#just to be safe! and thank you so much for the ask

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-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, pregnancy, strong language, birth, post-birth emotional disconnect.

Notes — Feeling sentimental. I really love you all so much. Thank you for your support and interest in this fic. It has meant the world to me. That said... TWO MORE CHAPTERS TO GO

2024 

This was not the plan.

Barefoot was not the plan. Leggings soaked through with amniotic fluid and pain spiking low in her back like white-hot wire as her mom helped her out of the car was not the plan.

Thirty-eight weeks wasn’t pre-term. Everyone kept reassuring her, saying that she was full-term. Normal. Fine. But it wasn’t the plan. Her spreadsheet had said forty weeks. Her due date was still two weeks away.

Her brain had been prepped for forty. And this — this was chaos.

The private maternity wing at Northamptonshire General was everything she’d asked for. Calm. Modern. Quiet.

But not now.

Now it was too bright. Too noisy. Too uncontrolled.

Amelia flinched as the double doors to the ward opened automatically, the high-pitched whirring mechanical sound cutting sharp through her head. She shrank in on herself as the fluorescent lights bounced off polished linoleum and made her vision haze.

Her hands fluttered in midair, then pinched hard at the inside of her elbows. Over and over. She knew it was going to leave bruises. She didn’t care.

“Contraction,” she gasped, one hand bracing the wall. “Stop. Wait—”

Tracey was there, one hand between Amelia’s shoulder blades, the other pressing the call bell. “You’re okay, baby,” her mum whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

Amelia shook her head rapidly, breath catching in her throat. The pain wrapped around her middle like a vice and pulled. The floor tilted. The lights burned through her skull. Her mouth opened but nothing came out except a panicked inhale.

“Amelia?”

The voice was low. Calm. Warm, but neutral. Controlled.

Fiona.

Familiar. Early 40s. Irish accent. Quiet shoes. Soft jumper. Smelled like vanilla and Dettol. Amelia had met her a handful of times now, for appointments. She liked Fiona. Fiona didn’t make her feel like she was wrong for needing things said twice, or for needing silence, or for asking for bullet points on birth options.

“Alright. Hi, honey. It’s good to see you. I’ve got you,” Fiona said, stepping in close without touching her. “You're safe. The lights are bright, I know. We’re going to move to a quiet room, and there’s some fairy lights strung up in there. Would that help?”

Amelia nodded so fast her braid whipped against her shoulder.

“Can I take your hand?” Fiona asked gently.

Another nod. Shaky this time.

Fiona’s hand was warm. Dry.

They turned the corner into a private room, and as soon as the door shut behind them, Fiona moved with crisp efficiency — lowering the lights, drawing the blinds, speaking to the nurse in a clipped whisper. The temperature adjusted. The tones softened.

Still, Amelia kept stimming — fingers now tapping the underside of her chin in fast, repeated bursts. The pain was stealing her words.

She needed Lando.

She needed Lando.

“I’m going to say everything out loud before I do it, okay?” Fiona said. “Your blood pressure, then we’ll get you on the monitor. You’re safe. Nothing’s being done without your say-so.”

“Where’s—” Amelia rasped.

“Lando?” Tracey translated from her side, rubbing her shoulder. “He’s coming, baby. Three hours. Your dad just text. They're already on the plane.”

Amelia shook her head again, furious tears springing to her eyes. “He should—he should’ve answered the phone. Why didn’t he—he should have answered my call.”

“I know,” Fiona said softly, and she meant it. “I know. But you’re doing this. And you are not alone. Do you want your headphones?”

Amelia blinked.

“I remember you had sensory overload in your birth plan. I’ve got noise-cancelling ones I can give you. Music, white noise, or just silence.”

“White noise,” Amelia croaked.

Fiona pulled them from the drawer. Slid them on gently. Adjusted them without touching her ears.

The static hum clicked on and it helped.

The room dulled. The air stopped buzzing so loud. Her limbs stopped flinching like she was being shocked.

“Better?” Fiona asked.

Amelia gave a thumbs up.

“Okay, love. We’ll time the next contraction together. You just let it happen. I’ll talk you through everything. Then I’m going to pop your legs up, and we’ll see how dilated you are, okay?”

Amelia nodded.

Squeezed her mom's hand with bone-breaking force.

And held tight to the image of Lando — messy curls, warm eyes, that breathless voice — walking through the door.

He would come.

She just had to hold out until he did.

—

Lando was pacing.

Still in his race suit, hair matted to his forehead, jaw locked so tight it ached.

The garage was quiet—the kind of quiet that only follows an early retirement. It wasn’t peace. It was tension. It was post-mortem silence.

It was stunned mechanics and snapped radio comms and the faint echo of tyres being wheeled away.

On the overhead screen, Oscar was being handed the P2 trophy on the podium.

Lando couldn't even look.

He was still reliving Turn 3.

The outside line. Max. The squeeze. The goddamn nudge.

The second he felt the contact, he knew it was done.

Puncture. Floor damage. Game over.

Both of them out. Two DNFs. No points. Just fury.

He’d thrown his gloves across the garage the moment he climbed out.

Now his hands were still shaking, chest still tight with adrenaline and rage.

“Fucking dickhead,” he muttered under his breath, pacing. “Every time. Every single fucking time—he can’t help himself.”

No one said anything. No one dared.

The media would already be writing the headlines.

‘Norris cracks under championship pressure.’

He didn’t care.

His phone had buzzed three times. He didn’t look at it.

He didn’t want to see who the hell was brave enough to be the first one to call him.

Didn’t want to deal with PR or statements or apologies.

He just wanted to scream. And maybe punch Max in the face.

He spun again—too fast. Nearly walked straight into Zak.

“Jesus, Lando—” Zak grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” Lando snapped, still breathless, still fuming. “Sorry. I just—Max—he fucking ruined it.”

Zak didn’t even flinch. “Forget Max. You need to listen to me. We have to go. Now.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What?” he said, blinking. “Go where?”

“Home. To England. Amelia just called.”

The words hit harder than the collision.

His face drained. All the heat of his anger snapped to cold panic.

“What—what's wrong?” His voice cracked.

“She’s in labour. Tracey’s with her. She tried to call you—she’s okay, far as I know—but it’s happening. Now.”

Lando staggered back a step, pulling out his phone with shaking hands.

Three missed calls. Two texts. One from Tracey. One from Amelia.

Amelia:

IN LABOUR!

Tracey:

She’s okay. We’re on our way to the hospital. Northamptonshire, as planned. Get here fast.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing the phone to his forehead. “I didn’t answer—she called, and I didn’t—fuck.”

The guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

Two weeks early.

Was it the crash?

The stress?

She was watching. She always watched. She was on the comms today too, wasn’t she?

Did watching him get taken out—watching the car spin, the team panic—did that trigger something?

Did he do this?

His throat felt raw. “Is she in pain? Is she scared?”

“I don’t know. All she did was tell me to come and get you,” Zak said quietly. “That’s all. But if we don’t move now—”

Lando didn’t wait.

He ran.

Helmet abandoned. Suit unzipped. Gloves forgotten.

Sprinting down the paddock like the lights had gone green again and everything was on the line.

He nearly collided with Oscar, fresh from the podium, champagne still drying on his suit.

“Lando?” Oscar said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Amelia’s in labour.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. “Wait—now?”

“Yes, now!” Lando barked, eyes wild. “And I missed her call. I missed it. I’m not there, and she needs me—fuck—”

Behind them: rapid footsteps. Heavy breathing.

“What the fuck is going on?” Max, fresh from media, damp curls plastered to his forehead. Still in his suit. Still furious—until he saw Lando’s face.

“Amelia’s in labour,” Oscar said, breathless.

Max went still. “Shit.”

“She’s on her way to the hospital,” Lando said, voice cracking. “And I’m not there. I didn’t answer—I was so fucking angry, and I didn’t check, and she—” He clenched his fists. “What if it was the race? What if we stressed her out so much that it happened early? What if I fucked this up too?”

“Hey—no,” Oscar said quickly, stepping forward. “No, mate.”

Max grabbed his arm. “Fuck the race. I don’t give a shit. We need to go.”

“You just crashed into me,” Lando snapped. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Max didn’t even blink. “Because she’s my family, mate.”

There was a beat of silence. Lando swallowed.

“My jet’s at the airfield,” Max added. “Fastest way to England. No bullshit. Let’s go.”

Zak jogged up behind them, car keys in hand. “You can bring the whole damn grid for all I care. But we leave now if you want to make it in time.”

Lando’s lungs hurt. His heart was racing.

Oscar beside him. Max right behind. Zak in front.

Don’t let me miss her, he thought, over and over. Please. Please don’t let me miss her.

—

The receptionist barely looked up before buzzing the doors open.

Lando didn’t wait. He shoved through them, sprinting.

His shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.

His heart was hammering. His brain was a mess of white noise and guilt and prayer.

He was too late. He was too late.

He should’ve answered the phone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve been there.

The midwife at the station looked up just as he rounded the corner.

“Norris?” She asked knowingly.

He nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes. I’m—yes. I’m Lando. My wife—Amelia—”

“She’s okay,” the midwife said quickly, already standing. “Room 307. I’ll take you.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving.

The lights were too bright. The walls too white. His skin itched with leftover adrenaline and travel-sweat. He still wore his fireproofs under his hoodie, and he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin.

You weren’t here.

He turned a corner.

She needed you.

He reached the door.

And stopped.

He could hear her.

Not words—just breath. Short, shallow, uneven. The sound of someone trying not to panic.

He opened the door.

Amelia was there. On the bed.

Half propped up on pillows, her hospital gown pulled tight over her belly. Her hands fisted in the thin blanket. Her face flushed with pain.

A yellow golf-ball in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she saw him.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You took so long,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Lando crossed the room in three steps, already shaking. “I know. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t check my phone—I was—I was pissed off with how my race ended and I didn’t think and I should’ve known—fuck—” He dropped to his knees beside her, pressed his forehead to her arm. “I thought I’d be too late,” he said into her skin.

Amelia reached out—tangled her fingers in his hair—and tugged, sharp. “Stop,” she said, voice hoarse. “None of that.”

His eyes were already red. His cheeks wet. He didn’t know when he’d started crying.

She looked exhausted. Pale under the flush. But she was here. And so was he. Finally.

“You didn't miss it,” she said. “She waited for you.”

“Of course she did,” he whispered. And then he kissed her. “And you. You’re the strongest fucking woman in the world. You know that?”

She exhaled a laugh. “I’m also five centimetres dilated and out of patience, so if you want to be helpful—please hand me that cup of ice.”

He did. With shaking hands.

“My mom braided my hair,” she added after a moment, voice softer now. “You missed that part.”

“I’m not going to miss anything else,” he promised.

He kissed her forehead. Her temple. Her knuckles. Gave her mom a small smile.

Tracey was sat in the corner, near the window, working on a knitting project. They looked like tiny booties from what he could see.

He’d hug her later. Thank her a million times just for being there — even though he knew she wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world rather than at Amelia’s beck and call.

“I ran through the paddock,” he murmured. “Max and Oscar came too. We took Max’s jet. Your dad nearly had a coronary at the airport.”

Her eyes softened. “They came?”

“Yeah.” He brushed her damp hair back. “They’re all downstairs. Waiting. Your dad wasn’t sure you’d want him here, didn’t want to overwhelm you. They’re freaking out. Because they love you.”

“I want them to come and say hi after,” she said. Her face twisted with discomfort. “But— I just it want it to be you and my mom, okay? Until she’s here.”

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” His fingers slid over hers. “I— I need to call my parents.”

“I already took care of that, honey. They’re on their way.” Tracey said.

Lando exhaled with relief.

Then he leaned in and kissed his wife and said, “You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.”

—

It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a cry.

And then hands, gentle, practised, passing something small and slippery and impossibly alive onto Amelia’s chest.

“Here she is, Amelia,” Fiona said softly. “You did it. She’s here. Healthy and pink.”

Amelia couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

Because everything in her brain was screaming: “this isn’t real.”

This wasn’t how she’d rehearsed it in her head. In her spreadsheets. In the checklist she’d kept taped to the fridge.

This wasn’t theoretical.

This wasn’t a due date or a biometric scan or the size of a cantaloupe at 38 weeks.

This was weight. Heat. Movement.

A baby. Her baby.

On her. In her arms.

Not inside anymore.

The disconnect hit her like a crash.

Amelia flinched; only slightly, but enough that Fiona paused, watching.

And so did Lando. And her mom.

Her breathing had gone shallow again. She was blinking fast, trying to recalibrate.

The baby; the baby, the baby — it wasn’t a concept.

It was a person. With skin and breath and a heart that was beating fast.

A heart that had come from her.

Amelia’s whole body trembled. Not from pain, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.

Ada.

Her name had been a theory. A hope.

Now it was a face. A body. Tiny hands.

But faces were hard. Faces moved. Eyes blinked. Skin flushed. Tiny limbs twitched.

And she was touching her. Skin to skin. The warmth was overwhelming.

Every sensory processor in Amelia’s brain screamed. She wanted to dissapear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to understand — and she didn’t.

“You’re okay, baby,” Lando whispered from beside her, voice cracked and reverent. “Just let yourself have a few minutes. Just… just look at her.”

Amelia’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, a few inches away from Ada’s damp, curled back. She couldn’t bring herself to touch.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, voice paper-thin. “I don’t—I don’t know her.”

Fiona gently nudged Ada higher. “She knows you. Smell, heartbeat, voice. She knows you, Amelia.”

But that made it worse.

Because Amelia was so full of love she couldn’t speak — but she was also full of fear, static, disorientation. Her brain was desperately trying to map a new universe with no manual.

Lando leaned in. Rested his forehead to hers. One hand on Ada’s back. One over Amelia’s hand, still hovering.

“You’re doing it,” he said softly. “You’re already doing it.”

Ada made a small sound — nothing loud, just a hum. A nuzzle. A twitch of her mouth.

And Amelia finally, finally, laid both hands over her daughter’s back. Just fingertips.

Ada shifted, rooting instinctively.

“She’s a hungry girl,” Fiona said, voice warm and gentle. “Would you like some help?”

Amelia nodded, but her eyes stayed locked on Ada — this tiny, impossible thing who had been an abstract dream for nine months and now weighed heavy and warm on her chest.

She guided her with Fiona's aid, shaking slightly; and Ada latched like she’d done it in a past life.

“Look at that,” Fiona whispered. “First try.”

Lando made a choked sound. “Daddy’s girl.”

Amelia didn’t even look at him. She reached blindly, grabbed the empty bedpan from the table beside the bed, and whipped it in his direction.

It bounced harmlessly off his leg. He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he murmured.

Amelia still didn’t look away from Ada.

Her fingers, once frozen, were now stroking her daughter’s back. Tentative. Learning.

“I don’t understand how she’s real,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Lando said, voice barely a breath. “You’ve got a lifetime to learn her.”

Amelia’s throat closed. A single tear slid down her cheek, hot and sharp.

Ada suckled rhythmically, peacefully. Her skin flushed. Her impossibly tiny hands curled into fists.

And Amelia fell in love. 

—

The room was quiet.

Tracey had slipped out to tell the world that Ada Rossella Norris had arrived safely. That Amelia was okay.

In the soft lamplight and afterbirth hush, everything stood still.

Lando sat half-on the bed, one arm wrapped around Amelia’s shoulders, the other curled around her waist.

Ada lay nestled between them, tiny cheek resting against her mother’s chest, her breath a faint whisper of warmth.

Amelia hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not since the first latch. Not since the bedpan throw.

She was staring down at Ada like she couldn’t possibly look away. Like if she blinked, this would all turn out to have been a dream.

Her fingers moved slowly—carefully. Memorising. Mapping. A tactile inventory.

“She has your nose,” Amelia murmured, her voice cracked and reverent. “But flatter. Less of the Norris ski slope.”

Lando huffed a laugh against her temple. “I don’t have a ski slope.”

“You do,” she said, brushing a finger over the curve of Ada’s. “But it’s endearing. Especially in winter photos.”

She stroked over Ada’s tiny forehead. “And my pouty lips. Poor thing.”

“Baby.”

“It’s okay. She’ll grow into them.” Amelia paused, then added, “Her ears are yours. Exactly. Same tilt. Same soft cartilage. She’s going to hate them in school and love them by the time she’s an adult.”

Lando’s grip on her tightened, just slightly. “She’s perfect.”

“I know.” Amelia’s voice cracked. “She’s so real.”

Ada squirmed softly, stretching a hand, and Amelia caught it — thumb gently placed against tiny fingers.

“She has fingernails,” she whispered, as though it shocked her. “Actual fingernails.”

Lando kissed her hair. “Yeah. She’s a whole person.”

Amelia was quiet again, but only for a second. And then, still not looking up, she began to speak.

“Ada,” she said, voice low and even, like she was introducing the baby to the room, to her own existence. “You were born on a Sunday. In a maternity ward in Northamptonshire. At 38 weeks and three days. You came early because you are, apparently, impatient. Or maybe just a bit dramatic. Your dad swears it had nothing to do with the fact that he and Max crashed and stressed your mummy out. I’m not convinced.”

Lando groaned softly, head tilted back against the wall. “Don’t blame her dramatic entrance on my DNF.”

“I’m just saying,” Amelia murmured, brushing Ada’s cheek, “the timing is suspicious.”

Ada twitched, shifting closer into her chest.

“Well, then, let’s see. You’re part British, part Belgium, part American, but I’m not sure you’ll be jumping to claim that last one. You have a Formula One driver for a daddy. And an engineer for a mummy.”

Lando chuckled. His hand came up to rest over hers, both of them cupping their daughter together.

“You’ll grow up in paddocks. You’ll learn to walk in motorhomes. Your first sunscreen will be whatever your mummy can find in the team stash. Everyone’s going to spoil you rotten. Oscar, well, that’s your Uncle Ducky — he’s already bought you this sweet little onesie with a hundred tiny little cartoon ducks on it. And Max, Verstappen, well, that’ll be your uncle too. I don’t have a brother, but he’s the nearest thing.” She whispered. “But you’ll have another Uncle Max too, and that might get a bit confusing for you, but we’ll be patient.”

Amelia leaned her head on Lando’s shoulder. Her voice dipped lower, like she was confiding a secret to Ada, or maybe to herself.

“You’ll be so loved,” she said. “So much. By people who’ve waited their whole lives to meet you. By a daddy who would cross the continent in race boots to get to you in time. By me, even when I’m tired and anxious and unsure of how to be your a mummy and a person at the same time.”

She sniffed hard, blinking fast again. “You’ve been born into a world that’s chaotic and messy and fast and loud—but it’s ours. And we’re going to make sure it’s yours, too.”

Ada breathed. Soft and slow. Eyes still closed. Tiny fist curled against her cheek.

Lando rested his chin on top of Amelia’s head.

—

Dim afternoon light pooled in soft gold across the linoleum floor, filtered through thick hospital curtains. Machines beeped softly in the background, steady and forgettable.

Amelia was sleeping.

Not deeply — her body too raw, her brain too wired — but enough to rest. Enough for her face to soften, for her lashes to flutter, for her breath to even out against the pillow.

Lando hadn’t taken his eyes off her for hours.

But now — just for a moment — he was pacing near the window, his arms full of something precious. 

Ada.

Swaddled and warm and impossibly small in his hoodie-covered forearms, her tiny head nestled into the crook of his elbow, mouth parted, breaths soft. She smelled like hospital linen and baby powder. Like nothing and everything.

Lando couldn’t stop looking at her.

He kept glancing back to Amelia, as if to make sure she was still there — still breathing, still safe, still his. And then back down to Ada again, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d made it out of someone so extraordinary.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d miss it.”

He swallowed. Looked down at the little bundle blinking slowly up at him — unfocused, unaware, content.

“I was so fucking angry. You wouldn’t believe it. Max and I — well, you’ll hear those stories when you’re older. But I was in the garage, ready to murder someone, and I missed three calls.”

He shifted Ada gently in his arms, pacing another slow length of the room.

“And then your grandpa Zak came in and told me your mum was in labour and I…” He laughed under his breath. It cracked in the middle. “I think my heart actually stopped.”

Ada scrunched her nose, then relaxed again.

“I thought you might be born without me there. And I would never have forgiven myself.”

His voice dropped to a hush, as though even the words themselves were too loud.

“And knowing that your mummy was in pain, and overwhelmed, and everything would be moving too fast and she needed me — and I wasn’t there.”

Lando exhaled, slow and ragged.

“But she waited. You waited. And now you’re here.”

Ada shifted slightly, a little sigh escaping her lips like the smallest secret in the world.

Lando smiled, tears pricking at his lashes again. He bounced her gently, rocking her as he gazed out the window, the hospital grounds bathed in quiet light.

“I don’t know if I’m going to get this right,” he admitted, voice barely audible now. “Being your dad. Being your mummy’s husband. Balancing all of it. But I swear to you, Ada—” He glanced down again, kissed the side of her velvet-soft head. “I swear I will love you so much that even on the days I get it wrong, you’ll never doubt that part.”

Behind him, Amelia stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Lando turned, adjusting Ada one-handed so he could settle into the armchair beside the bed, still cradling her close.

She was falling asleep again.

He watched her eyelids flutter.

“Everyone’s going to want to meet you soon. Oscar and Max and your grandpa Zak. My mum and dad are coming too, and they’re your other grandparents. Nanny Cisca and Grampy Adam. You’ve got a whole army of people who love you already.”

Ada didn’t respond, of course. But Lando smiled anyway.

—

There was a soft knock.

Amelia stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open.

Lando was beside her, Ada nestled in his arms, both of them silhouetted against the low amber light from the window. He turned toward the door at the knock, but didn’t speak.

Tracey peeked her head in first. “They’re climbing the walls out here. You ready for visitors?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away — just nodded, slow and small.

The door opened.

Her dad entered first, still in team gear, face flushed and drawn with tension that hadn’t quite released. Max followed close behind, jaw set, eyes scanning every inch of the room. Then Oscar, quietest of all, hovering in the doorway, his hands clenched around the hem of his t-shirt.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Zak exhaled sharply — a sound that came out almost like a sob — and crossed the room in four long strides.

“She’s here,” Lando said, voice thick with emotion.

He was smiling — tired, tearstained, messy-haired, beaming. His hoodie had been peeled back at the chest, skin-to-skin with Ada, whose sleepy face peeked just above the blanket.

Zak made it to them first. He didn’t ask permission — just leaned in, reverent, pressing one palm gently to Ada’s impossibly small back.

“Wow,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

His voice cracked.

“She’s healthy,” Lando said. “They both are.”

Max stood frozen for a beat, as if unsure if he was allowed to move — then his whole body softened, and he stepped forward, too. No jokes, no bravado.

He leaned down and kissed the top of Lando’s curls — and just like that, the tension of the day, of the collision and the angry team-radios, were forgotten.

Then, he looked at Ada.

“Dag meisje,” he murmured, voice low and Dutch-soft. Little girl. “What a beautiful girl you are.”

Amelia blinked over at them; Lando, crying silently, Zak with both hands now cradling the baby’s tiny back, Max brushing a finger over her little cap of dark hair.

But Oscar hadn’t moved.

He stood just inside the door, eyes locked on Amelia. Not the baby. Not Lando. Just her.

She gave him a nod.

And in an instant, Oscar crossed the room. No words — not yet — just a deep, shaking breath as he dropped to his knees beside her bed and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

He was warm and real and trembling just slightly.

“I thought—” he choked on the words. “I didn’t know if you—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

Oscar nodded into her shoulder.

“Sorry I made you worry.” She told him.

“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely, voice muffled. “Did you see my podium?”

Amelia let out a breathy laugh and nodded. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed.

Behind them, Max was now peppering Lando with questions — rapid-fire Dutch, mostly — about the birth, the midwife, whether Ada had opened her eyes yet.

Zak hadn’t stopped touching Ada, like if he let go, she might disappear.

Oscar still hadn’t looked at the baby.

“Can I see her?” He asked Amelia softly.

Amelia gave another nod. “Yeah, ducky. Of course you can.”

Oscar stood, eyes wide, cautious like she was made of glass; but when Lando held Ada out to him, he took her without hesitation.

She fit perfectly into his arms.

“Hi,” he breathed, eyes going impossibly soft. “Hello, baby Ada. You look just like your mummy.”

Amelia lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Her dad come and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Max kissed both of her cheeks and told her that she looked beautiful.

And then Ada was back in her arms, all scrunchy nosed and wet-eyed, and the world narrowed down to her.

—

The house was too quiet.

Which was absurd, given they were no longer alone.

But that was exactly the problem.

The silence left too much room for Amelia’s thoughts.

She stood in the nursery, arms crossed tightly over her chest. In a baggy tee and oversized cotton pyjama pants, hair still braided but frizzed at the edges.

She hadn’t let go of Ada in hours — not really.

Even now, with Ada asleep in the crib just a few feet away, Amelia felt like she hadn’t let her go.

Lando stood a few paces behind, leaning against the doorframe in his joggers and a white t-shirt, barefoot and watching her with soft eyes.

“We don’t have to leave her,” he said gently. “Not even for a second. There’s a basket in our room for a reason, baby.”

Amelia didn’t answer.

She rubbed one hand up and down her arm, fast, rhythmic. A stim. Comfort.

“She’s just so small,” she said eventually. “And she was inside me and now she’s not, and my brain hasn’t — hasn’t caught up to the idea that she’s real and separate and still… fine.”

Lando stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. Not because he thought she’d snap, but because she was stretched thin and too full and too raw, and he knew better than to rush her.

“I know,” he said. “It’s weird, right? How quiet she is? How not imaginary?”

Amelia exhaled sharply, a little laugh catching in her throat. “I keep expecting someone to come take her away. Like — like we’re just the transport team.”

Lando reached out, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. “They handed her to us, remember? In the hospital. And no one looked worried. Not a single nurse said ‘actually, we’ve changed our minds’.”

“I don’t feel qualified.”

“You grew her.”

“I did,” she whispered, blinking hard. “And now I’m supposed to… put her in a crib and go to bed like she’s not still part of me?”

“You don’t have to,” he said again. “We can pull the moses basket all the way next to your side of the bed. You can have your hand in there with her, baby, if that’s what you need to do. And we got those little toe clips, didn’t we? To make sure she’s still breathing. I’ll set up the white noise machine. I can hold her while you shower. Or while you lie down. Whatever feels okay.”

She stared at him.

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to stop looking at her.”

“We can take turns.”

“But you need to sleep.”

“I’ll nap tomorrow.”

“Lando.”

“Amelia.”

She cracked a smile then — barely, but real.

And he took her hand, warm and grounding. “Come lie down. Just lie down. I’ll keep one hand on her and one on you. I’ll be right there.”

Amelia hesitated.

Then nodded.

She let him guide her back to their bedroom. Lando had already rearranged everything — bassinet beside the bed, a lamp dimmed low, muslins folded with surgical precision. He lifted Ada gently from the crib and laid her into the basket with infinite care.

Then he slid into bed, propped up by pillows, and held out his arms.

Amelia didn’t need to be told twice.

She curled into his side, one hand reaching instinctively toward Ada’s sleeping form, her fingers resting just beside the basket.

No blankets. No teddies. No safety hazards.

Just a perfectly swaddled baby in a white onesie, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm Amelia was already memorising. A monitor was clipped gently to one of her toes — nothing intrusive, just a soft band — but if anything changed, even slightly, it would ping Lando’s phone in an instant.

“I’m going to check on her every ten minutes,” Amelia mumbled, eyes already heavy but refusing to close.

Lando kissed her hair. “That’s okay. I probably will too.”

She nodded once, almost automatically, and settled deeper against him — but her fingers didn’t move from the edge of the basket. Her mind was moving too fast to follow, darting down rabbit holes.

“Did you ever get nightmares as a child?” She asked suddenly, her voice a little hoarse.

Lando blinked. “Um. Yeah. A few. Why?”

“I read somewhere they can run in families. It’s neurological. Patterns of sleep. And I just… I want to be prepared.”

He didn’t say 'You don’t have to worry about that right now.'

He didn’t say 'Let it go.'

He knew better.

So he said, “Only when I was overtired. I’d sleepwalk too, sometimes. My mum said I used to go looking for my kart in the middle of the night.”

That made her smile a little — soft and crooked. “Of course you did.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What else do you want to know?”

“Did you have a favourite toy?”

“Plastic steering wheel. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. It had a red horn button. I’d sit on the living room rug and pretend I was racing.”

“Were you scared of the dark?”

Lando glanced down at her, at the way her brow was pinched just slightly.

The questions weren’t idle.

They were a defence. A rhythm.

A way to keep the storm in her head at bay.

“I hated the dark,” he said simply. “I used to leave the bathroom light on; on purpose. It used to drive my dad mad, but I didn’t want to admit that it was because the dark hallway scared me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hand still resting near the basket.

“I need to hold her,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t wobble, but her lip did. “Just for a minute. Just to make sure she’s… she’s okay.”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “She’s yours, baby,” he murmured. “Ours. We can hold her whenever we want.”

So he got up and placed Ada gently in her mother’s arms, careful not to wake her.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she pulled their daughter close, cupping the back of her tiny head, pressing her lips to soft baby hair and inhaling like she was trying to fuse them back together.

And Lando just watched.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, eyes still locked on Ada.

“I know.”

“But I love her so much I can’t even — there’s no room left in me for anything else, Lando.”

He brushed her curls back from her forehead. “I know. Baby, I know.”

She smiled at him wetly. “Thank you for giving me her.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle.

—

By day three, the house had softened.

They’d settled into a new kind of rhythm. One shaped around feeds and burps and naps so short they barely even counted. The clock meant nothing anymore. Light filtered in and out of the windows. Lando had stopped checking the date. Amelia had stopped pretending not to be terrified by every sound Ada made.

But the bleeding had slowed. The cramps had faded. The adult diapers were gone — finally, thank God — and Amelia was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants as she sat cross-legged on the couch with Ada against her chest.

The baby nursed noisily, fingers flexing near her mother’s collarbone, head resting in the crook of Amelia’s arm.

In her free hand, Amelia held her iPad — an older engineering article open, written by Adrian, full of dense paragraphs and complex diagrams about brake duct airflow and thermal optimisation. She read it aloud like a lullaby, her voice soft but steady.

“‘By increasing the front duct’s diameter by 2.3 millimetres, the delta in peak rotor temp dropped below critical thresholds in high-deg circuits, including Catalunya and Marina Bay…’ You hear that, Ada? Heat efficiency. That’s how we stay fast and safe.”

Ada made a small noise — halfway between a sigh and a snuffle — and latched more firmly.

Lando passed through the room with a laundry basket in his arms. His curls were still wet from a rushed shower, and he wore mismatched socks. But he smiled when he saw them.

“She asleep yet?” He asked, pausing.

“Almost.” Amelia didn’t look up from her screen. “We’re learning about regenerative braking.”

“Alright, baby,” Lando said, and disappeared toward the washing machine.

The doorbell rang just as Amelia was settling Ada into the bassinet. Ada didn’t flinch, but Amelia suddenly startled and stared at her little sleeping form with a frown.

Was she too cold? Was her neck at the wrong angle? Had she been burped properly—

“It’s okay,” Lando said, his voice low. “She’s fine. I’ll get the door. You stay and watch her.”

She nodded, stepping back, watching the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And then: voices. Familiar ones.

Max (Fewtrell) and Pietra. Their laughter was gentle, not loud — filtered with care.

“Hey,” Max said, stepping into the living room with a Tupperware box already in hand. “We’ve both antibacced our hands. We come in peace.”

Pietra went straight to Amelia, arms already open. She didn’t say anything, just wrapped her up in a firm hug — grounding, real, warm — and kissed the side of her head.

“You have done so well,” she whispered.

Amelia didn’t cry, but her throat caught. “Thanks. She’s… she’s perfect. I’m just tired.”

“We know.”

Meanwhile, Max clapped Lando on the shoulder, hard. “Mate. You look like you’ve seen things.”

“I’ve seen things,” Lando muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Go sit down. We’ve got this.”

They didn’t ask to hold Ada. Didn’t hover or coo or crowd. Pietra pulled on rubber gloves and started wiping down the kitchen counters like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max took out the bins. Then he came back in and started unloading the dishwasher without asking where anything went.

Amelia watched all of it from the couch, stunned by how quickly the air changed — less pressure, more breathing room.

“You don’t need to do all that,” she murmured.

“We want to,” Pietra said, straightening up with a dish towel in her hand. “This is the bit no one helps with, and it’s the bit that matters.”

Lando appeared beside Amelia, dropping onto the couch, sliding a hand over her knee. She leaned into him automatically.

“Tell them thank you,” she whispered, eyes half-shut.

He did. She already knew he would.

And for the first time since Ada’s birth, Amelia let herself fully exhale. Not just a breath. A letting-go. Just a moment.

The baby was sleeping.

The house was quiet.

And they were not alone.

—

They took Ada out for her first proper walk on a Tuesday.

The sky was low and soft, pale blue smudged with thin clouds. Not warm, not cold. Just… fresh. There was the smell of cut grass in the air and the quiet hum of summer insects returning to their business.

The pram rolled smoothly along the country trail, thick tyres handling the uneven gravel without so much as a jolt. Lando had triple-checked the suspension before they left the house.

Now he hovered two steps behind Amelia, a muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, spare dummy in his hoodie pocket, checking the pram’s hood every three seconds like the sun might have suddenly grown sharper.

“Do you think it’s too bright?” He asked, squinting up. “Should we have brought the other hat?”

Amelia didn’t break stride. “She’s fine.”

“What if she gets cold?”

“She’s in a fleece-lined sleep suit and the foot muff, Lando. She’s not cold.”

He hesitated. “I just—she’s so little. Doesn’t feel right to have her out here.”

Amelia’s expression softened, but only a little. She didn’t stop walking. “Fresh air is important for newborns. It regulates their circadian rhythm. Improves lung function. Strengthens immune development.”

Lando jogged a step to fall in beside her, peeking into the pram. “I know. I just feel like she should still be wrapped in bubble wrap. Or, I don’t know… a titanium exosuit.”

Amelia side-eyed him. “She’s a human baby.”

“Yeah. But she’s our human baby.”

Amelia finally looked over at him, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes still scanning the trail ahead. “Lando. She’s okay. I promise.”

He huffed, shifting closer to peer into the pram again. “I know. I—I do know. But she’s just… so small.”

“She’s also fast asleep.” Amelia nodded toward the pram. Sure enough, Ada’s tiny features were slack with the soft stillness of newborn sleep, one fist curled near her chin and her lips parted slightly, breath feathering.

Lando smiled, almost reluctantly. “She really is perfect.”

Amelia slowed a little, letting the rhythm of her footsteps match the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Her hand brushed against his, and when he didn’t pull away, she laced their fingers together.

“She’ll be okay,” she said, softer now. “I’m going to be good at this part. The structure. The systems. The planning. Schedules. Routines.”

“You’ve been good at all of it,” Lando said without hesitation.

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not all of it.”

“Name one thing you’ve been bad at so far,” he challenged, raising a brow.

“Holding her while she cries,” she replied instantly, too fast and too honest. “I never know how to help. I just freeze.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t count. You can just wear your ear defenders.”

“I think they scare her,” she admitted, glancing away. “She cries harder when I put them on.”

Lando nudged her shoulder gently. “Nah. She’ll get used to them. Babies cry. That’s literally their job.”

She gave a quiet laugh, tugged closer by his steadiness. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They walked in silence for a minute, the trees rustling softly around them, the path dappled in filtered light.

“You want me to push her for a bit?” He asked.

She nodded and handed over the pram with a small sigh of relief, flexing her fingers. “My arms were starting to ache, and I don’t even know why. I wasn’t carrying her.”

“It’s the new mum muscle fatigue,” he said knowingly. “Totally scientific.”

She snorted, then went quiet for a beat. “I’m so glad I’m not, like, constantly peeing myself anymore. That was weird.”

Lando nodded. “Honestly, I think you handled it really well.”

She gave him a side-glance, almost shy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached out and squeezed her hand again. “I was expecting way more tears. And not from Ada.”

“There were tears. I just cried in the shower.”

He smiled, but it was soft and genuine. “I know.”

Amelia exhaled, some of the tension rolling off her shoulders. The walk, the fresh air, the steady feel of his hand wrapped around hers — it all helped. Ada stirred once in her sleep, a tiny sound escaping her lips, and they both stopped walking for a second, listening.

Still asleep.

They exchanged a glance — equal parts relief and awe — and kept walking.

—

Later that evening, their house glowed with the golden warmth of soft lighting, the scent of something mildly burnt wafting from the oven (Lando insisted it was “crispy” on purpose). The table was already set — half by Lando, half by Cisca, who had taken it upon herself to silently reorganise the cutlery the moment she walked in.

Dinner was simple. Pasta. Store-bought garlic bread. A pre-made chocolate tart that Adam had brought with a proud grin and a whispered, “Don’t let Lando see the packaging — he’ll think his mother spent hours making this.”

Ada had just gone down in her bassinet upstairs.

Amelia hovered in the hallway, half listening, half pacing, fingers twitching at her sleeves. She’d made it through dinner prep, through greeting Lando’s parents and making small talk, but her ears were tuned in a thousand different directions — to the baby monitor, to the creak of the upstairs floorboards, to the faintest imagined cry in the silence.

“She’s okay,” Lando said gently, coming to stand beside her. “She’s asleep.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Amelia said, clutching her elbows. “Or she was and now she’s not. Or she will be and then she won’t be, and then they’ll all want to hold her and I’ll have to say no because she’s finally down and they’ll think I’m rude—”

“Okay,” Lando said, calm and sure and already moving past her.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her.”

“Lando—”

But he was already climbing the stairs. Moments later, he reappeared with Ada bundled in her swaddle inside her moses basket, blinking in that newborn stunned way, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He paused only to press a kiss to the top of Amelia’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.

Amelia followed him, heart caught somewhere between panic and confusion — until she saw what he’d done.

He’d cleared the centrepiece from the kitchen table. Moved the salt and pepper. And right in the middle, like the guest of honour, was Ada. Swaddled and content, her moses basket taking pride of place between the lasagna and the chocolate tart.

Everyone paused.

Then started to laugh.

“Lando,” Cisca laughed. “You did not just put the baby on the table.”

“We can keep an eye on her,” he shrugged, completely deadpan.

Even Amelia, still frazzled, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. Her shoulders dropped. Her heart settled.

“Okay,” she said softly, moving closer and brushing her fingers across Ada’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But she’s calm. And you’re calm too. So I win.”

The rest of dinner was easy. Light. Ada stayed asleep, safe in the middle of it all. Lando’s parents only peeked at her — no passing her around, no unsolicited advice. Just gentle smiles and hands folded in laps and the occasional, “She’s so beautiful.”

Amelia stared at her daughter as she ate her lasagna.

And there would be photos passed around in fifteen years time. Of a baby in the middle of the dinner table, in different outfits during different times of the year. Easter and Christmas and Birthdays. Newborn and then not.

Ada Rossella Norris, fifteen years old, will blush and squeak and say, “Mum, that’s so weird! Why was I on the table?”

And Amelia will swipe her hand across her daughter’s freckled cheek and say, “Where else would you be?”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the couch, one of her old engineering textbooks open in her lap. It was more comfort object than useful now — dense equations and fluid mechanics — but it gave her something to hold, something to do.

From down the hall, the sound of water running filled the quiet.

She turned a page absently. Then another.

Then paused, head tilting slightly.

Lando’s voice drifted out from the bathroom. Soft. Muffled. A kind of singsong narration.

“There’s your little foot… and here’s your other one… look at those perfect toes, Ada-bug…”

Just her husband. Bathing their daughter.

Amelia closed the book, the spine pressing into her palm.

She didn’t need to go check. Didn’t need to see with her own eyes to know he was being gentle, and cautious, and silly, and Lando.

And the realisation landed with no fanfare, no dramatic swell of emotion — just a quiet, settled truth.

She trusted him.

Completely.

With the most precious thing in the entire world.

She tucked the book beside her and got up slowly, padding barefoot to the doorway of the bathroom, where Lando knelt beside the little tub, sleeves rolled up, Ada’s soft, soapy body cradled between his careful hands.

He looked up and grinned when he saw her.

“Hey,” he whispered. “She loves the water.”

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her eyes soft.

“I like it too,” she said. “And I like you. Like this.”

He flushed a little, smiled wider. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

Ada squealed and splashed her fists in the water.

Amelia smiled at her little girl.

—

The paddock was quieter than it would be on race day — a lull before the storm.

Just the low hum of cameras, the occasional mechanical clatter of a forklift, and the shuffle of early-arriving team personnel cutting through the cool morning air. But even that — the muted version of Silverstone — pressed in around Amelia like static behind her eyes.

Too many overlapping sounds.

Too much motion at the edges of her vision, flickering like faulty headlights.

Ada shifted against her chest with a soft grunt, the wrap keeping her snug and swaddled, the rhythm of Amelia’s heartbeat her steady metronome. One of Amelia’s hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s back, her thumb tracing a repetitive pattern she didn’t consciously register. A grounding mechanism. Something to keep her tethered.

Her dad met them at the back entrance of the McLaren motorhome, face gentle, voice pitched low like he was afraid to set something off.

“Hello, my beautiful baby girls,” he said, already holding the door open. “We’ve cleared the top floor. Everyone knows to stay out. You’ve got total privacy.”

Amelia gave a small nod. Didn’t speak.

Her whole focus was on getting inside — away from the press of noise, the open sky, the potential germs and the unknowns.

Lando was already there.

The moment she stepped through the doorway, he turned as if pulled by a thread. His whole expression shifted — softened in an instant — as his eyes landed on them. His daughter, safe and warm. His wife, upright and moving, even if she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world and then some.

“You made it,” he breathed.

“I said I would,” Amelia murmured. “I made a plan.”

And the plan was always the comfort.

He didn’t crowd her, just hovered at her side as she allowed herself to be guided up the narrow staircase to the engineer’s meeting room. It had been transformed — not sterile, not chaotic. Just… still.

The blinds were drawn. The harsh fluorescents replaced with soft lamp lighting. A white noise machine hummed gently in the corner, masking the distant clatter of wheel guns and rolling crates. Someone had set up a chair by the window, a footstool just beneath it, a bottle of water and sanitiser waiting on a little table nearby. She didn’t know who had prepared it. Probably more than one person. That thought, strangely, comforted her.

Amelia sank into the chair and exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.

Lando crouched beside her, fingers light on the edge of the wrap. He didn’t try to take Ada. Just looked at her like he was memorising the details — her milk-drunk mouth, the dusky pink of her cheeks, the faintest tuft of dark hair under her little hat.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “Welcome to Silverstone. A week old and you’re already in the paddock. You know how crazy that is?”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her shoulders loosened slightly.

“We’re only staying for an hour. Maybe less. I just want to go over the strategy notes with Tom. I’ve already emailed them, but—”

“You want to go over them in person,” Lando finished. “That’s fine. That’s perfect.”

She adjusted the wrap slightly, fingers brushing Ada’s tiny back. “It’s too soon for her to actually be here for the full weekend. Her immune system, her ears…”

“I know,” Lando said gently. “She’ll be ready soon.” Then, quieter, “Maybe in a kart.”

Amelia’s eyes snapped to his. “Only if she wants to. Only if it’s her idea.”

He lifted a hand. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door.

Oscar stood just beyond it, holding two coffees and that neutral expression he wore when he didn’t want to spook anyone.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Amelia. “I can come back later?”

Amelia glanced at him, then at the room, then back to Ada — still sleeping, undisturbed. She gave a small nod.

Oscar stepped in with careful movements, like he knew what it cost her to allow anyone near the baby (because he did). He crouched beside the chair, not quite close enough to breach her space.

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

“Amazing, innit,” Lando murmured, standing up to take one of the coffees from him.

Oscar didn’t take his eyes off Ada. “You’re a machine,” he told Amelia. “For coming here. Thank you.”

“She slept the whole car ride,” Amelia said. “I packed enough supplies for three days rather than three hours.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You think that’ll be enough?”

“It's fine. My dad’s probably stashed nappies all over this motorhome,” she said dryly. “You can call Zak Brown a lot of things, but you can’t call him unprepared.”

That made both men laugh, the sound low and soft enough not to wake the baby.

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long Amelia stayed.

Long enough for her to sit in on the strategy meeting, long enough to pass off her annotated packet of data to Tom with a few muttered clarifications. Long enough for her to reassure herself that her world hadn’t spun too far off its axis.

She knew it had been twenty-seven minutes because she set a timer on her phone. Not a second longer.

And when they left — quietly, quickly, Lando carrying her bag, Oscar offering to hold the door open — she didn’t look back.

She had a baby girl to focus on.

And Lando would follow her home when he was done.

—

The front door clicked softly shut.

Ada stirred in her basket. Amelia looked up from her book — well, from the same paragraph she’d read six times — just as Lando stepped into the living room, damp curls flattened beneath his McLaren cap and a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Oscar hovered with two takeaway bags and a sheepish shrug. “He called me stupid for planning on going to the team hotel,” he said. “I didn’t fight that hard.”

Lando dropped a kiss to her temple as he passed. “She’s been awake?”

“Two feeds,” Amelia said, adjusting the blanket draped over her lap. “Four nappy changes. She’s settled now.”

Oscar was already crouching beside the basket, peering in at Ada like he hadn’t seen her just a few hours ago. “She’s still so small.”

“She’s seven days old,” Amelia pointed out. “She’s supposed to be small.”

“I know. But like… look at her.” He grinned, voice hushed. “She’s smaller than my forearm.”

Amelia blinked.

Lando had taken the food into the kitchen. She could hear the fridge opening, the rustle of takeaway containers. Oscar was now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Ada, humming softly under his breath.

The room felt full. But not crowded.

She marked her place in the book — something about fluid dynamics and downforce — and looked around.

Lando came back in with three bowls of food and no cutlery, because he always forgot the cutlery. He kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the sofa beside her, and pulled her close with a casualness that would’ve stunned her thirteen-year-old self.

Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.

She thought about being thirteen. About hiding in the corner of the school library, rereading the same paperbacks while her classmates whispered and passed notes about their crushes.

She’d never understood the obsession. Never wanted the chaos of it.

She’d convinced herself she wasn’t built for any of it — romance, affection, softness. She figured she’d grow up and live alone in a quiet flat with neat shelves and a routine no one could break.

And now she was here. Baby in a basket. Working in the sport she adored. Married. Her best friend sitting on her living room floor, humming to her daughter as she slept.

It made her chest ache, a little. With disbelief. With gratitude.

“Hey,” Lando said softly, glancing down. “You okay, baby?”

She nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable and full at once. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Lando’s brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want it. I thought I wasn’t… wired that way.” Her voice was even. Gentle. “I have never been so relieved to have been wrong about something.”

He kissed her again, this time on the side of her head. “Love you.”

Oscar, still on the floor, looked up with a half-smile. “Is this a bad time to ask if you’re willing to half your naan bread with me?”

Amelia laughed. Then she tore it in half and gave it to him.

Lando passed her a fork.

She hadn’t even noticed him go get it. But of course he had.

And as Ada shifted softly in her basket, a tiny sigh in the quiet, Amelia thought, ‘This. This is what home is.’

And she hadn’t even known to hope for it.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Xavier's non-mc significant other.

Imagine the way you used to find his indifference charming. Xavier, your lover has always been like that. He was never the type to said much. His affection was quiet. When it comes to him, it the little things that made you fall for him. His love wasn't loud like the others, it wasn't overwhelming. He was reserved. The type of love that made you realize it doesn't always come dressed in grand gestures.

Imagine the way he never called you his. He never needed to, it was just the way he just shows up. Leaning against your door frame with tired eyes and then as you notice him. Would give you a small smile before joining you into bed, kissing the crown of your head before wishing you goodnight. He made you feel like it was just the two of you who understood the silence between the words.

Imagine the way his silence changed. It feels heavier. More distracted. It did not happened in a blink of an eyes. You did not even noticed it at first. But then be became quieter, not colder, just elsewhere. And then there's her. The co-worker and partner he mentioned in passing. MC.

Imagine life still goes on as it was. But then you started to notice the little things. The way his eyes light up when he mentions her name, MC, his co-worker and partner. The way his stories slowly begin to revolve around we instead of I. The inside jokes he doesn’t share. The casual texts he tries to hide but doesn’t delete. He talks about her so casually like she was part of his day. And then he stops because he didn’t need to explain her anymore.

Imagine the way he still looks at you the same, like nothing had changed. He still picks you up during his free time. He still replies during busy times where he can't come home. He still comes home to you and joins you in his bed. But his silences aren't shared anymore. They're distant, guarded. And so you started to understand something brutal. He's not yours. Probably never was. You were just someone who made the quiet feel safe, until someone else made it feel like home.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: this is probably the shortest and simplest of all the non-mc entry.

: i would also like to express my thank you for those who expressed their support on that anon ask. I'll try my best not to let it get to me. Thank you so much.

[cuzxai]

I’m obsessed with your work 😩

Is it possible for me to request the filthiest sluttiest smut with Spencer talking you through it? Maybe you’re shy about asking him to try new things in bed?

It can be any scenario, just a lot of dirty talk, you know Spencer is a yapper anyway ❤️‍🔥

Thank youuuuu!

full of you - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: lately i havent been good with the filthy stuff, please i tried— i really tried. soft girl at heart. small warning but if anyone has an issue with sleep sex, just scroll💔

Spencer doesn’t really sleep after cases, you’ve learned that by now.

Even when he’s stretched out beside you. He’s quiet and still, you can tell he’s not truly gone. His breath doesn’t settle the same way, his fingers twitch every so often— reaching for something that isn’t there. Tonight’s no different. You’re curled against him in his bed, the blankets tangled from the way you pulled at them earlier. Sex-dazed and too warm from his hands on your skin. And even now, way later— you feel the heat of it clinging to you. His hand rests on the back of your thigh. Not moving but there in its comfortable presence. The case ended earlier that afternoon. It hadn’t been the worst kind but there was a kid involved. That always gets him in a specific way. He hadn’t said much at dinner nor did he needed to. You’d just slipped your fingers between his under the table and let your knee press into his, steady as you could.

You reach down now and brush your fingertips across his wrist. His pulse is steady, Soothing. “You’re still awake,” you murmur.

He hums, just a soft sound against your shoulder. “So are you.”

“Barely,” you admit. “I think your mattress is trying to swallow me.”

He shifts a little to face you, voice quieter. “I can stop buying books and start saving for a new one.”

You laugh into the crook of your arm. “You won’t.”

“No,” he agrees. “I won’t.”

You smile in the dark, letting the quiet settle again. There’s something special about this part of the night. After everything’s been said. After all the armor has dropped. You’re bare in more than the physical sense— no barriers, no pretending. Just the two of you in the hush of late hours, breath mingling, limbs twined. And despite everything, there’s something sitting on your tongue. You’ve been thinking about it for days now. Maybe longer. It started with a dream— hot, desperate, confusing and it lodged itself in your mind like a splinter. You haven’t been able to shake it. You’ve imagined saying it to him. A dozen different ways. A dozen different times. But with your skin still tingling faintly from the way he touched you earlier, you feel bolder. The words hover on the edge of your lips like they might slip out without you meaning to.

Spencer’s fingers trace soft circles against your thigh. “You’re thinking hard.”

You let out a low breath. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.” He pauses. “You don’t have to say anything but I’m listening if you want to.”

You swallow. It’s not a matter of wanting to. It’s the fear of what he’ll think once he hears it. Still you press your cheek to his chest and whisper, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

His hand stills, giving you his full attention. “Okay.”

“It’s a little…” You groan, half-laughing into his skin. “I don’t even know how to say it.” Spencer doesn’t push. Just waits all patient and steady. He always gives you space to get there on your own. “It’s not bad,” you say quickly. “It’s not— I mean, it’s not something I’d need or expect or anything and you can say no.”

His fingers start moving again—reassuring, not prodding. “You’re safe. I’d never judge you.”

You nod against him. “Okay. Just… okay.” Another breath. Then so soft you’re not sure you mean to say it, “I had this dream. About you— us.”

You feel his smile against your hair. “Was I wearing the scarf again?”

You snort. “No, not that one.” You take a breath. “You were inside me. I was asleep at first but you were there. Like—I guess the idea is… you woke me up by being in me.”

There’s a pause. A soft silence, not an awkward one. “And you liked it?” he asks gently.

You nod. “I think so. I keep thinking about it but I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because… I don’t know. It feels like the kind of thing I’m supposed to be embarrassed about.” You hesitate. “Isn’t that kind of weird?”

Spencer lifts his head enough to kiss your forehead, then rests his chin against your temple. “No,” he says firmly. “Not weird. Intimate, maybe but not weird.”

“You really don’t think so?”

“I think you’re the person I love most in the world,” he says, voice warm. “And if you trust me enough to say that out loud, the least I can do is treat it with the respect it deserves.” Your throat tightens at his words. “Besides,” he adds, a little quieter, “you might be surprised how much I like the idea.”

You blink. “Wait. Really?”

He laughs softly. “I mean… yeah. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about before but waking up with you like that? Being that close? That connected? That sounds… kind of incredible.”

You shift to look at him, uncertain but hopeful. “You don’t think it’d be too much?”

Spencer brushes his fingers along your cheekbone. “You’d still be able to say no. You’d still be you. I wouldn’t do anything unless you were okay with it. I promise.”

“I know.” You take his hand and press it to your chest. “That’s why I thought maybe I could tell you.”

His eyes soften. “What made you think of it?”

“I think I just wanted to feel like you wanted me that much. Even when I wasn’t all done up or trying or… anything. Just… me. Sleepy. Barely awake. And you’d still want me.”

Spencer kisses you— slow, grounding. “I always want you.”

You yawn then smile, curling against him again. “I don’t expect it,” you say, half-asleep. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I’m glad you told me,” he whispers. “We don’t have to do anything. Not unless you’re sure.”

You nod against his chest. “I know. But… maybe one day.”

He kisses your hair again, one hand cradling your hip. His voice is quiet, almost like a secret. “One day,” he says. “Only if you want to.”

He doesn’t rush. He could’ve. There were moments he almost did. Moments in the quiet of the past week where you’d fallen asleep with your leg tangled over his or stepped out of the shower with your skin still damp and sweet, wrapped in one of his towels, looking up at him like you forgot what you’d said. He remembered every word. Every breath. The way your voice went quiet when you told him you might like waking up to him already inside you. Like it was a fantasy you weren’t sure you were allowed to say out loud.

He hasn’t touched himself in days. He wanted this to be more than a reaction. Not a hungry impulse. Not something quick and shameful. He wanted it to be real. So when you fall asleep early on Friday night, curled under his sheets in one of his soft old shirts, he doesn’t act on it right away. You’re worn out. That much is obvious. You didn’t even finish your dinner, just sighed and curled into his chest, mumbling something about being overstimulated by the week. You barely kissed him goodnight. No performance. No prelude. You’re just tired. Spencer brushes your damp hair back from your forehead. Kisses the space between your brows. Watches your eyes flutter beneath closed lids. He doesn’t move for a long time. He lays there beside you, motionless, listening to the rhythm of your breath. The silence between each inhale. The way your body curls into his without prompting. You smell like citrus and honey and something raw, something soft. Like skin after sleep. He’s hard. He has been since the moment you sighed his name and tucked yourself under his chin. But that’s not the point. Not tonight. He waits.

And when the city outside your window is finally quiet, when your breathing deepens and your body shifts even closer in sleep, that’s when he moves. Slowly. Gently. His palm coasts over your side, down the line of your hip, thumb brushing against your bare thigh. The shirt has ridden up around your waist. There’s nothing underneath. He exhales. His whole body trembles with it. Spencer shifts behind you—carefully, reverently— and pushes the covers down to his waist. He presses one hand flat to the mattress, steadying himself, the other resting lightly on your hip. Just to hold. He grinds against the curve of your ass once— slow, cautious. Testing. Your breath stutters. But you don’t wake. So he lines himself up. He doesn’t use his hand to guide. Doesn’t need to. You’re already soft, already open. He pushes forward with the gentlest roll of his hips and you give under him like you were made for this— like your body never forgot what it said yes to. The stretch is slow, careful. So damn slow it feels like prayer. Spencer’s mouth falls open. His forehead presses into the back of your shoulder, and he almost gasps out loud. He’s inside you fully.

You don’t stir, not all the way. Just a twitch in your fingers, a faint shift of your spine as he bottoms out and stills. He bites back a groan. This is what you asked for. He doesn’t move or— he can’t. You’re so warm around him, so wet, so snug it borders on unbearable. He feels like if he even breathes wrong, it’ll be over too soon. He’s waited a week. He can wait a little longer. So he just stays. Buried inside you. Letting the warmth of your body surround him. He kisses the back of your neck, then your shoulder. One arm wraps around your middle. The other presses beneath the pillow where your hand is curled. Spencer closes his eyes and waits.

You don’t dream but you know you’re not fully asleep anymore. Something is different. Your breath catches in your chest before your mind can form the why of it. Your thighs are already warm, your skin flushed. You feel held and heavy and anchored. You twitch in your sleep and a wave of sensation floods you. Too deep. Too much. You freeze. And then you feel it—him—pressing inside you, slow and solid and real. Your eyes blink open, dazed. But it’s not a bad feeling. It’s thick and full. Like you’re already mid-dream, like your body got there before your brain. You shift slightly and he groans.

“You’re awake,” he whispers. His voice is rough and frayed. So unlike how he normally sounds that it sends a flush down your neck. You don’t speak yet. You’re trying to process what’s real. His breath fans against your skin. You can feel his chest shaking where it’s pressed to your back. “I couldn’t wait anymore,” he says, like an apology. “You looked so perfect.” You close your eyes again, moaning low. The sound of your own voice makes your chest ache. He hasn’t moved. He’s just inside you, so deep you feel dizzy.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod before you can speak. Then you whisper, “Don’t stop.”

His breath shudders. “I’m not moving,” he says, “not yet. You were so asleep. I wanted to feel you before you even knew it was happening.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “I needed to know what it felt like to be part of your first breath.”

You whimper. He’s still trembling behind you, one hand firm around your waist, the other reaching up to brush your hair off your neck. You reach back for him—grab at his thigh, his hip, anything. But when you can’t find purchase, you just arch your hips back while whimpering, “Spencer—move, please—” He stills. Then groans deep in his throat, barely holding it in. Your voice is raw. Wrecked. Like you’ve been wanting this longer than you even knew. “Please,” you whisper again, helpless. “Want you to move.”

You don’t need to say it twice. Your hips jerk up into him the moment he moves. Just a little. Not fast. Not harsh. Slow, steady. His body tenses with the shift, a rough groan caught deep in his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice thick and ragged, “You feel so good like this. So full…”

You shiver, curling your fingers into the sheets, nails digging in as he starts to rock forward inch by inch bottoming out with each roll of his hips. His hand slides down to cup your cheek, thumb tracing lazy, trembling circles over your skin.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers. “So warm… so soft…”

Your chest tightens, your breath catching in a sudden hiccup as he pulls out just a fraction then pushes all the way back in again, slow and deliberate, making your body sing in response.“Spencer,” you whimper, voice barely more than a broken sigh, “Please… don’t stop.”

His breath hitches. You feel him press a little harder, tilt his hips and you know he’s chasing that feeling. The one that curls like fire in your belly and spreads out into your thighs, making everything go soft and wild. “Damn, you’re so tight,” he groans. “I can’t get enough of you.” You arch into him, desperate for more, needing to feel him deeper, to never lose this closeness. “Tell me what you want,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear, voice low and rough like gravel.

You try but it catches in your throat. Instead, your fingers wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him flush against you. “Spencer,” you gasp, “Please…” The sound is barely a whisper but it’s enough.

He groans and starts moving with more urgency. He’s not rough but not gentle either — like he’s trying to hold himself back from breaking. His hips roll into yours, slow but steady, a rhythm that sends heat flooding through your veins. You moan, the sound raw and needy.“God, you sound so good,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “So fucking beautiful.”

You can’t stop yourself — your hands run down his back, over his waist, desperate to hold on as his movements deepen. “Spencer, please,” you whimper, “I need you…”

He grunts, letting go of the last scraps of control. “You have me,” he pants, voice thick, “I want to hear you, baby.”

Your nails dig into his skin, your hips rising up to meet his every movement as your breath hitches in short, ragged bursts. The bed creaks beneath you both, your bodies slick with sweat and desire. He leans in, kissing the side of your neck, sucking a dark mark there and you cry out a needy, desperate sound that fills the quiet morning air.

“Fuck,” he moans, “So beautiful. So fucking perfect.” You’re trembling, caught between the ache in your hips and the fire burning low in your belly. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling it with slow, relentless pressure. “Can you tell me what you want?” he whispers, voice shaking.

You can’t form words—just moans, whimpers, gasps—but he understands. He presses closer, hips snapping forward in a pace that’s still patient but building, a promise that he’s not letting go. “C’mon, you can tell me,” he breathes, fingers moving faster now, “Tell me— fuck— you feel so good.”

Your hands find his face, pulling him down for a kiss that’s messy and desperate, tongues tangling, breaths colliding. You taste yourself on him and it makes you shiver. “Spencer…” you gasp, voice breaking, “Please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

He’s groaning now, every inch of his body straining toward you, a desperate hunger that matches your own. His hips roll faster, fingers circling your clit, and you feel the coil in your stomach tightening, winding closer to the edge.

“Moan for me,” he pants, voice raw. “I want to hear you.”

“Spencer…” you cry out, voice trembling, “I love you.”

He catches your gaze, eyes dark and wild, and whispers back, “I love you. So much.”

Your walls clench around him suddenly, a shockwave ripping through your body, and he groans deep in his chest. You tremble all breathless as he holds you tight, thrusting slow and deep, grounding you in every moment. His hand leaves your face to grip your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as your moans turn to gasps.

“Look at me,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “You’re mine.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, overwhelmed by the heat and the feeling of being seen, held, loved. “Yours,” you repeat, desperate.

He kisses you one last time before burying his face in your neck, thrusting deeper and harder, pushing you over the edge together. You cry out, fingers tangling in his hair as your bodies move as one, lost in the messy, beautiful chaos of it all. The moment lingers like a slow-burning flame, both of you gasping and shuddering, clinging to each other.

[amypihcs]

A-HEM.

Beautiful art OP! I might've tripped and written something for it <3

Biggest thanks to @fruitviking for the setting: Just post Three Garridebs!

Hope you like this lil thing!

In my arms

John Watson smiled softly, his eyes focused on his husband’s form as he locked their door and finally let his coat fall to the floor.

“Come here, handsome man.” He called, consciously relaxing his posture.

Holmes’ posture got immediately more rigid as he turned on one heel, eyes sharp and concern all over his face.

“John...-” He started.

“Calm down, my dear fellow, I’m not dying yet. – Smiled Watson interrupting him. – Now, why don’t you come here and lie down? We’re both awfully tired and we both could use a few hours of sleep.” He proposed, his eyes drinking in the long, thin form of his husband.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” Asked the detective tentatively.

The doctor smiled sweetly, patting the bed at his side. “Absolutely, my darling. You’re here, what could I want more? Come here, darling.”

Holmes sighed softly, approaching his husband and sitting where Watson had told him to. “John…” Was all he could say, as his husband cupped his cheek to caress his sharp cheekbone with his thumb.

“You don’t have to worry Sherlock, my heart. I’ll be fine, I just need a good night of sleep and I’ll be as right as rain.” He reassured.

“It’s still very much not right that I got you shot.” Insisted Holmes, stubborn, his jaw clenched and worry still clear in his eyes.

“You didn’t, my dearest, it was an accident. We’ve always known that this is a dangerous job.”

“You shouldn’t get hurt, John. Ever.” Insisted Holmes.

“And we both know it’s impossible, my dear. I’m fine, we’re alive and we’re together. – Dr Watson moved to kiss his husband softly. – Come to bed, Sherlock. We both need to rest, my dearest.”

“My dear, dear Watson. – Sighed the detective. – I… Are you quite sure it’s alright?” He asked again, with a small, tentative smile.

“Quite – Smiled the doctor. – You need to sleep, Sherlock.”

“You shouldn’t be worrying for me, John. Not-”

“You’re my husband. Worrying for you is what I’ve been doing for the last 20 years.” Interrupted the doctor.

“That you have. Give me a moment, just time to slip into my nightshirt.” Smiled Holmes, the worry in his eyes not quite eased, but not as tense anymore.

He was a man of his word: in a few moments he had undressed and got ready for sleeping just as Dr Watson had removed his waistcoat and shirt and lied down under the covers, waiting for his partner.

“I’ll hold you tonight, dear one.” Stated the detective, climbing on the bed and settling at his husband’s side.

“Don’t look at me like that, John. I wouldn’t manage to sleep without knowing that you are sleeping and are safe.” He continued at the doctor’s slight protest.

“You are a tyrant. And worry too much. And I love you, my little bee.” Smiled Dr Watson, settling on his right side and snuggling on his husband, his head on Holmes’ strong, bony shoulder.

“I love you too, my dear. And I don’t know how I could manage without you.” Replied the detective, placing a kiss on his husband’s silver streaked hair.

“Shush now. Don’t think such thoughts, nothing bad happened. And you were so very keen to show off by carrying me upstairs, my dearest. So with a bit of luck none of us will have to manage without the other for a long time still.” Smiled Watson, basking in Holmes’ strong hold and caressing his body with light fingers.

“You shush. – Rebuked Holmes. – As much as you are a bit heavier than a few years ago, you’re certainly not nearly heavy enough that I can’t carry you upstairs, such ideas!” He joked.

Dr Watson chuckled. “Good, I manage to make you joke.”

“I do worry for you, my Watson. You are the person I hold more dear than everybody in this world.” Murmured Holmes, his voice very soft.

“And yet…”

“Not so much as to spare your pride about that, my little bear.” Smiled the detective, patting his Watson’s backside.

“You simply don’t operate in the system most of us operate in, dear Holmes. I’ve turned fifty-one a few months ago and you’ll turn fifty in a few months and yet you’re still the most uncomfortable pillow I’ve ever slept on.” Joked Watson, his hand pressing on his partner’s flat stomach, caressing him through the nightshirt.

“And yet I’m also getting old and soft in more than one way, dear John.” Smiled the detective in the dark.

“And is that supposed to be a bad thing?” Asked Watson rhetorically.

“I-”

“I don’t think so. – Smiled the doctor, interrupting Holmes’ attempt to answer. – It’s good that you also relax a bit, that you unwind. I’m glad of every single white hair on your head, Sherlock, and of every single line on your face, because we’ve managed to live to our fiftieth birthday, my dear fellow, and I never thought we would get to it. Now sleep. And don’t think dark thoughts.”

“You are an insatiable romantic, my dearest John. And you need to sleep, I’m sorry I’ve been keeping you awake.” Replied Holmes, wishing his partner good night.

Dr Watson replied in kind, grumbling a bit, jokingly, about his Holmes being the most uncomfortable man another man had ever used as a pillow and closing his eyes.

Mr Holmes’ eyes stayed open for some more time still. Pondering their luck, working through how frightened he had been, handling his worry, listening to his husband’s breath, his soft snores, feeling his chest move with it against his own body. Letting his Watson’s quiet presence calm him down until he fell asleep as well, with his husband’s arm around his waist and his own arm around his husband’s strong shoulders, listening to his calm breath.

Eep

[guliexe]

—ON THE LOW 18+

Dealer!Nicholas/Wang Yixiang x Female!Reader

warnings/tags: slow burn, dealer/stoner!nicho, i call him weno in this, soft dom!nicho, shy!reader, loverboy!nicho, drug use, shotgunning, romantic, making out, dry humping, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), p in v, mating press, crying, unprotected sex, confessing, aftercare

♡ you started buying weed for your friends and ended up falling for the dealer—turns out, he fell even harder.

w/c: 9.7k (no proofread)

You’d seen him around long before you ever spoke to him. He wasn’t the kind of guy you could ignore. Not because he was loud, Weno was anything but loud, but because he had this presence. Calm, quiet, and detached, like nothing ever really touched him. He was always there but just out of reach. The kind of person who didn’t care if people were watching, but somehow still ended up being the one everyone looked at. You had a couple classes near the same buildings. He always showed up late, always dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed—big hoodie, baggy jeans, backpack hanging off one shoulder. Never rushed. Never looked stressed. Just there. He’d walk past where you and your friends were sitting on the grass and barely glance your way. But even that one second felt heavier than it should. You didn’t know much about him, but you noticed him. You always had. Weno wasn’t exactly a mystery, everyone on campus knew what he did, they just didn’t talk about it. Not out loud, anyway. The stories passed around in whispers. That he sells, and it’s good shit too. That he never chased customers, people came to him. That if he liked you, he might give you more than you paid for. That if he really liked you, you’d know.

You didn’t know if any of that was true. But what you did know was that your friends wanted weed and were too scared to go get it themselves. So they asked you. Apparently, being the quiet one made you the designated “safe” option. It wasn’t like you and Weno were strangers, anyway. You’d talked a few times now. Nothing long, quick chats during pickups, the occasional hi at a party when you passed by each other. He’d never made you feel weird or unsafe. Just… flustered. A little warm in the chest, a little unsure what to say next. He had a way of watching you that felt deliberate, even when he said nothing at all. Your friend had shoved some cash into your hand at the last minute, babbling about how “he’s chill, he’s not scary, just please go for me, I can’t” — and you’d sighed, texting him before you could overthink it. He told you to meet him behind the dorms. 6:30. You almost didn’t go. You weren’t sure why he made you nervous, he hadn’t done anything to deserve that label. But something about him felt sharp beneath all the calm. Like he could see through you if he wanted to. When you rounded the corner that evening, he was already leaning against the side of his car, phone in hand, headphones around his neck. The sun was low, painting the edges of his face gold. You caught yourself staring before you could stop. He looked up as you approached. “Didn’t expect you,” he said, not moving. You blinked, “Why?” He shrugged, “Thought one of your loud friends would be the one to show. You’re not really the type to do this.” It wasn’t teasing exactly, but the way he said it made your face warm. You cleared your throat. “They made me come.” “Mm,” he hummed. “Figured.”

He pushed off the car, pulling a ziplock from his hoodie pocket. You reached for it automatically, but he didn’t hand it over right away. “You ever tried it?” You shook your head. “No. It’s not really… my thing.” He tilted his head slightly. Not judging, just observing. “Didn’t think it was.” he chuckled softly, then he handed it to you, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. You looked down at your hand, not at the bag, but at where your skin still tingled. “You’re good,” he said quietly, “Let me know next time.” You nodded, muttered a soft thanks, already starting to turn away, but then he said your name. You froze and glanced back. He was still standing by his car, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily spinning his keys around his finger. The way he looked at you made your stomach flip, like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you. “You always do stuff for your friends?” His tone was casual, but the question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?” He shrugged a little. “They want something, and you’re the one who shows up.” A pause. “That happen a lot?”You weren’t sure how to answer. It did happen a lot. They asked, you went. Not because you wanted to, but because it felt easier than saying no. You glanced down at the ziplock in your hand. “I guess,” you mumbled. “I don’t know.” He hummed low, like that told him everything he needed to know. You looked back up, ready to say something else—anything, maybe even defend yourself, but he beat you to it. “You’re a good girl.” The words were soft and genuine, but they landed heavy. Your breath caught. His gaze didn’t waver—steady, calm, like he hadn’t just said something that made your skin go warm all over. You didn’t know what to do with that. You didn’t even know what it meant coming from him. You just knew it made something flutter in your stomach. “Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You turned and walked off a little too quickly, heart pounding, ears hot, his voice still echoing behind your ribs. You’re a good girl. You didn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night. It wasn’t long before your friends asked again. Same excuse, same tone, a whiny “please, he already knows you” and cash pushed into your hand like you owed them something. You hesitated more this time. Not because of them, but because of him. You hadn’t stopped thinking about last time. It replayed in your head again and again. You stared at his contact in your phone for some minutes before typing out the message.

You

hey my friends wanna grab again

He replied two minutes later.

Weno

same place 7:30

When you showed up this time, he was inside his car, driver’s door open, music playing low through the speakers. He looked up as you approached and smiled, lazy and half-lidded. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Hey.”You tried not to sound nervous. You weren’t even sure why you were nervous. This wasn’t new. You’d done this before. But this time, it felt different. You felt different. He stepped out, shutting the car door behind him as he pulled the same ziplock from the pocket of his jeans. You took it wordlessly, but his fingers brushed yours again, on purpose this time. You could feel it in the way he didn’t rush, didn’t pull away immediately. “Still not trying it?” he asked, tilting his head. You shook your head. “Not yet.” He raised a brow. “Why not?” “I just… haven’t.” You tucked the bag quickly into your jacket pocket like it might deflect the attention. “You scared?” The way he asked it wasn’t mocking, just curious, like he wanted to understand you, not challenge you. You hesitated. “No,” you said finally. “Just don’t wanna.” He nodded slowly, watching you again with that unreadable expression. “Still doing things for your friends, though.” You pressed your lips together. “I guess.” “They ever do stuff for you?” You blinked. “What?” He shrugged. “Just wondering.” You didn’t answer. Mostly because you didn’t have one. He could probably tell, because he didn’t push. He just looked at you for a long second, eyes dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to meet your gaze as he rolled a blunt for him. “You should stop letting people use you.” The bluntness of it caught you off guard. You shifted on your feet, unsure whether to say thank you or tell him it wasn’t like that, even though maybe it was. “You don’t even like them that much, do you?” Your breath hitched. “They’re my friends.” “Mm,” he hummed. “If you say so.”

After that, it happened a few more times. The same routine: a text, a time, a quiet walk behind the dorms where he’d be waiting. Sometimes he was standing. Sometimes in the driver’s seat with the door open. Sometimes already smoking, low music humming from the speakers. And each time, it got a little easier to look him in the eye. But also harder not to look too long. Weno never talked much. He didn’t fill silence just to hear himself speak. He asked things, small things, personal in ways that didn’t feel invasive, just seen. He was trying to piece you together quietly, without making a show of it. You’d come with your friends’ money in your pocket and leave with more than you paid for. Not every time, but enough that you noticed. When you offered to give him more, he just shook his head, said “You’re good,” and he meant it, it wasn’t just about the cash anymore. You didn’t tell your friends about how often you started going. Sometimes it wasn’t even about picking up anymore. You’d hand over the cash, but he’d wave it off. “Not this time.” You started to wonder if he even gave you real amounts. If this was still a deal or just an excuse. What you did know was that somewhere along the way, something started to shift.

It was in the way your pulse picked up when his name lit up your screen. In how you started getting ready earlier than you needed to. In how you made sure your outfit and make up was cute before leaving, like that would help keep your face from giving you away when he looked at you like he always did. It was on the low. No one really knew how often you were seeing him now—certainly not your friends. To them, it was still just you doing the awkward task they were too scared for. They didn’t know that half the time you went to Weno now, it wasn’t even because of them. Sometimes they didn’t ask at all—you just found yourself texting him anyway. And he always said yes. You weren’t sure when it stopped being about weed. You weren’t sure it ever really was. Sometimes you’d sit with him for a while. In the passenger seat of his car, parked in the same quiet lot behind the dorms. He’d roll one and lean back with the window cracked, slow smoke curling out into the night while music filled the silence. He never pushed anything on you. Never asked why you stayed. But you stayed. You weren’t good at talking about yourself, and he didn’t make you. He just gave you space to exist, and maybe that was what started doing it. Maybe that’s why you kept feeling warmer every time you saw him. More sure that he saw you. And you started to open up to him. You two would hang out and talk about anything and anyone very frequently.

You were curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you, jacket zipped halfway. The night was cool, and the air smelled like weed and cologne, smoke curling from the blunt between his fingers. His playlist low in the background that made it feel like time moved slower in his car. You hadn’t said much in the last ten minutes. Just sat there, letting the silence hang. But it wasn’t awkward. Weno never made things awkward. You gave him a small smile, eyes drifting out the window. The streetlights cast a warm glow across the dashboard. He tapped the ash into the tray and leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of your seat like he didn’t even think about it. “I don’t get it,” you said quietly after a moment. “You do this with all your clients?” “Do what?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly, playful but unreadable. “This.” You motioned vaguely between you. “Sit in the car, talk like this, not charge them.” He chuckled once, deep and soft in his chest. “No.” You blinked. “No?” He turned his head, looked right at you, and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “They’re not you.” Your stomach fluttered. You tried to play it off, but your smile gave you away. He tilted his head slightly, watching you through the soft haze in the car. “You know you’re my favorite, right?” Your head snapped toward him. “What?” He smirked, exhaled a slow breath, eyes never leaving yours. “Client,” he added after a beat, but the pause was on purpose. His smirk deepened like he knew what he was doing to you. Your face went warm immediately. “Shut up,” you muttered, covering your smile with your hand. “I’m serious.” His tone was calm. “You don’t talk much, you don’t ask dumb questions, you never waste my time.” “Oh,” you said quietly. But your smile stayed. “So I’m convenient.” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping low. “Nah. You’re cute.” Your heart jumped. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to say. So you laughed—awkward and soft, trying to bury your face in your hands like that might cool your cheeks. You left a little later than usual that night.

Three days later, when your screen lit up with a text from him, you answered in less than a minute.

Weno

u free tonight?

wanna chill for a bit?

♡

You

yeah :)

same spot?

♡

Weno

pull up at 10

no rush

You tried not to read into it too much. But you still picked out a different hoodie this time, your favorite one, did a little extra on your make up, styled your hair in way you knew framed your face best. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything. But your hands still felt warm as you walked out to meet him. His car was already there when you arrived. You climbed into the passenger seat, familiar now with the way the door stuck a little when you pulled it. Same playlist was on, and the heat was turned up just enough to make the inside feel cozy. He glanced over as you settled in, eyes flicking down to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “Hey,” he said, voice smooth, quiet. “Hey,” you murmured back, smiling a little.

The next hour passed easily, like it always did when you were with him. You talked about nothing and everything, classes, music, random campus drama you weren’t even involved in, movies you both halfway remembered, the last weird dream you had. He laughed more than usual tonight, low and slow, eyes squinting a little when something you said caught him off guard. His hand rested on the steering wheel as he listened, thumb tapping the leather in a lazy rhythm. He made you feel comfortable, like whatever you had to say mattered even if it didn’t. Like he was listening just because it was you talking. At some point, he lit up. You were mid-sentence when he leaned forward to spark the lighter, the soft flick of it barely cutting into the music. He offered it to you once out of habit, holding the blunt out between two fingers, and this time you didn’t shake your head immediately. You hesitated. Then, before you could overthink it, you took it. Your fingers brushed his. His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze lingered longer than before. “You sure?” he asked, voice soft, a little more serious now. You slowly nodded. “Yeah. Just—don’t laugh at me if I cough.” He smiled, “I won’t.” He leaned back into his seat. “Promise.” You inhaled, a small hit, like you’d seen him do a hundred times now. It burned, made your throat tickle, your eyes water just a little, but you didn’t cough. He watched carefully, still smiling. “Good girl,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened at the words, heat blooming under your skin before you could stop it. You handed it back to him quickly, trying to focus on the burn in your lungs, the soft thrum of bass in the background, anything except how warm you suddenly felt. Time got slower after that. An hour passed in a haze, soft laughter, lazy conversation, both of you sinking deeper into your seats, the windows fogging slightly. He smoked again, and passed it back and forth to you. Your body felt lighter. Music melted into the background, his voice a little rough now. You both stared out at the empty parking lot for a while, just existing. It was quiet in the way that felt close, not awkward. Every time your knee brushed his, he didn’t move. Every time you shifted, his eyes flicked toward your mouth, then back to the road like he didn’t want to get caught looking. And maybe it was the high, or the way the space between you had been shrinking since the start, but something changed. You turned to say something and caught him already looking at you, staring. His arm was still draped behind your seat, but now his fingers were brushing your shoulder, light and casual. You blinked at him. “What?” you whispered, voice lower than before. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, eyes warm, thoughtful. “C’mere.” You didn’t even think. You just leaned forward, heart thudding quietly behind your ribs as his hand slid slowly to the back of your neck. He tilted his head slightly. His lips brushed yours soft at first, testing. Then again, firmer. You leaned into it. Your heart stuttered, hands unsure of where to go. One found the edge of his hoodie. The other pressed lightly to his chest. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been thinking about this for a while. He wasn’t in any rush now that it was finally happening. You kissed him back slow, high and a little breathless, your skin buzzing all over. He pulled back eventually, just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“You’re high,” he said, almost teasing. “So are you,” you whispered. He smiled, gaze dropping to your lips again. “Yeah. But I still meant it.” You smiled, small and dazed, and tucked your legs under you again, curling back into your seat. The car was quiet for a few more minutes. Nothing changed. But everything had. And when you finally said you should go, he didn’t stop you. Just nodded, reached over, and opened the door for you like he always did. Before you stepped out, he caught your wrist gently. You turned back. His eyes searched yours for a moment. “Text me when you get in.” You nodded, “Okay.”

You

made it home :)

♡

Weno

good

was starting to think u got lost

♡

You

nope

just still thinking

♡

Weno

about?

♡

You

you

♡

Weno

yeah?

what part

♡

You

the obvious part

♡

Weno

mm

i liked that part too

didn’t rlly want u to go

♡

You

u didn’t?

♡

Weno

nah

wanted to kiss u again

♡

You

i wanted to too

but i got nervous :(

♡

Weno

it’s ok bby

will i see u again soon?

♡

You

yeah

if u want to

♡

Weno

i do

♡

You

can’t wait

goodnight weno :)

♡

Weno

me neither

gn <3

You didn’t stop thinking about that night. Or his texts. Or when he said he wanted to kiss you again. The way your heart stuttered when he called you bby like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was already normal between you. It wasn’t, not really. But it was starting to be. You’d kept texting after that. Not every second of the day, but enough. Little check-ins, good mornings, music recs, late night questions that felt heavier than they sounded. He was never overly forward, not the type to blow up your phone or say things just to get a reaction, but everything he did say stuck with you. You were head over heels. Smiling at your phone and then burying your face in your pillow like an idiot every time. So when one of your friends mentioned the party coming up—some frat guy’s birthday, everyone was going, “you have to come, it’s gonna be huge”—you didn’t think much of it at first. Until she added, casually, “Pretty sure Weno’s gonna be there too, so you can’t get us some stuff as well?” That made your heart skip. You played it off, said “yeah, cool” and shrugged, but your brain had already started spiraling. What if you saw him? What if you didn’t? What if he ignored you in front of everyone? What if he didn’t? You told yourself you weren’t going for him. But you still stood in front of your closet longer than usual. You picked a dress—short, tight, something you hadn’t worn before. Simple, but it hugged you in all the right places. You did your makeup with more care than usual, spritzed perfume on your neck, your wrists, let your hair fall soft and full around your shoulders. You didn’t tell anyone why you looked a little extra tonight. But you kind of hoped he’d be there. And you really hoped he’d notice.

The house was already packed by the time you got there—music thumping through the walls, bodies crammed together in every corner, red cups in almost every hand. Lights low, flashing sometimes, music echoing through a speaker in the living room. It smelled like sweat, beer, weed, and cheap cologne. Typical. Your friends disappeared as soon as you walked in, squealing at someone they recognized near the kitchen. You stayed back for a second, just long enough to scan the crowd. Not because you were looking for anyone. Not on purpose, anyway. And then you saw Weno. Leaning against the far wall near the stairs, hoodie half-zipped over a white tank, cargo pants hanging low on his hips, the hem of his boxers peeking a little. He wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t talking loud or laughing or drinking like the rest of them. Just standing there, calm and unreadable, eyes lazily moving through the room like he’d been here a hundred times before. He was talking to someone, dapping them up quick, pulling something from his pocket and handing it off like it was nothing. No one looked twice. Just a quiet exchange, over in seconds. He didn’t try to be subtle, he didn’t have to. People came to him. You stayed near the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, pretending to be more focused on your friends than you were. But your eyes kept drifting back. He looked good. Effortlessly good. And he hadn’t seen you yet. You tried not to look over too often. Tried to focus on your friends and their chaotic conversations, the loud music, the colorful lights. You laughed at jokes that didn’t really register. Nodded along. Sipped water from your cup and told yourself it wasn’t that serious. He wasn’t even talking to you. He was doing his own thing. Still, your gaze kept drifting. Just to see if he was still there. Still. Every time you checked, he was. Some minutes passed like that—just you pretending to be more chill than you felt while your friends chattered and moved toward the crowd. You stayed behind, needing a second to breathe. You slipped into the kitchen, mostly empty now, except for the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint bass vibrating through the floor. You reached for the fridge handle, intent on just grabbing some cold water and hiding out for a bit, but when you turned, he was already there. Standing just inside the doorway. Watching. Your breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes scanned you slowly—top to bottom, unhurried. You felt it like a heatwave, settling low in your stomach. His gaze was darker than usual. Focused, sharp. You dropped your eyes immediately, trying not to fidget. Tugged lightly on the hem of your dress like it might help somehow, like maybe it covered more than it did. You felt your cheeks flush without him even having to speak. You weren’t even sure why you were so nervous. You’d seen him like this before, but something about tonight made it worse. Made you bite your lip without thinking. Made your cheeks burn just from the way he looked at you. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, voice calm and even. A little rough from the smoke, but still warm. You glanced up, heart racing. “Yeah,” you said, “Wasn’t really planning to, but… my friends dragged me.” He smiled a little. “I’m glad you came.” Your breath hitched. You weren’t expecting that. “You look good tonight.” It landed heavy in your chest. No teasing. No smirk. Just him saying it like it was a fact. Your whole body flushed. “Oh,” you said, voice small. “Um. Thanks.” He nodded once, eyes still on you, and then glanced back toward the hallway. “I’m heading up to the balcony for a bit. If you wanna get some air.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just gave you one last look—soft, lingering—and pushed off the doorframe to leave. “Come find me,” he said, and then he was gone. Leaving you standing in the kitchen, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth, wondering how the hell he always made you feel like this without even trying.

You lingered in the kitchen for a while after he left, pretending to scroll through your phone, half-listening to the party still pulsing through the walls. Your friends had fully disappeared into the crowd by now, probably dancing or taking shots or screaming over music. You told yourself you were just cooling off. Just getting a break from the noise. But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at you. The way he said it—You look good tonight. Like it wasn’t up for debate. Like he meant it, and he knew you’d heard him loud and clear. Eventually, you texted some excuse about needing air, said you’d be right back if anyone even cared that you left. You slipped out of the kitchen and made your way upstairs, heartbeat loud in your ears, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot nervous. The hallway was quiet, just some closed doors and the muffled hum of bass below. You found the door to the balcony slightly cracked open, soft breeze pushing in from the night. You pushed it open gently. There he was. He sat on a low, beat-up couch tucked against the wall. One leg stretched out, the other bent, arm thrown over the backrest like he owned the space. Head tilted back just slightly, hoodie slipping off his shoulder, lips parted around the blunt as he took a slow drag. The ember glowed red in the dark, lighting up the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He looked unfairly good. Like the air belonged to him. Like nothing touched him. He turned his head lazily when he heard the door, eyes finding yours through the smoke. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you, then took another slow hit, exhaling with a quiet sigh before speaking.

“Knew you’d come.” You swallowed hard, heart kicking up again like you hadn’t already spent the last fifteen minutes trying to calm it down. His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was something behind it—something that made your chest tighten a little. You stepped out and quietly shut the door behind you. You sat down beside him, slow and careful, the cushion dipping under your weight. His knee brushed yours just slightly, warm through the fabric. You glanced over, then down again, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I just—I’d rather be up here with you than down there in all that chaos.” That got him to finally look at you. Head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed just a little like he was trying to read deeper than what you were saying out loud. He didn’t answer right away. Just flicked the ash from the blunt, leaned back again, eyes still on you. You breathed in through your nose, steadying yourself. Then softer, barely louder than the wind, you added, “I missed you.” He turned his head fully now, letting the blunt rest between his fingers. The pause that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Warm. His eyes softened just a bit. “Yeah?” he said, voice a little quieter than before. “I missed you too.” It landed in your chest like a weight—like the kind of thing you weren’t sure you were allowed to want, but did anyway. He leaned in a little, not close enough to crowd you, but just enough for his knee to press softly into yours. His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You been thinking about me?” he asked, voice still calm, but something about it made your stomach twist. You blinked. Heat rushed to your cheeks again, and you had to look away. “…Maybe.” He smiled at that, small and crooked and unfairly attractive. “Same.” And then he took another hit like he hadn’t just wrecked you with a single word. He let the silence hang for a few seconds after that, the blunt burning slow between his fingers, and then he said it quietly, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Come closer.” Your eyes flicked to his, heart stuttering a little. He didn’t look away, didn’t shift or make room, just waited. You hesitated for a second and then moved, scooting over until your leg was pressed fully against his. He reached out casually, like it was second nature, and slid his arm around your shoulders. A soft tug, and suddenly you were leaning into him, your head falling against his chest like it belonged there. You could feel everything. His warmth, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart under your cheek. His hoodie smelled like smoke and laundry and him. He brought the blunt to his lips again, took a hit, then lowered it and turned his head slightly toward you.“Want some?” he murmured. You shook your head, just once. “Not right now.” He hummed, didn’t push. Just let his hand stay where it was on your shoulder, thumb brushing idly against your arm. You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he. You both just sat there, pressed together on the old balcony couch, the party a muffled storm below you, the stars wide and scattered above. You listened to the wind. The soft scratch of fabric when he shifted. The occasional drag and exhale as he smoked. You closed your eyes for a second and just let yourself feel all of it.

He shifted a little, moving his hand lower on your arm, caressing the skin, his breath warm against your hair. You felt his heartbeat quicken just a bit beneath your cheek. The silence between you was thick. to be noticed. You glanced up at him, your eyes catching his in the dim light. There was something softer there now. Something unspoken, but heavy. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering near your temple. Your breath hitched. He leaned down just a little, voice low and casual, “You’re beautiful.” You swallowed, barely able to meet his gaze as your face flushed again. Then, just like that, he closed the tiny gap between you. His lips found yours slow and gentle, before deepening the kiss, like he’d been wanting to do this all night. You melted into him, your hand slowly reaching up to rest on his chest as the world around you faded. It’s not gentle anymore, it’s urgent, needy. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue slides against yours, deep and demanding. You whimper softly, the sound lost in the press of his mouth, your body melting into his. He pulls back just enough to whisper in your ear, voice husky, “Wanna get out of here? I’ve got my car nearby.” Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You just nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, breath catching again as he wraps his arm tighter around you.

He doesn’t rush you, just laces his fingers through yours, warm and firm, and gives your hand a gentle tug. You follow without thinking, legs shaky as you leave the balcony behind and slip back into the quiet hallway. The party feels distant now, like the world narrowed down to just him, the weight of his hand in yours, the aftertaste of his kiss still lingering on your lips. The walk to his car is quiet, but not awkward. When he unlocks the door and slides into the driver’s seat, you hesitate for half a second before slipping in beside him. The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing you both inside the low, warm hum of the vehicle. He leans back, legs stretched out, calm like always, but there’s a heat behind his eyes when he looks at you. A spark still flickering from earlier. “I’m gonna roll real quick,” he murmurs, pulling out his tray and grinder from the center console like it’s second nature. You nod, watching him work—his fingers nimble, methodical, the lighter’s flame briefly illuminating his face when he brings the blunt to his lips. The car fills with the earthy scent of smoke, and his head tilts back slightly as he exhales, half-lidded. He looks so fucking fine like this, bathed in shadows and smoke, hoodie loose around his collarbones, the faint red glow of the blunt lighting up his lips. Then he turns his head toward you again and you don’t even get the chance to fully catch your breath before he leans in again, free hand finding your cheek as he kisses you.

The smoke still lingers on his breath, and you melt into it, moaning softly into his mouth as his tongue slides against yours. His fingers are on your thigh, squeezing gently as he pulls you closer. The kiss turns messier, full of need, soft gasps and low groans echoing through the car. Your hand grips his hoodie low, holding on like you might fall apart if you let go. He pulls back only enough to whisper, breath ghosting over your lips, “Could do this all night.” Then his mouth is on yours again. More heat, more tongue, more breathless little noises spilling from your lips as your body starts to tremble in his hands. Without breaking the kiss, his hands move, one sliding up your thigh, the other settling on your waist. “C’mere,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low but soft. You barely register what he means until his hands are guiding you, pulling you gently, firmly, right onto his lap. One leg at a time, knees sinking into the seat on either side of him, hands braced on his shoulders, your dress hiking up as you settle onto him, straddling him, face to face. He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes hooded, red from the weed, blunt still between his fingers. One of his hands slides up your side, fingers grazing your waist and ribs over the thin fabric of your dress. He takes his time with it, like he’s learning your shape. Your breath stutters as his hand travels higher, stopping just under your arm. He brings the blunt to his lips again, takes a long, slow hit, his chest rising beneath you, and then leans in close. His free hand curves around the back of your neck, guiding your face closer to his. You part your lips on instinct, and he exhales the smoke right into your mouth, warm and slow, curling over your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe it in, heart thudding, and then he kisses you. Kisses you like he’s taking the air right back from your lungs.

Your breath catches when you feel his hands slide down, beneath the hem of your dress. He pushes it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your waist until the cool air hits your thighs. You shift slightly, nervous, thighs tightening around his hips as he exposes more of you. He doesn’t say anything, just stares for a second, eyes flicking down to where your panties are now visible, his palms firm on the back of your thighs. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he leans forward, mouth finding your neck, and everything gets messier after that. He kisses down the side of your throat, open, warm, wet, his lips dragging along the skin, tongue flicking against your pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips twitch against him. You whimper quietly, trying to stay still, but he’s already pulling you closer with both hands, guiding your body into his like he knows exactly what you need. You tilt your head for him without thinking, shy sounds escaping your mouth as he works his way up to your jaw, then down again, kissing a little rougher now. “Weno…” you whisper, voice breaking around his name. “Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low against your skin. “You’re okay.” Your arms wrap around his shoulders instinctively, face burning as you shift in his lap, unintentionally grinding down just slightly. His reaction is immediate, a quiet groan right into your neck, his hands tightening on your hips. “Just like that,” he breathes.

Your hips grind down harder without thinking, breath coming out in shaky gasps as the friction starts to feel almost too good. His hands slip under the back of your dress, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass, guiding your movement like he needs it just as bad. You’re whimpering into the heated space between you, clinging to his hoodie, your body trembling slightly with every slow drag of your hips over his. Your panties are soaked. His pants are straining. The windows are fogging up, and the whole car smells like weed, sweat, and heat. He tilts his head, catching your mouth again in another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, like he can’t stop tasting you. His hand slides up your waist, grazing under the curve of your chest over the thin fabric of your dress, and you shudder, moaning softly into his mouth. Then he pulls back, just a little, resting his forehead against yours as both of you try to breathe. “Fuck,” he whispers, chest rising and falling beneath you. “You look so fucking pretty like this.” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen and barely parted, still trying to catch your breath. He looks at you for a long second, hands still on your waist, grounding you. “I don’t wanna do this in the car,” he says, voice rough. “You deserve better than that.” Your breath hitches, heat flaring even higher at how serious he sounds. “Wanna go to my place?” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your side. You nod slowly, shy but needy, your fingers curling in the collar of his shirt, a little scared to let go. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “Okay.” He kisses you once more, soft and sweet, before pulling back just enough to reach for the keys.

The door shut with a quiet click, sealing you into the warmth of his place. It was dark, mostly, just the glow of a streetlamp slipping through the blinds, casting faint lines across the floor. Neither of you spoke. You turned slightly, lips parting like you might say something, but he was already reaching for you. His hands found your waist in the dark, pulling you in with no hesitation, and his mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. Kissing you hungrily, deep and needy. Everything he hadn’t said tonight was pouring out of him all at once, into the way he held you, the way his lips moved over yours. His grip was firm, hands splayed over your hips, your back arching into him as you kissed him back just as desperately. He walked you backwards without breaking the kiss, slow, steady steps through the short hallway, lips never leaving yours. You barely registered the corners of the space or how you ended up where you did until the back of your knees hit something soft. And then he was lowering you onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath you, and your breath caught as he hovered above you, eyes dark and steady on yours. Then, without a word, he zipped down his hoodie and took it off. Now just in a white tank, it clung to his frame in all the right places, the cut of his collarbone visible, shoulders broad and sharp under the light. He looked down at you for a second longer, breathing hard, gaze lingering on your face like he couldn’t believe you were really there. Then he leaned down, kissing you again, less rushed, but just as intense. His hands slid up your sides, fingertips ghosting over the fabric of your dress, moving deliberately, memorizing the shape of you. You whimpered softly into his mouth, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. He pulled back for a second, eyes flicking between yours, voice low and wrecked. “You good?” he asked, forehead brushing yours. You nodded, cheeks burning, lips swollen already. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m good.”

He didn’t wait long after your answer. His mouth moved to your neck, warm and open, lips brushing your skin before he started kissing, slow, deliberate, dragging his tongue gently along the curve of your throat. You gasped, breath hitching as he sucked softly at a spot just below your jaw. Then again, a little lower. Your hips twitched beneath him when you felt his teeth graze you. “Weno—” you whispered, but it came out as more of a breath than a word. “You’re so pretty” he murmured, voice barely there, like he was talking to himself. “Always are.” His hand moved down slowly, slipping over your waist and along the outside of your thigh before sliding back up under the hem of your dress. His touch was patient, teasing, he didn’t rush. Just let his fingertips brush along the top of your thigh, higher and higher until they were tracing the edge of your panties. He pushed the fabric of your underwear to the side, slowly, and let his fingers slide between your folds, touching your bare heat. You gasped, head tilting back into the pillow, lips parting in a silent moan. “Shit,” he whispered, breath warm against your collarbone. “So soaked f’me, baby.” Your cheeks burned, thighs tensing slightly around his hand. He kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower, just above your chest, tongue wet and warm as his fingers began to move—slow circles at first, barely-there pressure that made you squirm beneath him. His free hand gripped your waist, holding you steady like he could feel how close you already were, how much you wanted him. “You’re so sensitive,” he muttered, voice deep and low, teeth grazing your skin as he kissed up to your ear.

You whimpered his name, hips grinding into his hand without meaning to. His fingers never stopped moving, dragging slick circles against your clit as he kept his mouth on your neck. Every kiss felt more urgent, but not rushed. It wasn’t just lust. It was something else. Something heavier. And then he leaned up, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think about you all the time,” he murmured, breath warm, fingers still teasing between your thighs. “Even when I’m not supposed to. Even when I try not to.” Your heart flipped, aching at how raw it sounded coming from him. “I don’t even think you know what you do to me,” he continued, a soft kiss behind your ear. “How long I’ve wanted you like this. Letting me touch you.” The words hit harder than anything else had—deeper than the kisses, deeper than his touch. Your chest tightened, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers slid into his hair, pulling him down until your lips met again. Your moans melted into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips rolled up into his hand. His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

And then, without warning, he shifted his hand lower, deeper. Your lips parted in a quiet gasp as he slid one finger inside you, slow and careful. Your walls clenched around the intrusion, already aching from how worked up you were, how long he’d been teasing. He didn’t wait long before easing in a second finger, stretching you just a little more. His movements were smooth, curling them up inside you just right, drawing out whiny, breathless little sounds from your throat you couldn’t hold back. You buried your face in his shoulder, hands gripping his bicep, your hips rocking involuntarily into every slow thrust of his fingers. He moved deep and steady, his palm pressing into you, thumb dragging lazy circles over your clit in rhythm. He kept moving inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. You were so close, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your stomach, breath catching with every stroke. But just as your legs began to shake, just as your hips bucked up into his hand with a quiet, desperate moan—he pulled out. You whined at the loss, hips stuttering forward instinctively, chasing the friction. “Weno…” “I know,” he murmured, breathless himself, voice thick with need. “I know, baby.” He leaned back just enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere to the side. The soft light coming through the cracked door hit his chest just right—shoulders broad, abs toned, skin flushed and warm. His chain shifted against his skin when he moved.

Then he was reaching for you again, hands gentle. “Can I?” he asked, fingers brushing the hem of your dress. You nodded, cheeks hot, eyes wide and dazed. “Y-Yeah” He pulled it up slowly, lifting it over your head. His eyes dropped to your body as it was revealed to him—bare chest, soft skin, rising and falling with every shaky breath. He leaned his mouth to your nipple, giving it a soft suck while sliding your panties down your legs, dragging his hands along your thighs as he did. Then he moved lower. He settled between your legs like he belonged there, hands spreading your thighs gently, thumbs brushing along the inside. You whimpered, body already arching at the sight of him down there, the feel of his breath ghosting over your skin. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, eyes locked on your soaked center. And then he leaned in. His tongue was warm, slow, one long, deliberate lick up your folds that made your back arch off the bed. Then again, this time with more pressure, more intent. His mouth locked over your clit, sucking softly before he flattened his tongue and circled it. You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling as your thighs tried to close around his head. He just groaned into you, gripping your hips and pulling you closer, keeping you wide open for him. The sounds—wet, messy, sinful—filled the room along with your breathy moans, soft whimpers, the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved with purpose, lapping, circling, flicking. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but moan, soft and desperate, your hips twitching with every stroke of his tongue. And then you felt his hand again. Sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing through your slick folds before one dipped inside you, curling instantly. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry. He added a second immediately, stretching you and pumping into you while his mouth never left your clit. “Weno—fuck,” you whimpered, body jolting as he curled his fingers just right. Your walls clenched around him, needy and tight. His groan vibrated through you when he felt it. His tongue pressed harder, fingers pumping deep and slow—each drag of his knuckles making your toes curl. Your moans got higher, breathier, as your body trembled under his touch. “You close, baby?” he muttered against your clit, fingers never slowing. “Wanna feel you cum on my fuckin’ fingers.” You nodded, frantic, too far gone to speak. Your back arched, thighs shaking as he held you open, ruined you with his mouth, pushed his fingers deep inside you until the heat building in your stomach finally snapped. You came hard, legs trembling, hips stuttering, a loud moan spilling from your lips as everything clenched and pulsed around him. Fingers still working you gently through it while his tongue slowed, easing the intensity but never leaving you empty. Weno pressed one last kiss to your thigh, lips lingering as he pulled his fingers from you slowly, savoring the way your body jolted at the loss. He sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling a little faster now, eyes heavy as they dragged up your body.

You watched, dazed, flushed, and breathless as he reached for the waistband of his cargos, unbuttoning and sliding them down. They hit the floor with a quiet thud, leaving him in just his boxers—black, stretched tight over the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. He palmed it slowly, eyes still fixed on you, thumb pressing down over the thick outline like it ached. You squirmed beneath him, breath catching again when he leaned forward, caging you in with his arms. He kissed you slow and deep, tongue sliding over yours, moaning into your mouth. Then he reached between you and pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, hissing softly when his length sprang free and brushed against your thigh. “You still good?” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, his thumb caressing your cheek. You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah… I want you.” That was all he needed. He reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, dragging the tip through your slick folds, teasing you both with the heat of it. His hand found your waist again, grounding you as he pushed in slowly—inch by inch, thick and hot and stretching you just right. You gasped, nails digging into his biceps, body arching as he filled you completely.“Fuck,” he breathed out against your mouth, kissing you again as he bottomed out. “So tight. So good.” He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried deep, letting you adjust while he pressed soft kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your lips. His hands smoothed over your sides, grounding you. And then he started to move.

He started slow and deep, rolling thrusts that dragged every inch of him along your walls. Your body clung to him, welcoming each stroke like it had been waiting, aching, for this exact moment. His hands moved down your sides, palms warm and firm, before sliding under your thighs to hitch your legs higher around his waist. The new angle made you gasp, your head falling back into the pillow as he sank even deeper. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice all breath and gravel, “So fucking perfect like this.” You whimpered, lips parting with every slow rock of his hips, every soft press of his chest to yours. One of his hands slipped under your back, pulling you closer, the other traveling to cup your breast, squeezing gently, thumb circling your nipple. “Love your body,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone. “Every inch. All mine now, yeah?” You could only nod, breath shaky, heart pounding. He moved again—long, deep thrusts that made your thighs tremble around him, that had you clinging tighter to his shoulders, trying to ground yourself in his touch. “So fuckin’ good,” he groaned, kissing your neck, “Fuck—look at how you take me.” He slid his hand down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you up into each thrust, letting you feel just how hard he was holding back. You cried out softly, tears blurring your vision as the heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you. You felt stretched, full…loved. Every part of him was on you, in you, his lips, his hands, his voice. He slowed for just a second, chest heaving as he looked down at you.

His hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your lip as he whispered, “No one’s ever made me feel like this.” You blinked, another tear slipping free. He caught it with a kiss. He pushed in deep again, groaning low as your body clenched around him. Your eyes fluttered shut as your lips parted in a sob, overwhelmed. The pleasure, the emotion—it was too much, and not enough. You gasped out his name, voice broken, tears spilling freely now. “You’re doin’ so good,” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth. “So good for me. You feel so fuckin’ good—can’t get enough of you, baby.” He cupped your breast again, his other hand squeezing your ass as he rocked deeper, firmer, filling you completely with every thrust. The mattress creaked beneath you, skin slapping, breathy moans and whimpers. He lift your legs higher, folding them up toward your chest as his hands slid beneath your knees, guiding you open. His body shifted with yours, hovering close, his chest pressing to yours as he settled into the new position. You were utterly vulnerable, and so full. “Fuck,” he breathed as he pushed back in—deeper, impossibly deep, the new angle hitting something inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent gasp. Your thighs trembled against his sides, your arms wrapping tight around his shoulders as he rocked into you again, slow and hard. His face was right above yours, eyes dark, mouth parted, breath hot on your cheek. His forehead pressed to yours. You pulled him down, fingers tangling in his hair, and kissed him hard, messy, open-mouthed, desperate. You sobbed into the kiss, the pleasure blurring everything, making your whole body feel like it was about to break apart in the best way.

He moaned against your mouth, thrusts picking up just slightly, deeper and deeper, hips pressing you into the mattress. One of his hands cradled your cheek as the other gripped under your thigh, holding you open for him while his body kept driving into yours, filling you perfectly. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, kissing along your jaw between gasps. “So good for me, baby… fuck.” Your body clenched tight around him, your moans turning into cries as your nails dug into his back. “Weno— I’m close, I—please,” you gasped, barely able to form the words through the sobs that kept catching in your throat. “I got you,” he panted, hips grinding down, pace relentless now. “Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you.” It only took another stroke. One more hit just right, and you shattered. Your second orgasm came, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, tears slipping down your cheeks as you sobbed his name, legs shaking violently around him. You clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth. “Shit—baby—fuck—” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut as your body pulsed around him. “So good. So fucking good.” He barely lasted another few thrusts before he was pulling out quickly, stroking himself through the last moments, his body jerking forward with a final moan as he spilled across your stomach, thick and warm. He collapsed onto his forearms above you, forehead to yours again, breath ragged, lips ghosting yours.

He was still above you, body trembling slightly as he caught his breath, his lips brushing yours in soft, lingering kisses that felt more like confessions than touches. You were trying to breathe too, heart racing, chest rising and falling as your mind spun. Every nerve in your body was still alive, aching with how full he made you feel—physically, emotionally, all of it. And yet, even in the quiet after, something heavy sat in your chest. You swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting at his sides, your eyes darting everywhere but his face. You could feel it pressing against your tongue—those words—so big and so terrifying, but so real. Too real to keep inside. “Weno…?” you whispered, voice barely audible. He blinked down at you, soft and hazy from the afterglow. “Yeah, baby?” Your lip trembled as you looked up at him, wide-eyed and afraid. “I… I think I’m in love with you.” The second the words left your mouth, your stomach dropped. You felt exposed, like you’d stripped yourself bare in a whole new way. Your eyes filled with panic—what if he didn’t feel the same? What if this ruined everything? “I—I’m sorry,” you added quickly, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to ruin it, I just—fuck, I don’t know, I just feel so much and I couldn’t keep it in and—” He cut you off with a kiss. Not a soft one, not a careful one, but deep, sure. His hand cupped your face as he leaned into you, kissing you like he needed to feel every word you’d just said on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the little tear that had escaped down your cheek. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispered. “You could never ruin anything.” Your heart fluttered painfully. “I’ve been in love with you,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Since before I even knew what to call it. You don’t scare me, baby. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.” He kissed you again, tender. His hands wrapped around you, pulling you close until your body was pressed to his, skin to skin, and you could barely breathe from how tight he held you. You buried your face in his neck, arms tucked between your chests, your heart pounding against his. The silence that followed was heavy with warmth—safe, soft. Eventually, he shifted just enough to reach for the blunt on his nightstand, lighting it with a quiet flick of his lighter. The glow lit up his face in soft orange as he took a long drag, exhaling with a sigh, head tilted back slightly. You curled into him, cheek pressed to his chest, ear catching the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His arm came around you instinctively, holding you tighter, and his hand drifted lazily into your hair, fingers combing through the strands. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. He held you like he was never letting go.

my other works ➵ masterlist

@0403s

© guliexe 2025 all rights reserved.

[caffieneaddictt18]

A little while ago, I read a beautiful piece of fic, so I asked to be able to use their inspiration... thank you @goatgoesmbe for letting me use the inspiration for your fic.

Price had first found out that you kept your door unlocked when he didn't hear the tale-tell click of a door locking when you got home from work.

He was a little surprised too. A pretty thing like you leaving your door unlocked? In this neighborhood?

So John, being the caring man he is, decided to keep watch over your door. He doesn't get much sleep anyway. Might as well use the time to watch over you while you sleep. Just like him and his men when they take shifts sleeping. He's asked you to watch his place while he's gone on deployment, so it's like a give and take situation. You watch over his apartment while he's gone and he watches over you while you sleep... okay, maybe not exactly a completely fair deal, but he's done more for less.

The next day, when you get home for work, you find John Price smoking a cigar, and sitting outside his door, across from your apartment. The glow of the end of the cigar is a beautiful orange against his skin and in the dark of night.

"Make sure to lock your door, love... keep yourself safe." His heady, rough voice, with the casual dominance of how he told you makes you lock your door that night.

John sleeps well that night.

When Simon notices, he's at Price's flat for a football game. Manchester was playing and Simon was never one to not watch a match that Manchester played. He might not like his personal history with the place, but it's home and he will gladly support his home's team.

It's going great and Simon is a little tipsy by the end of it. Definitely not able to take the train home safely, let alone drive home, so he stay's at Price's in Herefordshire.

As Simon gets the couch set up for himself to sleep, he notices Price hasn't moved from his seat and is wide awake.

"Price? You gonna get ready for bed?"

"Not yet, Simon. Feel free to sleep." Price has not heard the click of your door locking, and it's past the normal time of you getting home. You forgot to lock your door again.

"What's wrong?" Simon is suddenly very sober despite the alcohol still running its course through his system.

“Goin’ for a smoke.” John grabs a cigar, and heads out, leaving his door unlocked.

Simon notices. He notices everything but his Captain leaving his door unlocked? He always locks his door, even if he’s just going around the corner of the building. So Simon gets up, and sits in John’s chair. Simon notices a few more things…

1. This chair faces a door.

2. The door happens to be your door.

3. His Captain is rummaging through the flower pots in front of your apartment

Why is his Captain looking through your flower pots? It must be for a good reason… Simon waits and watches as his Captain, his good friend and leader, finds your spare key and inserts it into your deadbolt… and then your doorknob… and puts the key back before turning the corner to take his smoke.

It’s not until about twenty minutes later when Price is done that he finds Simon sitting in his chair. His watching chair.

“Doe’ she always forge’?”

��Yeah.”

“Well then… someones gotta protect a birdie like that.”

And that was when John knew that the first of his men had been caught into your hooks.

It’s quite funny how you got the other two to become a part of the security team.

At base, Simon was talking about how good Price’s barbecue is, and Johnny and Kyle overheard. Kyle, Price’s not-so-subtle favorite, was taken aback. His captain was barbecuing and he never shared? So, the day ended with plans being made to go to Price’s flat for a barbecue in two days.

Price came by your flat to let you know. “My team is coming by. Some of them are a rowdy bunch, but we’ll try to keep quiet.” John reassures you, but knowing you, you wouldn’t care. You never complained, even when the apartment next to you was loud, or the apartment above you was… dancing the tango, if you know what I mean.

So when Johnny got rambunctious, it wasn’t anything you weren’t prepared for. What you weren’t prepared for was Kyle stopping you on your walk to your apartment door and flirting with you, Johnny not far behind. “I didnae ken tha’ Cap’n had a bonnie lass like y’self across the hall~ Can see why he’s hidin’ you though.”

“John? He’s just my neighbor.” You try to tell them, backing yourself to your door.

“‘John’? On first name basis, are you?” Kyle smirks. He knows the team’s dynamic. Once one of them gets you… the rest are not far behind.

“I’m not su- oh would you look at tha-“ You cut yourself off by opening your door and sliding into your apartment, leaving it unlocked behind you.

Johnny and Kyle are confused. No one has left like that when they flirt. Must be a recluse… so they shrug and go back to their little gathering. Johnny’s a little less rambunctious now and the noise has toned down.

As the gathering comes to an end, Price gets up, not hearing your lock click into place again. He walks over and knocks on the door.

"Captain, why are you-?" Gaz starts before you open the door.

"John?" Your voice, thick with sleep, softens John's heart.

"Make sure to lock your door, pet."

"Okay..." You mumble, "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, pet." He waits for you to shut the door and lock it before heading back to the boys.

"So... is that why you've been making missions shorter than usual?" Soap asks, taking a slow sip of his beer.

"She leaves her door unlocked most nights. Forgets it." Ghost shrugs, taking a sip of his whiskey, looking away from his captain.

"So... she needs a reminder." Gaz looks at Price, eyes focused, goal-oriented.

"A reminder would be good for her, I suppose." Price shrugs, sipping his drink.

If anyone were to look close enough, they would see the twinkle in his eye, the small smirk forming at the edge of his lips behind the glass...

But his team doesn't need to look close. They already know.

The next day, you are coming back from your late night shift, a long day of office work that makes you feel shittier and shittier after your already long day of classes. It's already dark out, and you're justing wishing for a shower and your bed.

But of course... something stops you. More like someone.

"Pet, you really need to start locking your door at night." John's voice is unmistakable, even in the dark. The striking sound of a lighter producing a flame emits a soft orange glow before burning the end of those nice smelling cigars.

"John, do we have to have this conversation?" You lean against your threshold.

"We do."

"There's nothing important in the apartment anyways-"

"You."

"What?"

"You are the important 'thing', pet." He takes one more puff of his cigar before standing to his full height, towering over you.

"Ohhhh..." It hits you like a train. You're supposed to be the valuable. "John, I get it. But I leave my laptop at work and the only other valuable is my phone-"

"Godammit, you're the valuable! And I will spend however long it takes for me to drill that through your skull!" He raises his voice, needing you to understand how much he and his boys have already fallen for you.

"What, you tryna ask me on a date?" You chuckle and reach for your doorknob.

"No," His hand grasps yours, swallowing it in the heat of himself, "I'm asking you to be mine."

Sorry this took so long! I wanted to do it justice but I can't think of anything else now... so I'm creatively pooped out... Have a great night/day!

[megalony]

Bound By Blood- Part 2

Thank you all for the lovely feedback on the first part of this new Evan Buckley series, I hope you will all like this next part.

Please let me know what you think.

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Evan Buckley Masterlist

Part 1

Summary: (Y/n) and Evan met in a support group, bonding over shared trauma. And now, they're going to have a baby together. But it isn't so easy when (Y/n)'s family is complicated and they put far too much pressure on her.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was going to be sick. She knew it.

(Y/n) pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and closed her eyes, willing herself not to throw up in the car. Although she knew if she did, it would be the perfect excuse to get Evan to turn the car around and take her home.

Her fingers twitched as she pressed her hand firmer against her mouth until her lips were meshing against her teeth so much so that they were almost bleeding. It helped her straighten her head and try to keep her breakfast in her stomach where nature intended, rather than the footwell of Evan's jeep.

She decided to press her temple against the cold glass of the window on her right and her feet tapped and jittered against the floor.

She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be back at the apartment, safe and sound and tucked up watching a film with Evan. (Y/n) didn't want to be going out to visit her parents. This was the last thing she wanted to do, it was exactly what she wanted to avoid. But she couldn't.

As much as she wanted to, (Y/n) couldn't avoid her family forever. It had been two days since her dad called her in the middle of the night, asking her to come down to see Adam at hospital.

She had successfully avoided each and every phone call her parents made, and gave short, curt responses to the dozens of texts she'd received. Asking her why she wasn't calling, why she wouldn't come down to the hospital. Why she hadn't yet made arrangements for a bone marrow transplant which they clearly thought she owed Adam. Just like every other donation in her life.

"Evan I- I don't wanna do this." The words barely made it past (Y/n)'s lips as her stomach tensed and churned and her shoulders began to quake.

She almost jumped in her seat when she felt Evan's hand on her thigh and his fingers began to dance across her skin, roaming her inner thigh as he turned to glance over at her. Pain and sympathy flooded his pupils and his lips formed a pout.

He wished there was something he could to do make this easier for (Y/n), but he couldn't go and talk to her parents on his own. She had to be with him, even if she didn't want to.

And they couldn't prolong this or drag it out. That wasn't an option. Her parents were already hounding her about Adam and helping him, so she and Evan had to explain why that wasn't going to be an option for the next few months.

"I know sweetheart, but we have to tell them." He gave her thigh a light squeeze and glanced across at her again before he had to divert his eyes back to the road.

(Y/n) knew they didn't have a choice. She knew her parents had to find out now or else things would only get worse from here on out. But it was the part of telling them that she couldn't stand. Because she knew how they would respond and how they would act once they knew.

It would be as if the world had ended and (Y/n) had betrayed her family and all that they stood for. They would make this a life or death situation. (Y/n) would be a cruel, heartless person in the eyes of her family, even if that wasn't the case.

(Y/n) could feel tears welling up in her eyes when Evan pulled up outside her parent's home.

Had they arrived already? How had they been in the car long enough to arrive here? Surely they had a bit more time for (Y/n) to try and calm herself down and prepare for this?

All night hadn't been long enough for (Y/n) to prepare and go over this conversation in her head. She tried. She tried to think of every possible answer they might say and every rebuttal she could give, but it didn't calm her down or make her feel prepared at all.

"I wanna go home."

(Y/n) didn't realise she had said that outloud until Evan took off his belt and leaned over the console so he was closer to her. She could see the sorrow building up in his eyes and the way his lips pressed together in a thin line to try and stop from frowning and giving away how upset this was making him too.

He hated to see (Y/n) so panicked, especially when this was her own family and they were supposed to be giving them good news.

"Baby, I promise as soon as we've told them, we can go. We don't have to stay long, but if we don't tell them now they're gonna wonder why you're not at the hospital. There isn't much choice right now."

Evan couldn't see any other way around this. If (Y/n) didn't tell her parents they would be calling incessantly or turning up at the apartment demanding to know why she wasn't donating to her brother. And this wasn't something that (Y/n) could tell them over text message because they would undoubtedly ring her to confirm and badger her about this news.

If her parents lost their tempers or started to become rude, Evan would bring (Y/n) straight home. They would leave immediately. And Evan was going to be by her side, he wasn't simply dropping her off and leaving. This was their baby, their news to give and he would support (Y/n) through this because they both knew her parents weren't going to be as happy and thrilled as they should be.

(Y/n) leant her head into Evan's touch when his hand cupped the side of her face, and she did her best to ward off tears.

She could taste the cherry lip balm Evan always used when he kissed her and his warm lips were soothing and stopped her from breathing too shallow and slipping into a panic attack.

The feeling of his thumb gliding across her cheek was comforting and when they parted, (Y/n) nudged her nose against his and reached out to hold his wrist, as if ensuring he didn't remove his touch from her.

"Come on, the sooner we do this, the sooner we can leave."

Evan's words were encouraging, but (Y/n) still didn't feel any better about this. Her teeth sank down into her lower lip and once she stepped down from the jeep, she felt like she was going to swoon.

Her hand began to scratch along the back of her neck, an old nervous habit that stopped the moment Evan stood by her side and looped his arm around her shoulders to get her to relent. His hand feathered up and down her shoulder and his lips attached to the side of her head as he stood as close to her as he could get.

Both (Y/n)'s hands started to fiddle and ring out in front of her as they walked up the path that led to her parent's front door.

Her old home. The place (Y/n) had been so desperate to escape. The home that she left behind when she was eighteen and desperate for a sense of freedom she'd never felt before. Although moving out hadn't done anything to stop (Y/n) from being needed and used by her family, despite not being under the same roof as them anymore.

(Y/n) didn't knock on the door, despite this not being her home for some time now, she still had a key and she knew she could always come in.

"Mum? We're here," It was hard to steel her voice and make herself sound normal and at ease when every nerve within her was tangled and frazzled and ready to burn out.

She reached behind her the moment Evan's arm slipped from her shoulders and she deadlocked their fingers together, holding his arm close to her side as if to ensure he wasn't going to back away and leave her here alone.

When she rang her parents yesterday, she asked if she and Evan could come round for a drink and a chat, and that they could talk about Adam. She didn't say she had news to tell them because she didn't want them guessing or thinking the worst or having time to prepare an argument. She knew this wasn't going to be an easy conversation whether it was sugar coated or not.

Not like when they would be able to tell Maddie and the team. (Y/n) knew Evan was ecstatic and excited to tell them. He wanted to tell Maddie first, seeing how she had raised him. Then he wanted to tell Bobby and Athena, who had become surrogate parents to him. He wanted to tell the team too, Evan wanted everyone in his close knit circle to know, and then he would think about telling his own parents.

He knew they would try to be happy, they would smile and say this was such a good thing and that he would be a good dad. But it wouldn't be the same as when Maddie and Chimney had Jee. They would never be as happy for Evan as they had been for Maddie, and that was okay. As long as the team were excited and accepting, Evan didn't have any expectations from his parents and their reactions wouldn't bother him either way.

A soft "In here," called through and (Y/n) guided Evan towards the living room where her mother's voice sounded from.

Evan had met her parents before, but not for long. She had brought him round for dinner once, and they'd met for a coffee another time and Evan had met Adam.

But (Y/n) knew her parents hadn't known what to say or what to think when they found out where (Y/n) and Evan met. They seemed to think that Evan would be a bad influence on (Y/n), that he would push her away from donating to her brother.

And in a way, they were right, but that didn't make Evan a bad influence. Helping (Y/n) stand up for herself and say no and have her own choice was a good thing, even if it upset her family. But they had to learn they couldn't control her for the rest of her life.

That was a lesson they were going to learn within the next hour.

(Y/n) tried her best to force a smile once they walked into the living room and she guided Evan along with her towards the sofa. She almost felt bad when she sat as close to Evan as possible, like she was squishing him or being too clingy. But she calmed down when she felt his hand on her thigh and his lips against the side of her head.

He wanted her as close as possible, it let him stay calm too and allowed him to keep an eye on (Y/n) and know when she was starting to panic and when she was okay.

"Do you both want a drink?"

(Y/n) nodded, although her mum was already smiling and disappearing out the room to make a round of coffee for them all.

She looked across at where her dad was sitting, he was in his usual armchair with a puzzle book beside him and one leg crossed over the other. He smiled across at them, resting his cheek against his hand.

"You both okay? You didn't sound too good on the phone yesterday."

"Yeah, yeah I was tired. Evan's been working nights this week." (Y/n) looked up at Evan and the look in her eyes was as if she wanted saving. But the calming smile she was faced with settled one of the many butterflies coming to life in her stomach and when he squeezed her leg she shivered.

"Rough shifts?"

"No actually, a lot of panicked mishaps than catastrophes or fires. The nights were almost easier than the days."

Work hadn't been too bad this week. Evan never considered his job bad, but he did consider it hard. The nights had been easy compared to what he was used to. It was easy calls, people who seemed to be hypochondriacs and fretted over the wrong things, no one dying on their shift or attacking loved ones or harming those around them. They didn't feel like they were walking into fire these last few shifts.

Evan leant in towards (Y/n) a little more, but he felt rather calm at the moment, considering how Carl was smiling towards him and nodding almost approvingly.

He knew that (Y/n)'s parents weren't happy about the way they met, through a support group that would help (Y/n) find her own way in the world and help her to stop feeling like she had to give every part of herself to Adam. He knew they didn't like how Evan empowered (Y/n) and tried to give her freedom. But at least he earned their respect with his job and his calm demanour and how he was always calm around them and tried to diffuse any arguments that arose.

"That's good, I know (Y/n) worries when you do nights." Carl nodded his head towards (Y/n) who was sure her skin was radiating enough heat to battle the sun by now.

And shivers of enticement were coursing up and down her spine when Evan's lips hovered over her ear where he pressed a few soft kisses and murmured "Oh you do?" in her ear.

"Here we are."

(Y/n) watched her mum bring a tray of drinks through and set them down on the coffee table. And she gladly accepted the cup she was offered, feeling a small spark of hope in her chest when she realised her mum had given her a caramel latte, something (Y/n) was partial to.

It wasn't often that (Y/n) felt normal around her family. She always felt like she was walking on egg shells or blending in with the shadows. She felt like everyone was always waiting for Adam to go into remission, and when he did, they started to wait for the day he would get worse again.

Her life revolved around Adam, all of theirs did. There weren't many times when (Y/n) could sit with her parents and talk and feel like they were a true family. Like her parents truly loved and appreciated her, and seeing that her mum took the time to make her a drink she preferred made (Y/n) wonder if this situation might just work out the way she longed for it to.

Evan took the cup he was offered, giving a quick "Thank you," before he brought the drink to his lips. Everyone was always shocked when he could drink coffee scolding hot right from the kettle or if he was desperate or in a rush he would drink black coffee if it was easier. Anything to get his caffene fix.

He held back his cringe and forced himself to smile instead, despite tasting that the coffee had no sugar in. He liked at least three heaps of sugar in any drink he had, but Evan didn't expect them to know or take notice of that, and he wasn't about to be rude and complain for sugar.

"So, what brings you round? Not that we aren't happy to see you both, but I think there's a reason." Sally reclined in her chair near (Y/n)'s end of the sofa and she crossed one leg over the other while she looked towards the couple.

She knew nowadays that if (Y/n) asked to come round, there was usually a reason behind it. Especially since she had brought Evan along with her.

(Y/n) tried her best to take a deep breath after a few sips of coffee that did nothing to settle her system. Her hands were almost trembling causing the cup in her hands to rattle against the few rings on her fingers, until she tried to focus on the feeling of Evan's hand periodically squeezing her thigh.

She glanced her eyes up to the left, peering up at Evan out the corner of her eyes. And she found him nodding and trying to smile encouragingly. It was now or never, they had to try and explain.

"We, we have some news to tell you."

This was it. Time to upset them. Time to turn their world upside down like they did to (Y/n) every time she seemed to find herself and have something of her own.

She set her cup down on the coffee table, noticing the way her dad sat up straighter in his seat and uncrossed his legs like she was about to tell him something bad or some formal news. Perhaps she was. Maybe that was how they were going to see this news.

And she couldn't help but stare at her mum, trying to gage her expression and read her mind. Her mum looked intrigued and that little quirk in her lips made (Y/n)'s stomach clench because she knew she was about to wipe that smile from her face in the next minute.

"Oh?"

Reaching down, (Y/n) shifted Evan's hand that was clenching her thigh so their fingers were entwined. She began tapping her fingers against the back of his hand while their palms suctioned together and (Y/n) held onto him so tightly that she caused Evan's arm to shake.

"I'm pregnant."

(Y/n) wasn't quite sure if the words had come out her mouth or if she had simply imagined herself saying them, because neither of her parents seemed to react.

She could feel Evan's leg beginning to jitter as his heel bashed against the carpet in anxious habit. And she knew he heard her because he squeezed her hand like he was trying to give her some of his courage and energy and willpower.

But her parents were motionless.

Her dad was gripping his cup tighter until it looked like he was going to break the porcelean and (Y/n) was sure she could see his jaw clicking and moving, but he didn't try and speak. He looked at her gone out, caught between wanting to smile and wanting to cry because it was clear he knew what this meant. No more handouts for Adam. No more blood transfusions or bone marrow or stem cells. No donations.

When she dared to look at her mum, a quiet whimper bubbled up at the back of (Y/n)'s throat and she slumped against Evan's shoulder like she was beginning to melt.

Her mum was crying.

And not the kind of tears that one would expect after hearing this news. Sally wasn't beaming from ear to ear, her eyes didn't sparkle or water with happiness. Her lips weren't forming a wide smile or a gaping expression of shock and pleasure. She wasn't fighting off happy trembles and she wasn't getting up to wrap them both in a hug of joy.

She was sat there, eyes red and seething with panic and disbelief and her lips were now curling into something similar to a snarl.

The way she slammed her cup down on the table caused (Y/n) to jolt into Evan's side and her free hand clutched his wrist like she was suddenly afraid of her parents.

"You… do you know what this means?" Sally pressed one hand to her mouth like she had just been told that (Y/n) had three months to live, not that she was going to bring a new life into the world.

A tear trickled down (Y/n)'s cheek and she could feel that familiar burning behind her eyes and nose that threatened to let loose the dam that was holding her tears at bay. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to burst into tears and start sobbing and becoming too emotional to speak. (Y/n) wanted to have this conversation and make her parents understand that this was a good thing, not an omen.

They had to treat her with some sort of respect and understand that this was her life. (Y/n) had every right to do as she pleased, to have a child if she wanted and become a true family with Evan. They were adults, (Y/n) was an adult, she had complete control and rights over her own body.

"Mum please, please don't do this. Please be happy for us."

"(Y/n) I'm trying, but you must know what this means for Adam. He's in the hospital again, he needs you and now you can't help him."

She did. (Y/n) knew what it meant for Adam, and for her parents too. It meant they couldn't rely on her, it meant they couldn't bully her into agreeing and giving up whatever her brother needed to extend a life that was slowly weaning away.

It meant (Y/n) was finally having a life of her own that was hers to choose and do with as she pleased.

She would be having a child out of love, not desperation. (Y/n) would ensure her child never felt the way she did, that they never felt they were here simply to fulfil a job role rather than to be loved and wanted.

There was a big difference between being wanted from paternal yearning and being wanted to perform a lifelong duty.

(Y/n) sometimes wondered if her parents saw her as an employee rather than a child. They had her to save Adam, the same as Evan's parents had him to save Daniel. The only difference was that Evan hadn't been able to save his brother. (Y/n) was still extending her brother's life and she knew that if she didn't put her foot down soon, she would be doing this forever.

There had to be a limit. There had to be a chance where (Y/n) could make her own choices and decide whether she wanted to donate or whether she wanted to say no. If it wasn't in her best interest, she had no obligation. There was no contract binding her into every medical procedure that Adam needed.

It felt like a heatwave was surrounding (Y/n) and her skin prickled as beads of sweat began to roll down her skin from the anxiety within her that was spiking high. She wondered if Evan could feel the amount of heat she seemed to be giving off or whether he was too infuriated to notice.

One look at Evan's expression told (Y/n) that he wasn't happy and he was clearly finding it hard to bite his tongue.

He didn't want to get involved too soon and snap at her parents when this was something (Y/n) needed to try and talk through first. But Evan wouldn't wait long before he butted in if they continued to be this crude and selfish.

"What about me? Can I not be happy?" There was something about (Y/n)'s broken tone that sounded deadly, as if something horrible would happen if her parents had the nerve to answer yes, she could not be happy.

Didn't (Y/n) deserve some happiness in her life? Had she not surpassed expectations and done more than most in her situation? Didn't that grant her some leeway and a life of her own by now?

Or was she supposed to waste away her entire life and make her one and only purpose to be Adam's bag of goods, ready and waiting for when he needed her? If that were so (Y/n) might as well give up any expectation of a relationship, a family and even a job. She should resign herself to live in the hospital. Be stored in with the blood bags and wait until she was needed to be poked and prodded for anything worth Adam's life.

A quiet sound left her mum's lips which almost resembled a whimper, as if she were the one going through this turmoil instead of (Y/n).

Sally dropped her head to rest on her hand that was trembling so badly her elbow was almost sliding off the arm rest. She looked torn, like she couldn't quite find the words to say but (Y/n) knew whatever her mum said, it wasn't going to be comforting.

"Your brother needs you."

"Haven't I helped him enough?"

The snappy tone to (Y/n)'s voice seemed to catch her dad off guard who up to now, had sat as quiet and still as a mouse. His teeth were visibly chomping down on his bottom lip like a horse at the bit and his nose was twitching, clearly trying to hold his tears at bay.

"He's had everything from me, this is finally something t-that's mine." (Y/n) found her free hand automatically hovering over her stomach as she spoke, and it caused tears to begin to trickle down her face again.

Nothing was going to ruin this for her and Evan. This is what they wanted and (Y/n) wouldn't accept being told that she was selfish or that she wasn't thinking of Adam. She had no need or responsibility to be thinking about him when she was living her own life the way she pleased. She couldn't be held accountable for Adam's health.

No other donor in the world was held to such high standards. If she were an anonymous donor no one would expect so much of her.

"He's sick and he needs bone marrow. You're his match, (Y/n), you should be helping him."

The brisk, cold tone of her dad's voice caused (Y/n) to shudder and she found herself leaning to the left until she was practically imbedding herself into Evan's chest.

And when her head tilted down and her gaze focused on her and Evan's entwined hands, she could feel Evan's chest rumbling like a volcano on the brink of exploding.

His fingers began to twitch and tap against the back of (Y/n)'s hand and his foot was tapping so violently against the floor that he was practically putting an indent in the carpet. They were upsetting her. They were trying to guilt trip her into a situation she couldn't possible get into or get herself out of. How could they bully her into this and think that it was okay or that they could ever be deserving of forgiveness after this?

It made Evan wonder if his own life would have been something even remotely similar to (Y/n)'s if Daniel had lived. Would his parents have pressured and bullied him into donating to his big brother every chance they got? Would they have forced Evan's hand or guilt-tripped and panicked him into being a life-long donor?

Would they have loved him more if Daniel lived and Evan had been useful to them?

He didn't know, and he didn't want to know because if his life had been anything close to (Y/n)'s, Evan would have ruined it. He would have imploded, he would have snapped and broken their family apart and he would have gone on self destruct if he dealt with this kind of abuse and pressure.

And he guessed that his relationship with Maddie wouldn't be so close or strong if Daniel had lived, because there would have been no need for Maddie to step in and raise Evan as if he were her own.

"Seriously? You get told you're having a grandchild and you can't even be happy for us?" Evan seethed the words through gritted teeth like they were the hardest thing he'd ever had to say.

This was their first grandchild, they weren't likely to have any from Adam which should make it even more precious that they now had a chance with (Y/n). They were supposed to be overjoyed and celebrating, not degrading and tormenting (Y/n).

If they carried on they had to realise that they were only going to push (Y/n) and the baby away. Evan wouldn't let his child be around such toxic people, if they couldn't treat (Y/n) with respect and kindness, let alone love, like proper parents should, then they wouldn't be around his child.

Evan grazed his free hand along his chin while he looked between the couple who he was growing to despise.

He had always acted kind towards them, he had been generous and calm and never spoke out against them when he had every right. But his fuse was burning low now. He wouldn't hold his tongue on such an important and sensitive subject.

The look in his eyes was one that couldn't be rivalled and Evan raised his head as his gaze locked with Carl who looked like he wanted to snap and shout, but he didn't have the willpower.

Carl sat forward in his seat, almost as if he was trying to match Evan's stance and his level of outrage, but he came up short compared to the emotions fit to burst within Evan. He locked his hands together and rested them between his parted knees, inching forward again until he was looking across the coffee table at his daughter who could barely manage to lift her gaze towards him.

"Sweetheart, we have to think about Adam, this sets him back if he can't have a donation-"

"Is that all (Y/n)'s worth to you?"

A grumble left Carl's lips at Evan's interruption and he shot his gaze towards the younger man who raised a brow as if tempting Carl into a rebuttal and dare to agree with him.

They could never admit that. Throughout (Y/n)'s life, she had been made to believe that her worth was what she could do for Adam. If she donated and it worked, she was praised and kissed and shown affection and love. If her donations didn't work, they would hum and say that it was okay, she could keep donating until her brother went into remission.

And once she turned a teen and started to rebel and ask why she was obligated to donate, they would treat her like the enemy. She was shunned, ignored, shouted at and told how cruel she was being for not submitting and helping her brother whenever he needed.

(Y/n) knew her worth was set on what she would agree to do for her brother, but it was still hard to accept and to see that confirmation plastered across her parent's faces. And the fact that they couldn't even admit it was worse.

"Of course not!"

A broken laugh emitted from (Y/n)'s lips and she shook her head as a cynical smile twisted across her features.

Their denial wasn't as convincing as their gospel about her purpose in life being to donate to Adam. They could preach that until the world ended and have everyone believing them, but they couldn't convince their own daughter that they truly loved her like they loved their son.

"I've donated all my life, this is the only time I've said no. Why can't you smile, why can't you look at me and see that I'm happy? This is the only grandchild you're likely to get, appreciate that."

(Y/n)'s sudden outburst was surprising to Evan, but it made his heart swell with pride at the same time.

During group, Evan had noticed that (Y/n) had been the kind to struggle with coming to terms with her life. She was someone who knew why she was in that support group, but hadn't quite found her feet yet. Everyone else was angry, overwhelmed, lost after saying no and trying to overcome the oppression they were put under.

Seeing (Y/n) stand up to her parents and do something for herself, it was an achievement. She was saying what she wanted to do, she wasn't giving in or feeling belittled and told how to run her own life.

Her hand clenched Evan's so tight that she was almost crushing his knuckles and he watched quietly as she moved their joined hands and held them over her torso. As if she was either trying to calm herself down or put up some kind of barrier, like the baby already needed protection from her parents.

"You're happy at Adam's expense. Sweetheart you have you're whole life ahead of you to do whatever you like, he doesn't." The smile on Sally's face was a mixture of heartbreak and unease.

She didn't want to be having this conversation, and she couldn't see how wrong she was.

But she seemed to understand how her words were affecting her daughter who let out a huff as her lips began to wobble, threatening to spill cries and sobs into the room.

At his expense? What was she talking about? Adam had no right over (Y/n) or her body or what she did with her life. He didn't own her. He might be the reason she was alive, but that gave him no more rights over (Y/n) than the doctor who had genetically combined her cells.

"My- my whole life? My life has been sitting around waiting to be useful for him. You expect me to wait until everything passes me by and I lose a lifetime, for what? How is this fair? He lives in hospital, it's not a good enough life to waste mine on."

Rage seethed through every word (Y/n) spoke until she was shaking back and forth and Evan had to curve his arm around her waist and coil her into his chest to try and calm her down. He didn't want her making herself sick or getting so pent up she went into a panic attack. If that happened he would take her straight home. Not that they would be staying here for much longer anyway.

(Y/n)'s life was never her own until she joined that support group and started making decisions to make herself happy.

She was trying to do things for herself, she went abroad on holiday with Evan and didn't think or ask about Adam. She didn't ask whether he needed her or think of the consequences of getting an infection or illness while away and how that could make Adam sick or wait longer for donations.

(Y/n) was living her own life now, and Adam couldn't prevent that. She gave him donations which extended his life, but his life revolved around that hospital. It was practically his home. (Y/n) didn't want to keep extending his life at her own expense.

She had a chance of having a family, of living her life and being happy. For once in all their lives, Adam's wants and needs could take a back seat and (Y/n) could have priority.

"You're awfully quiet." Carl began to run his hands up and down his knees as he straightened up from stooping forward to sitting as level as a plank of wood. And his eyes fixated on Evan who was taken by surprise at the attention suddenly turning to him.

He didn't like the sneer on Carl's face, or how it seemed to imply that Evan was somehow a problem. Of course he was. In their eyes, Evan was leading (Y/n) astray, he was pushing her to be herself and not think of Adam, and that was wrong in their eyes.

"Do you have something to say?"

"Dad." (Y/n) hissed towards Carl, hating the accusing tone in his voice that was aimed at Evan. He didn't deserve any of this. Evan didn't deserve to be integrated into such a messed up family and he certainly didn't deserve their anger.

But she felt Evan squeeze her hand and he pecked her temple before he sat forward, clearly directing his attention towards her parents.

"I'm sorry about Adam, really, but you're willing to ruin and take away (Y/n)'s life to give him a micro improvement and that's not fair. When has she ever said no to you? She went to therapy for what you've put her through and she still couldn't deny to help him. One time in her life she's saying no for her own health and benefit, you can't seriously be this heartless."

Sally shook her shoulders and straightened up, but she turned her head away. She didn't like what Evan was implying and she didn't have the words to answer him.

And she certainly didn't like that (Y/n) had gone to therapy, she hated that support group that proved how wrong they had been in raising (Y/n) and how badly they had treated her.

(Y/n) noted how Evan's foot wasn't tapping as incessantly against the carpet anymore, and she figured he had put some of his nervous energy into words and now that he had stunned her parents, he felt a bit better. She let her head drop back against his shoulder and tried to close her eyes.

She was beginning to feel sick again, but they couldn't leave with the conversation so stilted like this. They had to talk, this had to be sorted out. Her parents would have to explain everything to Adam and get him on the donor list.

They would have to accept this or risk losing (Y/n) and in turn, losing their grandchild and her willingness to ever donate again.

Her head stayed resting on Evan's broad shoulder, but (Y/n) craned her eyes to look over at her mum when she hummed and started to speak again. And there was a tiny amount of hope that was starting to swirl in her mum's watering eyes that made (Y/n)'s chest tighten in suspense.

"You… you definitely can't donate, when you're pregnant?"

"You're fucking unbelievable." Evan spat the words as his frame tensed up and locked in place like his muscles had turned to stone.

His words made (Y/n) flinch and cower down against his chest, which she turned to mesh her face against so she didn't have to bother staring at her parents. She could see that hope in her mum's eyes fading away the moment Evan cursed at her.

She hadn't been hoping for anything to do with (Y/n) or reconciling or the thought of having a grandchild. She was hoping that (Y/n) would put herself and her baby in jeopardy to continue being used as a pin cushion for Adam.

How cruel and heartless could her mum truly be?

"Evan," (Y/n) whimpered into Evan's chest, but it didn't do any good. He wasn't going to relent now he had heard that.

His hand slid from her tight grip so he could bind his arm around her waist, keeping her tucked into his chest where she was hiding away like a child trying to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

"Do you know how dangerous that is? They won't let pregnant women donate blood because it causes iron deficiency, what the fuck do you think would happen if you took cells from bone marrow? If she got an infection or got sepsis she could miscarry. You'd really consider that?"

Evan began to shake with the amount of chaos and frustration surging through his veins.

They were really that uncaring towards their own daughter. They were really going to prioritise their son over (Y/n) and her baby. They would risk (Y/n)'s health, they would risk her losing her baby and for what? A mere few months of Adam trying to go into remission and living a dull life in the hospital?

Bone marrow donations were big surgery. Needles that punctured right into the bone to extract the marrow that grew there which created blood cells. Doing that could risk (Y/n) getting an infection, she could develop sepsis from an infection and the surgery itself could push (Y/n) into miscarrying.

It was too risky, the hospital wouldn't perform this procedure even with (Y/n)'s expressed consent in case they were liable for any repercussions like miscarriage.

How did her parents expect (Y/n) to go through with this or that the hospital would allow it?

Adam wasn't in danger of imminent death. He had time, he could go on the donor list and see what matches cropped up over the next few weeks or months. (Y/n) wasn't their only option, and she was off limits now.

"You're both young, you could have more-"

Something between a gasp and a moan of agony left (Y/n)'s lips when she heard those words that were cut short by Evan bolting up from his seat. His arms stayed deadlocked around (Y/n), causing her to stumble up to her feet with him and once she was stood up, (Y/n) latched her hands into Evan's shirt and clung to him like he was her lifeline and letting go would cause her to drift out to sea.

Her face imbedded in Evan's shirt and she tried to breathe in his scent enough to calm herself down and forget what her parents were implying.

They would really risk her losing her baby for something that wasn't a cure or life-altering for Adam. They would risk her baby on the pretence that (Y/n) could always have another baby.

But she couldn't. If they would so easily risk this child, then (Y/n) could never have a baby unless her brother died and she was no longer needed. Because as long as she was needed, her life wasn't her own and her body wasn't under her own control.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence. I've restrained myself up to now, but if you cross that line, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens. We're leaving."

Evan was on the verging of losing his composure and his control, and if he heard them admit that they would risk his unborn baby for a weak chance at an extra month of Adam's life, then Evan would lose every ounce of control he had.

And they wouldn't want to see what would he would do if that were to happen.

He was taking (Y/n) home before she was further distressed by her sadistic parents. They were going home to forget this had ever happened and to cut contact with her parents until they came to their senses.

This was their baby, their family, and nothing was going to threaten or harm what they had together.

[heartyluv]

Note: My goodness, we’ve reached the end LOLLL. I just want to take the time to say thank you all so much for enjoying this little series. It started as a quick little angst fic, but then when I saw how many people asked for more, I knew I had to expand on it. Every single engagement with this story has made my heart so warm. I hope that you enjoy this final part!

Creds to @/kimjiho1 and @/strangergraphics for the dividers.

Warning: Smut (WE MADE IT), a gun gets pointed at you (NOT BY CALEB OMG), a little angsty, tooth-achingly sweet overall, they are so cute it’s insufferable

Word Count: 7K (Idek how..) I proofread so many times, but I do it on my own, so pleaseeee forgive me for any grammatical errors!

Summary: Finale! Part four to Ex-Husband!Caleb.

Part One • Part Two • Part Three

Ex-Husband!Caleb/Reader ~ Part Four

The kids were in bed earlier than usual because of how tired they were from all the fun they had with their father over the weekend as the house settled in comfortable silence. Officially, you were prepared for a night of doing absolutely nothing.

Unfortunately, Caleb had to cut their stay a little shorter than usual, hurriedly dropping them off in the early afternoon today. He had quickly explained as he handed you their bags, that he received a phone call from work. You wondered if he noticed how he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek as if it were routine before he told you he’d call you when he got there.

The kids were supposed to be back with you later in the evening, and he did up reaching out and apologized for the abrupt arrival. Caleb hated to have to cut time with them, but after being informed that it was an emergency that required his presence, you could let it slide this once.

Freshly showered, house clean, and your babies safe in their beds, you sat down to start a book you haven’t had the chance to pick up since you bought it. Despite it being a quarter to eleven, you weren’t even remotely tired, but it was only a few pages that were flipped before you were interrupted by your phone pinging with a text message.

Caleb ❤️: Hey, I’m outside. Didn’t want to ring the bell and wake the kids. Open up?

Immediately you were confused after reading it, truthfully a little concerned more than anything. Rushing up and off your corduroy couch, you pulled the front door open to find Caleb with a pink princess book bag slung over his shoulder and wearing the white dress shirt with black slacks you saw him in earlier. His clothes were slightly disheveled from a seemingly tough day, but he’s never looked so good. He smiled at you when greeted by your pretty face.

“Blythe forgot her book bag. With all the rushing, I didn’t even notice we never grabbed it on our way out.” His hand extends with it in tow for you to receive. “I got to my apartment and it was the brightest thing in my living room,” he chuckles. “Didn’t want anyone panicking about where it was tomorrow, so I thought it was best to drop it off.”

“Thanks.” You grin to yourself, all that worry immediately dissipating. For a moment, you wondered what Caleb’s apartment must look like if anything that wasn’t related to his little girl was a dull sight. It brought you a swift ache of sadness, but you quickly gathered yourself. “I wish you hadn’t drove all this way, through. They don’t have school tomorrow.”

“They don’t?” His head tilts to the side in thought.“Oh shit, you’re right. Teacher development.”

“Teacher development,” you say at the same time that he does. You appreciated that your kids’ school has a day every few months where teachers are to attend workshops to improve on their skills, curriculums, and yearly plans. You saw the positive result of that reinforcement in your children’s academic success and excitement daily.

“But, still, thank you. How are you, though? Was everything okay at work?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Just a last minute important meeting that I couldn’t miss. I’ll make it up to you and the kids.”

“It’s okay, Caleb. No worries. We understand.”

With tired eyes, he looks over you and suddenly, you feel naked despite your large t-shirt and sweatpants.

“I should head back,” he sighs. “It’s late and I need to eat something. Goodnight, pretty.”

A quick thought flashes in your mind as he gets ready to turn around. You wondered if it was a coincidence—perhaps fate?

“Wait,” you gently take hold of his bicep, trying your best to not groan at the way he effortlessly flexes in your clutch. “Guess what I made.” Caleb looks at where you touch him, his body relaxing immediately like muscle memory.

“You teasing me with something I can’t have?” He quirks a brow in amusement.

“Who said you couldn’t?”

The breathy laugh he exhales makes you grin wider. Since that first date with Caleb, you’ve gone on quite a few this last month. Successfully, you’re taking it slow—well, as slow as you could with a history like what you and he shared. It’s the happiest you’ve been, even if he was the one who originally brought you sadness so immense that you’d never wish it on anyone, in the first place.

Life was weird that way. What could shape and define you could also gain and own the power to absolutely crush everything that encompasses your entire existence. Whether Caleb intended to or not, that’s exactly what happened with your heart in his hands. But you could comfortably say that in this moment, there would never be a repeat of the latter.

You have fully accepted that you wanted this man back in your life. With the way that everything was lining up right now, you believed that the universe was just as accepting of that.

“What are you saying, baby?”

“I’m saying,” you pull him closer and he moves with ease as if drawn to you like a audience entranced by a powerful operatic chorus. “That I want to do something for you this time. I think you’ll be quite surprised when you see it.”

“You don’t have to do anything for me.” He places his other hand over yours, taking ahold of it and bringing your knuckles to his lips to kiss.

“Good thing I said that I wanted to, didn’t I?”

You don’t let him try and weasel his way out of something you know he wants, too. Caleb is never ashamed to admit how desperate he is to be with and around you—to be in your space. But he’s been so afraid of rushing anything because of the boundaries you initially set in place. You completely understood and thanked him consistently for it. That’s why you have to be the one to give him that nudge.

Once’s he’s pulled inside, you take his hand and lead him to the kitchen to sit at the island. He watches with curiosity as you fiddle with a pot of something on the stove after getting a plate from the cabinet.

You’re glad that you didn’t put dinner away with the intention of having some for yourself since you didn’t get the chance to eat from being so busy with house chores.

As the plate you made heated in the microwave, the most delicious smell entered Caleb’s nostrils—an aroma he would never dare to forget. He didn’t want to disrupt the peaceful silence, not just yet. Not until he was absolutely sure. But when you pulled the plate out after a few minutes and placed it in front of him, it took everything in him not to stand and kiss you.

“Your roast?” he says with shock as he looks up from the savory gravy spilling into the homemade mashed potatoes.

“Mhm,” you lean over the counter, holding yourself around your arms. “I bought one on my own a few days after we went grocery shopping together and I hadn’t had the courage to make it. I was afraid I lost my touch,” you shrugged. “Finally decided to give it a go, and what a coincidence that you show up, hm?”

You usher him to eat, knowing that he wants to hang onto every word you’re saying, but you want him to kill that hunger first. He doesn’t need further convincing—hell, he didn’t need it in the first place. You tentatively watch as he scoops up some of the food with the fork, bringing it to his mouth while you ramble as a way to protect your mind and heart from what he could say.

“It’s not as fresh, especially because it was in the microwave. I’m sorry if it’s not quite the same. It’s just been so long and I thought about how you said you’d like to have it again one da—”

“Baby,” he interrupts you. He goes in for another bite, like he needs further confirmation, making you push a gentle laugh out through your nose. “This…is fucking perfect.”

“Yeah? Honest?” you ask with a twinkle in your eyes at his praise. “I haven’t had the chance to try it myself, but the kids liked it. I’m happy you do, too.”

“Honest. I’d never lie to you, you know that.” The fork makes occasional clinks against the ceramic plate the more he indulges. Caleb didn’t want to ruin the moment by telling you that he hasn’t had a home cooked meal in so long that he couldn’t remember the last time. Since you two separated, he barely cooked for himself because being in the kitchen reminded him too much of all the times you were there with him. It reminded him of all the dinners he made you eat alone, all the times he should’ve been there and wasn’t.

“Wait, you haven’t eaten?” he asks, realization settling in.

You shake your head. “Just never got around to it, but I planned on eating when—”

“Aht, open your mouth.” He puts a generous amount of food on the fork, lifting it up to your lips. “I wouldn’t have let you feed me first if I knew that.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you roll your eyes, looking at the offering with a feeling of inappropriateness at the way he commanded you.

Caleb can’t help his dirty thoughts either as his cock stirs in his pants when your plump lips wrap around the metal he wishes he could switch places with. He has to look back at his food when you lick your lips of any potential residue, refusing to give his dick any false hope.

You were shocked by how good it was, honestly. But you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach anymore because your body was being distracted by a feeling that you’ve come to feel every time Caleb is around you for longer than twenty minutes without fail.

Need.

It wasn’t without difficulty as you tried to engage in conversation with him after he finished up and cleaned the kitchen for you. He put the leftovers away in their respective containers, rolled up his sleeves, and conversed with you while washing the dishes that he refused to let you touch. Soon after when he finished, the water was turned off and he dried his hands.

It was a moment of silence and you took advantage of it to completely analyze him. His soft hair that rested against his brows, his slender nose that you missed tracing, the mouth you’ve kissed too many times as of late, the angular shape of his jaw, his thick neck that you missed licking.

He was perfect. So perfect that the words that fell from your lips scared you despite how right they felt.

“Caleb,” you call to him, making him give you his attention. “I miss you.”

The memory of how he expressed that same thing to you on Christmas Eve causes the man to grow tense. Now that you were admitting it too, there was a sense of being complete that shook him to his core.

“You miss me?” he repeats with a whisper, needing you to say it again so he knows he’s not dreaming. He would hope there wasn’t anything out there to be so cruel to him, but still, he needed confirmation.

You decide that there was no more fear needed, no more trying to keep up walls that he has already knocked down.

You love him—so fucking much. Admitting that to yourself set you free in a way that gives you everlasting peace. There was no point in waiting anymore, no such thing as slow with the way your heart rapidly beat in your chest. You’re sick of trying to prove a point that’s been lost the deeper you’ve fallen for him all over again—sick of feeling guilty for loving him despite everything he put you through.

Like he’s told you before, he has a lifetime with you to correct it all.

“I do.” Your breath is heady as you get closer to him, letting your folded arms drop. You need to be the one to shatter this thin facade of glass that’s been weakened with every encounter.

He studies your face—seeing the longing that matches his own. Your hand comes up to his jaw, cupping his face as your thumb glides across his soft lips. His shakily exhales, becoming putty under your touch.

He holds your hand against his cheek, turning his head just enough to kiss your wrist that has the faint smell of his favorite perfume that he keeps a bottle of. The contact makes your core tingle as he savors your closeness.

“I want it,” you push out, unable to help yourself anymore. Caleb’s eyes flick to you with a swiftness, his throat working to swallow before he can speak. “You. I want you.”

“Where do you want me, baby?” he says lowly, the desire etched into your features unmistakable.

Your eyes flutter, unable to vocalize anything further with the ache in you craving nothing but him in and on you. You meet in the middle, your lips crashing into each other’s as he pulls you in by your waist to keep you flushed against him.

Frenziedly you grab onto him, your hands finding anchor in his hair the harder he kisses you. You whimper into his mouth as he exhales through a moan, his hands sweeping down your back to grab your ass like it’ll merge you together.

The wet sounds of your mouths caressing and your saliva mixing makes your pussy pulse. Impatiently, your hands come to the buttons of his shirt, pulling at them to reveal him to you in a way you haven’t been able to see in far too long. He doesn’t stop you, matching your efforts by tugging on the waistband of your sweats.

“Fuck this,” he mumbles, hastily lifting you up to make your legs wrap around his waist. There was no such thing as heavy when it came to a man like Caleb. It took him zero effort to hold you up as he walked to the bedroom you and he once shared.

As quietly as he can, he shuts the door with his foot then places you down on the bed. Thankful for the light that you’ve always kept on in the bedroom, he can kiss your lips a few more times before he hesitantly separates to lock the door. He’s back on top of you in seconds though, making you fall back into the plush mattress as his shirt is finally pulled down his broad shoulders. It falls somewhere of little importance as he presses gentle kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

“I miss you, too,” he says in between his pecs. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I’ve done.”

Your legs spread wider to let him press deeper, your fingers gliding through his scalp as he pours his heart out. “You’ve always been mine, always been my wife…and ‘m so sorry for taking that for granted. I’m sorry for hurting you—for breaking us. I’m sorry for abandoning you.”

“Caleb…” you cry out softly as he stands. “Please…”

“I know, pretty.” You can’t stop looking at the bulge in his pants and his strong hands that work to undo his belt. “I need to hear you tell me you want my cock... Just once, baby. Please...”

You’ve never been so horny and turned on in your life. You don’t want to just watch him though, so you sit up to help rid him of the rest of his garments. He looks into your eyes as you gaze up at him, your delicate fingers unbuttoning his pants while you nestle your cheek in his hand that tenderly touches your face. Swiftly, you pull them down his strong thighs.

“I want my husband back.” His pupils dilate at the way you claim him. “I want you to fuck me like you used to. Make me feel what it was like to be full of your cock again, Caleb…”

He can’t think straight. His abs ripple with every breath, incapable of waiting any longer and using all his strength to pull you up further into the bed with him after getting his slacks and everything else all the way.

“Tell me you forgive me,” he begs, his voice cracking with emotion at the way your eyes linger on him with so much love. He yanks your sweatpants and your panties down your legs, the sight of your pussy nearly making a fool out of the desperate man.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” you admit.

His body trembles as he goes for your shirt next, your full breasts a sight he’s missed so fucking much when he removes it. He fulfills his selfish desire of tasting you, sucking your hardened nipples into his mouth. You quietly moan, not wanting to be too loud no matter how much you wish you could be.

Your hips buck up, grinding against his clothed erection but feeling every part of him so perfectly despite the thin barrier. He feasts on you like the starved man he’s been at the loss of such bliss for far too long.

“Put it in, please…” you implore. “I can’t…it’s too much…”

He nods into your flesh, his mouth slightly parted as he braces a hand on the side of your head. You assist him in pulling his underwear down, his cock gently making contact with your hot cunt. You both moan at the brief touch, the sight of his precum leaking onto your puffy lips nearly causing him to come without even being inside you yet.

“Look at me when I slide in,” he asks sweetly. “I want your eyes on me.”

You listen, staring into his intense gaze as the head of his cock catches at your tight hole. Your eyes nearly flutter shut, but you heed his command, struggling to keep them open.

“That’s it,” he groans, his hips slowly inching forward. “Fuck, you still take me so well…”

Your back arches off the sheets below you when his entire length fills you, taking everything that is you and making it his.

You can’t stop squeezing him. Your body knew that it missed him as mush as your heart did.

Tears well in your eyes, causing you to sniffle from the overwhelming feeling of it all. Caleb leans down to kiss your eyes, his cock pulsing inside of you as he waits for you to give him the okay.

“Move,” you mewl. “Please…please move…”

Caleb begins by grinding into you before he pulls back almost completely before sinking back inside as your gummy walls suck him in. He starts gaining a consistent pace, trying not to fuck you too fast or he’ll come before you do.

“You’re so tight, hah—fuck…” he breathes, watching how your wetness makes a mess on his cock. Your cunt can’t stop squelching, making a point of telling him how good you feel without a word needing to be uttered from your lips.

He pulls your hands that grab at his back, one by one, placing them beside your head as his fingers glide against your palm before intertwining with yours. Caleb’s memorized by the way your tits jump every time he thrusts into you, his composure faltering with every tight movement within your walls.

Soft plaps of skin become the only sound relevant besides the heavy breathing and slight creaks of the bed.

You’ve been trying to keep your sounds low, but when he reaches deeper into you, his balls slapping against you every time he’s sheathed completely in your heat, you cry out so loud that he has to kiss you to keep you silent—no matter how much he wants to hear it.

Hot tears falls down your face from the pleasure of his hands holding yours so tight, his tongue moving within your mouth, and his cock snuggly moving inside of you.

“I love you,” you weep, feeling your orgasm approach. “Caleb, I love you…”

“Oh, baby…” he grunts, his grinding against your clit. “I love you, too…So much,” he kisses your lips, the quick press wet and messy. “So fucking much…”

You’re crying like a valve has been broken inside of you. You want to be embarrassed but you can’t be, not when he starts to sniffle above you, burying his face in your neck.

“Let me touch you..” you beg. His hands fall away from yours, his forearms bracing on either side of you while your hands tightly grabbing his hair as his onslaught rocks you up and down. It’s not fast enough to be considered rough and not too slow that it frustrates you. Similar to this moment—it’s absolutely perfect.

“Can I come inside?” he whispers meekly, his voice racked with emotion.

“Yes…”

With his hard chest against your tits and your nipples grazing against him, you come so hard that you have to bite his shoulder to suppress your sounds. Caleb does the same to your neck, licking at his bite as his cum starts to flood your womb.

The more you squeeze him, the more his cum leaks out of your hole. He sits up, his cheeks just as wet with tears as yours are.

“I missed this.” He kisses your nose. “I can’t wait to marry you again,” he mumbles.

You smile when he wipes your tears and you do the same for him.

“Neither can I.”

When you stir awake the next morning, you frown to find your bed empty. It’s the faint sound of Caleb’s voice somewhere in the house that relaxes your mind. As you take a deep breath, the memories of last night make you cover your face with a grin so wide that it makes your heart sing.

After the emotional sex, Caleb cleaned you up before sliding into the spot next to you and immediately fell asleep with you tightly wrapped in his arms. You touch your lips as you think about the way he kissed you, your neck in memory of how he breathed and cried into you, down your breasts as if you could still feel the way he sucked on your nipples.

You were so gone for him that you wondered if you’ve fallen harder than the first time you ever did.

After sliding out of the bed, you throw on a fresh shirt and shorts to go see where your man went. You take a peek into your kids’ room before you head downstairs, only to find it empty. It makes you smile at the scene you know you’ll see.

“Daddy, I want a heart pancake!” Blythe pouts loudly.

“I want a dinosaur, daddy!” Jonah adds in.

Soft music plays as you round the corner and you see that Blythe is sitting at the table coloring while Jonah is sitting on the counter beside Caleb, helping his dad cook with pure enthusiasm.

With his back turned, you feel nothing but heat in your stomach at the sweatpants he wears and his strong back he has on display. The domestic scene of him cooking with your babies has you ready to selfishly sneak him away for a few minutes.

After last night, you already know that the both of you are bound to become insatiable.

“Goo’ moring, mommy!” Blythe yells with a wide grin, her dimples similar to her brother who does the same when they notice you.

“We didn’t know daddy spent night!”

“It was a surprise,” you wink at her. “Were you?”

“Was I what?” She tilts her little head just like her dad.

“Surprised.”

“Oh. Mhm!” she nods vigorously. “He’s silly because he tickle my feet when I was sleepin’!”

Caleb turns his head to see you, telling you to come here with a tilt of his head. You walk up to your daughter first, kissing her head. “Daddy is really silly, huh?”

You then approach Jonah to kiss his cheek. “What about you? He tickled you, too?”

“Nope, I beat him up! Can’t get me.”

Your eyes widen in amusement at Jonah flexing as he tries to prove that he beat his dad’s ass.

“He’s violent—just like you,” Caleb jokes and you smack his arm. “See?”

“Sit at the table for me, J.” Caleb gives Jonah a fist bump before he jumps down to sit beside his sister. You look into the pan at the fresh heart pancake he started.

“Artist, huh?”

“I dabble.” His hands sneak around your waist and your hands caress his strong arms. “How’d you sleep?”

“Really good.”

He kisses your lips with a hum. “Good. You hungry?”

“For food and…other things…”

Caleb just smiles, his hand going behind your neck to bring you into a deep kiss. You groan into his mouth, making sure you remain aware that your kids are right there, but they make it known in case you didn’t.

“EW!” Jonah fake vomits.

Blythe laughs at her brother’s exaggeration, her head falling back as she breaks into hysterical laughter. You and Caleb keep kissing, but not without teeth occasionally hitting because you can’t stop laughing.

“Don’t burn her pancake,” he presses several kisses to you. “She won’t be laughing, then.”

“It’ll be your fault.”

“You want it to be.”

He licks his lips. “Sit down so I can feed you. Eggs the same?”

You nod and turn to walk away so you can sit with your kids. He makes a quick move of hitting your ass when he sees that they’re distracted by their crayons and paper again, evoking you to throw back a middle finger. He laughs at you, but in truth—you desperately need him to do that again.

You haven’t heard from Caleb in four days and at first, it scared the shit out of you. Now? You felt like he was avoiding you for a reason you were unaware of.

It’s been two weeks since the first time you made love after all these years, and like you presumed, he and you were all over each other at any given opportunity as if every time could be the last.

Well, with this being the first time in history he’s gone no contact at any point in all the years that you’ve known him, the sex you had four days ago in his car was feeling like the last.

You tried calling him over and over, blew up his phone with text messages, but to no avail. On the second day, you phoned his job, only to learn that he was still regularly coming in. That floored you, made you heart sting with…you refused to make it negative.

Maybe he was busy?

You then called his parents after that and they said they had just spoken to him the first day he went cold turkey on you.

You spent the rest of that night and all of yesterday with nothing but sorrow and anger, every bit of those emotions trickling into today.

The kids were just as confused, but they were easy to convince with a lie that their father had something work related to take care of and that they’d see him soon. You’d never ruin his image in their eyes for any reason, no matter how upset he could make you. But despite all of this, you know Caleb. He would never abandon you or his kids, but the silence, how abrupt it was—you wanted answers.

You honestly couldn’t wonder or try to cultivate anything in your mind, whether it be positive or negative, because none of it made sense.

But it didn’t stop you from feeling insecure, the flicker of being abandoned by him before evoking something nearly violent.

The kids ran to the front door, giggling and ready to begin the typical routine they have after school. Your attempt to unlock the door stopped when your phone rang. You quickly pulled it out, looked at the screen, and hoped to see that stupid red heart you had with Caleb’s name—only to be perplexed because of a number you’ve never seen before.

Dread fueled you. He was fine…right? He had to be fine. As a Colonel, if anything happened to him, it would never be told to you over the phone. Unless he was in the hospital or something. What if..?

You immediately picked up at that realization, and a lady’s voice began to speak.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. On behalf of Colonel Caleb Xia of the Farspace Fleet, he has cordially invited you and your children to the Farspace Annual Celebration.”

Rather than relief, you were fucking furious. He’s been ignoring you and making you think the worst of yourself and of the situation between you both while he’s been getting ready for a damn party?

“What?” you say in disbelief as your children look at you, confused by your sharp tone. “Listen, just…Do you have a way that I can contact him because he won’t answer—”

“I’ve been instructed to simply inform you of the invite and to be ready for the car that will be coming to your home at approximately 7:00 this evening. Dress code is formal and—”

“Where is this being held?”

“Excuse me?”

“The party!” you snap. “Address. What is it?” You were done waiting and playing nice. You were getting something and you were getting it today.

The lady read the address out to you, confirming that it would be at his job as you suspected. It was always a thought to just show up, but you knew there was a whole thing with clearance and you didn’t want the headache, but Caleb has officially made you a walking issue.

Before when he abandoned you, you shut down. You wallowed in pity.

He would have to deal with you this time.

There was not a care in you when you hung up. You weren’t listening to a fucking word anymore. Now a woman on a mission, you corrected your behavior to properly communicate with your children since they didn’t deserve to deal with your emotions.

“Kids, cmon, we’re gonna see grandma and grandpa.” They looked at you with so many questions.

“Is daddy there?” Jonah asked hopefully.

“He’s not, bub,” you got down to his level when he frowned. “But I’m gonna bring him to you, okay? I promise.”

Jonah nodded and Blythe wrapped her little arms around her now sad brother. Caleb’s bullshit was affecting your kids and you wouldn’t have it.

After getting to your parents house, while surprised, of course they were happy to see you.

“Hey, hon,” your mother pressed her cheek to yours. “You okay? You look…”

“Pissed off, your father interjected.

“I can’t talk about it right now, but as soon as I get some answers, I’ll call you. You mind watching them for me, please? I’ll come get them tonight as soon as I can—”

“Woahh, alright, slow down,” your father put his hands on your shoulders when you start speaking faster than your mouth can keep up with. Your mother takes the kids as she sees you getting ready to break down by the quiver in your lip.

“Caleb…” you push out, inhaling sharply in an effort to stay together when your kids are out of earshot. “I haven’t seen him or heard a thing in days, but he’s talking to everyone but me… Just when I thought we were good. I thought we were fixed…”

“And what are you intending to do about that right now that it has you like this?”

“I know where he might be and I need to get over there before I start feeling worse.”

“You want me to come with you?”

You shake your head, needing to confront Caleb on your own without potential judgment and concern about how you’ll react.

“Keep your head steady then, you hear me?” Your dad holding your face in his hands makes you feel like a little girl again. You shakily nod.

“I promised you that I would never let him hurt you again—that no one would ever hurt you the way you did—again. Believe me when I say that it’s a vow I’m keeping.”

You let the heaviness of his words stir in your chest, the intensity of it marinating in its meaning

“I hear you, dad,” you assure him as you pull away. “I gotta go. I’ll call you.”

“Please do. We got Blythe and Jonah.”

After you leave your parents’ home, you’re in front of Farspace’s facility faster than you even expected. You were sure you’d be getting several tickets, but once you dealt with Caleb, he could handle them since he’s the reason you’d have them in the first place.

You would start here since this was closer than Caleb’s apartment building and if he wasn’t here, for his sake, he’d better be home.

You couldn’t find it in you to be strategic, or well thought out. Instead, you got out of your car at the gate, fueled by rage and melancholy.

“Ma’am,” the two guards approached you with assault rifles in their hands. “You cannot be here without the proper authorization. Please state your business.”

“Colonel Caleb Xia,” you say steadily. “Where is he? Is he here?”

“I cannot share such information without the proper identification.”

“I’m his fucking wife!” you yell without thought.

“You need to clam down. I can neither confirm nor deny that statement, ma’am. Not without proper identification and even with it, that doesn’t grant you immediate entry.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” You knew how ridiculous you were being, but how could anyone blame you if they knew what you were going through?

They didn’t though, and that’s what made all of this infinitely more difficult.

“You need to let me in there. I just need to see him if he’s here. I got a phone call about some Farspace event, okay? You don’t understand. It’s important…” Your thoughts are jumbled just as much as your sentences that barely make any sense to the men listening.

One of the guards voices something incoherent in his radio and the other one begins to point his gun at you. “I need you to put your hands above your head until we come to a solution.”

Okay…maybe you should‘ve thought this through a little bit. Because now you were looking down the barrel of something that could take your life if you didn’t watch yourself. As instructed, you place your hands where he told you to, and the other guard walks up to cuff your hands behind your back.

You’re like that for what feels like too long, intimated by the deadly machinery in your face as you’re forced to sit on the curb beside your car.

Caleb was speaking with one of the planners in the space where the event tonight would be held, ensuring everything was as perfect as he’d been planning for weeks. Three men soon rushed into the large room, their voices echoing off the walls as they greeted him with a salute.

“Colonel Xia, sir. There’s a situation at the front gate.”

“What is the situation?”

“An erratic woman, sir. Claiming to be your wife and demanding to be let in.”

Fuck. Fuck.

It’s all Caleb thought because he knew it was you. All the planning he did was going out the window and it was his fault. He knew better, but he thought just maybe…maybe he had a shot at pulling this off, even if you got a little upset with him. He thought it would be worth it in the end, but now you’re at his job and being called erratic.

Ignoring you the last few days was how he’d been able to get everything finalized as efficiently as he has. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have lasted long enough to make it something memorable. None of that mattered though if you were angry enough to be on the hunt for him.

You and him are much too alike.

He didn’t respond to the men who quickly followed him as he strode with purpose to get to you. Suddenly, several pairs of boots could be heard thumping against the gravel, but you refused to turn around—until you hear him.

“Would you care to explain why she is in handcuffs with your gun in her face? Has she not been detained already?”

Caleb.

And he sounds more furious than you did. If you were dealing with the brunt of it, just based on hearing his voice alone, you’d throw up. You turn your head and his eyes meet yours. You’re relieved to still see the love and concern in them. You scowl to make him see how livid you are, though.

“Colonel,” the man lowers his weapon. “This woman was—”

“You were doing your job, and for that, I unfortunately cannot punish you. But should you or anyone else have the audacity to do anything this stupid again, you’ll deal with me and only me. Have I made myself clear, or do you need further understanding?” The way he commands respect and threatens without hesitation is a man you’ve never heard before. “You don’t touch or speak to her unless I’ve instructed you to do so, and should you fail to follow my orders, it’ll be your last day standing.”

Yes, sir!” they say collectively.

“Uncuff her and get the fuck out of my face.”

When your wrists are released, Caleb immediately lifts you and like the baby you always become in his presence, your eyes begin to water. But you don’t let him hold you when he tries.

Your fists start to attack him, the hits not causing the burly man any harm as he stands there in his pristine colonel uniform that you’ve only seen him in once before.

“Days, Caleb!” you scream. “Fucking days! I thought you…” You choke on your sobs, never relenting.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he expressed sadly, his hand encircling your fist that weakly rests on his chest. “I’m sorry…”

“Not a word? You couldn’t tell me, anything!? After every fucking thing we’ve been through? Are you serious? You picked this shit again,” your hands gesture to his uniform. “Over me? Over your family?”

He shuts his eyes, gathering his words. “Never. You know that.”

“Do I…?” you question weakly.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t just let this happen how I intended. I do still have a lot to learn about you, don’t I?”

You’re so confused that what he’s saying sounds like gibberish.

“Can you just say whatever it is you need to say instead of trying to act like you’re some poet?”

He sighs before he begins explaining himself. “I was distant because I was planning, because I needed time to do everything. I needed to get your parents blessing, to curate tonight’s event that was supposed to be for the fleet—for you, for us.”

“My parents blessing? What are—“

“You supposed to let me finish, pretty,” he smiles gently.

“Well, you’re taking too fucking long!” you throw your hands in the air, making him chuckle as his gloved hand comes up to wipe your stray tears that grow cold on your face.

“I told you I’d never lie to you, so I didn’t want to make you believe anything that wasn’t true. But it was ignorant of me to handle it the way I did when I know what I’ve done to you before. And for that, I’m so sorry.” His heart can breathe a little when he sees you begin to relax. “I don’t have it on me, but even with what I’m about to do now, I’m doing it again tonight in front of everyone and our family—our kids.”

In the barren parking lot, he gets down on one knee.

Your eyes widen, your heart racing as he removes the black leather from his hands so that your skin touches.

“I failed you once, and I nearly did it again, didn’t I?” He kisses your hand. “And yet here you stand, chasing after me with that fire I fall in love with every day of my life. When I lost you the first time, I should’ve never been given the opportunity of a second chance. But it’s because of you and your forgiving heart that I’m here right now—that we’re here. You let me come back into your heart, into your body—you trusted me despite me breaking it after every moment of abandonment and doubt. You’ve got me on my knees, baby and for you, it’s where I’ll stay if it means that you’ll always be right here to hold me—to love me. To be my other half until we’re in the grave. I may not have your ring to slip onto your finger right now, but I’m selfishly asking you if you would make me the happiest man on the planet and marry me, again?”

You can’t speak when you look down at his puppy dog eyes—when you see the water that starts to pool in them while he waits for your answer. All you can do is nod as the burning love in your chest makes you get on your knees, too.

Those raging emotions? Calmed like the day after a destructive hurricane.

You take his face in your soft hands, kissing him deeply and basking in his love when he wraps his arm around your waist.

“Thank you for choosing me, over and over…” he presses his forehead to yours.

“You’re such a dork,” you hiccup, making him laugh that boyish chuckle that you love so much.

“Your dork.”

“My husband…” you breathe.

“My wife.” He brushes his nose against yours.

Having your best friend back like this is a reality you never thought would come. But Caleb never gave up, he never let it be goodbye—even if it felt like it would always be. For that, you will always treasure him and all your love belongs to him as it once did. This time though, nothing could ever be more important than you, him, and your children always being a unit. Everyday that you will spend together will be him proving that to you.

Despite the doubt and the fear, above it all—your love did in fact, win.

A/N: HOLY MOLY. HOW ARE WE FEELING?! WHAT ARE WE THINKING???? This…took me way longer than I thought and I’m kinda scared of what you guys are going to think so I might literally shut my phone down because if you don’t really like it, I may crash out LOLLLL. Whenever the comments start rolling in, we’ll talk about it thereeee. I luv you guys no matter what, though. GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT, DOC!!!!

Tags 🏷️ : @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine @carcelswaifu @blushofeve @camnluv @neptunesbeloved @alyssac9

[slutforvoldy]

Hey babe, I have a little request if you’re open to it!

Could you maybe write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s still in high school and doesn’t come from money at all? Like she feels super out of place in his world — all the hotels, race weekends, the fancy people, and she kind of feels like she’s not “enough.”

But he’s just… soft. Gentle. The kind of guy who makes her feel safe, like she does belong, even when everything feels overwhelming.

I’d love something comforting, maybe with a tiny bit of angst because… identity crisis hits hard sometimes.I just feel like we don’t get enough of that dynamic. Golden boy driver and the girl who still takes the bus to school. No pressure at all! But if it ever inspires you… I will cry. In the best way.

Thank you so much if you do fill my request and of course I understand if you don’t. Have a lovely day!

“ NOT FROM YOUR WORLD. ” ( kimi antonelli ! )

SUMMARY: in kimi antonelli’s world of luxury and fast cars, the reader fears that she's not enough for him.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: insecurities insecurities insecurities, imposter syndrome, class differences, hurt/comfort, use of y/n

pairing: kimi antonelli x female!reader

a/n: thank u sm for this request !!! it means so much to me when y'all send in a request to see more of my writing <333

YOU SHUT THE door of your tiny bedroom with a tired sigh, dropping your worn-out backpack to the floor. The old laptop on your desk was a relic — a hand-me-down from your mother’s sister, struggling to stay alive with its faintly flickering screen. But it worked, most of the time, and that was all you needed. You settled into the creaky chair, ready to chip away at your essay, fingers hovering over the keyboard, when your phone buzzed.

Kimi: Can you come to Imola this weekend? Please. You shouldn’t turn this down. It’s my home race. I want you there.

Your heart skipped a beat. Kimi’s home race. He had asked you to attend his races before — in Monaco, Silverstone, and even in nearby Monza. You had always found an excuse, hiding behind your studies or family obligations. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to support him. In fact, you were so proud of him — your Kimi, the golden boy of Mercedes, the young prodigy of Formula 1. But that was the problem. He was Kimi Antonelli, living in a world of luxury, fast cars, and cameras, while you were… you. Just you.

You glanced around your small room — peeling paint, old textbooks stacked on a wobbly table, a wardrobe with only a few plain t-shirts, and washed-out pants. Your shoes, their soles thinning, sat by the door. A deep sigh escaped your lips.

But this was his home race. His request felt different this time — almost like a plea.

You: Okay. Just this once. I’ll be there.

The reply came faster than you expected.

Kimi: Really?! I can’t wait to see you. I’ll make sure everything’s ready for you.

Anxiety tangled with the thrill in your chest. You were going — but the fear of not belonging, of not fitting into his glamorous world, gnawed at you.

The lobby of the hotel was a spectacle of wealth. Marble floors gleamed under the warm light of crystal chandeliers, intricate gold patterns lacing the high ceilings. Expensive furniture was scattered around the grand space, each piece looking like it cost more than everything you owned.

You stood there, frozen, staring at your reflection in the polished floor. Your simple white t-shirt, washed-out jeans, and worn shoes felt like a glaring stain in this world of luxury. You clenched your fingers around the strap of your old backpack, heart racing, feeling smaller by the second.

The soft chime of the elevator broke your spiral, and your gaze snapped up. There he was — Kimi. Dressed in a casual black hoodie and jeans, his dark curls slightly messy, his face lit up as soon as he saw you. Without a second thought, you rushed towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist. His arms enveloped you instantly, warm and comforting.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead.

“Me too,” you whispered back, letting yourself melt into his embrace for a moment.

But as he led you towards the elevator, chatting about the weekend, the feeling of not belonging clawed back. Even in the confined space of the elevator, you couldn’t escape the reflective walls showing your mismatched presence next to him.

The suite Kimi led you to was vast — larger than your entire apartment. Elegant furniture, a massive bed covered with smooth, silken sheets, and a floor-to-ceiling window with a stunning view of the city. You stood in the middle of it all, feeling like an imposter, feeling like you could dirty everything with a touch.

Kimi was excitedly pointing out the view, rambling about the race, but his voice faded into the background. You moved to the bed, sitting on the edge, your fingers brushing over the impossibly soft fabric.

“Y/N?” Kimi’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you looked up to see his worried gaze. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you forced a smile, “it’s just… nothing. It’s ridiculous.”

But Kimi knew you too well. He moved closer, crouching in front of you, his warm hands finding yours. “I’m all ears.”

You took a shaky breath. “I don’t fit here, Kimi.”

His brows knitted. “What do you mean you don’t fit here? Is the king-sized bed too small for you? I could sleep on the floor—”

“No, Kimi.” You shook your head, a weak laugh escaping you. “You don’t understand. This isn’t me. I’m not made for all… this.” You gestured around, your voice cracking. “I’m just a girl who takes the bus to school while you drive your Mercedes to your races—hell, even to school!”

“Is this about the car?” He tilted his head, trying to make you smile.

“No!” Frustration surged, and you pulled your hands away. “I’m not from your world, Kimi! Can’t you see? You’re a celebrity, a prodigy — you’re Mercedes’ golden boy, for Christ’s sake! Meanwhile, I’m just… me. I’m normal.”

“Normal?” Kimi’s voice softened. “Y/N, I don’t care about all that.”

“But you should!” You stood, pacing the room, your anxiety spilling out. “Have you seen the other drivers’ girlfriends? They’re all dressed up in their stupid designer clothes, their stupid bags, and stupid shoes that cost more than my tuition. Their jewelry probably costs more than what I own. They look like they belong here, while I look like I just wandered in by mistake—”

“Stop.” Kimi’s tone turned firmer, and he stood, stepping into your path, his hands gently gripping your shoulders. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. Don’t act like you’re less just because you don’t have the same things.”

“But it’s true, Kimi! Have you seen how people look at me? How they talk about me online? They think you’re doing charity by being with me!”

Kimi’s heart clenched at the sadness in your voice. Without a second thought, he stepped closer, his warm hands gently cradling your cheeks, guiding your tear-filled eyes to meet his. His touch was soft, but his gaze was steady — unwavering.

“Hey. Listen to me.” His voice was a gentle command, firm yet tender.

“I don’t care what they think,” he began, his tone resolute, a quiet strength in each word. “Not the clothes, not the image, not the stupid opinions of people who don’t even know you. I love you because you’re you — because you’re kind, because you’re the smartest person I know, because you make me laugh even when I’m at my worst.”

Your lips quivered. “But—”

“No. Let me finish.” His thumb brushed away the tears spilling down your cheeks, his touch feather-light. “They don’t know you like I do. They don’t see how your eyes light up when you talk about your favorite books, or how you always remember the little things that make people smile. They don’t see the way you always put others first, even when you’re struggling. They don’t hear the way you calm me down through the phone before every race, your voice somehow always making me believe I’m capable of anything.”

His voice softened, each word a gentle balm to your aching heart. “They don’t see how you’ve always been there for me, even when the cameras are gone, even when the world isn’t watching. They don’t see you, Y/N.”

“But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t fit here, Kimi. I don’t belong.”

“Yes, you do.” His hands didn’t waver, his thumbs still brushing tenderly against your cheeks. “You belong with me. Not because of the world I’m in — but because you’re my world.”

Your breath hitched, fresh tears welling up. “Kimi—”

“I love you,” he whispered, leaning forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “I don’t care about the money, the luxury, or the stupid, shallow image they expect me to have. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. The only thing that matters to me is you.”

You were trembling now, overwhelmed, but he didn’t let go. His voice softened even more, each word filled with raw sincerity.

“I love how you make my life real. You make it more than just a glamorous show. I’m not ‘Kimi Antonelli, Mercedes’ golden boy’ when I’m with you. I’m just Kimi. Just a guy who’s lucky enough to have you in his life. And I love you because you remind me who I am.”

Your tears flowed freely down your cheeks, but his touch never left, his presence a warm, unyielding comfort.

“I need you to understand this,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you, not despite who you are — but because of who you are. You make me feel like I’m enough… and I wish you could see that you’re enough for me, too. More than enough. Always.”

His words were a lifeline, each one wrapping around you, grounding you, pulling you from the spiral of doubt. For a moment, the noise in your mind quieted, leaving only the steady beat of his heart against yours and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his touch.

“Please don’t ever doubt that,” he whispered, brushing a tender kiss against your forehead. “You are everything to me.”

Your trembling fingers wrapped around his wrists, grounding yourself. “I just… I feel so small sometimes.”

“Then let me be the one to lift you up,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Stay with me. Let me show you that you are enough, just as you are.”

You closed your eyes, letting his warmth surround you, his steady heartbeat calming the storm inside you. For the first time in days, you felt a bit of that anxiety melt away. He was here. He wanted you. Not the glamorous world, not the image — you.

Your tears continue to break free, but he doesn’t let you pull away. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close.

“I love you,” he murmured, again and again, his voice a soothing melody. “And I’m not letting you go. Not because of this. Never.”

“I love you too, Kimi.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but the way his arms tightened around you told you he heard it.

And you stayed like that, wrapped in his warmth, feeling the weight of your insecurities slowly melt away, replaced by the quiet, unshakable certainty in his embrace. Here, with him, you were enough.

[cherrygarcia-07]

You wouldn’t have to go into too much detail with the horrors of the long exhausting case: but Spencer coming home to a civilian reader after such a case and she takes care of him. Maybe he feels bad about asking this if her because she has a job too, she needs to decompress too, take care of herself too but she’s like: “I took a three hour nap, ate some ice cream, watched a movie, I’m fine, I’m energized, I’ll make coffee, just lemme take care of you for goodness’ sake because you’re literally my person, you’re never a burden and you look like a puppy that got kicked right now and it’s breaking my heart.”

How she exactly takes care of him is up to you! But I would love to just…be this man’s comfort and solace

To Love Is To Care // Spencer Reid🌙

Thank you so much for giving me something else to write!! I hope I did okay <33

Synopsis: When Spencer comes home broken and empty from a rough case, you do everything you can to remind him that he is safe and loved, no matter what.

pairing: spencer x reader (gn!)

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort kinda-ish-y idk but they love each other so much

word count: 3.3k

notes/tags: briefest mentions of a death during a case, spencer is sad before he can be happy (sorry), non-sexual nudity (sfw imo literally nothing happens or is described they just shower together, its more for metaphors sake than anything), spencer snaps at reader for a quick sec, lotsa little kisses and hugs, gilmore girls mentioned🗣️, deliberate slight misunderstanding of mythology/philosophy, lotsa lovey doveyness🙂

masterlist

(pls reblog if you enjoy !! it helps a lot !!<3 )

———————————————————————————🌙—————————————————————————

You were by no means a profiler. You couldn’t read people that way, in that much detail. You couldn’t predict their next moves, couldn’t fill in the blanks of their past and you didn’t always know the best thing to say to people in a given situation. But you knew Spencer Reid. Like the back of your hand, in fact. You knew his moods and how they shifted, the subtle ways his body language and his speech adapted to them, and how his eyes reflected whatever emotions he was trying to keep hidden. Most importantly, you knew how to be there for him even when he insisted he didn’t need you to be.

That night you were sprawled out on the couch with your eyes glued to the TV having gotten home from work earlier than usual. You’d lounged around and relaxed but your muscles still ached with the strain of the day, your eyes drooping despite your nap a couple of hours ago. You sighed at the late hour staring back at you from the clock and reread the message from Spencer telling you he was on his way home. Rubbing your eyes, you settled back into the cushions just as you heard the door creak open behind you.

As you spun to look, a solemn air seemed to creep in through the door behind Spencer, floating around him like a fog that clouded his vision and stopped him from meeting your gaze as he let himself in. He walked tentatively, almost like an intruder in his own home as you watched him try to move as quietly as possible while he hung his bag and coat up and toed his shoes off by the entrance. He moved as if his limbs were being pulled by string, heavy and clunky despite his efforts to seem invisible. Slowly, you rose to your feet, making him turn to face you. As soon as he offered you that forced, tight smile and you met his dull, tired eyes you knew what had happened.

He couldn’t save them.

“Are you okay, honey?” You asked gently, walking over to where he still lingered by the door.

“I’m fine.” Spencer replied too quickly, trying to force a steady voice but it came out hoarse.

“No you’re not.” You whispered. He ducked his head to avoid eye contact and you noted the way his jaw twitched slightly before he responded, voice tighter than before.

“Yes, I am. I told you I’m fine.”

You sighed as you took a step closer to him, tilting your head in his direction in an attempt to get him to look at you again, but he wouldn’t.

“I know you, Spence.” You began, “you say ‘I’m fine’ when you’re not fine. If you said ‘I’m good’ or ‘I’m doing okay’ or anything else I’d believe you but ‘I’m fine’ means you want me to drop it.”

“Then maybe you should.” He snapped, eyes darting back to you with a coldness that wasn’t there before, like a mask shielding the hurt behind them. “I’m a grown man, I’m capable of handling my own problems.”

He moved to storm past you, but you reached out a hand to stop him, resting it carefully over his heart and rubbing gentle circles with your thumb into the fabric of his cardigan as he let out a shaky breath.

“I know you are, but that doesn’t mean you have to.” Slowly, you moved your hands from his chest, upwards until they delicately cupped his face like it was fragile. Spencer sighed as he instinctively leaned into your touch and wrapped his own hands around your wrists to keep you in place like he was afraid he would fall apart if you let go.

The coldness in his eyes melted away, replaced by a hollowness that broke your heart. You may not have known Spencer as a young boy, but you knew enough to recognise that that was the version of him standing before you now, afraid and desperately alone. And it hurt to see.

You knew he wasn’t mad, he was simply that small child trying to defend himself from a world that refused to help him, trying to protect himself before his brain could catch up to the situation and realise no one else was going to. He’d grown up taking care of his mother with no one to take care of him in return, bearing responsibilities meant for years well beyond his age while he suffered in silence and unfortunately that meant he didn’t know how to trust help when it was offered it to him. It felt like some kind of cruel joke in the making, like dangling the answer before his face only to open the trapdoor beneath him when he stepped forward to grab it. Frankly, he didn’t know how to be vulnerable. In the simplest of terms, it scared him.

When you finally spoke, you spoke softly, tenderly, as you opened your arms to him in invitation.

“I’ve got you.”

That was all it took. Instantly, the dam broke and he collapsed into you, burying his face in your shoulder as your hands found their way to his hair. You felt the silent tears soak through your shirt as his arms wrapped around you tightly, anchoring himself to you. Neither of you spoke for a while, you didn’t need to. Instead, you gently swayed where you stood, rocking him side to side as he cried, your fingers never stopping their soothing strokes of his hair, untangling the knots from where his own trembling fingers must have tore through it earlier. You continued swaying, your movement like a metronome tick tick ticking until his breathing matched its pace, evening out as the tears dried up.

You let the silence encompass you both for a moment longer, waiting until Spencer’s grip around you loosened as he pulled back until you were face to face again.

“Let me take care of you, honey.” You said, brushing his hair out of his face.

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispered, voice raw and broken in a way that made a lump form in your throat. His eyes were red and bloodshot, puffy from crying and purple below, bruised from the sleepless weight of his guilt.

“Of course you do.”Your own voice cracked as you spoke, and you cupped his face again when he began to shake his head in disagreement. “Of course you deserve to be taken care of. Why wouldn’t you?”

Spencer took a deep breath before he responded and you could tell he was swallowing another wave of tears. “It’s selfish. You’ve been working too, and it’s late and you’re tired. You shouldn’t be the one suffering for my own failings.” His voice trailed off at the end and you caught the way his nose scrunched up as he fought to push down his emotions.

“Spence,” you tried to flash a light smile in his direction. “I’ve napped. I’ve eaten. I’ve watched so much Gilmore Girls since I got home I think Luke Danes might actually reach out of the screen and slap me if I don’t get off my butt and do something.” This earned a light, albeit wet, chuckle out of him and you breathed a slight sigh of relief that you were beginning to get through to him.

“I don’t want to be a burden.” His voice was as small as you’d ever heard it- and it wrecked you.

“Spencer, look at me.” Still holding his face in your hands, you carefully turned him to look at you as you stared into his eyes, loving but firm. “You could never be a burden. You are the most doting, dedicated, downright adoring man I have ever met in my life. There’s nobody on this earth that makes me feel even a fraction of the way you make me feel, nobody who makes me feel so wanted and so loved and so seen. I refuse to let you go to bed thinking you are anything less than that. Letting me take care of you would be the greatest gift you could ever give me. I would move heaven and earth for you, you know that?” You paused for a moment, making sure your words really sunk in because you meant every single one. When he nodded hesitantly, you leaned in to kiss away the tear that had begun to roll down his cheek before adding “and honestly this sad little puppy dog face you’re giving me is breaking my little heart.” This got a real laugh out of him, pulling one out of you too as you gave him a loving smile.

You took his hand in yours, brushing your thumbs over the callouses that had formed after years of holding a gun, and guided him to the bathroom. Wordlessly, you began to undress him with the utmost care, tender and gentle as you pulled the fabric off of his body as if you were unveiling a work of art, letting him shed the memories of the past few days as his clothes dropped to the floor. Your breath hitched at the bruises on his body, no doubt the result of the case, but you said nothing. Once you were both bare you stepped under the shower head, both relaxing into the warm water as it blanketed the two of you in its much needed heat.

It was moments like this that meant the most to you. It wasn’t about lust or sexuality, it was the pure intimacy of allowing the other to be completely vulnerable in its most literal sense. It was knowing you were unveiling it all; your scars, your flaws, your everything to one another and not doubting for a second that you would be met with anything other than unfiltered love. It was real, it was honest, it was raw. Especially for someone like Spencer who kept his walls so high up and so guarded, you knew how much it took for him to get to this point with somebody and you felt so eternally grateful to any and every force of the universe you could fathom that you got the honour of being that somebody.

Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut as your hands found his hair, running shampoo through it as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt his arms wrap around your waist again as you continued washing his hair, touch light but grounding against his scalp as they massaged him. Every now and then, you pressed a kiss to his temple and when you rinsed out the shampoo you used your hand as a make-shift shield to stop it from getting into his eyes. It’s beautiful, really, how the simple act of just being together can turn the most mundane, every day tasks into something so intimate. It felt like the whole world had disappeared, like if you pulled back the shower curtain you would find nothing but the vastness of space giving you all the time in the world to keep orbiting around each other, just like this, forever.

Afterwards, you wrapped Spencer in his towel before going to get his favourite comfy pyjamas for him. You dressed him with the same care as you had undressed him, putting him back together after he had fallen apart, and you pressed a quick kiss to his lips when his head poked through the neck hole of his shirt, getting a surprised giggle from him that made your heart sing.

As you both wandered back into the bedroom you flicked on his nightlight, welcoming the hazy, warm glow that finally drew out the glimmer in his eyes you’d been missing all night. It was a little moon shaped light that you’d bought him in the gift shop of a science museum he took you to when you first started dating. It was clearly meant for kids and you’d both laughed at its charming tackiness, but he’d slept with it on every night since.

Once the two of you were in bed you immediately climbed on top of him, sinking your head into the crook of his neck as his hands found your back. Deep pressure therapy. He’d told you about it once.

It was back in the early days of your relationship and you’d dragged yourself into his apartment, exhausted and on the edge of crying after a rough day at work. Spencer had watched as you threw yourself onto the couch, perched next to you with a worried look on his face. Before you even had a chance to speak, you found yourself being laid back against the cushions as his tall frame clambered on top of you. He was awkward, unsure of how to execute his plan but knowing that he just needed to do anything in his power to take away your discomfort.

“Spence?” You questioned, though you instinctively reached around him to pull him closer.

“Deep pressure therapy.” He mumbled into your shoulder. “Many people find it regulating. There’s been numerous studies that show that it relaxes the nervous system and helps relieve symptoms of stress and anxiety. Most people opt for a weighted blanket but I don’t have one to offer you so as an alternative…” He trailed off shyly. “You have me.”

You’d laughed, shaking your head affectionately at his over the top, nerdy, and so uniquely Spencer way of looking after you.

“I can feel it working already.” You’d muttered into his hair, and since then it had become routine.

Now as you gaze up at him through your heavy lashes you begin to notice the serenity starting to replace the pain in his eyes.

“Are you ready to talk?” You murmur, your voice a welcome break in the silence.

Spencer takes a deep breath and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to piece together his thoughts. Finally, he speaks, low and tired, “this job feels so Sisyphean sometimes. It’s like you work so hard and you strain yourself beyond belief every single day but then all it takes is one bad case- one miscalculation or one wrong word, and you lose it all. You lose everything and you end up right back where you started. You can’t help but feel completely hopeless.”

“How many people do what you do?” You reached up to gently tuck a stray hair behind his ear.

“You mean my job?” He asked and you nodded. “Well the amount of agents currently employed by the FBI stands at approximately-“

“No, Spence.” You giggled, cutting him off. He was always so eager to share his knowledge, his passion for statistics always at the forefront of his mind and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t warm your heart in a geeky way. “I didn’t mean it literally. I mean you are already going above and beyond the rest of us. You have a very brave job- a tough, brave job that not a lot of people have. That’s something to be proud of.”

He let out a heavy exhale through his nose. “But what’s the point if people are still dying?”

You shifted your position on his chest slightly, adjusting so your faces were level. “The point is all the people you have saved and all the people you will save. And all the bad, bad people you’ve stopped from ever hurting anyone again. You can’t save everyone- thinking that is just unrealistic as much as I wish it wasn’t- but you’re doing everything you possibly can to try and that’s more than most people can say.”

Spencer was quiet, his eyes drifting to the ceiling above him as he processed what you were saying. You could tell he was trying so hard to let himself believe you were right, to let go of the guilt haunting him, but he just couldn’t.

“You have had the weight of the world on your shoulders for as long as you can remember and I know it’s hard not to feel the pressure when you’re so used to it by now.” You began. “But you have got to learn to take a breather through it all or the weight is going to crush you.”

You watched as Spencer bit his lip in thought, but he remained silent and so you carried on.

“You referenced Sisyphus, right? That moment where he loses the boulder and has to go back to the beginning and start all over again? Well, maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

He tilted his head back down to look at you, brows furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You gave a small smile and reached down to give his hand a comforting squeeze before answering. “Sure it’s frustrating. It feels hopeless like you said, like all that work was for nothing. But then there’s that moment when there’s no weight. There’s no boulder, even if just temporarily, and maybe now he can catch his breath before he starts over. Maybe that’s what this moment is for you.”

“But then he does start over,” Spencer started, voice cracking as his brows pinched together further, “for all eternity. His life is doomed to pushing that same stupid boulder up that hill over and over and over again.”

Humming lowly, you pulled his hand to your lips, pressing a reassuring kiss to his knuckles as he tried to calm the sudden racing of his heartbeat.

“So he should savour those breaks in between, don’t you think?” You said, tucking his hand beneath your chin and staring up at him with an affectionate smile.

Spencer felt a grin tug at his lips as he met your eyes. “I don’t think you fully understand the story of Sisyphus” he teased.

“Shush, I’m rewriting it.” You grinned back, “my version is better anyway.”

Another silence fell over you, but now more tranquil, more steady. Spencer felt the boulder slip from his grasp, but for once he didn’t chase after it.

“Thank you.” He whispered after a while, cupping your face where his hand still rested along your jaw.

“For what?”

“For taking care of me.” Tears pooled in his eyes again, but this time it wasn’t grief or guilt- it was gratitude.

“Never thank me for something you are one hundred percent deserving of.” He opened his mouth to protest but you immediately cut him off, “and you ARE deserving of it, because you are Spencer Reid.” You paused to quickly peck his lips. “Smart” kiss “kind” kiss “handsome” kiss “Spencer Reid.”

He couldn’t hold back his laugh as he beamed into your kisses, and when you pulled away his cheeks were flushed and rosy.

“You are my Spencer Reid, and I love you so, so much.” You murmured, leaning in to kiss him properly, slow and soft.

“I love you too. So much.” He echoed, squishing your cheeks together in a way that forced a pout. You giggled wildly as he kissed you back, sporting a sappy grin on his face.

Yawning, you eventually rolled off of him, finding your place tucked into his side instead. “Well with that established, I think it’s time I get my much needed beauty sleep.”

“Nonsense,” Spencer muttered, already beginning to fall asleep as he wrapped his arm around you, “you’re already the prettiest person in the world.”

“Doctor Reid, are you flirting with me?” You mumbled sleepily, chuckling into his shirt when he hummed proudly in response. “Shameless. Get some sleep, Romeo.”

Just like that, the two of you drifted off together, safe in each other’s embrace. You knew it wasn’t over forever- but it was over for now. There were always going to be more cases, more people who would fall through the cracks. There were always going to be more days when Spencer pulled himself through the door, broken and falling apart where he stood, but you would always be there to catch him. He was learning to be vulnerable one day at a time, that scared little boy inside fading further and further away with every word from your lips or touch from your fingertips- and that was enough for him to keep trying.

-

[renwritesalot]

Fully willing to do this @2011lanei, it was great fun to read yours and just made me realise that I wasn’t following you?? That’s fixed now.

Hammerhead shark. I couldn’t really think of any other animal that wouldn’t be attacked by humans in some way so I feel like being a shark would lead to a pretty calm and safe life.

I always have at least one outfit in a pile on my floor lmao so probably that. Normally consisting of my comfiest t-shirt, trousers and hoodie

Idk if fairy allows me to answer a fae in this scenario. I choose fae because if you know me I likely store little bits of information so I can make conversation later. If I have to choose other than fae I’d go with mermaid because although my swimming technique is shit and I’d prefer to be a bit more badass than a mermaid (we really need more badass mermaid stories- fic idea??? Lmao) but I have leg pains that don’t really bother me in the water and I’ve been told I’m like a fish so 🤷

Grunge? I guess? That’s the nearest I can describe it as, black cap, trousers and hoodie and a few pieces of silver jewellery - bracelets, necklaces (when I can be bothered to put them on lol)

Regular milk thanks

Cereal first, then milk. Because then you can choose how much cereal you’re hunger for before adding how much milk is needed to saturate said cereal

Is it worrying or amusing that I’ve been asked this irl?? (Something like 5-10 times as well 😅) It fully depends why the person is being killed but for this hypothetical I’m going to go with they definitely deserve it and I don’t want to be caught: Make sure to be fully covered and deceptively tall/short so the police can’t ID you. Additionally make sure to wear a mask, hair net and gloves so that your DNA can’t be found at the site, then hit the person over the head and take them to the nearest out of way place you can get to. Make sure to take off any shoes and slash their feet so they can’t run. Then feel free to do whatever however anymore knife wounds would likely lead to get some blood on you which could lead to discovery. Then make sure to burn the knife in a fire with the body. I would like to note that I’m just a true crime enthusiast and not a serial killer!!

I literally have no one to tag @2011lanei you are the only friend I follow on tumblr 😭😭

yk what I'll also do this get to know your mutuals cuz I thought bout it for a bit and I think I have to or I'll explode

get to know your mutuals♡

if you could be any animal which one would you choose to be? (can be fictional) (and you can explain why if you want to)

what would you choose when you're in a hurry and have nothing to wear?

are you a witch, vampire, fairy, dryad, siren or a mermaid and why do you think so?

what is your style?

regular milk or plant based milk?

which one do you put first milk or cereal?

fav way to kill someone? (idgaf if you never thought of it now you have to think of something and make it at least a bit cool I'm begging)

and I'll go first cuz I can

girl I wrote kinda a lot in these answers but I just had to brag about my fav way of killing people🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ and okay maybe it's kinda stupid that I'm also doing this game even tho I made it for others but who cares?

I can't choose but either a phoenix or a wolf cuz the allegory of both of these animals absolutely stole my heart

anything in my wardrobe that looks good (and it's almost always not adequate for the cold weather, I literally can wear a mini skirt when it's like 2°C outside and there are times when I am wearing a mini skirt and a crop top when it is 0°C and even when it was -3°C I don't care)

something in between vampire and a dryad cuz I feel like I would be a good vampire I don't know how to describe it but I just know and that's it and also a dryad cuz when I think of them they give me rather a messy and chaotic vibe which is def how I act and overall express myself so I'd say that I'm sometimes both sometimes one and sometimes the other

I'm goth so my style is overall gothic and / or cunty

regular but only 1,5% fat

CEREAL

sooo this is my fav way, first - pepper spray in the face so they can't see and therefore they can't run away, second - start scratching their legs with a pocket knife as hard as possible and try to find an aorta and cut there (making it even harder to run away), third - stick the same knife into all of their fingers (why not), fourth - knock out their teeth with a knuckle duster and finally - when they open their mouth trying to catch a breath from the blood and saliva running into their throat pour fluoroantimonic acid into their mouth and it's done! and I'll add that fluoroantimonic acid is called the most corrosive acid in the world ans if it touches the skin it causes huge damage and if poured into someones throat it'll burn the insides and kill. I think I'm really creative cuz I came up with this when I was writing one of my books and now I'm obsessed

tags: @n1eprzytomnadesperacja @niketas-s @r4tkisses @dawkacynizmu @gothicm0rph @slowacki006

and with question 7 rn I'm mostly thinking about one bbg ( @dawkacynizmu I'm looking at you ) cuz a bit after I came up with this question I thought that you might have an interesting answer

[sqgeism]

If I may make a request?

I saw your vampire reader x Anaxa fic and absolutely loved it! Would you be willing to do it the other way around? (with Anaxa being the vampire) lowkey obsessed with the idea of vampire Anaxa. I can just imagine him doing another wild experiment on himself again and accidentally turning himself into a vampire. So now his S/O takes care of him by letting him feed off them.

Also happy birthday!! Hope your day is wonderful!

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 l - i - licky - c - k - licky - y ! | anaxagoras x gender neutral reader

love mail — 🍒 ⨾ hiiii thank u for the bday wishes!! cw suggestive.. 🧘‍♀️ thank u anaxacannibalau for helping me w this when i asked lol ❤️‍🩹 more vamp stuff coming eventually when i lock in.. also this was supposed to be short but i got carried away (*´▽｀)

coming home to your husband as a vampire should have been one of the things you had expected from the young genius, but you didn't. so now you've walked in on him draining a dead dove in the living room, how.. symbolic.

but he seemed to be relatively the same, just sharper teeth, red eyes, and far too much strength for him to need. oh, also the blood issue, that was always a concern.

you began unintentionally studying anaxa's behavior ever since he turned, taking down notes on things that may be helpful for research or understanding his new.. form. something of note was his reaction to his 'diet'.

animals and alike were working but anaxa never seemed to like them, not so big on their flavor and he always needed some sort of drink to 'wash away' the flavor, since he seemed much more relaxed after a glass of water. human blood bags were better, but he always grumbled that they were cold. never quite comparable to the real thing.

however something of note, was that the one and only time he fed on fresh blood, yours, was probably the best he had ever been. he was stronger, not at all crabby about it, and seemed to really like biting you. he got pretty into it until he could feel your pulse almost weakening, and immediately pulled away to care for you.

though since then, it seems he's trying to punish himself for almost 'killing' you. his vampiric urges won over his humanity, which almost scared him, he knew he still held great control compared to his bloodsucking kin. it still doesn't erase the fact he almost lost it, though, and has refused to drink from you ever since.

except you've always been a stubborn little thing, wouldn't be you without constantly worrying for his well-being, insisting he take the bite—to drain you, as if he's the victim. as if he didn't do this to himself and is just a helpless fledgling.

no, he was an intelligent man—with heightened senses and means of reading someone.

so yes, he could see right through your concern.

and yes, that means he knew your real intentions.

you wanted him to bite you, you were into it.

and by the titans he couldn't agree more.

even so, he still held some sort of restraint. whereas you began to wear much.. looser clothing around the house, exposing skin that was just soft to the bite, he stayed together.

till he didn't.

"titan forbid a man wants a little restraint around you." he huffed, pushing you down onto the bed firmly but not quite forcefully. "i want you safe," he says, making sure your head is comfortably rested on the pillows. "protected," one of your legs is lifted onto his adjacent shoulder to it. "but here you are. testing me like i'm some kind of hypothesis to study, do you really value yourself so little?"

breathless, you reply. "it isn't endangering myself if i know you wont hurt me."

seeing him looming over you, his eyes softly glow in the darkness of the room and there is nothing stopping him between the major vein behind your knee, and his teeth.

he then whispers quietly. "are you sure you trust me?"

"with my life, anaxa. with everything i am."

the chuckle he lets out shouldn't be attractive, but it very much is. especially with the fact he's leaning down to your thigh to bite.

"just tell me when it starts to hurt."

he presses a delicate kiss to your thigh, and you listen to the quiet hiss he lets out before biting.

while he could undoubtedly rip off the flesh from your bones, anaxa loves you too much to let his urges do so. and so he almost nibbles, and sucks on your thigh so gently you could mistake it for a kitten.

"mmgh." he grumbles, his brows furrowing as his eyes close shut—lost in the flavor of your blood, in you. but when is he not?

how is he supposed to ignore how pretty you are when you're forcing yourself to keep quiet, biting your bottom lip and making the prettiest noises. all while you still reach for his hand, for his comfort, which he's happy to give through reaching out to you and gently caressing your leg. "doing so well, dove. so well."

"an— anaxa— it hurts.."

then he's off just as quick as he bit, licking the mark and softly applying pressure to it. "good dove. now let your mind and body rest, i'll take care of you."

the most tender kiss is placed on the bite, slowly lowering your leg as his kisses trail upwards, all the way to your lips. "thank you, my sweet dove. sleep well."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[helsex]

Back around the time of 3rd Life (or maybe it was Last Life, but definitely around that time) I remember seeing a few posts on how Skizz's politics were very much centrist at best. I'll be honest, I can't remember much of the specifics, but I'm pretty sure it was about who he was following on twitter (specifically, people with right wing views). For me personally, I've always been a little wary of him since then, but I just wanted to bring this up that there were small signs a while ago, and his comments today didn't come out of nowhere (not saying that you implied that or anything, but I just wanted to throw this out there so people know). Anyways, thanks for your posts and insight on the situation, I feel like your post described my feelings on it pretty well.

sigh...yeah...I wasn't exactly tapped in on all that around that time but its like...deep down you know these are just Some Guys. they draw in an audience by being charming and kind but that doesn't necessarily mean they have Good views. They're largely middle aged white men after all. And it's certainly clear in the small things like how so many of them will constantly reference harry potter when there's no way at this point that anyone (especially uk creators) is unaware of jkr's devastating political impact.

I think whenever we as a community are hit with it head on from time to time it really is just a slap in the face that brings us back to reality. It's so easy to forget when we are here on this very queer site and when we have hermits as lovely and dedicated to creating a safe space as joe hills and zombiecleo, that not every hermit is like that. and certainly not all hermitcraft fans are like that.

the obvious thing to say of course is that we should not put creators on pedestals, they are only people. But also I feel some people say this then take it a step farther and become far too lax, yes they are just people, no we are not asking them to be activists, and no we are not trying to cancel them but we CAN still hold them accountable. We do not need to act as if their hollow, condescending responses which are centrist at best, are something validating we should cheer on. We do not need to coddle them like that. Especially with how many young queers are in this fandom, do not let them think this is what acceptable allyship looks like. Don't let them beg for crumbs and have to accept nothing, with gratitude. Be clear that in this time and with this subject centrism means siding with and welcoming those who want us dead.

Do I necessarily think Skizz is transphobic? I'm not sure. Probably not. But his actions are not that of a true ally. And we should not praise his response.

[mirrored-muse]

For the vi request I was thinking of like a more mature older woman with her maybe more stern yk with vi cuz why was she getting abused the whole season I j wanna take care of her this can be a bot or head canon or fic idc (i will check before submitting next time again sorry)

-💖

ᴠɪ x ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʜᴄꜱ

ᴀ/ɴ: Hi, sorry for doing this so late. 😭 I know you sent this months ago, so thank you for being patient. I decided to do headcannons for this. I don’t make bots much anymore. 😔

⟢ You’re older than Vi by a good 5-10 years, enough to have your shit together. You’ve already been through your wild phase, already made your mistakes and now you know how to handle chaos without becoming it.

⟢ Despite her tough exterior, Vi melts when you use that calm, no-nonsense tone with her. Not in a submissive way, more like she finally feels safe enough to breathe.

⟢ You’re the first person in a long time who doesn’t treat Vi like a problem to solve or a weapon to aim. You treat her like a person.

⟢ After prison and the hell she’s been through, she’s not used to softness. When you patch her up after a fight, she fidgets and grumbles, like it’s a big deal, but the way she leans into your touch gives her away.

⟢ You never baby her. You’re not condescending, but firm. Like:

“You’re limping. Sit down before you make it worse.”

“You don’t have to prove anything tonight. You’re allowed to rest, y’know?”

“Next time you let someone land a punch like that, I’m not letting you back in my bed.”

(You say it so deadpan she has to listen.)

⟢ Vi likes to act like she’s the protector in the relationship, and in some ways she is, no one looks at you the wrong way without catching Vi’s glare, but behind closed doors, it’s different.

⟢ You’re the one who grounds her when she has nightmares. You don’t ask questions she can’t answer. You just pull her into your chest and keep your hand on the back of her neck until her breathing slows.

⟢ She jokes about your age sometimes. Calls you a “cougar” just to see the way your eyes narrow. You call her “kid” right back, mostly because it makes her scoff and blush at the same time.

⟢ You absolutely threaten people on her behalf, but you do it quietly. While Vi is throwing punches, you’re the one cornering someone in an alley and warning them never to come near her again. You’re scarier than she is.

⟢ You notice when she’s spiraling before even she does. All it takes is a shift in her tone, visible tension in her jaw. You sit her down and get her talking before she spirals.

⟢ Vi didn’t know she could trust someone like this. Someone who isn’t afraid of her temper, who sees through the wall she’s built up over the years, who doesn’t flinch when she’s angry or shut down when she goes quiet.

⟢ She doesn’t say “I love you” often, but she shows it constantly, doing the dishes before you get home, picking fights with anyone who so much as looks at you the wrong way, leaning her head against your shoulder when no one’s looking.

⟢ You say “I love you” all the time. Every time you say it, Vi acts like it surprises her, but you never stop saying it, and she never stops softening.

⟢ You do not let her beat herself up. The guilt, the survivor’s complex, the rage, you let her feel it, but you don’t let it consume her.

⟢ Sometimes she just sits between your legs with her back to your chest while you run your fingers through her hair or rub her shoulders. She always pretends she’s just “letting you” do it, but the second you stop, she’s whining for more.

Main menu.

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to having a cute, strong s/o who also loves to eat

Requested by @moonygrim : Hi Celeste 😊, I hope you’re doing well 💕.

I saw that your requests were open and decided to send one in.

So I was just wondering if you could write a reaction to Seventeen having a strong cute SO who maybe likes to eat a lot. I know it’s a little of a weird one but I thought I would send it anyways since seeing something like that would mean a lot to me.

Thank you 💕.

A/N: tysm for trusting me with something so personal. representation matters, and i’m honored to help you feel seen through this one 🫶🏼 you deserve to be adored just as you are, muscle and all 💜 /// the requester included some personal experiences, which i chose not to share publicly out of respect for their privacy. the prompt above is the main request

Head-over-heels in awe of your strength [and your appetite] — Seungcheol, Dokyeom, Mingyu, Dino

These boys are starstruck. No other word for it. Seungcheol practically glows watching you lift something heavy without breaking a sweat. He calls you his ‘supergirl’ and brags about how ”his girl carried the groceries like they were feathers.” Mingyu is so whipped it’s ridiculous. You flex once and he’s making heart eyes, mumbling, “You’re so cool, what the heck.” If you’re both at a buffet? You’re tag-teaming! Dokyeom LOVES that you eat with joy. He’s always encouraging you to get seconds, and if you ever say “I think I ate too much,” he’s shaking his head like: “No such thing. Let’s go for dessert” 🍮 And Dino's a baby in love. He looks at you like you hung the moon, especially when you slightly lift him up jokingly or beat him in arm wrestling. That’s his dream girl.

Totally smitten, totally supportive — Jeonghan, Hoshi, Woozi, Seungkwan

Jeonghan low-key teases you at first, “should I be the little spoon tonight?” but it’s all affection. He genuinely finds your strength super attractive and hot and secretly loves it when you protect him from fans or push open a jammed door like it’s nothing. Woozi’s too chill to say much, but he’s proud and kind of turned on. His eyes linger when you’re focused, the small smiles when you eat with gusto — it’s all there. Seungkwan is OBSESSED. You’re his superhero. He’ll film you carrying heavy bags just to show people how cool you are. And when you’re eating happily, he's literally matching your pace and feeding you bites of his plate. Hoshi’s your #1 cheerleader, “LOOK AT HER BICEPS!!!” he’ll yell in the group chat after you open a kimchi jar he couldn’t. He’ll act all dramatic but only because, he’s so, so into you.

Extremely respectful of your body and your confidence — Joshua, Jun, Wonwoo, Minghao

Joshua’s the type to look at your arms while you’re lifting something and ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ say, “You’re really strong,” with the kindest, most genuine admiration. He loves that you’re strong and soft; his safe space. Wonwoo finds strength incredibly sexy. You might be stronger than him, and he loves that. He’s quiet, but if you ever express insecurity, he’ll look you straight in the eye and say, “you’re beautiful. Exactly as you are.” and shut all that nonsensical stuff in your head. Jun will 100% ask you to teach him workouts. You two will have gym dates, and he’ll compliment your form every time. He loves your body and the way you love food, it’s all part of what makes you you. Hao sees your strength as elegance. He’s inspired by your control, your discipline, and how at peace you are with yourself [because he doesn't let you you live with insecurities]. If someone makes a comment about your build, he’ll politely but firmly shut it down, “she’s stronger than your fragile ego. Let’s go babe.” [UFF, I LOVE HIM 😌]

Obsessed in the most Vernon way — Vernon

Vernon’s reaction is understated, but make no mistake: he’s in awe of you. You casually carry something heavy or pop open a stuck bottle cap, and he just blinks like, “wait. That was kinda hot.” He admires your strength silently, but with so much pride. He doesn’t gush, but he just shows it in lowkey ways: asking you to spot him at the gym, letting you finish his fries because you love them, or wordlessly handing you his hoodie when he notices you’re cold after a workout. And if anyone ever says anything rude about your build or appetite, he’s not shouting and screaming and challenging to fight him, but he’s sharp. He’ll cut in calmly, firmly, “she’s literally perfect. You good?”

[sunandflame]

Where Flame Rests

When someone who’s always protected finally lets themselves be protected, it’s a sacred kind of softness.

Warnings: none, just fluff

Word Count: 1338

Pairing: Kyojuro Rengoku x Wife!Reader

crossposted on AO3

a/n: the beautiful header art is from the amazing and sweet @erexart who also gave me this super cute request idea. I am sorry for the other ideas but this one just made my heart flutter and I had to write this. And I had so much fun while doing that I had to turn it into a fic and not drabble! So thank you so much for that🥹❤️

The sun had dipped low in the sky, filtering through the shoji screen in streaks of amber and gold — the kind of light that made shadows stretch and warmth linger just a little longer across the wooden floorboards.

You sat with your back propped against the wall of the engawa, knees loosely bent beneath the familiar weight of his head in your lap.

Kyojuro’s hair had grown unruly these past months.

The wild length of it spilled like fire over your thighs, tangled in places where sleep or sweat or battle-weary days had woven little knots of neglect. It was still beautiful — golden silk ignited with vermillion tips — but it had taken on the unpolished look of someone who was no longer performing for the world. No longer standing tall on the battlefield, blade in hand, flame in his voice.

He didn’t need to anymore.

You dipped your fingers into the strands gently, lifting them away from his neck, trying not to tug too hard where the worst of the tangles had taken root. You felt him shift slightly, a soft exhale brushing against the fabric of your yukata.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. Or, tried to. It barely registered as a twitch.

“No… it feels nice.” His voice was low and warm, like kindling on embers — no longer roaring, but still unmistakably Kyojuro.

There had been a time when he wouldn’t let you help.

Not out of pride, never that, but because he didn’t want to burden you. His arms, though still strong, no longer moved like they once did. His grip failed him on bad days, and the old wound near his ribs made even the simplest stretches feel like drawn blades against his skin. It was humbling for him, who once stood unshaken before Upper Moons.

But lately, he’d started letting go more.

He leaned into your help. He leaned into you.

And tonight, he’d let his knees fold beneath him on the tatami and rest his head in your lap without asking — just tilted his head with that quiet look in his eyes, and you understood.

The brush glided through his hair now with more ease. You detangled the worst of it with slow fingers, working your way through flame-colored lengths that gleamed in the fading light. Your hands knew his hair the way your heart knew his rhythm — slow now, less rushed. But still steady. Still warm.

He hummed once, a soft sound of contentment, before going utterly still.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Instead, you leaned forward just slightly, brushing your lips against the crown of his head, where the heat of him was strongest, and stayed there.

His breathing had evened out.

Your fingers stilled where they had been combing slowly through the final strands, and you smiled to yourself, holding still like the moment might shatter if you so much as breathed too loud.

Kyojuro Rengoku — your husband, your flame — had fallen asleep in your lap.

The weight of him was warm, familiar. Trusting.

You rested one hand gently across his shoulder, the other still buried in his hair.

And for once, you allowed yourself to be the strong one. To protect him from the cold draft seeping in through the paper doors. To run your fingers through fire without fear.

To keep him safe — as he had done for so long — here, in the quiet he finally deserved.

He stirred in the warmth of half-sleep, not yet ready to leave the quiet.

There was a pressure beneath his cheek — soft, warm — and fingers still threaded through his hair like whispers. His body registered the weight and presence of you before his mind did. He knew it in the way a tree knows sunlight.

You were there.

His wife.

His beloved.

He stayed still, not wanting to break the peace that wrapped around him like a woven blanket. There were things he remembered vaguely: the gentle tug of a brush in his hair, your voice asking if it hurt, the faintest kiss against the crown of his head. And then, nothing. Sleep had pulled him under like the tide.

It was rare for him to fall asleep like that. So quickly. So trustingly.

But your lap had felt like home. And your hands… gods, your hands.

They had once trembled when touching his wounds, when caring for him after Akaza. But now they moved with the confidence of love — steady and patient. Not afraid of his pain. Not afraid of him.

He opened his eyes slowly.

You were looking down at him.

Noticing, maybe, that he was awake now — but you didn’t speak. You just smiled.

His breath caught in his throat.

There was a softness to your expression that belonged only to these stolen, quiet moments. Hair loosely pulled back, eyes half-lidded with peace, fingers still tangled in his hair like you’d never stopped brushing it — like you didn’t want to.

He had seen you bloodied in battle. Crying in grief. Laughing in celebration.

But like this — serene, devoted, gently watchful — you were something sacred.

He wanted to thank you. Say your name. But the words didn’t come.

His body didn’t move.

He didn’t want to disturb the way you looked at him now. As though he wasn't a retired Flame Hashira with a body that betrayed him some days. As though he was still whole, still strong — still worthy of this kind of love.

A hand rose, slowly, from where it rested at your side. He reached for you — not with urgency, but reverence — and let his fingers graze along the hem of your sleeve.

You looked down, tilting your head. “You’re awake?”

He nodded, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Only just,” he whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “I didn’t mean to… fall asleep like that.”

“You needed it,” you murmured. And then, quieter still: “I’m glad you let yourself rest.”

Kyojuro closed his eyes again.

The pulse of love inside his chest was slow, but steady — a kind of heat that didn’t roar like fire, but glowed with a gentler burn. The kind that stayed through the night.

He moved his hand to rest over your knee and gave it a small, grateful squeeze. “You’re so good to me…”

You brushed your fingers through his bangs again, tucking them away from his face. “Of course I am.”

His throat tightened.

So much had been taken from him — the speed of his sword, the power in his arms, the battles that once gave his life shape. And yet… here, in your lap, wrapped in the scent of sakura and late summer wind, he had never felt richer.

He had everything.

Everything he had ever fought to protect — love, warmth, a place to lay his head — lived here, in the curve of your smile and the cradle of your lap.

“I think I could stay here forever,” he murmured. And in a voice made soft by the weight of emotion he rarely let show, he added, “I love you.”

You bent slowly, gently, and kissed his forehead — and if he hadn't been so still, he might’ve trembled from it.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I love you too.”

And for once, he let himself believe it fully.