonder she cut ties and moved on. poor girl 😞

@stagelightshadow So basically they fired him but aren’t saying exactly what he did? Sounds serious if they’re cutting ties completely.

@danseparisienne People have whispered about Marc for years. Arrogant, entitled, always flirting with younger dancers. Glad it’s finally public.

@bravoballetqueen Ohhh so THIS is why Ariana left so suddenly 😮‍💨 I thought it was a career move but now it makes sense…

@londonspotlight Is it true that he kept telling press he and Ariana were just "on a break"? 💀 Dude was delusional.

@truthinspandex If even Royal Opera is letting him go this fast, it has to be serious. They're not known for moving quickly on anything.

@justice4artists Why isn’t there a lawsuit? If he harassed multiple dancers, they deserve justice, not just a quiet “termination.”

@rumeurrouge I heard he tried to get Ariana removed from a role after they broke up bc she didn’t want to go back with him… 😳

Texts messages

Lando I saw the news about Marc. Are you okay?

Lando You probably still have me blocked. That’s fair. I deserve it. But I’m sending this anyway. Just in case.

Lando I can’t stop thinking about how horrible this must be for you. I’m so, so sorry you ever had to deal with him.

Lando And I’m even more sorry that when you were with me, I let my own jealousy get in the way of understanding what you’d really been through.

Lando I thought you were still close to him. I didn’t ask. I didn’t listen. I just assumed. And I acted like a complete idiot in Brazil because of it.

Lando You deserved my trust. Instead, I gave you silence, attitude, and suspicion. I hate that I became someone who made you feel small. You’re the last person who ever deserved that.

Lando I don’t know what happened between you and Marc, and I don’t need to. I just wish I’d known then what I know now, that you weren’t okay. That you were protecting yourself.

Lando And even if you were okay… I should’ve supported you anyway. I didn’t. And I regret that more than I can say.

Lando I’m here, Ariana. Even if I’m not who you want anymore. Even if you never reply. I just want you to be safe. And loved. I hope you know you are.

Lando Always on your side. Even now. Especially now.

Seen by Ariana 2:11 AM

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1

Let me know if you want to be add to the taglist !

[jeanjauthor]

Some birds are meh about flying (*stares at chickens*), but they absolutely need to scratch the ground & peck the shht outta some bugs, or belly-slide on the ice on their way to swimming & catching some Antarctic herring or whatever.

Some people need to cook, to be mentally healthier. Whether or not they can eat it is irrelevant (bad cooking, appetite-suppressing medication, whatever). Some people need to crochet. Whether or not they wear it is irrelevant (it could be a hat, a blanket, a scarf, or a life-size R2D2 replica, whatever). Some people need to garden. Whether or not that garden thrives is irrelevant (it could be plants being set up in the wrong environment/climate, weather patterns beyond all control, pest issues that cannot be addressed, or neighborhood kids who trample the seedlings just because they can).

Just because you cannot fly very well doesn't mean you cannot scratch the soil and peck at shhht. You can find your create-a-thing.

Just because you're "not very good" at your create-a-thing doesn't mean it isn't important.

Nobody is perfect on their very first try. And very few are perfect on their 100th try, either!

You literally learn more from your mistakes if you pay attention and try to figure out what went wrong, and what went right. You can innovate ideas, you can figure out workarounds, you could invent a yarn-holding ring doohickey that helps keep your fingers from getting yarn burns, or whatever-it-is you need. (Still kicking myself I didn't make clever yarn-ball holding bowls in pottery class, but I only saw wooden versions a week before my pottery class ended, so no time, oh well.)

You can also do more than one create-a-thing! I cook, I crochet, I draw fantasy world maps & draft the layouts for starships and kingdoms and cozy cottages alike (also magical yurt layouts, who wouldn't want instant-setup glamping, amirite??) for stories & TTRPGs.

It doesn't have to be perfect. It doesn't have to be a masterpiece. Hell, I can barely make a stick figure look like a stick figure, but I've found a way to be creative when drawing nonetheless! I also need to get off my butt and go buy some gardening stuff for patio gardening needs, because I also do gardening.

It doesn't have to be professionally done landscaping or perfectly self-sufficient food forest gardening. It can be one lousy plant on your windowsill that you remember to water because you do it at the same time you take your pills every day. (Talk nicely to that plant while you're watering it. Talk to it like you wish someone would talk to you, and pretend it's agreeing and saying equally nice things back to you. Plants can communicate, btw, just not in ways that we can readily detect.)

Take that plant to different windows if you can. Let it experience different flavors of daylight. Get creative, make little paper doilies for its pot to sit upon, use colored pencils, colored markers, crayons, pencil shadings when making designs. Get out the glue and the glitter and the bits of fabric. Crochet a doily with very ruffly edges so that it looks like a ring of flowers around the base. Crochet Audrey the evil alien space plant from Little Shop Of Horrors and put that in your window.

You don't have to make a patchwork quilt for your entire bed. Just make a poster-sized one and hang it on your wall. You don't have to invest a lot of funds. Get some super-cheap clothes from a thrift store and rework them into something. Find a branch fallen to the forest floor? Watch some tutorials and learn how to whittle. (Be extra careful, safety first!)

Consider playing Minecraft and building some awesome scenery. Don't like Minecraft? Try other sandbox games. I'm currently playing "Sapiens" and restarting my Stone Age civilizations in different climate zones, trying to figure out the perfect layout for my tribe members to build their houses & layout their gardens. (For some reason, in an area with very few trees, I thought it would be appropriate to build wooden structures. Thankfully, I've unlocked agriculture for that tribe and can plant seeds to grow some!)

Play games in The Sims just to create buildings and gardens. Grab some graph paper and draw mazes. You can recycle them, or you can pass them off to friends so they have something fun to do for a few minutes in their otherwise stressful day. Learn how to make the different kinds of frosting & icing, and decorate sugar cookies. Throw a Theme Party and help make the decorations and/or costumes and/or food. (Get creative, throw a Star Trek party, and use a Santa cookie cutter to make & decorate red-shirted ensigns having bad days, lol.)

Individually as humans, we need to drink, eat, sleep, defecate, communicate with others, form pack bonds, and make things. Yes, yes, you'd think that procreate would be on that list, but procreation is the survival of the species, not the survival of the Individual. And individually, we need to eat food, drink water, use the bushes, sleep in a safe spot, communicate with others, form pack bonds (friends, family, pets), and make things.

You can even just create a moodboard post, btw, and share it with the other H.s.sapiens lurking in the tumblr jungle...and you've done 3 of those things, create, communicate, and formed a pack bond. Probably while sipping on a drink, so there's a fourth right there.

Why do I include a pack bond in that list? Because this is Tumblr and we have many many tribes. Someone out here is going to love seeing your moodboard collage of images, and they will reblog it, or at least click Like (though that does nothing for spreading the joy of it). Someone is going to love seeing your crocheted attempt at a Cthulhu scarf. After all, you click Like and Reblog, giving yourself a tiny little pack-bond with the original creator, and the people who added to that thread...and maybe you'll even spend several minutes adding to the comment thread. (Creative writing is create-ive, after all.)

Just don't forget to occasionally create a physical thing, because that's what makes our ook-ook brains the happiest. Start by feeding & watering yourself. Like, go create a sandwich. Put together an artistically assembled veggie plate. Try making coffee-with-cream art.

You inspire me to be less depressed and more diy. I have two pairs of ripped to fuck jeans and because of you I've decided to practice fabric skills on them.

I'm new to this, it's gonna suck but perhaps eventually it won't.

The knee of one I'm going to fix with fancy teacup blue and white fabric. I might embroider skulls or ravens on it too.

Aside from all this I really hope you have a good day. Thank you for you and the pants you made.

I'm like 90% sure that people are supposed to make things, just like, as a natural behaviour that people do. Some animals get depressed when they're not allowed to dig burrows, or not allowed to sing, not allowed to climb things, whatever it is that they naturally do. People craft stuff. Not sewing, sculpting, painting or constructing stuff makes people sad the same way birds are unhappy if their wings are clipped and they can't fly.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

I’d be interested to see soft dom hiromi. But could I request he be written with y/n having a praise kink instead of degradation? I’d love being his good girl 😭 🩷🥹

The way Hiromi softly doms you

Tags: Hiromi x fem!Reader, praise kink, sub space, NO age regression, nsfw, mdni

An: I am SO sorry it took me so long to put this out 😭

• Hiromi works long hours as a defense attorney. Far too often he gets caught up in court, so when he does finally get home, he needs a good girl like you to cheer him up!

• As soon as he’s home, he wraps his cute girl up in a big hug, and he just holds you to his body for a while. He’s silently decompressing from his day and counting his blessings for getting to come home to you each and every evening.

• Hiromi doesn’t talk about work to his girl. If he needs to vent, he’ll call and rant to Nanami on his way home. The more ignorant you are to his struggles, the better. He doesn’t want you fussing over him, and he wants you to just enjoy being his perfect girl.

• Hiromi’s the type of dom to take off his coat after a long day, still wearing the rest of his suit before he takes a seat on the couch. He guides you to sit on his lap. “Tell me about your day, baby.”

• He runs his fingers through your hair, listening to you yap about your day. Of course, he lets you be a stay at home wife. He prefers it that way so that nothing takes your time or attention away from him.

• He truly listens to all the things you tell him, even the pointless things. “Oh no, I’m sorry the store was out of your favorite creamer, sweetness. I’ll pick you up some on my way home tomorrow.”

• “Such a brave girl.” while his fingers are giving you gentle head scratches.

• All of the sweet/cute nicknames, “baby”, “pretty girl”, “sweetheart”, “darling”, “pumpkin”.

• Hiromi doesn’t make you dress a certain way. His eyes light up seeing you in all types of clothes, even if they are a little revealing. “My love, I can’t keep my eyes off of you. You’re magnetic.”

• He definitely doesn’t let you shy away from compliments. “Look at me, baby… Thereee we go.. Such a pretty girl.”

• Is such a pleasure dom. He just wants to hear your sweet moans and cute breathy whimpers all the time :(

• He loves when you sit on his face. He literally doesn’t want to breathe. He just wants to get drunk off your essence and make you fall apart on his tongue over and over again.

• He’s the type to cum without being touched. He doesn’t need stimulation. All he needs is to know that you’re enjoying yourself so much.

• The only time Hiromi can be a little mean is when he makes you compliment yourself while taking his fat cock. “Say it. Come on… Say it for me, angel. I’ll stop if you don’t say you’re the prettiest girl in the world.”

• Hiromi’s the type to mount you and give you the sweetest forehead kisses while he fucks you from behind, whispering all the praise in your ear, “Keep being so good for me.. That’s it…”, “Oh, you feel fucking incredible, angel.”, “God, I love how you take me. I’m so proud of you.”

• The. Aftercare. King. Hiromi’s the type to clean you off while telling you how lucky he is to have you and how beautiful you are. He doesn’t run a bath just yet. Instead, he holds you in his arms and watches whatever you want to watch whether that’s TikTok, your comfort streamer, or something on TV. He’s there and present with you the entire time.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

[yurilvr4]

nerd armin hc's! art by musapylsa on tt/twt

cw for implied public sex, lots of biting, + tongue piercing, somnophilia(nsfw)

-

the type of guy to wait when your classes are over. he would loiter in the hallways , the jocks and popular kids brushing past him as he fixes his glasses, holding science books to his chest as he fiddled with his phone - checking your schedule.

he's a creeper, a stalker. as far as you were concerned, you always saw him hangout with his two friends, eren, mikasa and some other folks, jean..sasha?...connor? wait no, connie!

you would sometimes catch him staring way too long, eyes always on you and when you finally notice, he would blink and fix his glasses, a knuckle raising to arrange it on his face.

he would "accidentally" drop something on the ground if he was ever randomly beside you, and he knows how nice of a person you are, so you pick up whatever he dropped and he just smiles inwardly, checking you out from the back with zero to no shame.

the type to literally take pictures of you secretly and masturbate the fuck out of them the moment he's home.

"o...ohh...ahnn.." his hand fists his cock aggressively, throwing his head back as he whimpers, thighs shaking as he finally comes down, cum dribbling down his fingers.

-

another thing about him is he owns porn magazines, he stashes them away under his bed and fantasizes all the girls on the pages are you.

he would full on hump the covers, his pillow just to imagine some type of body underneath his, squeezing and moaning like a dog in heat, his brain can only think of one thing and that's you.

other times when he's not ejaculating, he talks about you to his other online friends when he games.

"they're so...h-hot..like.." he says in the microphone, grinning ear to ear as he talks about you in excruciating detail.

the guys on the other side would either cheer him on or snicker at his desperation, "woah..dude, did you like, jack off to them or something??" typical. they wouldn't get it.

"s-something like that." armin bites his lip, finishing the game and logging off.

obsessive crush behavior

this man is always on his phone/laptop so for sure he's got some online stalking habits you're not aware of at all.

he analyzes all of your old posts, every story and event you've been to, and even have them memorized in case you ever talked to him.

+ he's probably the type to over intercept basic kindness as 'romantic interest', "they smiled at me! they must want me!"

-

random stuff he does

• compliments you in an awkward, creepy sort of way, "hey....y-your collarbones are pretty.." then he'd mentally face palm thinking about how miserably bad he is at flirting.

• stares at you wayyy too long for any normal person, a hand on his chin as his eyes hyper-analyze your movements, then panics when he gets caught.

• brings up painfully niche hyperfixations and info dump people about it, (comics, anime, gaming) and they would have NO clue what he would be talking about LMFAOO

• does that nervous push glasses thing, how? uses his middle finger to nudge the bridge of his glasses up. he's particularly nervous when you finally speak to him or is around him suddenly.

if you're in a relationship

he's actually ecstatic, finally having you all to himself, that means he could do whatever he wanted right?

he's willing to share and do everything with you, from sharing his clothes, to showering, sleeping in the same bed. all of it.

the type to just touch you all over. hugs and cuddles you, kisses your neck and bites the same spot he touched with his mouth.

only for you to have tons of red bruises littering your skin the next day.

• doesn't let you go until you really beg him to let you go.

"i won't even be that long... seriously." you say, waiting for a response , only for your boyfriend to glare at you albeit a little pouty.

"...f...fuck. you can't just leave me here, i want your attention too."

he nervously plays with the ends of his sleeves, drawing the cloth over his knuckles and fiddling with it.

sometimes you couldn't help but feel bad, even though there was nothing to feel bad about.

"...fine. i'll stay.. okay?" you nod defeated, reaching out for him to hug his head to your tummy.

he immediately reciprocates, pressing his face into your torso and inhaling deep.

-

sometimes in public, he would drag you to a small spot where he swears no one goes to, and just grinds his body over yours, just to get some friction.

making out with you is his favorite activity, besides fucking the shit outta you at home.

he grinds and grabs your everything, hands all over your ass, squeezing as he bites the inner corner of your neck, sucking the skin until he's satisfied with the new colour.

you feel the cool metal of his piercing lave over your hot skin and you whine for him to stick it in you already.

• WOULD make you suck him off under the seat of his desktop space WHILE gaming.

he's so nasty he doesn't even hide it, "hey?! can i get an assist? cmon!" someone online yells into the microphone , he's pretty skilled with using the keyboard with only one hand, so he easily guides your head with his fingers rooted into your scalp and helps bob your mouth just right until he feels his cock twitch, eventually cumming inside and you have to swallow it.

he tries so hard to hide his little huffs of satisfaction, wryly grinning as he sees your cum painted face under the seat.

-

has this 'habit' he's never told you about.

whenever you would sleep before him in your shared bed , he would climb over you and just go to town. removing each layer of your clothes, and leaves you vulnerable in your underwear, spreads your legs open and makes you cum in your sleep.

you involuntary shiver when you feel his tongue lave over your hole, his fingers playing over where you're most sensitive and coat his tongue in your juices.

'how are you not waking up?' a few sleeping pills dumped into your drink earlier must've did the trick. he wouldn't tell you though, or you'll probably, seriously hate him.

and that was the last thing he wanted. besides..he's got you all to himself now!

-

+ note this fanart literally revived the aot fandom idc i had to write something. link to the art! link 2

[paincest]

some excerpts from the life of odysseus who returned early and his spoiled 10 year old son:

in the first few days of his arrival, odysseus was feeling really down because he thinks his son hates him till one day, telemachus drags him to a field and introduces him to all his friends who are SOOO IMPRESSED with him

"WOAHHH DID YOU REALLY FIGHT POSEIDON" and telemachus goes "OF COURSE HE DID!!!!! HE'S MY DAD!!!!"

odysseus is just so so happy that his son is actually proud to call him dad that he had to punch himself to stop himself from crying in front of these kids. he spends the rest of his afternoon telling his son and his friends about his journey

their first real dad-son bonding experience is when penelope forces telemachus to go with his dad to some meeting and some asshole made a disrespectful joke about penelope. the kill mode switch INSTANTLY activated within the both of them

telemachus keeps acting like he knows what his dad and mom are talking about all the time so odysseus would just start making things up to see what telemachus would say. sometimes he does it as an 'aha! you little liar!' moment but other times, he just wants to test his son's creativity

odysseus: oh and i fought a varkagrog. you know what that is? telemachus: o-of course! the flying fish... thing... that turns into an uh, giant owl. odysseus who literally just jumbled random words together: yep. that one. you're so smart! telemachus, puffing his chest smugly: cause mommy teaches me everything and she's super smart!

odysseus and telemachus fights over who gets to hug penelope at night. mind you, penelope sleeps in the middle so obviously, they could just share her, but odysseus likes to tease telemachus.

telemachus on the other hand is genuinely Fighting For His Life here

it's all fun and games till telemachus actually starts crying and penelope scolds odysseus. no cuddles for the big man tonight

whenever telemachus is angry at odysseus, he draws on odysseus' face when he's asleep but it doesn't really work because odysseus just gets super happy about it, lifts him off the ground and kisses him all over the face and walks around the whole day with his face all smeared till penelope forces him to take a bath

whenever odysseus and telemachus return home from an outing or if penelope went out and just got back, they race each other to see who gets to kiss penelope first. telemachus is leading the scoreboard

(telemachus doesn't seem to realize that his dad is letting him win most of the time)

during odysseus' absence, telemachus would draw himself, his mom and dad all together but after a few years, telemachus stopped believing his dad is alive or even wants to come home so he ripped odysseus out of all his drawings but when ody finally comes home, telemachus secretly tapes it back together. odysseus pretends like he doesn't wanna cry whenever he sees the obvious rips that telemachus clumsily tried to mend

epic au where odysseus comes home 10 years earlier but that means meeting his son when he was just an immature spoiled mommy's boy who can't accept that his gorgeous elegant queen mother is dating this Rat covered in dirt and blood

[mcondance]

Smoke with barely legal virgin reader who he makes ride them for their first time since they “wanted to be grown” and “was talking all that slick shit at the juke joint”

don’t hate me but i feel like this is more elias than elijah sorry friend tw big ass age gap, reader is quite literally freshly 18 so talks of that, elias is a nasty man, reader is a virgin, uses of “girl”, written in a southern accent

oh my god yeah.

just turned 18 a little less than 3 months ago, can still smell the milk on your breath when he’s close enough. can still see that sparkle in your eyes, the same sparkle you look at him with when you’re talking shit that gets his dick hard and so obviously trying to make yourself look older than you are.

elias can see through it all. with those wild eyes, he can see straight through that silky little dress and right on through to your body underneath it, the body you slink over the counter top in a vain attempt to gain his attention.

unfortunately, fortunately, for you, elias has never been the twin to make the rational decisions.

“she a baby,” smoke tells him, ducked off in the corner the day elias starts to give in, but elias is chewing on a toothpick imagining what he could do to you.

“shit,” he starts, “that girl know what she wan’. can’t give her nothin’ she ain’ been askin’ fa’.”

“gon’ give that girl what she askin’ for and see how that work ou’.”

elias ain’t never listened to his brother when it came to women, and he don’t plan on starting now. not when you ‘bout the easiest lil’ thing he’s seen in a long time.

he don’t know how it happened and you don’t either, but someway you end up at the little place he bought with straight cash, that little green dress he’s had the eyes for decorating the body he’s soon to have his way with.

he isn’t your first kiss, but he’s your first kiss like this. he don’t care that you haven’t been touched, he don’t care that the way he’s kissing you and licking into your mouth is definitely too much for a virgin like you, he don’t even care that you���re obviously overwhelmed and biting off more than you can chew.

he loves this shit.

he don’t respect you enough to take your clothes off, and he damn sure don’t respect you enough to even lead you to his bed. right on the couch is how he’s gonna take it from you, thighs spread under you while you grind on him and think to yourself about just how you’re gonna take all of it.

“ay, girl, get this up,” he slurs against your lips, pulling at your dress before he reaches for his belt buckle. desperate and willing, you meet him there and help him loosen his belt and then you’re reaching into his pants and pulling him out of his boxers. overzealous little thing, excited, eyes bigger than your cunt.

“you grown, girl?” he asks, rubbing himself through your oh-so abundant wetness, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, golds shinin’ like his blown eyes. you nod, whining as you feel his tip glide against you like cold whiskey down your throat. “yeah?”

you feel grown right now. grown as hell. growner than you’ve ever felt before.

“lemme see how grown you is, then. baby talkin’ all tha’ slick shit at the joint, lemme put that money where that mouth is.”

you’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared. but stack’s so fine and it’s now or never, you can’t go back on your word after all you said and done. you wouldn’t go back even if you wanted to. you ain’t letting this go.

elias fucks you like you’ve been takin’ dick for years. hands wrapped around you, big hand pressed to the middle of your back, he stuffs you full and has you choking on your words, has your thoughts jumbling and folding in on each other. green fabric slips down your shoulders and leaves your whole chest bare for his disgusting eyes.

elias feels powerful, and vile all the same. goddamn cradle robber and he don’t feel nothing but pride and power.

“you just a baby, girl, don’ know nothing. but i’ll teach ya’. i’ll teach you good, girl. learn you everythang you wanna know.”

[riddlesrizzler]

Jelly Cat

summary: you said you wanted a jelly cat characters: bf! mattheo. reader. mentions of theo and enzo warnings: none! word count: 1.1k

It had been a rough week-one of those weeks where nothing seemed to go right. You’d spilled tea on your favorite sweater, failed a potion that turned your eyebrows green for a day and a half, and your Care of Magical Creatures partner had bailed on you again. By Friday evening, all you wanted was to collapse into bed and not be perceived.

Mattheo noticed. He always noticed.

He wasn’t the best with emotions-not in the way you were. You wore your feelings like ribbons, tied delicately into your expressions and tone. But Mattheo? He kept his locked in a fortress behind his eyes. Still, when it came to you, he paid attention.

Which is why, as you lay curled up on the common room sofa, sniffling over your Transfiguration notes and hugging your pillow to your chest, Mattheo sat nearby, deep in thought.

“She’s been saying that word all week,” he muttered.

“What word?” Theo asked, upside down on the armrest of the couch, lazily flipping through a Quidditch magazine.

“Jellycat,” Mattheo said, frowning like it was some kind of riddle. “She told Pansy she wants one. She told Draco she used to sleep with one every night. She told me they make her feel safe. So-what the hell is a jellycat?”

Enzo, lounging near the fireplace and buttering a crumpet with his wand, perked up. “Is that like... a magical beast? Like a pudding that purrs?”

“No,” Theo drawled. “it’s like an enchanted kneazle. Don’t bring up third year again.”

Mattheo rubbed his temples. “I don’t care what it is. I just want to give her one. She’s sad. I hate it.”

There was a pause.

Then Enzo grinned. “What if we... made her one?”

Mattheo’s eyes narrowed. “Made her a... jelly cat?”

“Exactly,” Theo chimed in, catching on fast. “We charm jelly. Give it ears. A tail. Little paws. It purrs. It jiggles. It’s what she wants.”

Thirty minutes later, three of Slytherin’s most feared boys were sneaking into the Hogwarts kitchens, tiptoeing past sleeping house-elves and nicking every bowl of jelly they could find-raspberry, strawberry, even one suspiciously glowing lime.

Back in their dorm, Enzo sculpted. Theo transfigured. Mattheo supervised with the intensity of someone about to fight a dragon.

It was hideous. Absolutely horrendous. The thing had tiny licorice whiskers, two uneven blueberry eyes, and a tail that wobbled like it was drunk. But when Theo tapped it with his wand, it purred-a long, wobbly little hum that made Enzo giggle like a maniac.

“I can’t believe I’m about to give this to her,” Mattheo muttered, staring down at the abomination with the reverence of someone preparing for a proposal.

That evening, you were curled under your blanket in the common room when he approached, awkwardly holding something behind his back.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly nervous.

You blinked up at him, tired but trying to smile. “Hey, Matty.”

His heart melted a bit. He cleared his throat. “So, I know you’ve had a crap week. And I know you kept saying you wanted a... a jelly cat.”

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! Yeah, I love Jellycats. They’re these plush stuffed animals-super soft and cuddly-”

Mattheo blinked. “Wait... they’re toys?”

“Yeah?” you said, laughing softly. “I had a bunny one as a kid. I miss her.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he slowly pulled the thing from behind his back.

It jiggled.

It meowed.

You stared. “Is that...?”

“A jelly cat,” he said proudly. “Literally.”

It was the strangest, ugliest, most endearing creature you’d ever seen. A wobbly, red blob shaped vaguely like a kitten, with gummy bear paws and licorice whiskers. It purred again, then flopped over with a squelch.

You blinked. “You made this?”

He shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “With Theo and Enzo. They helped. I just... I thought it would cheer you up."

You were speechless for a second. Then you laughed. Hard. The first real, full laugh you’d had in days. Tears prickled in your eyes-not from sadness this time, but from how much you adored him.

“Matty,” you whispered, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “It’s perfect.”

He grinned, a little pink in the face. “You’re not just saying that because it’s technically alive, right?”

You hugged the jelly cat against your chest. It wobbled and purred like a satisfied pudding. “No. I love it. And I love you.”

He paused, eyes softening. “Even though I didn’t know what a Jellycat was?”

“Especially because of that.”

And from that day on, the literal Jelly Cat sat on your shelf. Wobbly. Melty. Slightly cursed. And every time you looked at it, you remembered how much your ridiculous, thoughtful, soft-hearted Slytherin boyfriend loved you.

[velvetvexations]

As a non-transmasc please tell me if I'm overreaching with how I've phrased/toned this, because I shouldn't be taken as the authority on anything other than how twisted logic works, but "trans men are treated the same as cis women" is a distraction. That user has a habit of sending asks to herself and I have zero doubt she sent the one asking about how trans men can't have privilege over trans women if they're treated as cis women to tee herself up. Like, that's a misdirection, because it gets you arguing about how cis women still have it rough, and also the logical absurdity of "being treated like a woman is male privilege."

The goal is to make it a given in this discussion that trans men have it no worse than cis women. Radfems are now fully, openly, mask-off, zero subtext saying that trans men don't experience transphobia and are treated the same as any Cis Woman. They don't think trans men are trans or that it impacts their lives whatsoever. It's literally just a short haircut to them.

But like, they don't go after cis women, do they? How strange! Notice how they obsess over the idea that some trans men and non-binary people are conditionally allowed into an abusive cult with the aim of detransitioning them and they spend literally every ounce of hate towards the trans people involved. Where's that same energy for cis TERFs, the ones actually running the show and hating trans women like their life depends on it?

The psychology of it all is fascinating and I could write an entire book about it, but the TL;DR is that they treat trans men as though they were 'women you can treat like a man.' As in they literally perceive trans men to be women but delight in using their masculinity to be cruel to them for the sake of being cruel to those they perceive as women. Cis women are immune from this behavior because TRFs are obsessed with being allowed into the club and they take out their revenge on the people AFAB who've severed themselves from holy womanhood, hoping every day that their TERF senpais will see them as Really Real Wymyn because of how much they hate men.

So, like, yes, the second half of "being treated like a cis woman is male privilege" is freakishly Bizarro World bullshit, but it's a carefully constructed smokescreen to hide the true alarming garbage of the first half. Because what they're allowing their followers to see - like the anon that radfem sent herself - is people saying "but cis women are oppressed too," which leads to the obvious and planned-in-advance counter that cis women are above trans women.

[fangirlfied]

It's so late at night (almost 4 a.m.) but as I was on TikTok after watching hours and hours of videos of my favorite KPOP and JPOP artists from when I was a fan of those industries, I found myself upon the Korean Hip-Hop tag, just to see what was new (nothing much for what I've seen) and suddenly I found an edit of IRON, a Korean rapper who wasn't probably the best person, but who, for what I remember, people hated on too much for stating facts on his music.

Coming from the original line-up of BTS (when they were supposed to become a Hip-Hop group in the Epik High way instead of an idol boy group like they are now), and low-class of South Korea, this man had INSANE talent as a lyricist and a rapper, I don't care how horrible you think he was, the things he proved he could do on 'Show Me The Money 3' were AMAZING!

He used to tackle poverty in South Korea, the corruption of the country's goverment and the hypocresy and easy pass idols got compared to non idol citizens, which leads me to remind everyone most rappers, as much of a baddie image they try to pull are almost all (I literally can only think of one that isn't) rich boys acting like they're from the hood when none of them know what it even feels to not have enough money to survive day by day, and IRON, or Jung Hunchul understood that, because he came from the side of the society that Bong Joon-Ho portrayed on 'Parasite' (2019).

Some of his songs, if translated say some of the most heartbreaking things I've ever read in Korean, nothing from K-POP can compare, the only things on that level of honesty, unfairness and a broken system that works for the rich, are the 90's hip-hop that 2Pac and Nas came up with along with other bunch of black kids trying to survive in a broken system, just like IRON did in his home country, South Korea.

In no way I'm defending his actions, but there are certain vile comments I've seen about him and his death just because he's not faking a perfect personality that the public might love (like most idols do, trust me, they're rich kids in a very socially unaware country. Like my guys, I've seen from cultural appropiation issues yearly to ACTUAL nazi scandals on KPOP, come on!) that at some point I had to write this down, because quite frankly, IRON deserved better, sure he did horrible things, but he wasn't evil, just like many loved rappers from the USA aren't considered evil for doing horrible things....I just wished people knew the IRON I had the chance to see:

PS: He said FACTS about BigBang's T.O.P and G-DRAGON's drug use and how they should have gone to jail if the avarage citizen had to go to jail, and I say this as a V.I.P, and as someone who has BigBang as their favs...The dude spill facts about how horrible South Korean society was and still is today.

[k-chips]

Here I am rambling about the cookie game now yeyyy

My Roman Empire in Cookie Run Kingdom is the fact that the Ancients are exactly who the Beasts needed in the past to stop their corruption and I kinda hope they'll go for something like that in the story... (This isn't just from a "ship point of view", the ships are just a plus you can like or dislike, i don't mind and I don't force anyone to see them that way, It's not important for the analysis)

Eternal Sugar couldn't accept to see the cookies she helped getting hurt over and over again, so she made her infinite paradise and made sure cookies' only refuge to pain and suffering was her home. WELL. Hollyberry literally travels all over Crispia with her SHIELD, protecting people while being FREE. She could have helped protecting these cookies, she could have shown Eternal Sugar "freedom" doesn't mean "suffering".

Burning Spice got bored of his eternal life. He got bored of every beings around him inevitably dying, walking the same exact path every times but Golden Cheese was the only one who could entertain him in the present. Not only because of the fighting but because Golden Cheese learns in her own chapter to accept the change, she learned to let go of the past and move on, to make something NEW. Exactly what Burning Spice needed. He needed someone to show him there is more than that infinite cycle.

Pure Vanilla made it very clear Shadow Milk's problem was loneliness. A lonely knowledgeable soul, always looking for the truth, in the middle of weak minds always accepting the easiest answers. Pure Vanilla could have been there with him, searching for the truth with him and would have helped Shadow Milk bear the weight of all that knowladge.

And then the most simple one but also my personal favorite:

Dark Cacao is a warrior, a knight, he watches over a wall that protects his people and kingdom. He could have been there for Mystic Flour, he could have protected her with his blade. He could have prevented these greedy and selfish cookies to attack her cocoon. She would not have come to the conclusion that no matter how hard she tries, how many times she tries, there is no solution to these problems that made these cookies attack her.

We still don't know anything about Silent Salt and White Lily is already dealing with her own problems but if Silent Salt was the virtue of Solidarity we can kinda see that trait in Dark Enchantress Cookie, who's literally trying to stop the Witches, to save the cookies. It can be seen as an act of solidarity, even if the way she's doing that it's terrible and maybe that's what happened to Silent Salt. He wanted to help but found the worst way possible to achieve that.

Anyway, I'm writing this while my head hurts and I'm sleepy so maybe it doesn't make sense, but still. I've been thinking about this for DAYS and now that I finally finished every Beast Yeast chapters I can finally try to put my thoughts in a semi coherent essay lol

I just love how literal SOULMATES (Because of the soul jams, yk) these cookies are.

[livelaughlou]

in the now-post ep for 8x18

Here I am, back again! Couldn't just let that go, now could I?

bucktommy - rating: teen

spoilers for 8x18: Seismic Shifts

He sees his fifth place in a row and feels more dejected than ever, and he didn't think that was possible. When he pulls into Eddie's driveway to crash on his couch again, he very literally stops short when he sees a very familiar truck parked next to Eddie's rental.

"What?" he asks softly to himself as her gets out and makes his way into the house to hear faint laughter coming from the kitchen. He looks around at all the boxes surrounding his makeshift bed on the couch and sighs.

"In here, Buck!" Eddie calls so Buck follows his voice, sees Eddie, Chris and...he exhales slowly, Tommy standing around the island.

"Hi Evan," Tommy says with a soft smile.

"Hi," Buck says stupidly. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"That would be my fault," Eddie explains, holding up a hand. "After your fifth text lamenting the state of the LA housing market, I called him. Now, I know you haven't talked since before the...well, before. But I made an executive decision."

"He has a spare room," Chris pipes up.

"I do," Tommy says. "And you're welcome to it, of course."

"But-"

"I'm kicking you off my couch, Buck," Eddie says good-naturedly. "You're too good for it. And...well, I thought I owed you after the ass I've been."

"You've apologized," Buck says, still in a daze at Tommy standing in front of him, offering him a place to live with such a soft look on his face that Buck wants to kiss him about it. The ache of missing him is mixed with the ache of missing Bobby these days, but he's not been sure what to do about it after asking him to be a pallbearer then ghosting him.

"I know," Eddie answers. "But you guys gotta get your shit together, okay? You're both pining and you won't admit it."

"Because you're idiots," Chris offers as he scrolls on his phone.

"Christopher!" Eddie scolds lightly. "But also, yes, that. We'll leave you guys to talk. Chris, ice cream?"

"Yeah!"

Buck watches them leave and turns to Tommy, who's got his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, a move that Buck had learned means he's anxious and doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"Hi," he says again.

Tommy laughs a little. "How are you?"

Buck shrugs. "I'm. Well. I'm...you know, I don't know."

"That's fair," Tommy says. "I've been the same. I wanted to reach out, but I just didn't know if you wanted me to."

Buck sighs. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Tommy insists. "I understand. And...look, if you don't want to do this, I understand that too, but I do want to offer you a place. No hotels or crappy couches, I've got a perfectly good bed."

Buck remembers. He tilts his head, regards him carefully. "In your spare bedroom?"

Tommy rolls his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip as he considers his next words. "Yeah," he says finally. "Like we said. I have a spare bedroom."

Buck remembers that 'and for you' in vivid detail. "Because...because you want to do it for me."

"Evan, you call, I come running. Even by proxy in this case. You know that by now," Tommy says softly, coming closer, close enough that Buck can feel his body heat, remember how it felt when Tommy would get this close before sliding his arms around him without hesitation. Buck wants that. He's wanted a lot.

Maybe it's time to go for it.

So he closes the space between them, wraps his arms around Tommy's waist. Tommy doesn't hesitate and Buck breathes in relief as he's enveloped in a familiar embrace, like putting on his favorite sweater, or wrapped up by his favorite person.

"I miss you," Tommy says, pressing a kiss to the side of Buck's head. "I miss you so much."

Buck closes his eyes against a wave of tears. "Me too," he mumbles to the side of Tommy's neck. "What if I don't want to sleep in the spare bedroom?"

Tommy wraps his arms around him even tighter. "You can have whatever you want."

"You," Buck answers. This he knows. This is the only thing he's sure about right now. "I want you."

Tommy laughs, all sweet affection. "You got me."

"And if I'm still a mess? I have a tendency to break out in tears whenever I remember Bobby's gone," Buck admits.

"We can be messes together?" Tommy offers, leaning back far enough to cup his wet face in his hands.

Oh, Buck realizes. There are the tears. Figures. Tommy's wiping them away with his thumbs.

"I can't do this without you anymore," Tommy continues. "I'm sorry I ever thought I could."

"You're here now." Buck leans his forehead against Tommy's. "I'm good with that."

[orimuraa]

• My lips don’t lie - 西村 力 ↳ ┊: lips - ive

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆starting your new job wasn’t easy whatsoever, however, there was one person who made it so much worse…or better? ⨾

۶ৎ choreographer!ni-ki x fem makeup artist!reader┆fluff, angst, crack┆slight age gap? (2 years), enemies to lovers, ni-ki tries to be nonchalant about his feelings┆teasing, petnames, reader has a panic attack, kissing, crying┆wc 2.4k

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: thank you to the anon who requested! i hope it’s okay >//<

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

you got insanely lucky for your first real job. you had secured a spot on the styling team of a k-pop group at the age of 18. it paid pretty good and it wasn’t something you would ever get bored of.

traveling the world, doing makeup and hair, it was all you could ever ask for.

the only bad thing about this job was a singular co-worker. nishimura riki.

he was a dancer from japan and he had been hired a couple years before you to be the choreographer for the group.

for some reason, this man could not stand you. you had no idea what you did to deserve his snarly remarks or his relentless teasing, but it happened. maybe it was because you were new and an easy target for picking on. or maybe it was because he was just a jerk.

“i don’t know what i did,” you whine to your fellow makeup artist, jiyeon. you had come to befriend all of the makeup artist team and you had all gotten very close, many if them treating you like their baby.

“it’s so weird! he was never like this with anyone else?” jiyeon ponders, scrunching her eyebrows.

you continued cleaning your makeup brushes while just thinking to yourself, letting the conversation of your co-workers blend into the background.

“hey! you’re gonna ruin those brushes, aren’t you?” him. his obnoxiously deep voice that never failed to send shivers down your spine.

turning around, you’re met with a 6 foot giant, smirking down at you as he tell you how to do your job. ridiculous!

“no, i’m not,” you bite back, losing your patience with him. you let out a sigh, setting down the brushes and trying to control yourself.

“woahh, chill, i’m just trynna help,” he laughs, putting his hands up in surrender. to be quite honest, ni-ki had no idea why he treated you like this either.

the first day you walked in, clad in your little white dress over your patched jeans, your hair styled too perfectly, and a smile too pretty adorning your lips. he didn’t like the way it made his heart race. he didn’t like the way it made him smile.

so, for some reason, he resulted in pushing you out, not letting you get too close. he was scared of letting his guard down around people. he was scared because of the past.

even still, every time he steps a little too close to you, his breath will hitch slightly and his heart starts to beat a little too fast.

your eyes said it all. you were pissed and you were not putting up with his behavior right now.

“ni-ki, i am trying to do my job and it’d be very nice for you to just leave me alone right now,” you grit through your teeth.

“alright alright, i’m leaving princess,” he chuckles lowly.

“don’t call me that!” you snarl, your patience hanging on for dear life. but ni-ki just smirks once again before leaving the room.

“oh my gosh he totally likes you,” yusu, another co-worker, gasps.

“yusu!!! don’t encourage it! besides, he literally hates my guts! i haven’t done anything wrong to him and he treats me like this!” you whine, pouting at the pink haired girl.

she just laughs and pats your head, saying: “you’ll be fine!! he’ll most likely come around eventually!”

you roll your eyes at that. like that would ever happen.

~~

a big comeback was coming up for the group, meaning that lots of preparations needed to be made.

unfortunately, you didn’t expect this much stress as it was a full album instead of a mini album—which was what you were used to.

“y/n ssi! i’m going to put you in charge of all the eye makeup for filming today, okay? i want them to look similar and you’re the best at it!” the director smiles, making you feel both proud and anxious.

not even seconds later, another directer ran up to you: “oh! y/n ssi! can you please do the hair styles for the members? i know you’re pretty good at that and i think this concept is your strong suit,” she asked, rushing away before you could even agree.

great. now you had eye makeup and hairstyles for all the members. totally manageable.

there was quite a bit of chaos in the prep room. the members were quietly chatting with each other, some filming some behind the scenes, some practicing the dance, and some locking in to get ready for filming.

you kinda lost track of what was going on as you started to feel your head spin a bit, losing a bit of your balance.

“oh- y/n? are you alright? do you need to sit down?” one of the members asked you, concern written all over his face. these boys were always so sweet and they always cared for their staff, making you appreciate them even more.

but right now, it was hard to even focus as there was a searing pain that hit your head. suddenly, the room started to feel a bit too crowded, spots appearing in your vision and your breathing becoming a bit too labored.

“sit her down!”

“no! get her out! she needs air!”

there was a bunch of shouting around you and you weren’t sure who was talking anymore. that was until a voice caught your attention.

“y/n? hey? you here? look at me, yeah?” his voice. the deep concern his voice echoed as he tried to speak as softly as possible to you.

you looked at the boy, eyes staring straight into his. since when were nishimura riki’s eyes so pretty? and since when did he have that mole under his eye?

“hey! there you are, let’s get you outside okay?” he smiles softly. he laces his hands with yours and gently pulls you up, securing you as you stumbled a bit.

you didn’t notice the way the members were smiling at you, glad that their choreographer knew how to take care of you.

once you made it outside, you took a deep breath before collapsing into ni-ki’s embrace.

“thank you,” you mumble softly, enjoying his comfort. you never thought he would be this kind to you, and it kinda caught you off guard. but you had desperately needed a hug and he was inviting you to take it.

“it’s the least i could do,” he replies, his voice calming your nerves. he gave you a couple minuted of silence to collect yourself, assuming you probably had a panic attack.

“stress?” was all he asked, his eyes still staring at the cars passing by. you look at him, tilting you head slightly.

“yeah i guess so…just…overwhelming. i guess i’m not used to it just yet,” you try to laugh it off.

“hey? it’s okay to be overwhelmed, okay? this job is stressful and you’re handling it amazingly. you got this,” he reassured, looking you in the eye.

you were a but stunned by his words as this was the first time he had ever been so nice to you.

“thanks ni-ki…that meant a lot,” you smile back, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“anytime,” he replies, standing up and signaling to go back inside. “i’ll let them know you can’t do it all without some help. you shouldn’t be doing all this as the newest addition to the team.”

and maybe it made your heart flutter. and maybe it made you hate nishimura riki a little less.

~~

that’s what was so weird. he wasn’t mean anymore, he was nice. you didn’t even think that was in his vocabulary for goodness sake’s! he started bringing you coffee the next morning, knowing you were up at an ungodly hour just to start preparing the boys for mv shooting.

he stopped bugging you about not doing your job correctly and started admiring the way you worked instead. you weren’t sure if you liked it, or it freaked you out because maybe ni-ki was replaced by an alien.

“how come you’ve been so nice lately? i didn’t know you had it in you,” you laugh, nudging ni-ki’s shoulder one break.

“yah! i can be nice! i just…needed to warm up i guess,” he muttered, rubbing the bag of his neck and looking away so you didn’t see the blush that coated his cheeks.

“uh huh…sureee,” you snort, taking a bite of your lunch. “whatever, i like you better like this.”

“you..you like me?” ni-ki coughed, his eyebrows furrowed.

“y-yeah! you actually seem to be a pretty decent co-worker,” you cover up, not sure if you were ready to confess your full feelings.

you weren’t sure why that made your heart sink and ni-ki didn’t either.

“right. co-workers,” he nodded, though his tone didn’t match his eyes. you both sat there in an awkward silence before ni-ki cleared his throat, excusing himself and saying he had to run over the choreo with some of the members again.

you were so lost in thought, you didn’t hear yusu walk in and sit herself down next to you.

“soo…are you falling?” she asks, her tone skeptical.

“i don’t even know,” you sigh. “i think i like him but do you think he likes me?” you pout, everything feeling so complicated.

“ynnie, he’s so in love with you. he always has these little heart eyes when you walk in and he’s so sweet to you now! i think he’s just unsure about how to handle his feelings. he had a nasty breakup a couple years back and it was awful..his choreo was sloppy and he was horrible at teaching at that time. it was bad…” yusu recalls, touching a finger to her chin as she thought.

“well that just means he’s not ready, right?” you sigh for the millionth time.

“no! what it means is that you make him feel different and he’s scared that he’s gonna get broken again and doesn’t know how to approach his feelings!” yusu exclaims, not enjoying your obliviousness.

oh.

“so what am i supposed to do??” you whine, ready to go dig a hole and cry in it.

“you slowly get him to trust you—which i think he already does. but he needs to open up and let you in,” she smiles, packing up her stuff for the day.

so now you had to gain ni-ki’s trust. got it..

~~

things were bad..you were struggling with your bills and you were on the verge of losing it. not to mention, ni-ki had been super cold to you these past few days, making things even more unpleasant.

he would ignore you in the hallways and barely look at you when you were in the same room.

he was back to his teasing—except this time it came in forms of harsh criticism.

“y/n can you work faster? the boys need to be on stage in 5!” he scoffed, venom laced in his voice. you had no idea what you had done to make him cold again but you hated it.

maybe he found out that you liked him and now he hates you for it? or maybe he realized you’re just really unpleasant to be around and now hates you.

one day, you were at music bank super early to get the boys ready for their comeback special. your taxes were filing in and it was hard to keep track of it all. your mom had needed a bunch of money to stay in her assisted living care and it was really eating at your salary.

and today was the icing on the cake.

“y/n! they need the makeup done in 3! jesus, what are you even doing?!” he snapped, making many of the staff and members uncomfortable, including you.

you felt everything crash down and all of your problems come flooding out. tears pricked at your eyes but you wouldn’t cry. not in front of him.

“excuse me,” you managed to squeak out before running out of the room.

you found an empty green room and quickly shuffled into it. you sat on the couch, head in your hands and tears rolling down your nose, cheeks, and chin.

everything was going wrong and the world hated you. at some point, your muffled cries made their ways out of your hand and soon echoed in the room.

a shuffle at the door made you whip up to see who was there, instinctively wiping your eyes to attempt the tears to stop.

there, stood ni-ki in the door frame, a different look adorning his face. something mixed either concern and regret.

“what do you want?” you sniffle, wiping your nose.

ni-ki locks eyes with you before letting out a sigh and walking over to the sofa you were on.

“i’m sorry…i don’t know why i’ve been so cruel to you these past few days..i think i got scared because i felt something a little too real and i got scared..i didn’t want it to end up like last time,” he said, looking you straight in the eye. “i guess i thought that if i pushed you out, the feelings would stop.”

“ni-ki…i want you to know that i still like you even after all this..i would wait as ling as it takes for you to recover just so i could be with you. that past week made me realize that i really like you and you make me happy—like, really happy,” you mumble the last part, your cheeks flushing red.

“i had a horrible breakup a couple years ago and i guess it just made me scared to feel things..i just didn’t want to be hurt anymore,” ni-ki says. “but i want to try with you. i feel like i can be myself around you and i would do anything to make up for my awful behavior.”

suddenly, the room felt like it was just you two in the space and nothing else. ni-ki’s hand found your waist while the other one cupped your cheek gently.

“can i kiss you?” he whispered. you nod and that’s all he needs to lean in.

his lips fit perfectly against yours and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle.

the kiss is soft yet passionate, tender with his apology.

when you pull away, his eyes are twinkling and you suddenly feel the butterflies again. you lean your forehead against his and stay like that for a bit.

“let me be yours,” ni-ki says against your lips, his own brushing against yours as he spoke.

“i’d like that. very much so,” you giggle, closing the gap with another kiss.

yeah, maybe it was a cliché office enemies to lovers, but it gave you a happy ending, making it all okay.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa