#line for getting stepped on by her starts here

[paucubarsisimp]

surprise gone wrong

pairings: lando norris x reader

summary: in which you try surprising lando...

warnings: angst, cheating

melbourne, australia – sunday night

you hadn’t been this excited in weeks.

the plane landed thirty minutes early, but it still felt like it took forever to reach the city. every step off the plane, through customs, into the cab—it all buzzed with a kind of electricity that made your fingers twitch. you were barely keeping it together.

you were going to surprise him. your boyfriend. your person.

lando.

you hadn’t seen him in three weeks. the season had barely started, but it already felt like the world was swallowing him whole. interviews, practice, media, debriefs. your conversations had gone from long, late-night calls to quick voice notes and blurry facetimes while he was on the move.

but today was different.

he won. first place. finally.

you watched it on the tiny tv at home, hands over your mouth, heart pounding with his. and when he crossed the finish line, when the team screamed over the radio, when his voice cracked through the headset—you felt it all. pride. joy. love.

you booked the flight that same hour.

you didn’t tell him. didn’t want to. it was supposed to be a surprise. you wanted to show up, wrap your arms around him, and whisper, “you did it. i’m here.”

the rooftop bar was chaos.

you barely made it through security, but someone from mclaren must’ve recognized you and let you up. the elevator was packed with strangers—some people dressed like they lived here, others clearly part of the racing circus. cameras were already out. music thumped through the walls.

when the doors opened, the night hit you full force.

neon lights. booming bass. drinks spilling over glasses. laughter, loud and echoing. flashes from phones and disco balls and champagne bottles. the kind of party that blurred together like a fever dream.

but your eyes were searching for one thing. just one.

him.

and then you saw him.

lando.

halfway across the rooftop, surrounded by a crowd of familiar faces—some engineers, a few of the pr team, people you’d met once or twice. his curls were a mess, shirt slightly untucked, a drink in one hand, and that signature post-win smile stretched wide across his face.

your breath caught in your throat.

god, you’d missed him.

you stepped forward, your fingers gripping your purse a little tighter, heart ready to burst.

and then everything stopped.

because she was there.

a girl. standing too close. laughing at something he said, one hand on his chest.

and before you could even blink, he leaned in. and kissed her.

slow. familiar. like it wasn’t the first time.

you froze.

it was like your body short-circuited. like someone hit pause on the world, but forgot to tell your heart to stop breaking.

his hand was on her waist. hers tangled in his curls—the curls you used to touch when he couldn’t sleep, when he was anxious, when he needed grounding.

and he was smiling into it. drunk. relaxed. like there was nothing wrong.

like you weren’t even real.

you didn’t know how long you stood there.

you couldn’t move. couldn’t blink. couldn’t even breathe properly.

the music was too loud. the lights too bright. the room spinning too fast.

lando norris—your lando—was kissing someone else.

and you were just… standing there.

uninvited. unseen. the girl who showed up late to her own story.

your heels clicked too loudly as you turned around. pushed through the crowd. passed people who didn’t know you, didn’t care. the elevator took forever. someone asked if you were okay. you nodded without hearing them.

once outside, the air hit you like a wave.

melbourne at night was still buzzing. people celebrating. cars honking. the city alive.

but your world had gone completely, painfully still.

you walked. didn’t know where. didn’t care.

you just needed to get away from that rooftop. away from the music. the cameras. the kiss.

you had come here to surprise him. to celebrate with him.

but he had already moved on.

sunday night – 1:42 a.m.

you didn’t remember getting to the hotel.

your phone said it was fifteen minutes away, but your mind had gone quiet somewhere between leaving the club and stepping into the empty, too-clean lobby. everything felt hazy. like you were watching yourself from the outside, like you were just playing a part in a story that was never really yours.

the keycard slid into the door with a beep. you stepped inside the room. lights off. no sounds. just the low hum of the air conditioning and the dull ache behind your eyes.

you dropped your purse on the chair. kicked off your heels. the dress, once so carefully picked for him, slid to the floor with a whisper.

you stood there in silence. bare. weightless. like if you closed your eyes, you could just disappear.

but you didn’t.

you walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and finally—finally—let it out.

not the sobbing kind of cry. not the messy, movie-scene breakdown.

this one was quieter. smaller.

it started in your chest. then your throat. then your eyes, slow and warm and unrelenting.

you buried your face in your hands. curled in on yourself.

this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

you’d imagined it so many times.

lando opening his hotel door and seeing you there. his eyes going wide, grin stretching across his face as he pulled you in, lifted you off your feet like he always used to. his voice thick with disbelief, “you’re actually here?” followed by kisses, laughter, maybe even tears.

you would’ve run your hands through his curls, whispered, “you did it, baby,” and he would’ve held you like the world had stopped.

that was the version you flew across the world for.

but instead, he kissed someone else.

and smiled while doing it.

your phone lit up on the nightstand.

1:51 a.m. text from: oscar

hey, lando’s pretty out of it. you coming by? he’s been looking around like he forgot something. maybe you?

you stared at it.

what were you supposed to say to that?

you started typing.

i saw him.

paused.

deleted it.

typed again.

i’m here.

no. not right.

you sat there, thumbs hovering over the screen, heart pounding in your ears.

finally, you sent:

tell him congrats.

short. distant. detached.

you turned the phone face down after that.

you laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms crossed over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together. the sheets smelled like hotel bleach and artificial lavender. the kind of clean that made everything feel more sterile. more empty.

you used to feel so close to him, even when he was halfway across the world.

but now?

you’d never felt farther away.

you thought about calling someone. your sister. your best friend. anyone who could make this moment less sharp. less lonely.

but how do you explain flying across the world to surprise someone, only to find out they stopped waiting for you?

how do you explain watching the person you love put their hands on someone else like it meant nothing?

you didn’t want to talk.

you just wanted to forget.

your eyes fluttered shut. and for a second, the image played again behind your eyelids.

lando, laughing. her fingers in his hair. his mouth pressed to hers.

your stomach turned.

you rolled over, facing the wall, trying to breathe past the ache.

you came all this way. you were the surprise.

but he didn’t even notice you were gone.

flashback – eight months ago, london

the rain had come out of nowhere.

you were both soaked—shoes squishing, clothes clinging to skin, hair plastered to your faces as you ran down the narrow london street, laughing like idiots.

lando had forgotten an umbrella. of course.

“i told you to check the weather,” you teased, huddled under a shop overhang, trying to catch your breath.

“you did. i just didn’t listen.”

he was grinning. water dripping from his lashes, curls a mess. he looked ridiculous. beautiful.

you stared at him, heart full, cheeks aching from smiling.

“we’re actually drenched.”

“romantic, though.” he leaned in, bumping your forehead with his. “like a movie scene.”

“a very soggy movie scene.”

he laughed. and then he kissed you. right there, in the middle of the street, while strangers rushed past and the sky kept pouring.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t perfect. but it was real.

that was the thing with lando—he made even the messiest moments feel soft. warm. like something you wanted to wrap yourself in.

later, back at his place, you sat on the kitchen counter in his hoodie while he made tea. music playing low, windows fogged up from the cold. the quiet kind of night that felt like home.

he walked over, pressed a mug into your hands, then stood between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“i hate how much i love you,” he said softly, eyes on yours.

you raised an eyebrow. “that a bad thing?”

he shook his head. “no. just scary. i’ve never had this before.”

you swallowed.

you’d never had it either.

“what’s ‘this’?”

“you.” he smiled, just a little. “you feel like the only thing that makes sense when everything else is insane.”

you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

“then hold onto me, yeah?”

“always.”

and you believed him.

present – melbourne, 3:13 a.m.

you were still awake.

still staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

the hotel room was quiet except for the occasional car down on the street below. you hadn’t moved much. your body felt heavy. not tired, just… hollow.

you kept replaying that night. london. the rain. his hands. his words.

he said he’d hold onto you.

but somewhere between then and now, his grip slipped.

or maybe yours did.

maybe the distance got too loud. maybe the silence in between texts got too long. maybe love needs more than belief to survive.

you reached for your phone again.

no new messages.

not from him.

not from anyone.

you considered texting him. asking why. asking if he meant to do it. if he even knew you were there. if she was just some mistake or someone he’d already planned on seeing long before tonight.

but deep down, you knew the answer.

lando never did things by accident. not like that.

you turned your phone over again. shoved it under the pillow.

whatever you had—whatever you were—maybe it wasn’t enough anymore.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Fifteen

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, rising tension (not between Amelia and Lando), a lot of Oscar!!!!!

Notes — Bit longer than usual! I wanted to cover 3 races per chapter, but it's not worked out that way. So we're covering Bahrain and pre-Imola. This is going to be a long 2021 season, so... yeah, get ready for a lot of chapters lmao.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 

Bahrain

Amelia perched at the edge of a padded hospitality seat overlooking the circuit, knees tucked up slightly, elbows resting on them. The sun cast sharp glints off the tarmac as the F2 grid wound their way through the formation lap, engines whining as they lined up. Her gaze didn’t waver, eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits, tracking each car with sharp precision.

She’d missed the first sprint race that morning, buried in set-up notes with Max, buried in everything Max in general, really, but she’d made sure to find time for this one. 

Her eyes followed car number 81 as it weaved through the final corner. Oscar. 

She wasn’t quite sure what it was that had snagged her interest after watching her first F3 race with Max, only that it had. And now she was here, legs bouncing with unconcealed energy, eyes fixed on one driver who rose above the sea of talent. 

A shadow cast itself across her legs.

She looked up.

Mark Webber. A polite smile, hands in his pockets like he’d been waiting for her to notice him.

“Do Red Bull usually start sniffing around this early?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. 

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “I don’t work for Red Bull anymore.”

Mark’s eyebrows rose a touch. “No?”

“No,” she said. “Just Max.”

He hummed, shifting his weight. “Alright… it’s a personal interest in my Oscar, then?”

She hesitated for a beat. “It’s… I don’t know. He’s very good. Talented.” 

Mark studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t playing politics. That was what made her so bloody difficult to read. “Well, whatever you’re seeing,” he said eventually, “he’s locked into Alpine. Long-term. Management contract’s done. They’ve promised him a seat in 2023.”

Amelia didn’t react at first. She simply nodded, eyes back on the track as the lights began to count down. But something flickered behind her expression, something uncertain.

She’d been to the Alpine garage. She knew how things felt there. Knew what Fernando had told her over coffee and biscuits. The uncertain politics. The disorganisation. The fractured attention span of a team trying to be four things at once and pulling in opposite directions. It didn’t sit right.

But she didn’t say any of that.

She just said, “Okay.”

Mark nodded. “Thought you’d want to know.”

She offered him a small nod in return, and then turned her eyes back to the track as the five lights went out. 

Oscar’s launch was perfect.

Of course it was.

— 

Lando was sitting on a low wall just outside the McLaren motorhome, nursing a smoothie and checking scrolling through Instagram when someone stepped into his peripheral vision.

He glanced up to see Mark Webber standing in front of him, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. “Uh. Hey,” Lando said slowly, slightly weary, wondering if he’d done something to accidentally pissed him off. 

Mark nodded at him once. “Got a question for you.”

Lando blinked. “Okay?”

“Why is your girlfriend obsessed with Oscar?”

Lando stared. “What?” he said eventually, like the words had taken a full second to download.

“Oscar Piastri,” Mark repeated, tilting his head toward the mini F2 paddock. “Your girlfriend. Amelia. She’s been watching him like a hawk all weekend. I thought she might be there on Red Bull’s behalf, but no.” 

Lando blinked again, processing. Then he laughed. “Oh! Oh, Oscar. Yeah.” He nodded, shaking his head with a fond grin. “She’s, like, imprinted on him or something.”

Mark stared. “She’s what.”

“You know. Like a duckling.” Lando made a vague motion with his hand. “It’s harmless. She gets like this sometimes. Sees someone drive well and suddenly she’s emotionally invested in their entire career trajectory.”

Mark looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“She was like that with Nyck for a bit,” Lando added helpfully. “And Latifi for exactly one afternoon, until he missed an easy breaking zone.”

“...Right.” Mark said. 

“Honestly, it’s kind of sweet,” Lando shrugged. “Means she cares. She’s not gonna steal him from you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Mark said, slowly and clearly. “I’m confused.”

“You’ve just gotta learn to roll with it,” Lando grinned, sipping his smoothie again like the conversation was over.

Mark just stood there for a moment longer, processing the oddity of it all, before muttering something under his breath and walking away.

—

iMessage — 1:40pm

Lando Norris Mark Webber is very concerned Am I supposed to be jealous of this Oscar bloke 

The reply came almost instantly.

Amelia He has perfect apex management Do you think if I go and talk to him he’ll let me critique him

Lando Norris PLEASE go and critique the baby driver. I’m sure he’ll love that

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, still grinning. 

Oscar Piastri, whether he knew it or not, had just gained the most intense silent sponsor in all of Formula 1.

— 

Oscar had just unclipped his helmet when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He turned, still half in his overalls, hair damp with sweat, and found himself face-to-face with a vaguely familiar woman who was wearing a white skirt, a T-Shirt with a lion and the number 33 on it, and sneakers that looked like they had a smudge of orange marker on the side. She also had a clipboard tucked under one arm, dark sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and an unreadable expression fixed on her face.

"Uh—hi?" he offered, polite and cautious.

"You're Oscar Piastri," she said, more like a statement than a question.

He blinked. “Yeah…?”

She nodded once, then added, "You braked too late into Turn 4. Could’ve gained three tenths if you’d taken a wider entry and stayed tighter on exit. But your apex work in Sector 3 was perfect."

Oscar stared at her. “I—thanks?”

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “You’re consistent. Calm under pressure. Don’t overcorrect. You keep your steering inputs clean, which is rare for a driver at this level.”

“…Okay.”

“And you’re doing that in a car that under-rotates on entry. That’s even more impressive.”

Oscar looked around as if someone might confirm whether this was real, if anyone else was seeing this happen. “Are you… scouting me or something? My manager—”

“No,” she said flatly. 

“Oh.” He said. There was a pause. “Right,” he said again, more awkward now. “Cool.”

Amelia squinted at him. “Have you spoken to your engineers about your differential settings? You’re losing too much on cold tyres, especially first lap out of the pits.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “I—I guess I could mention that. I mean, I didn’t think—"

“You should.” She told him. 

Another pause. “…Who are you, exactly?” He asked on a wince. 

She smiled at him. “Amelia Brown. I work with Max Verstappen.”

Oscar’s eyes went comically wide. “Oh. Oh. I knew I recognised you.”

She nodded, glanced at her clipboard. “You’re fast.” 

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She shrugged. And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off toward the Red Bull garages, clipboard swinging at her side.

Oscar stood there for another full thirty seconds before one of his engineers passed him and said, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just— yeah. Hey, can who should I talk to about my differential settings?” 

— 

Oscar was adjusting the straps of his shoes when someone nudged his elbow.

He looked up and nearly choked on his own spit.

“Hey,” Lando Norris said, all cheeky grin and casual posture. “You Oscar?”

Oscar scrambled to stand properly, knocking into the side of the pit wall in the process. “Yeah! Uh—yeah. I mean—yeah, I’m Oscar. Piastri. You’re—uh. Obviously.”

Lando chuckled. “Relax, mate. Just wanted to say good luck in the feature. Great win yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Oscar managed, ears already starting to go pink. “It’s… really cool to meet you.”

Lando grinned wider. “Appreciate it. My girlfriend’s actually the big fan.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, folding his arms. “She’s a bit obsessed with you.”

Oscar’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Uh… what?”

Lando held back a laugh. “Not like that. Jesus. No, look, Amelia. That’s my girlfriend.” 

Oscar’s brain stalled for a full second. “…Oh. I knew that, I think.”

“Yeah,” Lando nodded. “Look, she’s mostly with Max on race weekends, but if you spot her lingering around your garage, don’t freak out. She’s just… a bit fixated at the minute. It’ll pass.”

Oscar straightened a little, finally finding his footing. “I’m not freaked out. I mean—it’s kind of nice, actually. Having someone that smart in my corner.”

Lando’s smile softened. “Helpful, ain’t it?”

Oscar nodded.

“Shame she’s Max’s on race weekends,” Lando added dryly, nudging Oscar with his elbow. “But she’s mine the rest of the time, so I win.”

Oscar laughed, a little awkward but genuine. “Tell her thanks for the advice, by the way. Make some adjustments and I’ve already noticed a difference.”

“I will,” Lando said, already turning to leave. “Don’t let her scare you too much.”

“No promises,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

— 

Lando sat on the edge of the halo, half in his car, helmet perched on the shelf behind him. He was tapping one foot, not even aware he was doing it, gaze flicking back and forth between the screens in front of him.

Then he looked up; felt her before he saw her.

Amelia ducked in under the divider flap like she’d done a hundred times. One of the engineers gave her a small nod of hello, and no one moved to stop her. 

Lando stood up automatically.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up, smoothing a wrinkle in the sleeve of his fireproofs, adjusting the zip at his collar. The kind of quiet, grounding touch that could settle a world spinning too fast.

Then, softly, “I love you. Do well. Be safe.”

He leaned down, and she kissed him; gentle and steady and just long enough to make his knees threaten to go out from under him.

When they pulled apart, Lando’s grin was crooked and dazed. “Love you.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb across his jaw.

—

The Red Bull garage was settling into that uniquely pre-race stillness; that suspended hum of controlled chaos. Final checks. Monitors flickering. Tyre blankets off. Nothing wasted, not a second nor a movement.

Max sat low in the cockpit of the RB16B, suit zipped, gloves halfway on, helmet resting beside him. His eyes were locked forward, watching but not really seeing the telemetry screen across from him.

GP crouched at his side, tablet balanced against his knee. “Steering feedback still alright after FP3?”

“Yeah,” Max said, barely blinking. “No pull on the straights anymore.”

“Rear end?”

“Still twitchy through ten,” Max replied. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m having to correct.”

GP nodded, tapping the screen. “We can tweak the diff map slightly, smooth it out mid-corner.”

Max didn’t answer immediately, just flexed his fingers inside the glove.

Footsteps approached, steady and unhurried.

Amelia.

She didn’t need to say anything; Max’s head turned the second she appeared at the edge of the garage. She had a MV33 jacket thrown loosely over her shoulders, a data sheet in one hand, iPad in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, sunglasses on her head despite the garage shadows, and ear defenders around her neck. 

“Steering sorted?” she asked, skipping hello.

Max nodded. “Almost. GP’s dialling it in.”

GP gave her a glance over his tablet. “You here to give me more setup notes?”

“No,” she said dryly, flipping her iPad around and showing Max a highlighted map of sector times. “You’re a tenth down in sector two. Get that under control.”

Max took the tablet from her, scanning. “Shit. I can sort that, yeah.”

“I know you can. You shouldn’t be struggling on that part of the track in the first place.”

GP snorted. Max handed it back with a smirk.

Amelia took a step closer, arms folded now, eyes flicking over Max’s face. She tilted her head. “You nervous?”

He looked at her for a moment, like he wanted to say no. Then he just nodded once. “A little.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “Good. You should be. You’re about to start a season-long war with a seven-time world champion.”

GP side-eyed her. “Amelia.” He warned quietly. 

She ignored him, eyes firmly on Max. “Just remember, you have the car. You have the talent. Just put it all together.” 

He glanced up at her then. Her expression hadn’t shifted; calm, focused, familiar. Grounding.

GP looked between them and stood up, giving them space. “I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t let him spiral,” he added, aiming that at Amelia.

“I’m the one who built the spiral,” she muttered.

Max breathed out a quiet laugh.

Then Amelia broke the silence. “I’ll be at pit wall with GP during the race. Nothing else I can do with the car until afterwards anyway. Don’t fuck it up, trust the strategy.”

“I’ll try.”

As she turned to walk out, Max called after her. “Amelia?”

She glanced back.

“If I can’t—”

“You can,” she cut in, with the blunt certainty of someone who refused to consider any other possibility.

Max blinked once. Then nodded. 

GP returned with the headset. “You alright now?”

Max exhaled, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

—

The lights went out, and the grid thundered into motion. 

Amelia flinched slightly at the roar. Twenty cars launched toward Turn 1, and already her eyes were scanning; Max on pole, Lando P9. A clean start. Good. Clean was all she could ever ask for.

Max’s start was near-perfect; no wheel-spin, held the lead into the first corner. But Lewis was there. Always there. Breathing down his neck like more of an inevitability than a challenge.

Her stomach flipped.

Lap 5. Max radioed about rear grip. She already knew. She could see it in his lines, a little hesitation through Turn 10, just a touch of overcorrection. She scribbled something on her iPad, handed it off to GP without a word, let him relay the information to Max.

On the screen, she watched Lando pick off Charles. Nice. Brave. She smiled softly.

Lap 13. Bottas boxed. Mercedes going aggressive. Amelia tapped her fingers against her thigh.

Lap 14. “Box, Max. Box now.”

The pit stop was clean. Not the fastest, but smooth. Max rejoined behind Hamilton. The chase began.

Lap 28. She was quiet now, arms crossed. Watching Lewis manage his tyres like some kind of magician, Max clawing back the delta. 

Lap 31. Lando passed Daniel. Amelia’s stomach swooped with pride. Forgotten, he’d worried. As if. 

Lap 38. GP’s voice came in sharp over the comms; “Purple Sector Two, Max. Good job.”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not yet. She was holding her breath now.

Lap 45. Hamilton dove in. The final phase began. Max had the advantage. But not for long.

Lap 53. Two laps to go.

Max took the lead with a stunning overtake around the outside of Turn 4. Amelia’s heart leapt. 

But he ran wide. Track limits. The order came like a whisper, a curse; “Give it back.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” she whispered.

Lap 56. Final lap. Hamilton led. Max was there, nearly pushing him through every corner, but it wasn’t enough.

The flag waved.

Hamilton won.

Max finished P2.

Lando P4 — a breath away from the podium. 

GP exhaled beside her, already offering reassurances. "It's only round one. We'll get them next time."

She nodded. She believed it. But still.

Still.

— 

Amelia found him on the balcony of their shared hotel room, one leg propped on the low wall, still in a McLaren team hoodie, curls damp from a rushed shower. He looked up when she slid the door open.

“Hey baby,” he said, soft and tired.

Amelia didn’t say anything at first. She just walked over, reached for his hand, and tugged him gently toward her.

He didn’t resist. Just leaned into her, let her wrap her arms around his waist and press her face into his chest.

“P4,” she mumbled.

He laughed quietly. “I know.”

“You were amazing.”

He let out a long breath, arms looping around her back. “Felt good. Car was sharp today. We had more in it, maybe, but... yeah. I’m happy.”

Amelia leaned back just enough to look up at him. “You should be. You outdrove your teammate, held your own against the Ferraris.”

Lando grinned at her. “You gonna make me a trophy?”

She frowned. “No. Why would I do that? You didn’t win.”

He snorted, kissed her forehead. “Yeah. Good thing I’m patient.”

“You are,” she agreed. “That’s why you’re doing so well.”

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in the hush of midnight Bahrain, the warm breeze brushing past them. Her hand found the edge of his hoodie, fingers sliding underneath to touch warm skin.

“You looked good today,” he said softly. “On the pit wall, working hard.”

She nodded. “I really feel like I’ve found my place there.”

“And Max?” He asked. 

She paused. “He was… good. Disappointed. But he’s focused. It’ll come.”

Lando hummed, then pulled her closer, swaying them gently. “Chances of me winning before he does this year?”

Amelia looked up at him, amused. “Slim to none, unfortunately.”

“I know,” he grinned. “But it’d make you smile, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. And then I’d be crucified for sitting on Max’s pit wall and smiling at another drivers win.” She told him. 

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm and sweet. When they finally pulled apart, Amelia cupped his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

His eyes crinkled. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Completely.”

He brushed his nose against hers. “Cool. So… we celebrating with cake or sex?”

Amelia blinked. “Both?”

Lando laughed, pulling her back inside. “You’re perfect.”

— 

Following the first race of the season, Amelia got sick.

It started slowly, just a scratch in her throat, a little bit more fatigue than usual, but by the second day back in the UK, it hit her like a truck.

Fever. Shakes. Headache. Nausea. The works.

She tried to power through it, of course. She was Amelia. She didn’t do sick days. But when she nearly passed out standing in front of the mirror brushing her teeth, Lando had carried her back to bed, tucked the covers up around her chin, and handed her a glass of water with a stern but incredibly gentle, “You’re not moving for the rest of the day, okay?”

It was awful for her.

And somehow, somehow, it was worse for Lando.

He hovered. Kept her topped up with expensive coffee and water, made a heroic effort in the kitchen (which resulted in some aggressively average tinned soup, but it was warm and made with love), and sat with her on the sofa, leaning back against her, giving her the exact amount of deep pressure that she needed since she felt so out of sorts.

He ran cool cloths over her forehead, whispered soft reassurances when her fever spiked in the middle of the night, and called his mum every few hours for advice on what more he could do to help her feel better. 

Now, on day three, she was finally stable enough to sit upright without swaying. The lights were low, the flat was quiet, and she was curled into Lando’s side on the couch, her face smushed against his bare chest as Pretty Woman played softly on the TV in front of them.

He was scrolling on his phone with one hand and the other was moving up and down her thigh absently. She snuffled a little, still congested and gross, and pushed herself impossibly closer to his warmth. 

Safe. Comfortable. At peace. 

— 

Max showed up mid-afternoon on the Thursday. 

“Did you rob a pharmacy?” Amelia croaked from the couch, her voice still rough with congestion as she blinked blearily over the edge of her blanket.

He dropped the bag on the coffee table with a dramatic thud. “Maybe.”

Inside was everything she could possibly need; throat lozenges, vitamin C gummies, a fresh box of tissues, eucalyptus balm, electrolyte drinks, chocolate buttons (“for morale,” he’d muttered), and even a miniature hot water bottle shaped like a bear.

Amelia stared at it all. “Did the girlfriend that you’re still lying to help you with this?”

“No,” Max said quickly. “Okay yes. But I picked the bear.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re weird.”

“So are you,” he shot back, tugging off his jacket and flopping unceremoniously onto the living room floor. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”

That was how they ended up there, Max stretched out on Lando’s living room rug with his laptop open, Amelia curled up under a blanket beside him with tissues stuffed up her sleeve like someone’s grandma, hunched over notes and telemetry data.

They worked in a familiar rhythm; Amelia with her sharp, observant critiques and Max with his quiet nods, letting her voice guide the direction. She sounded like hell, sniffly and hoarse and congested, but her mind was still as razor-sharp as ever, and Max didn’t miss the way she caught every subtle shift in his sector times, every inconsistency in brake response.

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” he muttered, glancing sideways at her.

She shrugged, wiping her nose. “I know.”

They kept at it until the sun dipped low in the sky and the flat was soaked in golden light. Max had just asked about tyre degradation when Amelia stopped responding.

He turned to look, and there she was—head tipped against the arm of the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin, tissues still clutched in one hand. Out cold, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed with fever.

Max sighed softly, closing the laptop with a quiet snap. “Stubborn zusje,” he muttered, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he stood.

The front door clicked open a second later.

Lando stepped in, looking wrecked from a day of intense training, hoodie clinging damply to his shoulders. He paused when he saw Max still there, eyebrows drawing together. “What’s going on?”

Max jerked his chin toward Amelia. “She insisted on coming back to work. I told her she was still sick. She told me she wasn’t. So I drove here instead of dragging her to Milton Keynes.” He gave a small laugh. “She made it three hours. Then passed out mid-sentence.”

Lando dropped his gym bag with a quiet thud and crossed to the couch. He crouched beside Amelia, fingers gently brushing sweat-dampened hair away from her forehead. His voice softened. “Jesus. She really doesn’t know how to stop, does she?”

“Her only flaw,” Max said, grabbing his own bag. “Take care of her, yeah? I need her sharp again by Imola.”

Lando adjusted the blanket up around her shoulders, gaze never leaving her face. “Yeah. Of course. Thanks for watching out for her, man.”

Max gave a short, understanding nod and let himself out with a parting, “Later.”

Lando waited a beat, listening to the quiet, before slipping his arms under Amelia’s knees and shoulders. She stirred the moment she was lifted, letting out a tiny groan and curling instinctively into his chest.

“You’re home?” she murmured, voice rough and small.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And now we’re going to bed. Proper bed.”

She hummed, already half-asleep, nuzzling into his neck. “Still feel like shit. But I love you.”

He chuckled, arms tightening around her. “Love you too. Can’t believe you actually wanted to drive to Milton fucking Keynes like this.”

“Would’ve been fine,” she mumbled, stubborn as ever.

And then, right on cue, she dissolved into a coughing fit that tore through her chest and effectively killed her argument.

Lando didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Yeah. Super convincing, babe.”

She sniffled, still curled against him. “Shut up.”

— 

It was sometime past midnight. The lights were low, the sheets tangled around their legs, and the soft hum of the street barely made it through the slightly open window.

Amelia lay on her side, head tucked into the crook of Lando’s shoulder, one arm draped lazily across his stomach. He was warm beneath her, skin soft and comforting, his voice a quiet murmur above her head.

“…and then Jon made me do this set of banded sprints that absolutely murdered my quads,” he was saying, his fingers absently tracing lazy circles along the bare skin of her arm. “Swear I almost fell flat on my face in the gym. And then we had the simulator session, but I kept getting distracted ‘cause the brakes were feeling off, like they were biting too soon.”

She didn’t say anything, just listened, eyelids heavy but not quite ready to let go of the moment. There was something in the way he spoke, like he didn’t even realise how animated his hands got when he was into something. Like he didn’t know his voice softened a little when he said her name, even in passing. Like he didn’t realise how easy it was to love him.

“Baby?” he asked quietly, glancing down when she didn’t answer.

She blinked up at him, smiling sleepily. “I’m listening, Lan. Promise.” 

— 

Imola 

Teams were setting up, media outlets milling around, and the familiar hum of power tools being tested echoed through the paddock. Amelia wandered a little ahead of Lando, distracted by the sight of a familiar dog trotting toward her through the crowd.

“Roscoe!” She grinned, crouching just in time to be enthusiastically tackled by the massive bulldog. His tail thumped against her legs as she scratched behind his ears.

“Hey, kid,” came a low, warm voice from above her.

She looked up, and there was Lewis, hands tucked into his Mercedes jacket, sunglasses perched atop his head, watching her with a soft but unmistakably distant look.

She rose slowly, brushing fur off her trousers. “Hi. I like his new collar. It’s so cute,” she said lightly.

Lewis glanced down at Roscoe, then nodded. “Yeah. He’s missed you.”

There was a moment of quiet, just slightly too long. The smile dropped from Amelia’s face.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

Lewis blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re being weird,” she said flatly.

Lando caught up, hovering behind her. “Baby…” he said gently, tone a soft warning.

She looked back at him, frowning. “He is!”

Lando’s jaw jumped at the slight tremble in her tone, his gaze moving back to Lewis, a dark warning on his face. 

Lewis’ gaze was steady but guarded. “I can’t help it, Amelia. You’re working with Max now, yeah?” His eyes flicked to her, searching, almost like he was trying to measure her response. “And that… that does change things. You, working with my biggest rival.”

Amelia shook her head, the confusion and frustration beginning to bubble up inside her. “I’m just doing my job.” Her voice cracked a little, an undercurrent of hysteria creeping in. “I don’t want things to get weird between us. Please, don’t make it weird.”

Lando’s voice cut through softly from behind her. “Amelia…” he murmured, a note of concern threading through his tone. He knew how much Lewis meant to her, knew how much this was tearing her up, but it was only inevitable, wasn’t it?

Amelia didn’t turn to look at him, her focus solely on Lewis now, her pulse racing. “I’ve always looked up to you,” she continued, a little more frantic. “And you have always been so nice to me. I don't want to lose you in my life just because I'm working for Max. Nothing’s changed except that I’ve got a job to do now.”

Lewis sighed, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as he took in her words. He glanced away for a moment, processing everything before settling his gaze on her. “It’s just hard, kid,” he admitted, quieter now. “Seeing you with him, knowing what that means for me, for my team…”

“I’m not picking sides,” she snapped a little more forcefully than she intended, the frustration now bubbling over. “I’m not picking anyone. I’m picking myself. I always have. And that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Lewis.”

There was a long, heavy pause as the tension hung thick in the air, with only the soft panting of Roscoe breaking the silence. Lewis seemed to deflate, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, kid,” he said finally, his voice softer. “I get it. I’ll get over it. I just… selfishly wish you’d chosen Mercedes, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice steadier now. 

As Amelia bent down to give Roscoe one last scratch behind the ears.

“Hey, zusje,” Max called, strolling to to them in his usual Red Bull jacket and skinny jeans. “I’ve been looking for you. GP’s waiting on us,” he told her. 

Amelia huffed softly, brushing down her skirt. “Alright, I’ll see you guys later,” she turned to Lando, leaned in to kiss him, feeling his hand squeeze hers lightly in response.

“See you soon, baby,” Lando murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before his attention shifted to Max, who was already gesturing for her to follow him.

Amelia turned to Lewis, her expression softening just a touch as she gave him a small wave. “Take care, okay?”

Lewis looked back at her, his eyes still carrying a trace of the tension that had been there before, but his voice was more measured this time. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

But just as she was about to turn away, she caught the faintest flicker of something in Lewis’ expression; a mix of caution, hesitation, and maybe a hint of something else — she hated that she couldn’t tell.

Max, noticing the look from behind her, turned his head sharply. His gaze locked with Lewis’ for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, a brief and subtle challenge.

Lewis didn’t flinch but held Max’s gaze, the tension hanging in the air like a low hum before Max spoke up, his voice casual but his body language firm.

“Let’s go, Amelia,” Max said, his hand gently guiding her away from the pair of them.

As they started walking, Lando took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched them leave. “Christ. Good luck with that, mate,” he muttered under his breath. 

Lewis, still standing in the same spot, let out a long sigh, the edge of his frustration softened but still there. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied, his voice low as he looked after the pair of them. 

— 

Lando and Amelia had found a quiet spot in the paddock, away from the bustling journalists and photographers. It was early afternoon, the Italian sun still high, but the relentless rush of the morning had started to wind down.

They sat together at one of the outdoor tables, with the faint sounds of conversations and laughter filling the air. Amelia took a bite of her sandwich, eyes scanning the surroundings lazily. The day had been full of interviews, photos, and the usual whirlwind of the F1 circus, but now she could finally give herself a moment to relax.

Lando sat across from her, munching on his lunch, eyes flickering between his phone and Amelia. After a moment, he looked up, a playful grin on his face.

“You know,” he started, a teasing edge in his voice, “you’ve got a rating on WAGFASH for today’s outfit.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “What’s the rating?”

“Nine,” he said, smugly.

She glanced down at her outfit; a white, low-waisted rara skirt paired with a baby tee emblazoned with an Italian flag and her little orange gem belly button piercing. “Huh. Not bad.” She said, slightly proud of herself. “I should comment and say thank you.”

But as she rifled through her handbag, her expression turned into one of mild panic. “Oh. Oh no.”

“What is it?” Lando asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve lost my iPad!” she exclaimed, voice rising slightly.

— 

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lando N. Ok who has it?

Esteban O. Not me, mate.

Pierre G. Haven’t seen it!

George R. Yeah mate, not seen it today, sorry.

Mick S. You told me to just leave it if I saw it.

Lando N. You fucking what? Are you serious? Where did you see it?

Mick S. I gave it to the Alpine kid!

Lando N. What fucking Alpine kid?

Mick S. Pastry?

Lando N. Oh thank god. You’re lucky, Schumacher. She likes him.

George R. There’s an Alpine driver called Pastry? LMAO

Lando N. Piastri.

George R. Not as fun.

NEXT CHAPTER

[lover-of-mine]

You should use your color theory powers to prove that Bobby is still alive

Okay, not exactly color theory but stay tuned to step into denial land with me.

One thing about the show is that it loves breadcrumbing. They do a lot of stuff that will make you go "oh, that is what that was" upon rewatch.

So, I made myself rewatch the lab stuff and from that we get Argument Number One: we never saw a body. We saw him pass out and a body bag. Bobby passing out does not mean he is dead because Chimney fully passed out and Chimney was bleeding a lot more than Bobby. And Chimney is alive. The seeing the body is important because we usually do see the body. We see Patricia's body, we have focus on Eddie with Shannon's body, we see Emmett's, we also Marcy's.

In other instances, like with Karen, Denny, Buck, we saw a monitor flatlining or some other confirmation that there is no pulse.

With Bobby we cut from him laying on the table to a body bag when they could've done a dramatic shot of Athena against the glass to parallel Bobby losing Marcy.

Argument Two: the song choice. Licensing Work Song by Hozier has to have been extremely expensive. And honestly, that song after the leaked scripts that he was gonna be buried alive was so...

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

Like, come on.

And not only that but the way the song overall can be interpreted as an suicidal alcoholic finding something to live for in love.

Boys, when my baby found me I was three days on a drunken sin I woke with her walls around me Nothin' in her room but an empty crib And I was burnin' up a fever I didn't care much how long I lived But I swear, I thought I dreamed her She never asked me once about the wrong I did

And the second verse catches my eye when we go back to Sick Day and we go back to bathena's dream house being an empty nest and Athena overall being the thing that tethers Bobby to life. Bobby wanted to die but starting to date Athena is the start of him accepting he found more to life than the things he lost. It all makes the choice of this particular song even more insane. He doesn't want to leave her. He will crawl back to her.

Argument Number Three: Bobby's halloween costume. He's a vampire.

An undead creature. An undead creature that in a lot of versions of the myth needs to go in contact with the virus venom then bleed out to be reborn. And coming back to the leaked script, in a lot of versions of the myth, the person needs to be buried to wake up in their second life.

Argument Four: Still on the buried alive line of thought, this happened in 811. Please note the way she grabs Bobby. We literally had someone be buried alive.

Argument Four bleeds into Argument Five: CDC recomendation for CCHF is to no autopsy, embalment, or do anything with the body beyond put the body bag in the coffin. @muddiedfoxglove has a more detailed post on that here. The situation in 811 is that the husband gave her cyanide, which should have killed her, but didn't, and buried her before checking for sure she was dead. Sounds familiar to everyone assuming the virus killed Bobby and not checking and him being buried with his full gear that includes his phone and will let him call 911 when he wakes up from this thing that should have killed him but did not?

Argument Number Six: the copilot from the plane disaster. In particular Athena's part in keeping him alive. He's powering through because there no other pilot, but then his heart stops. There's the whole effort to keep doing cpr while Athena fixes the situation and lands the plane, and then Athena chooses to stay in the plane, even thought it is on fire, to continue that and he ultimately makes it. Kinda like the way Athena fixes the situation with Chimney and is the reason Bobby has to stay alive.

Argument Number Seven: this parallel.

There's also the way Buck was dead, his light was on, Bobby's isn't on. We also had the full helmet in frame for Buck, and that did not happen with Bobby. But Buck makes it out of it alive.

Argumemt Number Eight: Jesus. 911 has added a lot of Jesus symbolism to Bobby this season. And it makes me wonder after meeting his mother in a church. And the fact that the episode aired on Holy Thursday. And the fact that the funeral is being filmed on the Hall of Crucifixion and Resurrection. The Easter of it all points to resurrection.

Edit: Wait, no, Argument Nine: 808 and the way Brad's character was supposed to be dead but has a "miracle recovery" no one could explain. Also plays into the Jesus of it all.

I think this is all I have for you. Hope you join me in denial land if you read this.

[honeydippedfiction]

I’m back again! Joe is such a girl dad, he always has to have her in his immediate vicinity. Someone from the team wants to hold her? He’s hovering and watching. Time for bedtime? Joe doesn’t want to leave her “Come on babe, just a few more minutes.” as he holds her in his and Angel’s bed https://pin.it/1rDnR4Fqy

nonnie you and your beautfiul mind. here's some Joe and Zariyah moments.

"Nowhere Without Her"

The locker room buzzed with the familiar chaos of post-practice routine—shoulder pads clattered against metal lockers, the low thump of bass-heavy music pulsed from a corner speaker, and players talked over each other in that easy, exhausted way that came after hours of sweat and grind.

But in the middle of it all, standing calm amid the storm, Joe Burrow wasn’t reviewing film on a tablet or breaking down plays with a coach. He wasn’t even halfway listening to the noise around him.

He was holding Zariyah.

Cradled snugly in the crook of his left arm, his baby girl gripped the drawstring of his hoodie like it was a lifeline. Her tiny fingers curled tight around the soft cotton as she blinked up at the fluorescent lights overhead, wide-eyed and completely unfazed by the surrounding world of cleats, helmets, and adrenaline.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t squirm. Just existed—serene and unbothered—like she belonged there.

Because she did.

And Joe? He wasn’t concerned with who might be watching. Cameras. Teammates. Reporters. It didn’t matter. Zariyah went where he went. No questions. No exceptions.

"Yo!" a familiar voice cut through the locker room din. Tee Higgins sauntered over, sweat still drying on his temples, a grin spreading across his face as he caught sight of the baby. “She’s gettin’ big, man. Lemme hold her?”

Joe didn’t move right away. Not his arms, not his feet. But something in his posture shifted—barely perceptible to most, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him. A slight stiffening. That instinctive dad reflex, quiet but immediate.

He didn’t say no. That wasn’t really Joe’s style. But he didn’t say yes either. He just looked at Tee—one eyebrow arched, lips tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite hide the protectiveness in his eyes.

“You wash your hands?” Joe asked, voice casual but laced with a teasing warning.

Tee laughed, raising both hands like he was being frisked. “C’mon, bro, I’m good. I ain't tryna get kicked off the baby team.”

Joe eyed him for a second longer, then—after what felt like a silent internal checklist—he shifted his weight and gently passed Zariyah over, like she was made of glass and moonlight.

“Support her head,” he murmured, already hovering close.

Tee adjusted his grip, a little more nervous than he expected to be. “Man, she’s so small,” he said quietly, his voice dipping to a register usually reserved for huddles and prayers.

“Yeah,” Joe said, folding his arms and watching like a hawk. “She’s perfect.”

He didn’t step more than two paces away. Didn’t break line of sight. His body relaxed only slightly, like he was on standby, just in case.

It was a scene the guys had grown used to by now.

What had started as locker room banter—just another nickname tossed around the group chat the day Joe showed up late because Zariyah wouldn’t stop crying unless he rocked her—had turned into something else. Something truer.

“Girl Dad.”

It began as a joke. Now, it was his identity. Not just something they called him, but something they felt in the way he moved, the way he held her, the way nothing—not even game prep—came before her.

Joe Burrow might’ve had one of the strongest arms in the league, but everyone in that room knew the truth.

The tightest grip he ever had?

Was on her.

And nothing in the world—not fame, not football, not fourth-quarter comebacks—mattered more than the little girl who fell asleep on his chest without a care in the world.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

"Just a Few More Minutes"

The house had settled into its evening hush—the kind of quiet that didn’t demand silence but invited it, like a gentle exhale after a long day. Outside, the world had dimmed, the sky a soft gradient of leftover twilight, and even the wind seemed to tread softly against the windows.

Inside the bedroom, the only light came from a bedside lamp, its amber glow pooling gently across the room. The baby monitor blinked idly on the nightstand, its tiny green light a silent sentinel. But it wasn’t needed tonight.

Zariyah wasn’t in her crib.

She was right where Joe wanted her—sprawled on his chest, tucked beneath his chin, the rise and fall of her breath syncing perfectly with the steady rhythm of his heart. The pacifier in her mouth wobbled with each sleepy exhale, and one small hand, warm and impossibly soft, rested along the curve of his jaw. Every now and then, her fingers twitched, lost in whatever quiet dreams danced behind her fluttering eyelids.

Joe lay there still, one arm wrapped securely around her back, the other draped lazily across his own ribs. His body was tired—practice, meetings, the usual—but his mind was calm, grounded in a way that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with the tiny human snoring softly against his chest.

He could’ve stayed like that forever.

From the doorway, Angel watched them. Her arms were folded loosely across her chest, and there was a familiar look on her face—the one that blended affection and mock exasperation into something that looked a lot like love.

“She needs to go down, Joe,” she said gently, voice low enough not to stir Zariyah.

Joe didn’t look at her right away. He shifted just enough to glance up without moving the baby, his movements slow, careful. The exhaustion in his eyes was unmistakable, but so was the peace. A quiet contentment that seemed to radiate from every part of him.

“Just a few more minutes,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly over Zariyah’s tiny back.

Angel exhaled, not quite a sigh—more a release of air than resistance. She wasn’t surprised. This had become something of a routine: Joe clinging to bedtime moments like a quarterback refusing to let go of the ball on fourth and goal. Not out of stubbornness—but because letting go felt too much like losing time he couldn’t get back.

She stepped into the room, the floor creaking softly beneath her bare feet. “You said that twenty minutes ago,” she said, but her voice was all warmth, no pressure.

“I know,” he replied, eyes dropping back down to his daughter. “I just… I don’t know. Every time I think I’m ready to put her down, she does something—sighs, twitches, grabs my shirt—and it’s like... how am I supposed to walk away from that?”

Angel sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, her shoulder pressing lightly into his. She leaned over, resting her chin on his opposite shoulder, gaze falling on their daughter’s peaceful face. “You’re obsessed,” she whispered, smiling.

Joe smiled too, without looking away. “I know.”

“She’s got you wrapped so tight, it’s kind of scary,” Angel teased, though there was no judgment in it—just wonder, admiration. Maybe even a little envy.

“She’s got my whole damn heart,” Joe said, kissing the top of Zariyah’s head with a tenderness that made Angel’s chest ache.

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. Zariyah let out a quiet, contented noise, her head nestling deeper into the soft fabric of Joe’s hoodie. He didn’t move—couldn’t have, really—not with that kind of trust sleeping on top of him.

Angel leaned her head against his, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. “I’m glad she has you,” she said softly.

Joe swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I needed her more.”

Time passed in slow, golden minutes. Not measured by clocks, but by breaths, by heartbeats, by the stillness that only came with complete presence. Eventually, Angel stood, stretching a little as she moved to retrieve a blanket from the foot of the bed. She draped it over Joe and Zariyah, smoothing it gently across their legs.

“She’s gonna end up sleeping there all night,” she murmured with a smirk.

Joe didn’t argue. His hand rubbed small, steady circles along Zariyah’s back, his eyes already half-closed.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t mind. Not tonight.”

And as the house slipped further into its quiet, the world outside continuing to whisper, Joe stayed just like that—with his daughter asleep on his chest, and his heart exactly where it was supposed to be.

Home.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

"Grandpa’s Girl (But Not for Long)"

Family time at the Burrow house was always a warm kind of chaos.

Voices overlapped at the dinner table—someone halfway through a story when another memory came barreling in, louder and funnier, pulling the conversation in a new direction. Platters of food were passed from hand to hand, sometimes twice, sometimes forgotten until someone remembered the mashed potatoes three bites too late. Laughter echoed off the kitchen tiles and bounced against the walls, where old photographs of holidays and birthdays and football games watched silently, framed in nostalgia.

It was messy. It was loud. It was home.

And today, it came with a small betrayal.

Joe stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder resting against the frame. He was still in sweatpants and a long-sleeve tee, hair tousled from a nap he hadn’t meant to take. But his eyes were sharp—focused entirely on the scene playing out in the living room just beyond the hum of voices and clink of dishes.

Zariyah, his daughter, his baby girl, had chosen her grandpa.

She was curled up contentedly in Jimmy Burrow’s lap, giggling at whatever ridiculous noise he was making—a low growl, followed by a quick "boop" on her nose. Her tiny hands kept patting at his beard like it was the softest, most fascinating thing in the world, and every time her fingers brushed over the wiry gray scruff, she let out another squeal of delight.

Joe didn’t speak. Not yet. He just watched, brow drawn slightly, lips pursed in quiet betrayal. The look on his face was subtle, but unmistakable.

Angel noticed it the moment she passed him on her way to grab a drink from the fridge.

“Don’t start,” she murmured under her breath, bumping his shoulder with hers as she walked by.

“I’m not starting,” Joe muttered, even as he kept his eyes fixed on Zariyah like she’d personally wounded him.

Angel gave him that knowing glance—the one she reserved for when he was being ridiculous but kind of adorable about it. “He’s her grandpa, Joe.”

“I know,” he said, drawing out the words like they tasted bitter. “I’m just sayin’… she usually picks me.”

As if summoned by the tension, Jimmy looked up from his chair, eyes crinkled at the corners with a grin. “You better watch out, son,” he said cheerfully. “She’s got good taste.”

Joe forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Then, slowly, he crossed the room and crouched down beside his dad’s chair. His hand reached out instinctively, fingers curling toward his daughter.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said softly, his voice dropping to that special register he reserved just for her. “Wanna come with Daddy?”

Zariyah looked at him. Her big brown eyes blinked once, considering. Then she turned her face into her grandpa’s chest, gave a little sigh, and snuggled in deeper like she hadn’t even heard the offer.

Joe blinked. A slow, wounded blink.

“Wow,” he said, flatly. “Cold.”

Jimmy just chuckled, rocking her gently. “You had her all morning, Joey. Let us have a turn.”

Joe leaned back on his heels, sulking in the way only a very proud, very mildly rejected dad could. “I don’t like sharing,” he muttered, eyes still on Zariyah. “She’s supposed to be a daddy’s girl.”

Angel had settled onto the couch by now, a plate of pie balanced on her knee. “Guess you’ve got some competition,” she said with a smirk.

Joe sighed, but the edge of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward despite his best effort to stay in his feelings. His gaze softened as he watched his dad sway gently, humming some tune under his breath while Zariyah’s lashes fluttered closed. Her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of Jimmy’s shirt, and Joe’s chest gave a quiet tug at the sight.

Yeah, maybe he was jealous.

But mostly? He was grateful.

Because this—this was what it was all about. Layers of love stacked across generations. The kind of bond that didn’t need words to explain. His daughter, wrapped in the arms of the man who’d taught him how to love, how to lead, how to show up even when you were tired, even when the world pulled you in every direction.

Zariyah’s chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, completely at peace.

And Joe—despite the mock betrayal—couldn’t help but smile for real now, the kind that crept in slow and settled behind his eyes.

Still, he made a quiet promise to himself as he rose to his feet.

The moment she stirred? The second she opened those sleepy eyes?

He was calling her back.

Daddy’s girl, after all.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

"Coach Zariyah"

The tablet sat propped up on Joe’s thigh, its screen flickering between frames, flashing defensive schemes, blitz pickups, and coverage rotations. Plays ran in rapid succession, repeating over and over again like a constant loop, slow-motion breakdowns of what worked, what didn’t, what needed fixing. It was the rhythm of his world, of every week. Another game, another chance to perfect the craft.

But nestled in the crook of his arm, like she was running the entire Bengals’ offense herself?

Zariyah.

She was in full-on babble mode, a tiny whirlwind of sound and motion, her little hands flailing in the air like she was calling the shots. Her pacifier hung loosely from the collar of her onesie, swinging back and forth like a sideline whistle, bouncing with each excited squeal she let out. She looked at the screen with an intensity that Joe could only describe as professional. Every so often, she’d point at the flashing images, her little finger stabbing the air as if she were drawing up Xs and Os with the same urgency he’d seen in countless huddles.

"Da-da-da-da-da," she chattered, her voice rising in pitch, her miniature fist punching the air like she was making a game-winning call.

Joe grinned, his eyes softening as he looked down at her. He wrapped one arm around her, holding her close while the other swiped effortlessly across the tablet’s screen. It was like muscle memory. He’d done this thousands of times, breaking down film, scanning defenses, making split-second decisions.

“Oh yeah?” he said, raising his eyebrows in mock seriousness. “Cover 2, huh? You think I should’ve hit Chase on that post route?”

Zariyah’s response came quickly—a high-pitched squeal, followed by a dramatic slap of her hand on his chest, like she was emphasizing her point with a force that belied her size.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Okay, okay, I hear you, Coach Z. I’ll get it next time."

From the hallway, Angel peeked in, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. A smirk danced across her lips as she watched the two of them. "Is she correcting your reads again?" she asked, the amusement clear in her voice.

“She’s brutal,” Joe said, glancing up at his wife with a smile that only partially masked his mock frustration. He tapped the volume down on the tablet, turning it low enough to hear Zariyah’s constant stream of babbling. “Keeps telling me I missed the hot route.”

Angel laughed, shaking her head as she disappeared back into the kitchen. “She’s not wrong.”

Joe smiled to himself, letting the sound of Zariyah’s coos fill the space between them. He leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out, making himself comfortable. The tablet’s screen flickered as the next play looped through, but he barely noticed. His focus was on the little girl in his arms, the tiny bundle of joy who was now half-draped across his chest, wiggling and babbling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe this wasn’t the way most quarterbacks prepped for Sunday games. Most quarterbacks didn’t juggle a baby and game film at the same time. But then again, most quarterbacks weren’t Joe Burrow. And most quarterbacks didn’t have their whole world nestled into the crook of their arm in the form of a teething, giggling, determined little girl.

With her there, right next to him, tucked in close like she was a piece of heaven wrapped in a Bengals onesie, everything seemed to make more sense. The constant cycle of games, practices, and film—it all had purpose now.

Zariyah let out another squeal, a burst of joy that sent her hands flailing toward the tablet screen, her tiny finger aiming at one of the defenders on the display. Joe squinted, following the path her finger traced on the screen.

“...You might actually be right,” he muttered, furrowing his brow. There was something in the way Zariyah was pointing that made him double-check the play. It was subtle—just a shift in the angle of a defender, a misstep in coverage. It was the kind of thing only a true football mind would catch. And she had just caught it.

He couldn’t help but laugh softly under his breath. Maybe she didn’t know what exactly she was looking at, but there was no mistaking the instinct in her tiny movements. She was already in the game. Already thinking it through, even if her understanding of the Xs and Os was more intuitive than anything else.

"Alright, alright," he murmured to her, shaking his head in amazement. “You’ve got a good eye, kid. We’ll fix it on the next drive.”

Zariyah squealed again, her enthusiasm unrestrained, her tiny body wiggling even harder in his arms. Joe pressed his lips to her head in a soft kiss, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. The film was still playing, but the real victory wasn’t on the screen. It was right here, in his arms, in the laughter and joy of being a father, a coach, a quarterback—one role feeding into the other in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

As Zariyah continued to babble, her face lighting up with every new sound she made, Joe allowed himself to sink into the moment. This wasn’t just preparation for Sunday. It was preparation for life.

And as long as Zariyah was there, sharing her own little commentary, he knew everything would be alright.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

—-"Priorities"

The game was over.

The buzz of the locker room was electric—cameras flashing, reporters swarming like bees drawn to the scent of victory, and the clatter of cleats on concrete filled the air as players filtered in. Coaches shouted quick recaps, their voices rising above the chatter, while players slapped backs and exchanged high-fives. Some limped from the bruises of the game, others laughed through the adrenaline, but Joe Burrow?

He had tunnel vision.

The usual postgame urgency—the interviews, the quick hits, the need to be everywhere all at once—was nothing more than background noise to him. He didn’t head straight to the podium like the others. He didn’t even glance toward the media room where the PR staff was already adjusting mics, rehearsing questions, and mentally preparing for the media frenzy that was about to unfold.

Because halfway down the hallway—past security guards chatting in hushed tones, past team staff coordinating the next few hours—stood Angel. And in her arms, bundled up in a tiny Burrow jersey that was three sizes too big, was the one person Joe truly wanted to see.

Zariyah.

The moment Joe spotted them, everything else fell away. The weight of the game—the bruising hits, the mounting pressure, the shifting stats—melted off him like old tape. His entire demeanor shifted, his posture lightening. He wasn’t a quarterback right now. He was a dad, and the world had just gotten a whole lot simpler.

“There’s my girl,” he said softly, his voice warm and affectionate, as he jogged the last few steps to them.

Angel smiled as she handed Zariyah over without a word. She didn’t need to say anything; the moment was enough. Joe wrapped her up in his arms, holding her like she was the MVP of the night, his heart swelling with something deeper than pride. Zariyah let out a soft, sleepy squeak, her little hands fluttering as she rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of his hoodie.

“Tell Daddy he played good,” Angel whispered, her voice teasing but full of love.

Joe chuckled, looking down at Zariyah with a smile that made his eyes light up. She blinked up at him, her eyelids heavy with the drowsiness of a long day, but still holding that quiet authority, as if she knew she ran the show. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his hand gently rocking her back and forth, swaying as naturally as breathing.

A team rep peeked around the corner, her voice breaking the peaceful silence. “Joe, you ready? They’re waiting.”

Joe didn’t look up right away, his focus still on the tiny bundle in his arms. He gave her a soft, reassuring squeeze before glancing toward the hallway.

“Give me a minute,” he said, his voice firm but kind, as if there was no question in his mind.

The rep nodded, understanding without needing an explanation. At this point, they knew better than to interrupt this moment—the one where Joe wasn’t just the quarterback; he was the dad.

Time felt suspended as Joe continued to sway with Zariyah in his arms. The noise of the locker room—the reporters, the team members, the bustle of a postgame—faded into the background. It was just Joe, Angel, and their daughter.

When he finally stepped into the press room—baby on his hip, bottle in hand, mic in front of him—he didn’t miss a beat. Zariyah sat like a sleepy queen, her tiny head resting against Joe’s shoulder, blinking up at the crowd of reporters and cameras as though she’d been doing it her whole life. The room buzzed with the energy of a thousand questions, but the sight of Joe holding her so naturally, so effortlessly, shifted the focus.

“Sorry for the wait,” Joe said with a smirk, adjusting the tiny Bengals cap on Zariyah’s head. It was way too big for her, but somehow it fit perfectly. “Had to take care of the real postgame interview first.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room as the cameras flashed. It was one of those moments where the usual protocol didn’t apply. The reporters weren’t scrambling for stats or game breakdowns; instead, they were taken by the image of Joe Burrow—the star quarterback, the Super Bowl contender, and, more than anything else, an unapologetic girl dad—holding his baby girl like she was the true victory of the night.

No one cared about the final score, the passing yards, or the highlight reel plays. They were too busy capturing the headline that was already unfolding in front of them: Joe Burrow—MVP, father, and a man whose heart was already home.

And that? That was the win that mattered most.

[sudsnribbons]

my plus one | j.m

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

MDNI

wordcount: 3,905

summary: your no good boyfriend breaks up with you, right before your dads big promotion dinner, that you need a date to. of course. lucky for you, joel miller was quick to offer. anything for his buddie's little girl..right?

warnings: big hefty age gap (reader is 19 & in her first year of college, joel is early 40s), SMUTT, no outbreak!, use of 'kiddo', dirtyoldman!joel, panty stealing (he a freak), fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), p in v, use of petnames (sweetheart, darlin', ect.), (1) use of y/n, getting caught? lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: this is a long one, buckle up.. hope you enjoy reading, as much as i did writing! <33

two days before you were supposed to come home, for your dads big promotion dinner, bad news struck you.

in the form of a text message.

"this isn't working for me anymore, we're done."

really? that was all the asshole could say?

"what about the dinner tyler?? tf am i supposed to do?"

"you'll figure it out."

fuck him.

whatever, it's not like you cared.

---

despite not having a date, you decided to head back to austin anyways. it was the promotion your dad had waited his whole career for.

the drive was a bit long from your college, but it lined up perfectly with the start of your spring break.

you got home around 7pm, your dad was on the porch having a beer with joel.

joel.

it had only been a few months since the last time you saw him, but god did he look handsome.

the amber glow of the porchlight projected on his hair, laced with silver streaks.

"hey sweetheart, you're early.." your dad muttered out to you, placing his beer on the table between him and joel.

"yeah i just couldn't wait until tomorrow." you smiled warmly at the man, as he embraced you in a hug.

smiling over his shoulder to the man babysitting his miller lite.

ironic.

"good to see you kiddo.." he said, quietly. almost like he didn't trust his voice.

weird.

"good to see you too mr. miller.", you pulled away from your dad, now facing the older man. he nodded, taking another sip of his beer. "how's sarah?" you questioned.

"busy.. y'know how that girl is." he smiled. the corners of his mouth turned up, and wrinkled a bit with his smile lines.

you nodded in understanding. deciding it was getting a little late and you wanted to shower and unpack before you went to bed.

you drug the heavy suitcase up the stairs, its wheels hitting the wood every few steps. turning the knob and opening the door to your bedroom, you sit the suitcase down on your bed and unzip it. grabbing an old hoodie, underwear, and pair of shorts for after your shower.

socked feet patter down the hallway as you make your way to the bathroom, passing your mothers room and noticing her at her vanity.

"hey sweetheart when did you get here?" she asked, as she slid out from the seat. standing up to give you a hug. "maybe like 20 minutes ago?" you said, over her shoulder honestly forgetting.

she nodded and began, "so when is tyler coming in? the dinner is in two days sweetheart." your heart kinda sunk at the mention of his name. "oh uhm-" you didn't know how to tell her. "we broke up." you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and stared at the floor. "oh honey are you okay?" she asked, going in for a hug once again, you declined. "yeah mom i'm alright." she smiled at you, sad for you. "what are you going to do about the dinner?" she asked. "i'm actually not sure, ill figure it out." she nodded her head. "i'm gonna shower, its getting late." she agreed, and you continued to the bathroom.

latching the door behind you, you turned the dial on the shower and let the water heat up. steam covered the mirror and dripped down in condensation. shedding the clothes off from the drive, you stepped under the water and sighed at the feeling of warmth embracing you.

45 minutes later, you stepped out of the shower. skin radiating steam from the heat of the water. you grabbed a white fluffy towel and wrapped it around your body. drying off and getting dressed, you walked down the hallway and to your room. moving the suitcase off the bed, and untucking the comforter from the sheets. sliding your body between the mattress and comforter you plugged in your phone and went to sleep.

--

you woke up around 8am, to the all too familiar smell of breakfast. yawning, you grabbed your phone, slipping it into the front pocket of your hoodie. slowly making your way down the stairs, you lock eyes with-

no.

oh my god no.

joel.

joel miller.

in your kitchen.

all the while you looked like you just rolled out of bed.

well in your defense-

your internal voice was cut off by his gruff one.

"mornin' kiddo." he said nonchalantly taking a bite of bacon. "morning?" you said confused, looking between your parents as you sat down at the table. "honey, i was just telling your father about tyler.." your mom started and you groaned, "mom i don't want to talk about this right now." she shushed you, filling up your glass with orange juice from the pitcher. "no now just listen." she tried again, your father and joel sitting in silence. taking a sip from your glass, you listened. "joel doesn't have a date either.. he so kindly offered to take you!" she said smiling, taking a scoop of eggs from the pan before handing the plate to you and sitting down. you almost choked. "i'm sorry what?" you felt like you could die from embarrassment, this can't be happening. "as a friend of course." joel chimed in, your dad nodded. "he's just helpin' out your old man." your dad smiled towards you. "right." you forced a bite of eggs down. joel silently ate his breakfast as your mom began to speak once more, "now i know you probably don't have a dress yet, so we are going to head into town after breakfast to find you something nice." you nodded, taking another sip of orange juice.

god i wish this was a mimosa.

--

you opted for a simple outfit to shop. needing something easy to change in and out of, all the while beating the texas heat.

you changed into a pair of dark wash denim shorts, and a longhorns tank top. brushing your hair and putting a pair of sunglasses on your head. simple makeup, fearing anything more would melt right off. slipping on your birkenstocks, you walked down the stairs and to your mother who was ready at the door.

--

you went to every boutique your mother could drag you into. dressing you up like a barbie doll. after what felt like 50 dresses you tried on, you pulled back the curtain to show your mother. "this is the one, you look gorgeous sweetheart." you smiled at your mother, and turned to the mirror to admire the dress. it was black, about ankle length that hugged your body perfectly. the top dipped down enough to show a little cleavage, but still classy. you nodded towards your mother and went to get changed.

you bought a pair of black heels to compliment. opting to match, instead of drawing away from the dress.

your mother offered to buy lunch, which you accepted kindly. stopping in at your favorite local spot and ordering a turkey sandwich.

the car pulled into the driveway around 2:30. opening the door to get out. then pulling the dress out, that was wrapped in a white dress bag.

"did you find one honey?" your father asked as you set down the keys on the table. "she did but you have to wait until tomorrow night to see it." she smiled at your father and you walked upstairs to hang the dress up.

--

"you really don't have to do this mr. miller." you typed out to him. as much as you wanted this, you didn't want him to see you like a chore.

"joel." he corrected. "and i offered didn't i?" he replied.

"yeah you did. joel." you smiled and typed back.

your heart pounded as you seen the three dots on the screen, waiting for his reply.

"ill see you at 7 tomorrow night sweetheart."

you hearted his message.

god i hope that wasn't too forward.

unhearting his message, you went down stairs to help prep for dinner.

--

snoozing the first few alarms, you finally got up around 1pm. "shit." you muttered out, not meaning to sleep in so late.

opting for a quick breakfast, lunch. you ate a greek yogurt cup topped with granola and a few strawberries.

you got in the shower around two. you decided to take an everything shower, i mean anything could happen... right?

getting out around 3pm, you blowdried your hair. sitting down at your vanity, you curl and roll your hair, wanting a blowout look.

that took about 30 minutes. you didn't want to to go too crazy with your makeup, but still enough to compliment your dress. you went for a black and dark brown smoky eye look, with thin eyeliner and big lashes.

you got done with your makeup at 5:30. you have an hour and a half before joel arrives.

walking down the hallway, hair still in rollers, in a full face of makeup, tank top and sweatpants from earlier. "you look so pretty sugar." your mother compliments. she was dressed in a navy blue dress, a little looser than yours but overall gorgeous. "thank you momma.." you smiled back at the woman, "so do you." she smiled and your father came out with tie in hand, he never could tie one by himself. "still cant tie it?" you teased the man as he handed the silk to your mother who quickly helped him. "what would i do without you baby?" he questioned your mother, kissing her lips. "you'd be lost." she teased back, "damn right." he looked at her with so much love as he combed his hair. "we are leaving soon." your dad said turning to you. "i thought it started at 7?" you questioned. he nodded, "yes sweetheart but i have to be there early. have to make a good impression." he replied. "joel will be here around 6:30.. you should put your dress on." your mother muttered. "yeah that's what i was gonna ask, i need you to zip me up." the older woman nodded.

you walked down the hallway and into your room. unzipping the bag and pulling out the dress. you slid the dress pooling at your feet, up your body and tucking your arms into the straps. you waddled from your room to your mothers to get her help zipping you up. you thanked her and hurried back to your room to undo the rollers that have been sitting in your hair. "perfect." you smiled, satisfied with how they turned out. taking your shoes from the box, you slid them on. taking a once over of yourself in the mirror. grabbing your clutch and phone, spritzing yourself with perfume before walking down the stairs. as soon as you reached the bottom the doorbell rung.

perfect timing.

your manicured hand wrapped around the silver door knob and twisted, the door opening to reveal a handsome older man. "joel." you muttered.

he was dressed in a tux, you've never seen him so put together. his beautiful eyes went wide, looking you up and down. clearing his throat, "you look beautiful kiddo." you smiled at the man, "thank you.. shall we?" you asked and he nodded, shutting and locking the door behind you.

he opened the passenger door to his truck. god did he have to be a gentleman too?

tucking your legs in, he shut the door behind you, rounding the hood of the car and joining you in the bench seat.

the car ride was silent. stolen glances every once in a while. pulling up to the venue, you sighed to yourself. feeling some relief of the tension in the truck.

he opened your door and helped you out, placing his hand modestly on the small of your back.

you wished he let his hand roam a little lower, just for a moment.

with your arms linked, you entered the ballroom. beautifully decorated for the occasion. your mother was the first to come up to you. "oh my sweet girl you look beautiful." your mother kissed your cheek and turned to joel. "you don't clean up too bad miller." she teased the man. "thank ya ma'am." god that southern drawl..

the dinner lasted about 2 hours, your feet killing you. damn those heels.

your mother and father held back a bit, soaking up the congratulations from his new role in the company.

"you ready to head home sweetheart? gettin' late." joel asked, you nodded standing up from the table.

your heels clicked against the pavement as the two of you walked back to his truck. sliding off those cursed heels as soon as the door closed, you relaxed against the seat, taking a deep breath.

joel buckled in and looked over to you, his restraint was tested more and more with each rise and fall of your chest, "got a starin' problem miller." his heart dropped as you muttered out, raising your head to look over at the man starting his truck. "don't know what youre talkin' about kid." he said under his breath, knuckles white gripping on the wheel.

as he pulled out of the parking lot you had decided to test him, "oh but i think i do...mr. miller" you teased. you wanted a reaction, something, anything. "that's enough." he muttered, eyes locked onto the road. you pulled your hair to one side of your neck, leaving your collarbone and dainty necklace on display... the necklace curving right at the dip of your cleavage.

you wanted him to break. lose control. you wanted him. "see i just don't think its enough miller." you pressed the matter further, voice softening with his name on your tongue, "i think theres a reason you offered to take me joel.." you turned towards him in the bench seat.

"just helpin' a friend sweetheart.." he almost whispered out, trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince you. the bench seat gave you more room to.. explore.

sliding your foot over to his lap, tracing up and down his thigh. you could have sworn you seen the start of an outline in his pants. "knock it off.." he tried, not really though. he didn't want you to stop.

you continued tracing his thigh, heel of your foot dipping down to the zipper of his dress pants. his restraint snapped like a cheap rubber band. his thick fingers wrapped around your ankle, "you tryna' get us killed girl?" he questioned, his face illuminated with the red from the stoplight. looking down at his hold on your ankle, and the bulge underneath it.

your breath got heavy, as he looked at you with those dark brown eyes, "joel." you squealed out, like a mouse caught by a cat. your body tensed under his touch. "not so bold now sweetheart.. what happened?" he questioned, toying with you.

his fingers traced your ankle, and up your calf. stopping at the bed of your knee. "please.." you whispered out. "please what darlin'?" he asked. he knew what you wanted, but joel was the kinda man who needed to hear you say it. you shyed a bit, face flushing red. "don't make me say it joel." you begged. he just laughed.

the fucker laughed at you.

pulling over on the side of a back road, he turned to you. "can't give ya what y'want if you don't tell me sweetheart." he traced up your leg, higher this time. feeling your thigh under your dress. "y-you joel." your voice failed you, stuttering from nervousness. "me? well y'got me darlin' what d'ya want me for?" he asked, teasing you again. he wasn't gonna let you off that easily.

unbuckling your seatbelt, you scooted closer to the man. legs in his lap fully now. hardness pressing against the bend of your knee. "need you to touch me miller.." you sighed out breathlessly. "there we go honey.. wasn't that hard was it now?" he smiled satisfied with your answer. you whimpered out frustrated. you needed him to do something.. anything. "what would yer daddy think of you all whiney for me in my truck huh?" he asked, clearly getting off on how squirmy he was making you, "those college boys not do it for ya sweetheart?" you shook your head, "need you joel.." he snickers, "i know yer always needin' somethin' ain't ya?" he questioned rhetorically.

he bunched up your dress, you lifted your hips so he could get it to your waist. "soaked for me darlin'" he laughs, pressing a thick finger to the wet patch on your underwear. you whined and bucked your hips, "joel quit teasin'.." you begged. "ah ah who's in charge here baby?" he asked, "you joel.." he smiled pleased at you a wreck for him already. "atta girl." he hooked his fingers in the elastic waistband of your underwear, sliding them down your legs and past your ankles. he reached over you, opening his glove box, throwing the pair in and shutting it back. "don't need those do ya sweetheart?" he asked and you were quick to shake your head.

dirty old man.

yet here you are absolutely soaked for said 'dirty old man'.

his thick finger traced your slit, teasing you. your hips bucked again searching for friction. joel was quick to correct you, using his hand on your stomach to hold you down. "now you take what i give ya or yer gettin' nothin' t'all" he muttered out with dark eyes. you nodded.

his finger dipped past your folds and into you. "oh god joel." you whined out, still under his hold. "barely touched ya and yer goin' crazy.." he trailed off, "what 'm i gonna do with ya huh?" he questioned, but before you could answer he added another finger. stretching you out deliciously. "c'mon sweetheart if you can't take this you sure as hell ain't gonna be able to take me.." he said cockily, replying to your moans.

his fingers pumped in and out, curling in, like he knew your body better than you did.

sure as hell felt like it.

"close joel.." was all you could manage to get out. that band in your belly wounding tighter and tighter with each thrust of his hand. "c'mon baby girl let go f'me." he said, leaning over you to kiss down your neck.

that was all it took.

those words.

his mouth.

your back arched off the red leather of the old pickup truck he's always driving. chest heaving as you came down from one hell of a high.

a thin layer of sweat covered your body as you leaned your head up to look at the man between your legs. smug as ever he locked gaze with your eyes, taking his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. his eyes rolled back as the sweet tang filled his mouth. "taste like heaven sweetheart.." he wiped the saliva off his fingers and onto his dress pants.

you smiled up at the man, still drunk on the high you just came down from. "you think y'ready for me honey?" he asked as he unbuckled his belt, throwing it down to the floorboard. you nodded, wanting nothing more than to feel him. for real this time.

"words baby.." he teased, "yes! please god." you whined out, "m'name ain't god.." he joked.

smug son of a bitch.

he pushed down his black slacks, his boxers following suit. his cock sprung out, and your eyes went wide. "you flatter me sweetheart." he chuckles, undoing his tie and discarding it to the floorboard.

"shit." his face dropped when he realized, "i don't have a condom." he looked down at you, still catching your breath. "don't care.. m'clean.." he shook his head, "y'sure bout' this?" he questioned. "can't come back from this sugar.." he tried again but you didn't care.

you wanted this. wanted him.

"fuck me already miller." you managed to get out, and he just laughed. "ain't nothin' but trouble.." he sighed out, pushing the head of his cock between your folds. you gasped out as he began to slide into you.

"f-fuck joel.." you cried out, slumping against the door of his truck, "you can take it baby i'm right here.. trust me." you swallowed hard at his words, burying himself into you, fully to the hilt. he gave you a minute to adjust. "you can move.." you whimpered and he took the green light to slowly pull out almost all the way, before plunging right back in.

"s'dirty for wantin' this trouble.." he used that nickname again. your back arched with every thrust. "wantin' yer old man's best friend like this.." he rubbed it in more, like salt in a wound.

you did feel guilty..

but more so, of the effect his words were having on you.

his dirty words went straight to your core, winding that band tighter and tighter..

"joel.." you whined, all this becoming too much.. you couldn't last much longer. "i know baby i know.." he teased.. picking up the pace a bit. your eyes started to roll back in your head, and you were clenching harder and harder.. he leaned down, taking your neck in his hold and pulling you to him. pressing his lips to yours.

he grunted through the kiss, your moans mixing in. pulling back from the kiss he picked up the pace once more, "c'mon trouble give me one more.." he asked, and you obeyed. almost as quickly as he asked, you delivered. back arching off the red leather again. white heat over taking your body. thighs shaking as you came down. and joel? he was fucking you through it. his body shuttered and you knew he couldn't last much longer.

"m'on the pill.." you muttered out, and that was all joel needed to hear. with a few more thrusts he buried into one last time, releasing inside. filling you up.

sweat covered the both of you as he pulled out. the mixture of both his and your release pooling between your thighs. he reached in his floor, trying to find something to clean you up with.

settling on his tie, he bunched the fabric and cleaned you up, throwing the soiled tie in the back seat. you tried to catch your breath, pulling your dress back down to your ankles and buckling up like nothing happened. joel got situated and buckled turning over the truck as you slipped your black heels back on.

you did not miss those. you thought as you picked up your phone from the floor. heart dropping when you looked at the time. 11:57pm "shit." you muttered, dozens of missed calls from your parents you were too.. busy to hear. "joel i need to get home..now." you showed him your phone and he pulled out of the back road and onto the main one.

you finally got home at 12:20am..

saying your goodbyes to joel with a promise of this happening again. smelling like sex, with your hair and dress a mess, you fished out your key from the small clutch your brought with you. you locked the door behind you, slipping off your shoes and taking them in one hand. thinking you're out of the woods, you start to tiptoe up the stairs. when you are halfway to your room, the hallway light flicks on and you hear your mother, "y/n?"

fuck.

[swizzlemynizzle]

Hello! I loved your george series so much!

Could I request a fluffy willne fic? Maybe a friend's to lovers or maybe an influencer trip and there's only one bed, that sort of thing, just really cute/cringe type of sweet 🫠🤗

Thankyou!!

-🦆

I kind of got sidetracked writing this and I’m not entirely sure it matches the request 😂 I hope you like it anyway!

Masterlist

One Bed, Two Idiots - Willne

The birds are chirping like they’ve got a vendetta. Some manic little dawn chorus ensemble that’s definitely out to ruin Y/N’s morning on purpose.

“You’ve got to be actually fucking kidding me!” she snaps, flinging another hoodie across the room like it personally offended her.

“Woah, babe, just breathe,” Sabina soothes on speaker, voice all honey and calm from the other end of the line. “It’s got to be somewhere.”

“Not helpful right now, Sab!” Y/N practically growls, yanking open a drawer she already checked twice.

The suitcase hits the floor with a dramatic thud as she empties it entirely, folded clothes unraveling like they’re mocking her too.

“I’m going to miss the flight,” she whispers, voice wobbling as tears start to burn behind her eyes.

Sabina pauses. “Okay, okay, keep looking—I’m calling Will. He’s on the later flight anyway, yeah? If worst comes to worst, you go with him.”

Y/N doesn't even respond before the line goes dead. She drops to her knees, the carpet beneath her soft and unhelpful, and presses her palms to her face. Her passport. Gone. Just... vanished. She’d had it two days ago, she swears. She’d even triple-checked, proud of herself for being prepared for once in her chaotic little life.

A shuffle down the hallway pulls her from the spiral.

“Heyo?” Will’s voice floats in, cheerful and warm and entirely too sunny for someone who's just turned into a human hurricane.

He steps into her doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair still wet from the shower, that usual mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’m here to save the day.”

“You’re disgustingly chipper,” she mutters, glaring at him from the floor. “I’ve been up since five losing my entire identity.”

He snorts. “Alright, dramatic. It’s just your passport.”

She lifts her tear-bright eyes to him, exasperated. “I literally can’t get on a plane without it, Will.”

That softens him. His face shifts, the joking drops just a bit. “Hey. It’s okay. We’ve still got time. Let me help, yeah?”

And he does. For over an hour, the two of them tear apart every inch of her flat, hunting through shoes and makeup bags and even the fridge (because, as Will says, “You once put your phone in the microwave, nothing’s off the table.”).

Finally, finally—

“Aha!” she yells, emerging from the bathroom like a victorious knight brandishing a tiny burgundy book. “It was in the bloody sink drawer!”

She laughs, the sound light and ridiculous, and Will can’t help laughing too—even if he’s mostly laughing at how her hair’s all over the place and how proud she looks for defeating herself.

“Genuinely can’t decide if I’m impressed or deeply concerned,” he teases, eyes dancing.

“I contain multitudes,” she declares, smug.

In the Uber, she’s bouncing with adrenaline, singing along to the driver’s bizarre 80s Eurodance playlist and doing awkward shoulder shimmies in her seat. Will steals glances at her in the rearview mirror, pretending he’s not completely gone. She’s radiant in the way that only someone who’s just survived a mini breakdown and come out victorious can be. And when she catches him staring, she doesn’t call him out—just smiles, that slow, soft smile she only does when they’re alone.

At the airport, they’re halfway through weaving toward the gate when a crowd of school kids cuts in front of them—an ocean of red jumpers and backpacks the size of small houses. Without even thinking, Will reaches back and grabs her hand, threading their fingers together as he tugs her along behind him.

She freezes for half a second, just long enough to feel his hand, warm and solid and slightly calloused, close around hers.

“Come on,” he says over his shoulder, like he hasn’t just short-circuited her brain.

She follows. She doesn’t let go.

On the plane, he tucks her carry-on above her seat and flops down beside her with a self-satisfied grin.

“So,” he says, stretching his legs out. “Be honest. You were hiding your passport in your bathroom drawer on purpose, weren’t you? Trying to get some alone time with me?”

Y/N scoffs, elbowing him in the side. “Yes, Will. I masterminded an entire emotional meltdown for your company. You got me.”

“Not the worst plan,” he hums, cocky. “I am great on long-haul flights.”

She’s about to fire back something sarcastic when the plane jolts violently, lurching in a way that shuts everyone up at once. Her hand flies to his thigh without thinking, nails digging in slightly.

He grabs her hand. Steady. Warm. A quiet, “You’re alright. Got you,” whispered just for her.

And she believes him.

——————

The emergency landing is announced just an hour into the flight. They land somewhere outside Istanbul just after midnight—an unplanned layover thanks to a mechanical fault that the pilot described as “a precautionary measure” and Will described as “absolutely bloody terrifying” once they were off the plane.

The airline herds the stranded passengers into a nearby hotel. It's got that faded glamour look—dim chandeliers, gold accents that probably haven’t been real gold in decades, and staff that clearly did not expect 200 grumpy tourists tonight. Still, the sheets look clean, and there’s only one room left.

Which, of course, has only one bed.

Y/N stares at the receptionist. “You’re joking.”

The woman gives her a tired smile and a very European shrug. “All other rooms are full. You are lucky to have this one.”

“Lucky,” she mutters, dragging her suitcase toward the lift.

Will, beside her, is too smug. “You did say earlier you masterminded this whole thing just to get alone time with me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I was masterminding anything, it’d involve cocktails on a beach and not sharing a pillow with your massive head.”

“I have an average-sized head, actually.”

“The hat you wore last week disagrees.”

The room itself is nice enough—low lighting, a soft duvet, and a balcony with a view of distant city lights flickering through the mist. But the bed is a double. One bed. A single, intimacy-demanding slab of mattress.

Y/N kicks off her shoes and groans, flopping face-first onto it. “I give up. Istanbul wins.”

Will chuckles, heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returns, she’s lying sideways across the bed, one arm flung dramatically off the side like a Victorian widow.

He grabs the duvet corner and lifts it just enough to slide in next to her. “You alright, melodrama?”

She rolls her head to face him. “I just wanted to be sipping something tropical with one of those little umbrellas in it.”

“You can have a tap water with a toothpick in it. That’s the same thing, right?”

She snorts. “God, I hate how funny you think you are.”

“No, you hate how funny you think I am.”

A beat.

She laughs, quietly. “Okay. Maybe.”

The silence stretches, but it’s a nice one. Their legs brush beneath the covers, bare knees just touching. Neither of them moves away.

“Thanks again,” she murmurs. “For earlier. And, like… all of this.”

He tilts his head to look at her. “I didn’t mind.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “You’re easy to be around. Even when you’re throwing jumpers and crying about birds.”

She gives a sleepy chuckle. “The birds were being dicks.”

“I’m on your side, don’t worry.”

Their eyes meet, and there’s a second—barely anything—where the air shifts. Where it feels like something is very, very close to happening.

Will reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger just a moment too long.

“Your hair’s gone all fluffy,” he murmurs, soft and affectionate.

Y/N swallows. “Your fault for running your fingers through it earlier.”

“Could run them through again. For quality control.”

She laughs, cheeks going warm, but she doesn’t look away.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that hums with things unspoken.

Eventually, she shifts slightly closer, their faces a breath apart now. “If I kick you in my sleep, it’s nothing personal.”

“I’ll take it as a love tap.”

She grins, small and sleepy. “Shut up, Will.”

“Night, trouble.”

“Night.”

When the sun rises over Istanbul the next morning, it does so on two idiots halfway to the Maldives and even closer to something else entirely.

——————

Requests are open xx

[astoopidfool]

Prompt: Tommy has an NDE following Bobby's death and Buck breaks down

Thanks again for the ask; I love these angsty prompts so much. While I don't like seeing our boys suffer, I'm not going to lie and say that it's not fun to write. Also. I'm not sure if this counts as breaking down? Close enough.

Words: 1,878 | Rated: G

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"Buck." Maddie's voice is calm, but he hears the underlying tension. "I need you to listen to me, and I need you to remain calm. Can you do that for me?"

Still groggy from the dead sleep he's been woken from, he props himself up on one elbow and knuckles the crust out of his eyes. Glancing at his watch on the nightstand with bleary vision, screen lit up at his movement, he grumbles a bit as he replies, having to clear his throat. "Maddie? It's three in the morning." He barely has a hold on his phone. He's so tired. He's been home maybe four hours, and only asleep for two of them, after one of the most brutal shifts he's had since... Well. Since then. There's not an awake bone in his body or muscle in his brain.

Maddie clears her own throat, voice tight when she continues. "Tommy's been hurt, Buck." Immediately, he's awake and alert, shooting straight up in bed, kicking his legs over the side as he scrambles to find his pants. Fuck, why can't he put his clothes away like a normal human being?

"How bad?" He demands, damn near breaking his screen as he jabs at the speaker button with his thumb. His heart is in his throat; hears his blood pumping in his ears. This can't be happening. Not now. Not so soon after... He swallows back bile.

Maddie doesn't respond fast enough, so Buck shouts, not feeling guilty like he should, "Maddie. How. Bad?" The words are spoken through clenched teeth.

Sniffles from the other end of the line. It takes her way too long to say, "I... It's bad, Buck. The ambulance took him to 1st Pres, and they wheeled him back to surgery immediately, but they're not sure if he's going to make it."

"What the hell happened?" Buck demands as he shoves his arms through a sweatshirt that smells like smoke, but he doesn't care; doesn't have it in him to think of anything except getting to his heart before he can no longer touch it.

There's the sound of fabric rustling as she switches the phone to her other side. "There was a partial building collapse. He'd gone in to try and help the ground crew stabilize it before they completed the rescue, but... there was a tremor, or explosion shockwave, they're not really sure, that destabilized the area they were working in. Tommy pushed one of the other firefighters out of the way, and a concrete slab fell directly on him."

A flashback of the bridge collapse; screaming as he tried to get his people out; all alone and scared.

Tears form in his eyes, and he can't help it when they roll down his cheeks. "How could they not know if an explosion happened? That's a pretty damn loud thing to happen close enough to cause a rippling effect." He shoves down the anger, knowing that Maddie doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve any of the explosive emotions he's feeling right now. Furiously he swipes at his eyes as he snatches his keys and wallet from the side table. Really, he shouldn't be driving right now, but he doesn't have the patience to wait for a rideshare. He needed to be with Tommy. Now.

His sister sighs, shaky. "I don't know, Buck. I really don't. His team is at the hospital waiting for news. I called you as soon as I could step away."

He takes a deep, steadying breath to center himself. Turning back to headset mode, he holds the phone to his ear as he slides into his truck and mutters, "Thanks, Maddie. I... I'm sorry for-"

She cuts him off. "Don't worry about it, little brother. I'm here if you need me, okay? I get it. I know how scary it can be. Just, remember to keep me updated, okay?"

He sniffles. "Thanks, Mads. Love you."

"Love you, too, Evan." They let the silence hang for a second before Buck hits the end call button and starts his truck, determined to break land speed records just to get to his... To his pilot.

He reaches the hospital in record LA traffic time, almost squealing into the parking spot. He doesn't care that his back tires are outside the line because it's already been way too long since he's gotten an update and his ears feel like they're stuffed with cotton. The world around him has taken on a dreamlike quality, like he's losing his grip on reality.

Inside the emergency area waiting room, Tommy's coworkers stand huddled together in filthy turnouts, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Tommy's captain is the only one seated and he's staring off into the distance at nothing, head on his fist like The Thinker. Lucy stands slightly off to the side on her own; he can't tell if she's holding up the wall, or if its holding her as she nibbles worriedly at her thumbnail.

She's the one he knows best so he calls out her name, breathless. "Lucy." When she looks up, her eyes are glassy and without a seconds hesitation, Buck wraps her up in a hug. She doesn't hesitate to hug him back. He holds on until she lets go first, a few of her tears dampening his sweatshirt. "H-have we heard anything?"

She shakes her head, voice wavering, "Nothing yet. He's still in surgery. Oh God, Buck. It was so bad."

He runs a hand through his hair, noticing for the first time that he's shaking. "What...?" The questions hangs in the air.

"Shattered leg. Fractured pelvis, possibly. At least a couple of broken ribs, though we're not entirely sure how that happened. And a collapsed lung from one of the ribs puncturing it. He was hardly breathing when they brought him out, even with the oxygen mask."

Buck's heart stills and the world spins. He reaches out for Lucy and has to use her shoulder as support. Maddie wasn't kidding. How could Tommy come back from this? He was no spring chicken anymore. "Fuck." The word is barely a passing of air through his vocal chords.

"You can say that again." Lucy agrees, gripping Buck's hand on her shoulder and holding it there.

The wait for news is long and painful. Buck wears holes in the shitty office grey carpet; drinks one too many cups of crappy hospital vending machine coffee but has to stop because he's going to throw it up he's so nervous; sits in a shitty plastic waiting chair and bounces his leg so violently some of the patients a few seats down glare at him because he's vibrating the entire row. Lucy takes a nap on his shoulder, clearly exhausted after helping out at the scene and then heading straight there.

After two hours gets a call from Maddie with no updates.

Four hours after that, he FaceTime's with Eddie and Christopher. Their sympathetic looks hurt him too much and he prematurely hangs up.

Another hour later, Hen shows up with Chimney and a blessed cup of high quality coffee that he still barely manages to choke down. They sit with him, Hen pulling him into her side and cuddling him, stroking his hair. Chimney is a quiet, reassuring presence on his other side, occasionally reaching over to squeeze his knee, or give him a reassuring pat. He lets him know that he called off for Buck so he doesn't need to worry about it.

He completely forgot about having to go in today. He was about to unintentionally play hooky.

Finally, Buck doesn't know how many hours later, a harried Doctor emerges from the emergency room doors, calling for the 217. He leaps to his feet, despite not being one of them. Lucy pulls him to her side and wraps an arm around his waist, which he's grateful for.

The Doctor prattles on for much longer than Buck wants; the itch to see his pilot is overwhelming. He doesn't care what happened during the surgery as long as Tommy made it through.

Finally they're allowed back in pairs. Buck is surprised when he's one of the first allowed back, and not a single one of Tommy's team asks him to leave as they shuffle through single file. Not that Buck notices; His Tommy is hooked up to so many machines, and his skin is covered in mottled bruises. His leg is elevated, covered in a thick white cast. The mask over his mouth is the only proof that he's actually breathing, air puffing out and clouding the plastic.

Not wanting to hurt him, but feeling compelled to be touching him, Evan takes one of Tommy's large, calloused hands between his and presses it to his own forward, muttering prayers and wishes as the time on the clock ticks by without end. Visiting hours end but the nurse doesn't manage to get him to leave, conceding to let him stay as long as he doesn't put up a fuss.

He doesn't. He doesn't move from his spot as he waits for the man to open those gorgeous, sky blue eyes; eyes the color of Tommy's favorite place to be. Hours pass. His ass is numb. His eyes feel like lead, and his stomach growls unhappily at the lack of sustenance. Still he doesn't move.

And then, those fingers twitch. Head shooting up, Buck sobs in relief as Tommy blinks his eyes slowly open, brows drawn in a frown as he tries to remember where he is. Tilting his head to the side he says, "Evan?" voice harsh from lack of water and hours of not talking. "Where am I?"

"Hospital." Buck chokes out, not withholding the sob that works up his throat. "You nearly met with Death."

Tommy chuckles weakly before closing his eyes again. "I'm not sure I'm ready to get that particular set of wings quite yet. What are you doing here?"

Bucks hold on that familiar hand tightens. "For you. Why else?"

Tommy cracks an eye open, still frowning, though it's small. "For... Me?"

"Yeah, you idiot. Maddie nearly gave me a heart attack when she told me how badly you were hurt." Tommy hums, but says nothing, clearly confused. "Tommy..." his breath catches. "You know that I'd do anything for you, right? Together or not, friends or just acquaintances, I will always be here for you. By your side. I... I don't know what I'd do without you in my life." Tommy's heart quickens and, though weak, he squeezes Buck's hand, both eyes open once again as he stares at Buck. "Of course, I'd love to be here by your side for the rest of your life as yours, but that's a conversation we can have when you're back on your feet, okay?"

It was Tommy's turn for his eyes to go misty. He snaps them shut but it's too late; Buck's already seen. It makes his heart flutter with hope.

Within minutes, his pilots breaths even out and the heart monitor beeps a happy rhythm as Tommy falls into a deeper slumber. No matter how long it takes, Buck is determined to be here by Tommy's side when he wakes up.

Just like how Tommy was there for him, no matter what.

[coryndoll]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTEXT chapter five, best read in dark mode, caesars interviews, rafe and reader bonding, the last night before the games, i havent slept im so ready to start writing i havent even worked on the masterlist for this LMFAO sorry im spewing these out so much i just love thg

main masterlist | tag list | previous next

the day after the scores, you’re told it’s your rest day, but there’s no such thing as rest here.

enobaria calls it a “refining session.” brutus, on the other hand, tosses a lopsided grin and says, “boot camp.”

you literally don’t even laugh.

the two of them are already planted on the velvet couches in the living room when you step in, hair still damp, expression blank. rafe drifts in behind you and flops down beside you on the couch, one leg bent beneath him, his elbow thrown lazily over the back of the cushions. when brutus eyes him, he shrugs.

“what?” rafe says, stretching his arms with a quiet crack. “we’re all friends here.”

enobaria rolls her eyes. brutus just exhales like he doesn’t have the energy to argue.

what follows is not friendly. it’s sharp-edged and exhausting, a full-blown psychological breakdown of what you’re supposed to be tomorrow when you step on caesar flickerman’s stage. not who you are, but who they want you to become.

“you’re not just tributes,” enobaria says, pacing slow. “you’re symbols, metaphors, breathing metaphors. do you understand?”

you nod, though you’re not sure if you do.

brutus rubs a hand over his face. “we’re giving you roles to play,” he says, a little softer. “you have to sell yourselves to the capitol. they’re going to fall in love with the idea of you.”

they look at rafe first.

“you’re the knight,” enobaria says. “protector of panem. young soldier from district two. charming, powerful, noble. someone who doesn’t fight because he wants to kill, but because it’s his duty.”

“chivalrous,” brutus adds. “but intimidating when you need to be.”

“someone the audience trusts,” she finishes, “but knows better than to cross.”

rafe lifts an eyebrow. “so you want me to be terrifying and trustworthy?”

“exactly,” enobaria says, not missing a beat.

he leans back again, mouth twitching at the corner. “guess i can do that.”

you wish it were that easy. but they turn to you next. enobaria studies you for too long, like she’s trying to peel your skin back to see what’s underneath.

“you’re not fire,” she says. “don’t try to be.”

you raise your chin, something cold curls in your gut. okay.

“you’re elegance,” brutus says. “grace, a flower that blooms in the middle of a battlefield.”

enobaria steps closer. “you’re the divine feminine, not to be underestimated. you don’t fight for glory. you fight to survive. and when you do, you make it look like art.”

you don’t know whether to feel flattered or furious. how the fuck do you portray that in an interview?

instead, you just breathe in slowly, eyes fixed on the window across the room. you’re too tired to argue.

they give you sample questions, hypothetical answers. you sit there for over two hours, repeating lines until they sound rehearsed in your own head.

rafe plays along easily, his tone slipping into charm when he’s asked about his strengths, letting a grin tug at his lips. you catch glimpses of what he’ll be like on stage. it’s convincing. dangerously so.

you get a break after that, barely ten minutes. just long enough to want to be anywhere else.

you’re standing near the sliding doors to the balcony, arms crossed, head pounding. the sky’s just starting to turn a hazy kind of blue. the city below doesn’t look real. nothing here does.

behind you, you hear rafe’s voice. “you wanna go?”

you turn your head slightly. he’s holding open the door with one hand, eyebrows raised.

“spar,” he clarifies. “just you ‘n me.”

you don’t answer, just step past him. you roll your shoulders back as you turn to face him, bare feet shifting against the smooth tile.

“first hit wins?” you say.

he smirks. “you won’t land one.”

you launch at him without warning, and he catches your momentum easily, spinning to throw you off balance, but you recover fast, ducking under his arm and aiming a quick jab at his side. he dodges, just barely.

your bodies move in rhythm. it’s dance-like and clean. but he’s faster, more grounded. his strength is in his restraint. he never uses more force than necessary. you can tell he’s holding back again, testing you, watching how you move.

but you’re not weak. you’re sharp, light on your feet. your hits are quick and calculated.

there’s a moment where he catches your wrist and twists, and your breath catches, but instead of panicking, you roll with it, using your other hand to push him back, your legs sweeping under his.

he stumbles, just for a second. you both pause. then you laugh, he does too. you wipe sweat from your brow and shake your head. “you’re better at this than i thought.”

“i’m better at everything than you thought.”

you roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest has eased. the sparring is the most normal thing you’ve done in days.

he steps closer, not in a threatening way. he holds your gaze. “you’ll be good out there,” he says, voice low.

you don’t ask if he means the interview. or the arena. you just nod. “yeah,” you murmur. “you too.”

the morning of the interview, you wake before the sun.

there’s no need to, no call time that early, no knock on the door. but your body just knows, like it’s wired to the pressure now. your stomach turns the second your eyes open, heavy and hollow all at once. you lie there for a while in the dark, the sheets tangled around your legs.

you don't remember falling asleep. you barely remember yesterday. the rehearsals blurred together, your body and brain pushed past the point of tired, and now you're on the other side of it.

you keep hearing brutus’ voice in your head.

you don’t fight for glory. you fight to survive. and when you do, you make it look like art.

whatever the hell that means.

you rise slowly. everything you do feels deliberate now, like it matters. like they're watching. even now. even here.

you step into the shower and let the heat burn against your skin. it's too hot. you don’t care. the steam curls up around you, beads of water streaming down your back like they’re trying to rinse off the nerves, the fear, the truth of where you're going.

when you step out, you don’t bother looking in the mirror. you know what you’ll see. your prep team does, too.

they're waiting when you step into the room that’s been transformed into a personal studio. valis is standing to the side, arms folded in a sleek black outfit, surveying your approach like a general waiting for her soldier.

she doesn’t say anything at first. just looks you over and nods. you’re a canvas, and she’s about to make you perfect.

the prep team descends in silence, gloved hands on your shoulders, guiding you gently toward the chair. your damp hair is already being combed through, braided, twisted. there’s music playing somewhere, no real words being sung, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own thoughts.

you murmur to yourself under your breath, just words from yesterday’s rehearsal, like the phrases they drilled into you, the fake answers, the poised smiles, the things you’re supposed to say when they ask you about the games, or about your partner, or what makes you different from every other tribute.

you think about your parents, what they’ll see. you wonder if they’ll even recognize you when you step on that stage.

a warm hand lifts your chin, guiding your face as the stylists start to work. powder, shimmer, subtle contouring that sculpts your features but doesn’t hide them. they know the image valis is aiming for.

the dress appears partway through. someone wheels it in carefully, draped over a velvet mannequin, covered in clear silk. your eyes lock on it instantly.

it’s breathtaking.

it doesn’t scream district two. not really. but there’s a nod in the design. it’s less armor, more divine regalia.

you catch your reflection now.

valis steps up beside you and nods once. “you’ll have them in the palm of your hand.” but you don’t answer.

you’re standing in line.

the stage is just beyond the doors, a glowing, blinding light on the other side. the screen above will play each interview in real time, showing the faces of the tributes in front of you. it’s where you’ll laugh, charm, and lie.

the line forms by district, starting with one. you’re somewhere toward the front again, right behind topper. your heels are quiet on the smooth floor, your body still, your breath slow.

topper stands in front of you, hands loose at his sides, relaxed in a way only someone from district one can be. he plays with the button on his jacket, bouncing slightly on his heels. you can hear him humming. he’s not nervous. he’s performing.

diamonte is already on stage.

you don’t even realize you’ve been tuning her out until caesar starts clapping and thanking her. her voice was quiet, her answers clipped. gee, her mentor must be exhausted.

the moment she exits the stage, the prep team swarms her like flies. and once his name is called, topper steps forward, a grin blooming across his face like it’s second nature.

you let your attention drift as the cameras pan to him.

his laughter fills the hallway as he starts his interview, all teeth and charm and easy. caesar eats it up. so does the audience. you let your eyes flick to the screen above, only half-listening. it’s hard to focus. you’re running through every question brutus made you answer yesterday, every phrase enobaria made you repeat.

the words still live in your mouth like muscle memory.

you’re so deep in your head, you don’t realize your hand has drifted back until you feel something warm brush your fingertips.

you blink, focus sharpening. his fingers. rafes.

you glance down, startled, but don’t move. his hand is at his side too, casual like yours, but his fingers are grazing yours like they’re asking a question.

his movements are slow, hesitant, like he’s checking if you’ll pull away. but for some reason, you don’t. instead, your hand stays there.

rafes fingers finally press softly into yours, and you stare at the floor. his thumb brushes along the inside of your knuckle once, kind of grounding in a way.

it’s stupid. and still, you squeeze his hand back.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to, you just feel the warmth and the way it anchors you for a second when the world feels like it might spin off its axis.

topper’s name is shouted overhead in that sing-song way caesar flickerman always does, a final cheer ringing out from the crowd. on the screen, topper flashes his signature smirk, presses a hand to his chest, nods once like he’s accepting a crown, and walks off into the wings where his team waits for him like he’s already won.

your hand tightens slightly around rafe’s. his thumb strokes yours once more.

then you hear your name.

his touch disappears, you’re the one pulling away. you take one breath, two, and you don’t look back. you lift your chin, and walk.

once you step out into the light, it floods you all at once. you feel the heat on your skin, the flutter in your chest. your shoes hit the stage like they belong here,

smile, you remind yourself. so you do. not too big. just enough.

your lips curve gently, like a subtle invitation. you walk like you’ve done this before. like you’ve walked on runways made of bone and silk. like you’ve never known fear.

you cross to the velvet armchair opposite caesar flickerman, who beams like he’s just seen a goddess step into his living room. his blue hair sparkles under the lights, suit more outrageous than ever. it’s something gold and high-collared tonight, glowing like it was made of static.

you sit, and the applause simmers down to a purr as caesar leans forward, hands clasped.

“welcome, welcome,” caesar says, beaming at you. “you look stunning, my dear. absolutely radiant. tell me—who is responsible for this masterpiece of a dress?”

you glance toward the audience, then down at the gown.

it’s a dark wine red, almost black under the lights. the fabric flows like water, high-necked with a slit up one leg, the cut hugging you like it was poured on. petals are made from delicate glassy mesh climb up the bodice, unfurling across your chest and one shoulder.

“valis and my prep team,” you say. your voice is clear, calm, just a little smoky. “they worked very hard on it, caesar.”

“they deserve a raise,” caesar says dramatically. the crowd laughs. “and is it true we have a theme going on with this look? i’m sensing something floral, something . . .”

you smile again. just slightly. “roses,” you say, letting the word linger. “a reminder that something beautiful can still be dangerous.”

a hush falls. then applause.

you see it in caesar’s eyes. you’ve got him. he adjusts in his seat. “now i have to say, there’s been a lot of talk about you. your training score was . . . well, let’s just say it had everyone leaning forward. and the quiet ones, oh, we know what they say about the quiet ones. i mean, it was the highest score received this year.”

you keep your expression unreadable. “what can i say?” you reply softly. “i prefer to let my actions speak for me.”

the crowd loves that. they cheer again. even caesar claps a little, but you feel yourself settle into the moment. you were born for this, weren’t you?

“so tell us,” caesar goes on. “what’s your strategy going into the arena? any strengths you want to share? anything we should be watching for?”

you pause for a breath.

“i’m not here to make friends,” you say simply “i’m here to survive.”

another pause.

“but i do think there’s a . . . poetry in surviving. it’s not just about killing. it’s about reading the arena, understanding people, knowing when to wait, and when to strike. and how to turn the odds.”

caesar whistles. “spoken like a true daughter of two! and is there anyone, back home maybe, who’ll be watching you closely?”

you let the question hang in the air. your eyes flick to the camera softly, and you nod. “i hope my parents are watching,” you say. “i hope . . . they know i haven’t forgotten who i am.”

that earns a quieter reaction. people are still respectful, just a little more curious. you don’t say anything else.

caesar stands with you, takes your hand, raises it to the crowd, “district two’s rose—y/n!”

the applause swells. you let them cheer, let them look at you and see exactly what you want them to see. you smile, but it never quite reaches your eyes.

you step offstage into a rush of motion. the applause is still buzzing in your ears. immediately, you're swallowed by hands. valis’ voice hits first, sharp with breathless praise.

“you were perfect,” she says, adjusting the fabric at your shoulder, like there’s something to fix even though there’s not. “the smile, the posture, the answers. perfect.”

your prep team swarms in next, touching your hair, smoothing your dress, giving you anxious, excited looks. they all talk at once. someone hands you water, someone else mutters something about a strand of hair being out of place. you don’t listen. not really.

enobaria appears behind valis, arms folded. “well done,” she says simply. “you said everything we wanted them to hear. you owned the room. didn’t overstay, didn’t overshare. you were exactly what we needed you to be.”

you nod, just once, like you’re absorbing it, but your eyes are already moving up, to the screen above the door.

caesar’s still standing on stage, soaking up the applause that followed your exit. “and now,” he announces, voice rising again, “please welcome to the stage . . . our male tribute from district two—rafe cameron!”

the camera follows him as he steps into the light. his suit is simple, dark, collar slightly open like he couldn’t be bothered to wear a tie. and a small, barely-there detail: a single rose pin at his lapel. it matches the petals from your dress.

he takes the chair opposite caesar, leans back like he’s done this a thousand times, like he’s not about to enter a deathmatch, but like he’s sitting at a bar about to tell you a story.

you don’t realize you’ve stepped forward until valis gently tugs your elbow, ushering you to sit. but you don’t sit. not yet. your eyes stay locked on the screen.

you watch as caesar leans in, grin wide. “rafe cameron. i think you’ve just broken quite a few hearts in this room.”

rafe’s laugh is low, warm. just the right amount of amused. “that’s not my intention,” he says. “but i’ll take the compliment.”

the audience swoons. you can already see the headlines. the capitol’s favorite solder, the face of two, panem’s protector.

“now, you’re quite the mystery, rafe,” caesar says, smiling. “the training scores don’t lie. and you’re not exactly the loudest tribute we’ve had, but there’s something about you . . . something commanding. tell us, where does that come from?”

rafe shrugs slightly. “i grew up around people who didn’t let words mean much,” he says. “they taught me that actions matter more. if i make it out of that arena, it won’t be because i talked my way through.”

gee, you two are looking like two peas in a pod now.

“so no fancy speeches?” caesar teases.

rafe smiles again, slower this time. “if i give a speech, it’s probably because i’m buying time to get behind you.”

the crowd loses it.

even caesar laughs, clapping his hands. “oh, i like you.”

valis murmurs something beside you, something about how his phrasing is perfect, how he’s sticking to the plan, how he’s a dream.

caesar asks about the arena next, like what he’ll do when it all starts.

“i’ll fight,” rafe says. “that’s what i’ve been trained to do.”

“and if you’re not the last one standing?” caesar asks, voice softer.

rafe pauses.

and for a second, you see it, something flickering in his expression. “then i’ll make sure the person who is . . . deserves to be.”

caesar lets the silence hang for just long enough before rising to his feet and calling out his name like a victory bell, “rafe cameron!”

the applause slams through the studio again as rafe rises, nodding once to the audience, then turning to disappear into the wings.

when rafe walks past the prep teams and camera cords, he doesn’t stop until he’s beside you.

you nudge his arm, “panem’s protector?”

he hums like you’re challenging him, “our rose of panem?”

you roll your eyes, but there’s a smile in it.

the ride back to the apartment is quiet. brutus has already mumbled something about calling it a night and disappears into his room the moment the elevator doors open. enobaria lingers in the living room, speaking in low, clipped tones into a thin communicator tucked into her wrist. a family call, maybe. her voice softens when she says the name lynna. it makes you smile, even though you don’t know who that is.

you don’t listen in anyway. it’s not your place.

instead, you let valis and your prep team start their work.

they're gentler this time, quieter, more careful, like they know tonight is different. it’s not just an end to the public show, but the last stretch of normalcy before it all crumbles into the arena tomorrow.

the dress is removed, handled like it’s priceless. and maybe it is. your skin is wiped clean, their fingers warm as they dab off every trace of shimmer, rouge, gloss. even the kohl lining your eyes. it’s all erased, like none of it ever mattered.

you're back in your loungewear again. it’s just you.

you hear the other prep team working on rafe in the room across from yours with muffled voices, maybe some quiet laughter. his team has always been a bit more relaxed than yours. you wonder if he’s smiling. if he’s pretending he’s not scared.

you don’t speak to each other yet. not with all these people still here. but when they finally start to pack up, hands gentle and final, you feel a strange kind of grief tug at your ribs, like losing something you didn’t even know you were holding.

valis kisses the top of your head before she leaves. you don’t stop her. she doesn’t say goodbye just yet. she’s probably saving it for tomorrow. but she squeezes your shoulder and goes.

rafe’s team probably does the same. you hear the soft footsteps and hushed murmurs, and then the front door hisses shut behind them, and it’s just the four of you now.

brutus is silent behind his door. snoring, probably.

enobaria’s still talking in the living room, but her voice is fading into something calmer. laughter, even.

you don’t mean to sit down on your bed. you just find yourself there. your fingers twist the edge of the blanket without thought. your gaze is trained somewhere between the floor and nothing at all.

you should rest, but your mind doesn’t want to. it’s loud now. strategies, maps, faces, weapons, alliances, weak points. it’s all there, all fighting for space in your head.

it feels like studying for an exam in school, except this time, a wrong answer doesn’t just mean a bad grade. it means a knife in your throat. a cannon fire. a name in the sky.

you hate that thought. you hate it. but it’s real. you have to be the one who survives. you can’t afford not to be. not after all this. not with how many people are counting on you. but then again . . . the games don’t care what you deserve. and luck doesn’t care either.

you’ve seen it in old games before. it doesn’t even matter if you’re strong, or fast, or smart. one misstep, one wrong branch or trap or breath, and it’s over. that’s what scares you, not the killing.

you shift and lay back, arms at your sides, eyes on the ceiling. you think about the arena, what it might be.

a sunken city, maybe. collapsing buildings, rusted steel and water pooling beneath cracked rooftops. a place where every step is a risk.

or maybe something dry and open. a desert with no real water source comes to mind. but no, they wouldn’t do that. it would end too quickly. there’d be no tension, no drawn-out battles, no long, bloody entertainment.

they need a spectacle this year. the tributes are too good. the scores too high. no one wants to see a short game.

you sigh, and roll to your side. the fabric of the blanket scratches slightly against your cheek. you’d watched the rest of the interviews once you were back in your room earlier. nothing stuck except for a girl from five. her name slips your mind, but not her face, her hands didn’t fidget when she spoke. and the guy from eleven. there was something in the way he hesitated before answering certain questions. something he didn’t want to give away.

you’ll remember that if you see them again. like, you’ll see him before the bloodbath surely, but once you’ve taken what you need tomorrow and start to survive in the arena? it’s weird to know you might never see them again.

you close your eyes for a second, but the quiet only sharpens. the light dims in your room after it’s suspected no movement from you, and you let it. maybe your room without light will make you calm down.

there’s a soft knock at your door, like three light taps.

you blink, lifting your head slightly, already assuming it’s enobaria. maybe she’s just checking in, saying goodnight before finally calling it. you half expect her voice on the other side, ‘rest up. don’t waste your nerves now.’

but instead, the door cracks open slowly, just enough to reveal a boyish, crooked smile, like he’s trying not to laugh. like he’s about to say something really stupid. your heart flickers in your chest when you realize it’s rafe.

he doesn’t say ‘wakey wakey,’ but the look on his face might as well scream it. he leans his head in a little more, eyes squinting like he’s checking if you’re already asleep. when your mouth twitches into a smirk, he smiles wider.

you sit up slowly, brushing a blanket wrinkle smooth with your hand. “you look like you’re about to break in and rob me,” you mutter, eyes squinting back at him, amused.

he gives a dramatic glance over his shoulder, like he’s being tailed, before slipping fully inside and nudging the door shut behind him with his heel.

“can i crash here for a bit?” he scratches the back of his head like it’s casual, like it’s normal for him to just be here, hovering in the half-dark with his hair still a little tousled from the prep team’s touch.

you raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t explain. he just doesn’t have to. you figure he just wants to go over strategies, maybe revisit some of the things you two talked about earlier. one last brain meld before the big plunge. you nod and scoot back until you’re flush with your pillows, tugging the blanket over your lap and leaving plenty of space.

he takes the opportunity immediately like a damn cat. rafe shuffles across the floor in a quick motion and flops forward onto your bed, stomach first, the heels of his feet hanging off the edge. he sighs dramatically into your mattress like he’s just dropped the weight of the world behind him. which, to be fair, he kind of has.

for a little while, you just talk. nothing important. dumb things, mostly.

you make a joke about brutus’s snoring sounding like a broken hovercraft. rafe brings up how his prep stylist nearly burned off his eyebrows with some kind of capitol serum today. he mimics the voice of caesar from earlier, going all wide-eyed and grand, waving his arms in mock imitation, “the stunning, the spectacular, district two's shining girl, y/n!” and then immediately butchers your last name on purpose.

you laugh. you genuinely laugh. it feels strange in your throat. his grin is lazy, but then it gets quiet.

not awkward quiet. not heavy yet. just quiet enough that you can hear the tick of the wall clock and the hum of some ventilation system in the room. you realize you’ve been playing with your fingers for a while. twisting them in your lap, knuckles cracking faintly. your breath feels a little tighter.

he doesn’t say anything at first. but his head turns slightly toward you, like he knows it’s coming. and then you ask.

“do you think they’ll make it fast?”

he blinks, eyebrows pulling together slightly. “who?”

“any of us.” you keep your voice low. “or if they’ll . . . drag it out. for the audience.”

they always want a show when someone dies. the words feel like glass in your mouth, but you say them anyway. it’s too close to tomorrow not to. and the longer you hold them in, the more they burn.

rafe’s smile fades a little. he rolls onto his side to face you better, his elbow propped up beneath his cheek. “depends.”

“on what?”

he shrugs. “how interesting they think we are.”

you look at him, really look at him. you know that you two have to be one of the most interesting of the litter this year. no doubt about it. it’s not even being cocky, but you don’t even have to question whether you’re interesting enough.

his brows are furrowed, like he’s working through something of his own now. whatever mask he wears for everyone else, it’s off tonight. it’s just rafe. he exhales softly, like something’s sitting heavy in his chest.

“sometimes i think . . .” he starts, then stops. his fingers drum lightly against your blanket. “i think i’ve spent my whole life being trained to win a game i never actually wanted to play.”

your heart twists. none of his words are you. you can’t relate to that, at least not fully, but you shift slightly closer. “then why play?” you ask, just above a whisper.

he stares at the ceiling. “because people expect me to. and because if i don’t . . . someone else dies in my place, i guess?”

he turns his head toward you again, his eyes softer than before. you both sit in the quiet for a long moment.

at some point, you don’t know what time it is, don’t even bother to check the clock, but you know the night’s not long enough. not with tomorrow looming the way it is. the games. the arena. the countdown that won’t stop ticking.

rafe’s still lying on your bed, arms folded under his head, his legs half hanging off the edge. his shirt is rumpled, and there’s a faint line across his cheek from where he must’ve pressed his face against his arm a little too long. he’s quiet, but not asleep. you can tell. his eyes are still open.

you don’t talk at first. it’s the kind of silence that doesn’t feel awkward, just tense, like you’re both listening to the same thing.

nothing will be the same after tomorrow.

you shift, pulling your blanket higher over your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge. rafe swallows, shifting slightly.

“i think . . .” he starts, voice low as he breaks the silence. he hesitates. you don’t think it’s the kind of hesitation that means he doesn’t know what he’s about to say, but maybe it’s the kind where he does, and it scares him.

finally, his voice breaks through the hush again, “i think my dad rigged the reaping for me.”

you blink, hard. your first reaction is confusion. your mouth parts slightly, like the words don’t compute. you stare at him, processing. “what?”

he finally shifts. he sits up slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, like he can’t say it lying down. “i think my dad rigged the reaping,” he says again, quieter now. like he’s still not sure if saying it out loud makes it more real or less.

you just stare. your brain takes a second to catch up. “okay, but how can . . . how can someone even do that?”

he huffs. “if they’ve got enough pull. i told you my dad’s a high-ranking peacekeeper. i wouldn’t put it past him.”

you just watch him.

he runs a hand through his hair. “i’m eighteen, it’s my last year. last shot. he’s been pushing for this forever since i was a kid, always said it was ‘in my blood’ or whatever as if he ever did it when he was my age. warriors, winners, glory, all that bullshit. i thought maybe i’d made it through. like maybe he gave up. but then my name got called and . . .” he shakes his head. “i knew.”

the silence between you thickens.

“so,” you say slowly, “you didn’t even want . . . to be here.”

“not like this.” he says it flatly, like he’s already accepted it. like it’s just a fact.

you nod, but your stomach turns. you think about how fast you raised your hand, how fast you moved toward the stage. how you didn’t even hesitate. you wanted it. you asked for it. and he didn’t. he was shoved in, boxed up and dropped into it like a piece on a game board.

you look away for a second, a sharp tightness in your chest. guilt? maybe. maybe something more complicated than that. you shouldn’t care. don’t get too attached. everyone should accept their fate, but for some reason, you just can’t let this shake.

“i didn’t know it could even be rigged,” you say after a moment.

“most people don’t. the blame would go immediately to the capitol for it, and they can’t afford that. already have too much to worry about.”

you glance back at him. he’s looking straight ahead now, somewhere past the door, unfocused. he looks tired. not in the way everyone looks tired, but in a way that’s deeper. oh. he’s been carrying this for too long.

“so then what was it like?” you ask. “growing up with him.”

he doesn’t answer right away. then he laughs dryly. “loud. exhausting.” he rubs at his jaw. “everything was a test. everything had a consequence. there was no playing. no room for mistakes. if i cried, i was weak. if i hesitated, i was a failure. he used to time me doing drills in the backyard. would get pissed if i didn’t beat my last record.”

you don’t say anything. you’re not sure what you could.

“i don’t think he ever really saw me,” rafe mutters. “just some idea of who he wanted me to be.”

you shift closer without thinking, just enough that your knee almost touches his. your blanket shifts with you. you don’t say anything dramatic, don’t try to fix it. you just sit there with him.

“i’m sorry,” you say hesitantly, quietly, something you’re not used to. but you’ve been thinking that maybe you should now.

he shrugs. “nothing to be sorry for. just how it is.”

you nod. it’s quiet again. but this time it feels different. there’s no performance here. no prep team, no sponsors, no cameras.

he leans back again, rests his head against the bed, eyes shut. you keep your gaze down.

he stays quiet for a while like he’s trying not to think too hard. and then, after a few more seconds pass, he speaks. “oh, but what about you?” he asks. “what were you like before all this?”

you glance over at him. “what do you mean?”

“before the games, or the training center, or before your name was even in the pool. what’d you care about? what’d you want?”

you don’t answer right away. the question sits in your chest like a stone.

he isn’t asking in that surface-level way people do, the way interviewers or capitol hosts might. he isn’t fishing for a soundbite. he’s just asking because he wants to know. maybe because it makes everything feel a little less isolating if he knows someone else used to be a real person too.

you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. sigh. “i don’t know. i think i was bored.”

it’s a poor way of starting this, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything. he just watches you, listening.

you shrug a little. “my mom works in records for the district. basically just moves files around and makes sure everyone else is on time. it’s as dull as it sounds. she's been doing the same thing since before i was born. every day. same path to work, same lunches. she gets home, sits in the same chair, turns on the same channel, and that’s her night.”

you pick at the blanket in your lap. “my dad’s a peacekeeper too. nothing like yours, i think, but he plays the game. he keeps his head down, follows orders. they’re both good people. i know it. i think they’re just . . . resigned. like they don’t expect anything more. i was probably gonna end up doing what my mom does, to take over her job eventually. get slotted into the same chair, the same shifts. get used to silence.”

your voice drops. “and yeah, i didn’t want that.” you glance at rafe again, “i didn’t want to be invisible.”

you laugh once. “i thought volunteering would make me matter. thought it’d give me some kind of identity, some pride. like maybe people would look at me and see me for once, i guess.”

he doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you wonder if it sounds ridiculous out loud. like a kid trying to win gold stars in a system designed to kill them.

but rafe just nods, slowly. “makes sense.”

you exhale, finally letting your back rest against the wall too. you turn your head slightly. “what about you?” you ask, softer now. “if you didn’t get reaped. if your dad didn’t, whatever the hell he did to get you here, what would you be doing right now?”

his jaw clenches a little. you can tell he’s thinking, but you can also tell the answer’s not easy.

“i’d be home,” he says finally. you glance at him, but you don’t push. “probably walking sarah to school,” he adds. “she hates waking up early. always complains the whole way there.”

a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t last long. “wheezie would already be up, probably trying to get out of eating whatever our stepmom cooked for breakfast. she used to slip it into her jacket pocket and then flush it when no one was looking.”

you smile, just a little. it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk about them. “you have siblings?”

he huffs a breath, a little like a laugh but not really. “yeah. two sisters. sarah’s sixteen. we used to fight all the time, over nothing. she’s stubborn as hell but she’s smart. too smart, sometimes. wheezie’s thirteen. she’s got this habit of pretending she’s not listening, but she remembers everything. like . . . everything. it’s creepy.”

you smile, surprised. not because he has sisters, though that’s new, but because of the way he’s talking. you’ve never heard him like this. not in the training center. not in the interviews. not even on the rooftop.

“they sound like a handful,” you say.

“they are.” he pauses, then adds, quieter, “they’re good, though. better than me. wheezie would slack off during training more than me, but sarah’s good for it. all the camerons are.”

“you think they’re watching?” you ask.

he shakes his head. “i hope not. not if they’re smart.” he exhales slowly through his nose like he’s trying not to let something show. “they probably think i volunteered, talked my dad into saying my name,” he mutters. “i wonder if that’s worse.”

you don’t say anything. you don’t know what the right thing would even be.

he runs a hand down his face and lets it drop, then turns to glance at you. “any siblings?”

you shake your head. “just me.”

he nods like he figured. “that explain the volunteering?”

you almost laugh. “no. i mean . . . maybe a little.”

he waits. doesn’t push. but he’s looking at you now, and it feels like you owe him something, but you’ve already said it. “i just didn’t want to end up like my mom, you know,” you say like he already understands, and he does.

he looks at you for a beat longer, then nods like he gets it.

you both fall quiet again. you’re tired, and not just physically. it’s in your bones now, all of it. but sitting here, next to him, it’s a little easier to breathe.

and neither of you says it out loud, but you both know this might be the last night you ever get to talk like this. maybe that’s why it matters so much. maybe that’s why you don’t want to move.

but then there’s another knock. you and rafe both glance up at the same time, barely a beat after it lands, and the door creaks open. enobaria stands in the doorway, shoulder leaned into the frame. she lifts an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“are you two having a sleepover?” she drawls.

you deadpan right back, “why, you wanna join?” you toss her a look over your shoulder, one part playful, one part exhausted. it’s not a real invite, but it’s not not one either. you’ve never seen her act normal.

she huffs, something that’s almost a laugh, and crosses the room to pull the desk chair out. it gives a small squeak as she turns it around and drops into it backwards.

“cute,” she mutters. “but let’s talk strategy again.”

you groan immediately, flopping backwards like she’s just sentenced you to death early. rafe doesn’t miss a beat either, dropping his head until his forehead nearly hits the mattress, arms sprawled out beside him.

“what is this, homework?” you mutter into your pillow.

enobaria doesn’t smile this time. she’s watching both of you now, eyes sharp, tone steady. “listen,” she says. “you can complain all you want, but in the next week, one of you might die. or both of you. i’m not gonna sugarcoat it. i’m not good at that. but i know what works.”

you sit up again, slowly. rafe’s already half-propped on his elbows, listening now, even if his head’s still turned to the side.

“you two watch each other’s backs,” she says. “no matter what. no splitting up unless you have to, and even then, you circle back. don’t assume anyone’s dead unless you see it with your own eyes. and if it happens, if one of you goes, you make it mean something. don’t let it be for nothing.”

you can feel your throat tighten and your stomach turns. you glance at rafe. he doesn’t even look at you.

enobaria leans forward. “you don’t have to kill each other,” she says. “but one of you needs to come back. one of you has to. you understand me?”

you nod. it’s faint. rafe gives a slow blink. another nod.

“use everything you’ve learned,” she continues. “everything. don’t wait to be clever. if it’s brutal, be brutal. if it’s manipulative, fine. lean into it. alliances are fine for the first few days, but they always burn out. you two are a unit. don’t forget that.”

you shift in place, something in you itching. “you’ve seen this a lot, huh?” you ask.

enobaria gives a quiet nod. “more than i’d like.” she leans back again, resting her head briefly on the top of the chair.

“last year’s kid from four, ria, remember her? she got cocky in the final five. thought she had enough food stockpiled to wait the others out. didn’t account for an acid rain trigger that melted her stash. by the time she had to come out, she was half-starved and stumbled right into the final three’s ambush.”

you wince.

enobaria’s voice drops lower, thoughtful. “always account for change. for traps. for things that feel unfair. because they are. it’s a game, but it’s also a show. that means it’s rigged for drama. that means they want surprises. don’t fall into them.”

you nod again, slower this time. “okay.”

she exhales, like she’s getting tired of the weight of her own words. then she adds, almost offhandedly, “also . . . i don’t know. if it gets desperate, you could always start a fake romance or something. no one’s done a believable one in a while.”

you groan like she’s your older sister telling you something you don’t wanna hear, but rafe huffs out a soft laugh into the mattress.

she grins. “i’m just saying. the capitol eats that stuff up. doesn’t have to be real.”

“goodnight,” you say, waving her out.

“just keep it in your pocket,” she smirks, standing. you scowl at her through narrowed eyes. rafe’s still half-buried in the bed, clearly choosing not to comment. enobaria starts for the door. “get some rest. you’ll be up late enough tomorrow.”

you turn your head on your pillow as she leaves, watching her go. she stops in the doorway just once more.

“noon,” she reminds the two of you. “we’ll say our goodbyes then.” and then she’s gone.

the door clicks shut, leaving the room. you exhale hard into your pillow, bury your head deeper into it.

rafe hasn’t moved much. he’s still stretched out across your bed, holding himself up on his elbows, staring at the far wall like it might offer answers.

you stare at the pillow beside you. you don’t know why, but neither of you say anything. you just sit there, processing.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14

[psformybss]

Secret fiancée at a meet and greet for drew fans?

Meet and Greet

series masterlist

warnings: fluff, public setting, fan interactions, light humor

an: this is based off what i’ve seen online about meet and greet’s cause i’ve never actually been to one so it might not be fully realistic

════════════════

The meet-and-greet hall hummed with energy, thick with the scent of sugar and sharpies. Voices blended into one layered buzz, rising and falling with every photo taken and every shriek of excitement. She stood off to the side behind a roped-off section, laminated badge swinging lightly against her chest, a cold drink resting between her hands.

Drew was already deep into the photo ops, and somehow, he looked more energized than when he started. He moved effortlessly from fan to fan, his smile never faltering, his laugh warm and real. He gave peace signs, posed for selfies, ducked into group hugs, and joked with the handlers without missing a beat. There was a rhythm to it all. Smile. Click. Hug. Repeat. But none of it felt mechanical when he did it.

She loved watching him like this. Not the version from polished interviews or red carpets, but this one. Rolled sleeves, a slight flush in his cheeks, hair curling a bit from the heat. This was where he thrived. With people who genuinely cared about the show, who lined up for hours just to say a few words and take a picture.

A trio of teenage girls approached the backdrop next, all in matching OBX hoodies and glitter under their eyes. One of them bounced on her toes, barely able to keep still as she looked up at Drew.

“I love Rafe!” she blurted, clutching her phone like it might fly away.

Drew grinned as he slung an arm across her shoulders for the photo. “He appreciates it,” he said, his tone light and a little dry, “but let’s be honest. That guy definitely needs therapy. Like… probably several therapists.”

The girls burst into laughter, and the camera clicked at just the right moment to catch it.

From her spot near the wall, she caught Drew’s eyes flicker toward her. It wasn’t a wave or a wink, just a brief glance, like a check-in. Subtle and quick, but enough. She gave him a soft smile, taking a quiet sip of her drink.

The line kept moving. Some fans were chatty, others too overwhelmed to say much at all. One girl got teary, thanking Drew for how he portrayed Rafe’s intensity. Another handed him a stack of Polaroids labeled with captions like “Rafe being absolutely unhinged.” Drew signed each one with patience, chatting as he went. His energy never dipped. If anything, it kept building with every interaction.

Eventually, the line thinned. Drew stepped away for a breather, catching a water bottle tossed to him from across the room. He took a long drink, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then spotted her again and made his way over.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse, smile still in place.

“You holding up?” she asked, eyeing the streak of sharpie near his wrist.

“Barely. Someone asked me to sign the bottom of their shoe. Not even the top.

“Did you?”

“Of course I did.”

She laughed softly. He looked exhausted in the best way. Happy, a little sunburnt under the lights, but still fully present. They stood together just behind the curtain, the steady buzz of the convention still spilling in around them. A moderator’s voice echoed through a speaker somewhere nearby. Merch tables were restocking, and someone sprinted past, chasing a wig that had fallen off mid-cosplay.

“Still your favorite part?” she asked, brushing a wrinkle from the edge of his sleeve.

He nodded, his eyes staying on her. “Yeah. I love it. You know I do.”

She did. She saw it in the way he gave every person his full attention. In the way he laughed with them instead of at them. In the way his energy never dimmed, even after hours on his feet.

“I like watching it happen,” she said. “From back here.”

Drew tilted his head. “You mean not getting mobbed by people screaming about Rafe’s cheekbones?”

“Exactly.”

He gave a short laugh, the kind that sat low in his chest. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple, brief and warm, before someone from the team called him back to the floor.

She stayed behind the curtain, sipping the last of her drink, watching as he stepped back into the space with ease. The fans were still excited, the room still loud and busy, but he moved through it like it was home.

And she couldn’t help smiling, knowing he was exactly where he wanted to be.

[luvbabydoll]

Stalker Bucky, where bucky Stalks reader, & pretends to bump into her, & slowly become friends until they start dating 🤭🤭

always watching

warnings: stalking, obsessive behavior, manipulation, hidden surveillance (implied), possessiveness, emotional grooming, mild violence (implied), yandere undertones, unhealthy relationship dynamics, reader is unaware of the stalking

you first see him at the bookstore.

not that you notice him, not really. but he sees you. soft sweater clinging to your shoulders, headphones snug over your ears, thumbing through the new releases like you’ve got all the time in the world. you’re humming something, just barely under your breath. he doesn’t recognize the song, but it becomes his favorite anyway.

you don’t see him, but he sees you. again. and again.
you go to the bookstore every thursday. bucky knows that now. he follows you from a distance, hoodie up, hands deep in his pockets, pretending to glance at the shelves while his eyes are on you.

he learns your schedule like it’s his job.
thursday: bookstore.
saturday: farmer’s market, always with a canvas tote and messy hair.
monday: café near your apartment, order never changes.
he memorizes it all. you make it easy. you’re a creature of habit. predictable. perfect.

it takes him three weeks to "accidentally" bump into you.
a soft oof, a muttered apology, his hands grabbing your arms to steady you.
“shit, i’m sorry—are you okay?” he asks, his voice just rough enough to make your stomach flip.
you blink up at him, wide-eyed, a little startled. he’s handsome. too handsome. you laugh nervously and nod.

and that’s all he needs.

the next week, you see him again. same bookstore. this time, he smiles like it's fate.
“you again?” he says, like he didn’t follow you here.
you grin. “guess we’ve got good taste.”

he makes you laugh. he makes you feel safe.
bucky’s careful. calculated. he never comes on too strong. just enough charm, just enough softness. he pretends to run into you again at the café—he’s “new to the area,” he says. “what’s good here?”
you tell him your order. he memorizes it.

you don’t know that he’s the reason your usual barista started calling in sick.
don’t know that he’s already walked past your apartment enough times to know which window is yours.
don’t know that he’s watched you sleep through the cracks in your curtains.

you think he’s sweet. a little awkward. a little shy.
he lets you think that.

the friendship comes easy. he makes sure of it. always nearby, always ready to help. when you’re carrying groceries, when your phone dies, when your neighbor’s dog gets loose—he’s just there.
you tell your friends about him. how he just gets you. how he seems to always be there when you need someone.

you don’t know it’s because he never leaves you alone.

it takes a few more weeks before he asks you out. he’s nervous about it. not because he’s scared of rejection—he already knows you’ll say yes—but because it’s a line. a new step.
you smile when he stammers through it, cheeks pink.
you say yes. of course you say yes.

he walks you home after the first date. your fingers brush. he looks at you like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.
you don’t see the way his jaw ticks when you mention the guy from your building. the one who flirts with you in the elevator.
you don’t see the bruise on that guy’s jaw the next morning.
but bucky does. and he smiles.

you fall for him slowly. he’s sweet. attentive. always remembers what you like, what you hate, how you take your tea.
he’s perfect. too perfect.
but you don’t question it. not when he kisses your forehead, not when he tells you how lucky he is, not when he looks at you like you hung the damn moon.

you don’t know that he’s already picked out your future.
you don’t know how deep his obsession runs.
you just think you’ve finally found someone who sees you.

and you have.
oh, you have.
he sees you.
always has.
always will.

[alittlegiraffe]

Bonjour!! How was your easter?!

I love your writing, i love how you write about the longing need for Marshall and the Reader, the staring at each other when the other isn’t looking, things like that are just so sweet.

if you ever don’t know what to write definitely more chapters about longing each other, jealousy, commutation and commit to one another.

thank u lovely for all your stories so far :)

Hi! It was great! Thanks for asking, here's the story you inspired with your ask!

Title: "Unspoken"

You weren’t used to being on set, especially not like this—crowds of people moving with purpose, the air thick with lights and sound and stress. But he’d asked you to come. Said he just wanted you close today.

You never said no to that.

Your hand was in his when you arrived, tucked tight into his palm, his thumb tracing soft, rhythmic lines across your skin like he always did when he could feel you getting overwhelmed. You stayed quiet like always, your head down, a little behind him—but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the safety of him.

Marshall had been clean for years now. But you still got those flashes—days when your chest would tighten just thinking about what almost happened. The overdose. The hospital. The coldness of that room and the machines and the doctors who wouldn’t look you in the eye when they spoke.

So when things got loud, when the world spun a little too fast, you reached for him. For the scratch of his beard under your fingers, for the grounding in the most ordinary part of him. He always let you. Always leaned into your touch like it calmed him, too.

That’s why when you saw her touch him—just a hand grazing his beard like it was hers to know—it felt like a punch to the chest.

It was a scene. You knew that. She was an actress, beautiful and confident, doing what the director asked. She stepped in close, said her lines, and reached up to his face like it was scripted. Maybe it was.

But it wasn’t just the touch. It was the way he froze, just a second too long. That pause like he felt it wasn’t right.

You didn’t say a word. You never did. You just looked down, hands folded tightly in front of you now, chest aching with something stupid—jealousy, insecurity, all those things you didn’t like to admit you still had after all these years.

But Marshall looked past the actress, past the camera, straight at you. He didn’t need you to say it. He saw it.

And then it happened fast.

He stepped back from the scene, away from her touch, his voice cutting clean through the air. “Nah. I don’t wanna do the scene like that.”

The director started to argue, confused. “What? We’re rolling—”

“I said I don’t wanna do it like that,” he repeated, tone final. “Rewrite it. Shoot it different. Whatever.”

And then he was walking, straight toward you, taking your hand again, curling your fingers into his.

“C’mon,” he murmured low, not giving anyone else another glance as he tugged you gently down the hall.

You didn’t ask where you were going. You didn’t need to. His fingers were tight around yours, warm and familiar and real.

He opened the door to his dressing room and pulled you inside, shutting it with a soft click. The second it closed, you felt his arms around you. One sliding to the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head as he pulled you against his chest.

His beard brushed your temple as he leaned down.

“She shouldn’t’ve touched me,” he said quietly, voice warm against your skin. “Not like that. That’s yours. That’s always been yours.”

Your throat tightened. You still didn’t say anything. Just leaned in, breathing him in, your fingers lifting to finally touch what you needed—the coarse softness of his beard, that familiar texture under your palms.

He exhaled like that one small touch melted something in him.

“I know you don’t always say it out loud,” he whispered, “but I know when somethin’s wrong with you. I feel it.”

Your hand curled against his jaw, thumb brushing gently under his chin.

He caught your other hand, lifting it to his chest, pressing it flat over his heartbeat.

“You’re not crazy. You’re not wrong. You’re mine. And nobody touches me like that but you. Ever.”

And just like that, you could breathe again. Not because the room got quieter, but because he did.

Because he always knew.

He let you stay pressed against him for a long moment—his arms wrapped fully around you now, anchoring you to the quiet, to the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling. You stayed silent, just breathing him in, feeling the tension start to loosen from your spine.

When your fingers moved again, brushing along his beard in that gentle, slow way you always did, he dipped his head a little more to give you better access, eyes closing like it soothed something deep in him too.

“I love when you do that,” he mumbled, voice gravel-soft, lips brushing your hairline. “Drives me fuckin’ crazy, how soft your hands are.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not when this was how you kept from falling apart. Not when this had become your lifeline after those months in the dark, when he was in the hospital, when you weren’t sure if you’d ever feel him again.

“I couldn’t breathe when I saw her touch you,” you whispered finally, voice barely audible. “I know it’s stupid. It was just acting, I just—”

“Hey.” He cut you off gently, pulling back just enough to cup your face in both hands. “Don’t do that. Don’t minimize what you feel.”

His thumbs brushed your cheeks. His eyes locked onto yours, quiet and intense.

“You got every right to feel how you feel. That’s your space. You don’t need to explain that to me. You own that part of me.”

You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly, heart doing that slow, aching twist in your chest.

“I didn’t wanna embarrass you in front of everyone,” you admitted, gaze falling to his shirt.

He tilted your chin back up, made you look at him again.

“You think I give a fuck what anyone thinks when it comes to you?” he asked, almost incredulous. “Baby, I’d walk off that whole set if you asked me to.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, breath warm.

“I’m yours. All of me. This,” he said, guiding your hand back to his beard, letting your palm settle there again, “this is yours. You’re the only one who gets to touch me like that. The only one who grounds me like that.”

Your fingers curled in a little, beard rough against your skin, and he sighed like it untied a knot in his chest.

“You always know what I need,” you whispered.

His arms came around you again, tight and protective.

“That’s ‘cause I need you. More than anything,” he murmured. “You were there when I almost didn’t make it. When I forgot who I was, you didn’t.”

You felt his lips press to your temple, reverent.

“I got clean for me, but I stayed clean for you.”

Your chest broke open at that. You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him like you could pull all the broken pieces together again.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

He smiled, soft and crooked, one hand tangling gently in your hair.

“Just promise me something.”

You looked up, nodding.

“Next time you feel somethin’ like that—jealous, scared, insecure—I want you to tell me. Even if it’s just with your eyes. I’ll always know what you’re sayin’. You don’t ever have to speak it if it’s too hard. I got you.”

You nodded again, slower this time. Then, quietly:

“Okay.”

He kissed you then. Slow and deep and real—like he was reminding you without words that you’d never be second to anyone, not in his world. Not in his heart.

Not ever.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Lapse of Judgement

Fandom: Marvel (Car Mechanic AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You insist on taking your car for tonight’s date, but things don’t go as planned…

Grease & Rust | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

A/N: idk I wanted to write more Car Mechanic!Bucky!

Things were going smoothly. Your dinner with Bucky went well, as it usually does. You two spoke of random things, work gossip, funny memes you saw on social media, etc.

Being with Bucky was easy. He matched your energy, whatever it was. If you were being silly, he’d be silly with you. If you threw corny pick-up lines at you, he’d threw them right back.

With Bucky, you felt seen, loved, and cared for. He did anything and everything for you.

Which meant, despite his better judgement, took you up on driving your grandpa’s old Ford Anglia, or Angel, as he called her, to a lookout spot on top of the hills.

It was a clear night and the full moon shined above you. It was the perfect way to end your date night.

As Bucky turned onto the long dirt road that lead to the lookout spot, Angel started to sputter.

“Ah geez. Not now,” he mumbles, to pull to the side of the road as Angel sputters through her running engine.

As soon as he parks, the car dies before he can turn off the ignition.

“…well…I think Angel finally died on us.”

Bucky snorts, “You think?” He’s not mad. Amused, actually. Because of course, the old car chose a chilly, late night post-date to finally give up on you.

He takes out his phone and groans at the what he sees. On top of a dead car, there’s no cell reception.

He sighs and steps out of the car, “Come on, baby. We gotta walk back to the emergency phone pole we passed.”

“Shouldn’t I stay with the car just in case someone comes by?”

He shakes his head, “Absolutely not. Do you wanna be the next victim of a slasher movie?” He walks over to the passenger side and opens your door. He holds his hand out to you.

You chuckle, “Dramatic.” You unbuckle yourself, grab your purse, and let Bucky help you out of the car.

Even in your thick sweater, you still shiver when a cold gust of wind passes through. Bucky immediately shed his own coat and drapes it over you.

You open your mouth to oppose but he shakes his head, “You know I run warmer than you, babe.”

You smirk, “It’s ‘cause you’re so smokin’ hot.”

Bucky chuckles and wraps and arm around you. He kisses your head and mumbles, “You’re such a dork.”

You two walk the poorly lit road for twenty minutes until you reach the emergency phone.

He calls up the Torres Towing Company, “Hey, Joaquin. Sorry, it’s late, but Y/N’s car broke down…yes, again.”

You rolls your eyes and he smiles at you, whilst listening to Joaquin on the other end.

“Yeah, on the dirt road leading up to the lookout spot by Haver Hills. Thirty? Sounds good. Yeah, we’ll be fine. See you soon. Thanks. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and slips his hand into yours, “Let’s head back to Angel.”

As you walk back to the car, you stare up at the stars, “I guess we can still enjoy the night sky from here.”

Bucky also looks up and hums, “Suppose we can.” He points out some of the constellations he knows and some of the background on them.

You’re sure that in another life, Bucky would’ve been an astronomer or working for NASA with his vast knowledge of the stars and space.

When you get back to Angel, Bucky pops the trunk open and grabs the blanket you always keep in there. He lays it across the back and hops onto the back of the car. He pats the spot beside him and you follow.

You both stare up at the stars, “You know, despite my lapse of judgement, I’d say this date still went well.”

Bucky shakes his head with laughter, “So this definitely means you’re getting a new car now, right?”

You shrug, “We’ll see,” you respond as you cuddle into Bucky, staring at the stars, and enjoying his company.

[anotherworld08]

☆Not So Secret☆

The Burrow was louder than usual, and that was saying a lot.

Spring had finally nudged winter out of the way, and the Weasley house was overflowing with life: windows flung open to let in sun and air, garden gnomes yelping as they were tossed over the fence, and Molly Weasley humming as she chopped vegetables for dinner.

Fred, however, was sweating bullets.

He wasn’t supposed to be here today. Or rather, she wasn’t. Y/N Malfoy — a name that had no business blending into a place like the Burrow — had dropped by under the most casual, innocent excuse: returning a charmed pocket-watch he’d left behind after their last Hogsmeade trip. She’d planned to apparate in, hand it off, and be gone before anyone even noticed.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

The plan started unraveling the moment she arrived. Fred had barely stepped out into the yard to meet her when the unmistakable pop of Apparition echoed from behind the house — and in true Weasley fashion, George rounded the corner almost immediately.

Fred barely had time to stuff the watch into his pocket when George’s voice rang out.

“Oi, Mum says get your lazy arse in for dinner —”

He froze mid-sentence, his eyes landing on Y/N. She stood perfectly still, looking only slightly less panicked than Fred, like a cat caught in a beam of lumos.

George blinked.

Y/N, to her credit, recovered first. She raised a single brow, cool as ever. “Evening.”

George looked between them, his mouth twitching slightly as he took in the scene: Fred looking like a kid caught stealing biscuits, and Y/N Malfoy standing in the Burrow’s backyard like she belonged there.

“Evening,” George echoed, tone dangerously casual. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Y/N tilted her head, giving the faintest hint of a smile. “Returning something Fred left behind. Thought I’d spare the owl the trip.”

George let the silence stretch for a beat too long. His sharp brown eyes flicked from her to Fred and back, piecing things together with uncomfortable ease.

“Well,” he said at last, “I hope whatever it was is worth all the trouble.”

Before Fred could muster even a half-baked excuse, Molly’s voice rang out from the kitchen window.

“Fred, who was that at the door?”

Fred cringed. Y/N, knowing the jig was up, lifted a hand in silent farewell and Disapparated with a soft crack, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and the sound of Fred’s stomach sinking to his shoes.

“Friend from school!” Fred called back, a little too loudly, turning to find George still staring at him.

George folded his arms. “Friend, huh?”

Fred sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, look. I was going to tell you. I just… didn’t.”

George snorted. “You think I’m daft? The way you looked at her just now, mate — Merlin’s beard, you might as well have been carrying a banner that said ‘I fancy her.’”

Fred groaned. “George—”

But George just clapped a hand on his shoulder, and his voice, when it came, was surprisingly gentle.

“Malfoy, though? Bloody hell. You don’t half make things interesting.”

Before Fred could respond, the kitchen door banged open. Ginny poked her head out, squinting into the evening light.

“Who was that? Thought I saw someone standing with you.”

Fred froze. George, bless his soul, didn’t miss a beat.

“Just some owl delivery. Wrong house.”

Ginny frowned, clearly suspicious but not invested enough to argue. She disappeared back inside.

George turned back to Fred with a smirk. “You’re lucky I’m good under pressure.”

Fred let out a laugh, more nervous than amused. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, mate,” George said, tapping his temple. “But you’d better tell the rest of the family before someone else catches her here. You know Mum’s got eyes like a hawk.”

Fred never got the chance to come clean on his own terms.

Two days later, it happened. Spectacularly.

It was a Sunday. Sundays at the Burrow meant two things: laundry flapping on the line, and the entire house crammed around the table for Molly’s roast dinner. Fred had managed to go about the day with relative calm, though the memory of Y/N’s visit still sat sharp in his mind.

After the plates were cleared, Arthur decided to fiddle with his latest Muggle gadget: an old two-way mirror he’d enchanted to work like a Muggle “video phone.” Everyone took turns poking at it, half-bored, until George, grinning devilishly, swiped it from Percy’s hands.

“Let’s see if this thing can make prank calls,” he joked, tapping the side of the mirror as if dialing.

But the mirror, apparently still linked to its last user, flickered to life on its own.

Fred froze the moment the glass brightened. There, clear as day, was Y/N — sitting comfortably in her room, brushing her hair. The golden “M” crest on the bedpost behind her was unmistakable.

The room went silent.

She hadn’t noticed the connection yet, humming softly to herself, until Arthur, squinting, leaned in.

“Isn’t that—?”

Y/N glanced at the mirror, blinked, and then her face went from curious to horrified in half a heartbeat.

“Fred,” she said flatly.

Fred buried his face in his hands.

Y/N, ever the composed Slytherin, straightened her posture and gave the mirror an unflinching, if slightly resigned, smile. “Well. I suppose the secret’s out.”

There was a long, long pause.

Molly was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re dating a Malfoy.”

It wasn’t a question.

Fred looked up sheepishly, ears burning. “Yeah. I am.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, George leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, whistling low under his breath.

“I knew it,” he muttered, more proud than surprised.

Ron’s mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish, Hermione beside him looked vaguely scandalized, and Ginny wore an expression that landed somewhere between “disappointed sister” and “impressed troublemaker.”

Arthur, bless him, only adjusted his glasses and gave Fred a measured look. “She seems polite.”

Molly, on the other hand, looked like she needed to sit down, which she did, rather heavily.

“Of all the girls in Britain, Fred,” she said, shaking her head, though her voice was more baffled than angry. “A Malfoy?”

Fred rubbed the back of his neck, shifting in his chair like it was covered in spikes. “She’s not like them, Mum. I swear. She’s smart, and funny, and — I don’t know. She’s different.”

Y/N, still visible in the mirror, raised a brow at the understatement but said nothing, waiting.

Arthur cleared his throat, glancing between his wife and the mirror. “Well, dear, it seems Fred’s already made up his mind. And if the girl’s willing to put up with this lot, she must have some patience.”

Molly looked at her son, then at the girl in the mirror. Mauve held her gaze, calm and unapologetic. Finally, Molly exhaled a long, slow breath.

“I suppose I’ll have to meet you properly then, won’t I?”

Y/N smiled, sharp but sincere. “I’d like that, Mrs. Weasley.”

When the mirror blinked dark again, the room buzzed back to life, half the family talking over each other, and Fred sat there, still stunned but oddly lighter.

Later that night, Fred found George leaning against the back garden fence, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“You’re braver than I gave you credit for,” George said without turning around. “Not for dating her — for hiding it from Mum.”

Fred chuckled, joining him, the night cool and soft around them. “You’re not angry?”

George shook his head. “Nah. I figured it out the second I saw you two in the yard. Malfoy or not, I haven’t seen you this stupidly happy in years.”

Fred smiled, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. “It’s serious, you know.”

“I know,” George said simply. “And I’m glad.”

The two of them stood there a while longer, watching the stars blink awake in the darkening sky.

And for the first time in weeks, Fred knew — really knew — that everything was going to be alright.

[aziraphales-library]

hello!! I hope you're having a good day :))

do you have any feminine Crowley fics? specifically where Crowley is a guy but wears feminine stuff sometimes...preferably explicit and m/m (with aziraphale)

thank you, and have a good day!!!

Hi. We have a #genderfluid crowley tag which will have some fics to interest you. Here are some (generally) m/m fics in which Crowley fucks around with gender...

Every Part of Me by foolishlovers (T)

Heartthrob rockstar Antonia Harmonia, better known as Anthony J. Crowley offstage, has safeguarded his singing career from his best friend and long-term crush, Aziraphale, for nearly two decades. But when Aziraphale stumbles upon Crowley’s secret at one of his concerts, Crowley is suddenly confronted with unexpected consequences. Could the best of both worlds be within his reach? A Hannah Montana AU.

Take Me to Heaven by TawnyOwl95 (M)

Aziraphale does not have a priest kink. His brother, Father Gabriel, is a priest, for goodness sake. It's just that Father Anthony isn't really like any priest Aziraphale has met before and he's thoroughly upsetting the carefully constructed habits Aziraphale has made to keep himself safe. When Father Anthony replaces Aziraphale as the conductor of St. Beryl's Church choir, they are forced to work together to get the choir up to snuff before Bishop Frances' visit. Aziraphale's attraction grows and it becomes harder to repress who he is and what he wants from life. A life he's starting to feel like he's wasted by trying so hard to conform.

Beyond the Barricade by CemeteryAngel725 (E)

Az Eastgate and AJ Crowley have been best friends and roommates since freshman year, when they met playing minor gangsters in their university theater company's production of Guys and Dolls. Az has been in love with AJ ever since, but he's never quite worked up the courage to tell him. Now it's senior year, and they've been cast as Marius and Enjolras in Les Miserables. Will Az finally work up the courage to tell AJ how he feels? Or will they graduate from college and go their separate ways? A Good Omens theater kids AU set at an American university in the 2000s.

Across the Line by hope_in_the_dark (T)

Ezra is a student in his final year at University College London, and he’s in love with a man he’s never spoken to. For months, Ezra has been tipping (and pining after) a musician named Crowley every time he sees him. He thinks that Crowley hasn’t noticed him, but Crowley has. A love story that begins with, of all things, the saving and handing over of a book.

Empty Orchestra by Fallinfromgrace (E)

Ezra has never been a fan of modern music, it just didn't have the same feel as classical music. That would all change when he meet his best friend, Anathema, for drinks at a local bar with an Open Mic night to meet her new boyfriend. The moment the first singer steps out onto the stage Ezra was entranced. Who is this beautiful man, and why does he look so sad? Crowley was not in a good place and he knew it. He loved his work, especially since it allowed him to do the one thing keeping him sane, sing. But he's been out of the game for a few weeks now. Ever since his boyfriend betrayed him, leaving Crowley feeling broken and all alone. But things start to look up when he sees a beautiful Angel sitting at the bar. When he sees him again the next week he can't help but wonder what he might be like. Could he be the one to help Crowley mend his broken heart?

The Cure for a Broken Heart by Ro_Fell (E)

Dr Fell and Dr Crowley are two medical residents stuck on rotations they don’t like, working long shifts every day and then doing 24 hour shifts once every four days. Because they are on the same schedule, they keep running into each other. There is an instant spark of attraction, but they come from different worlds. They are both broken in their own ways and misjudge the other. But maybe, over long nights, in private call rooms, they can learn to see each other as they really are, and heal their broken hearts.

- Mod D

[darkromance-princess]

I'll Crawl Home To Her

Pro hero Katsuki Bakugou x Model reader - Katsuki has to do a modeling shoot for his birthday and things turn out better than he had expected.

This is Katsuki's Birthday post!!

Warnings: slight smutty feels (spicy photograghy) some small groping some inappropriate thoughts from reader and katsuki, reader breaks up with her boyfriend after he accuses her of sleeping with katsuki. Feels. SOFT KATSUKI! a lot of soft moments lots of soft touches.

word count: 2k

Bakugou had been modeling for nearly a year because they said he'd get more of the public's eye with it and him trying to be the #1 hero he needed the publicity and hated it until they paired him with you. You were like a breath of fresh air, soft skin that it looked like you glowed every time you two did a shoot together, you long elegant dark blue hair, your emerald green eyes always captivating his because they were so bright and held your emotions so clearly he also loved that you were a brat, the brat tamer in him living for putting you in your place anytime you bratted off. He loved that you were also very kind to him.

He loved that you had a big personality and weren't afraid to stand up for yourself. You and Katsuki were in the middle of a shoot his manager who posts all his media said that he needed to do a shoot for his 25th birthday and at first he told them to fuck off but as soon as his manager said he being doing it with you Bakugou had mumbled an agreement saying something along the lines of “ this better be worth it idiot” and with a roll of his eyes he was getting in his car driving to where you work and that's how he ended up in this situation you standing in front of him in a lowcut top and a ruffled mini-skirt with shorts under but they did nothing your ass nearly out in his face.

They had him in black slacks and a button up shirt with the first few buttons undone to show off his toned chest. You two were halfway through your shoot him semi hard because God you were so hot. You both turned your heads as you saw a security guard chasing someone furring your brows. You realized your stupid boyfriend was running up to you, and you met him halfway. Your heels were clicking along the tile floor. Bakugou couldn't take his eyes off your legs and with your ass poking out from your skirt made it so much harder.

Placing a hand on your hip you asked, “what are you doing at my work acting like a lunatic?” he didn't answer he just started yelling “what are you doing here with him?” he glared at Katsuki “again I'm at work we work together you act like I haven't told you this before” you rolled your eyes “are you sleeping with him?” you busted out laughing “no but to be honest I wish he's delicious.” you look back at Katsuki and winked he flushed a deep red. “And probably a lot better in bed than you are!” “Ugh you stupid bitch your always too much I can't deal with you” your boyfriend snarled at you

Bakugou taking a step towards you ready to defend you how dare he call you a bitch but before he could walk over to you, you put your hand up stopping him silently telling him you can deal with this. You take a deep breath before speaking “if you say I'm too much, baby go find less. If you can't keep up, stay below, I guess. If I'm such a big deal, maybe your too little.” holding up your hand your finger no more an inch apart, making a mocking pout on your face.

Katsuki chuckling at your insult. “I can see your working really hard. Out of breath, but your still at the start, honey please your breaking your own heart shooting for the stars shooting in the dark.’’ you were taking a jab at his job now you were going all in. “you-” before he could speak you cut him off “I should have seen the signs, you could never look me in the eye” you said as you grabbed the taller man's face and brought him face to face with you “ oh it so like you to put me down and your so fucking controlling too ugh” you groaned “ baby I ain't under any pressure, I remember you saying shit like this to me; ‘Doin to much, Puffin up your dress.’ ‘Where you goin' in that little white dress?’, ‘Who you’re doin all that work for?’ ‘Don't you wanna keep things private?’ ‘You’re so pretty when you’re so quiet can't you do it how I like it’ “Say this, do that.’.” you laughed sadly remembering how you felt when he said those things to you. “I can see why you held on so hard, not your fault it that it wasn't in the cards. Honey, please I’m sending warm regards in a box of your things in a black car if you say I'm too much, baby, find go less” you walked away towards Katsuki who has a proud grin on his face grabbing a hold of his face

and before you can second guess it you kiss him hard while snaking your fingers through the baby hairs at the nape of his neck you hear the camera start taking pictures but neither of you care Katsuki deepens the kiss growling into your mouth as he hears your whimper slip through your lips you both listen as your now ex-boyfriend is screaming being dragged out. Katsuki wraps his hand into your hair and tugging giving him access of your neck making you let out a small moan as he wraps his hand around your throat as he whispers in your ear “ god damn gorgeous your so fuckin hot,  you got an innocent face but dirty little mind a body like this should be a crime you took over my life without warning now I'm addicted to you, those long legs and I bet you taste so fuckin good I just wanna fuck around and make you mine you a baddie and a little bratty anyone would pay the bills just to hear you call em' daddy” you gasp “Katsuki” you say breathlessly he looks up seeing that all eyes are on you and him.

Removing his hands from your throat and hair he puts them on your waist protectively as the cameras keep taking pictures “send those to me and i swear to god if i find them in any magazine or social media page i will blow your asses up” he growls at the photographers. You giggle sweetly against his chest. The people in the room nod before rushing about. Katsuki picks you up by your thighs making you squeal wrapping your legs around him feeling his full-on hardness against your hot core a whimper climbs up your throat and you try to swallow it, but it escapes anyway, Katsuki chuckles at your reaction, “so mean to me Suuuki” you pout your voice a pitch higher normally. “oh you want me to be mean bunny I'll be mean” he says as he lands a swat on the back of your thigh.

You whine at the small amount of pain against your thigh “bunny?” you question. Katsuki smirks as he opens the door to his car getting in with you still in his lap now spreading his legs a bit so he can sit more comfortably he doesn't answer you as he tells his driver to take you two to his place. “Bunny because you remind me of a little bunny with her soft fur and her big innocent eyes and its easter so why not bunny and- “ he leans down to whisper in your ear “ -because bunnies fuck like crazy and they Breed Daddy’s going to breed you like a cute little fuck bunny” he growls into your ear as he feels your pussy clench around nothing as your breathing picks up “I want to clarify” you look at Katsuki cheeks flushed red nodding for him to continue as you bite your lip Katsuki takes his thumb running it against your bottom lip to stop you from biting it. “I don't want this to be a onetime thing with us, soak in my reason for breathin, don't tell me I want it I need it I need you I've been slowly falling in love with you over the past year, your laugh, your smile, your eyes, the way you look at me, I want you to meet my old hag and I want you for the rest of my life I want to spend this birthday and all the ones after until I'm rotting in the ground with you and only you. As for you idiot ex if he loved you he would tell you, if he missed you he would’ve called if he wanted you to meet his mom he would’ve brought you home there aint no excuse he aint Mr. Misunderstood quit lying to yourself if he wanted to he would’ve ” he lifts your chin seeing tears flowing he wipes them with his thumb cooing at you “its ok bunny everything will be ok” he pets your hair as you cry into his shirt sniffling catches his ears after a few minutes you look up at him dabbing your cheeks “Thank you Katsuki” he just smiles and kisses your forehead.

As you two pull up to his gorgeous house he holds your hand as you step out of the vehicle. “ oh Katsuki wow this is amazing I may be a model and make good money but I still only live in an apartment it nice but still this is like one of my dream homes” you say as your eyes sparkle as you walk through his house you hear his ai cameras greet him home “ welcome home Great Explosion Murder God Dynamite”, you look at him shocked as still hold his hand, you make eye contact with him as you bust out laughing.  Rolling his eyes he drags you to his bedroom his smell engulfing you and acting like a cozy blanket around your heart. “As much as I love you in this outfit, I think you would look much better in this” he holds up one of his old tee-shirts that he used to wear in his high school days he set the shirt on the bed, and he trails his fingers along the bottom of your shirt “May I?” Katsuki asks, you smile and softly agree as he redresses you his gaze is filled with nothing but fondness and love, his hands grazing across your body like your glass as he slips you out of your mini skirt leaving you in just your underwear he slips his tee-shirt over your head.

“Fuck you do look good in my clothes fuck the clothes they have you wear during shoots just wear my clothes” you giggle standing on your tip toes no longer in your heels you press a kiss to his cheeks. “Your short I could just throw you” Katsuki said teasingly you squeal as you book it into his living room running as your laughing fills his home. He smiles as he chases after you catching you pretty easily throwing you over his shoulder “ahh Katsuki I’m not wearing pants” you whine. He just chuckles as he lightly swats your ass, carrying you to the kitchen he sits you down on the counter asking his Alexa to play some soft music. As work song by Hozier fills your ears you start to sing “Boys workin on empty, is that the way you face the burning heat? I just think about my baby I'm so full of love I could barely eat” you softly sang as you smile up at Katsuki as he joined you “cause my baby’s sweet as she can be gives me toothaches just from Kissin me when my time comes around lay me gently in the cold dark earth no grave can hold my body down ill crawl home to her” Katsuki gently brushes his fingers over your cheeks cupping it as he leans in brushing his lips over yours feeling his breath over your lips you softly connect yours with his slowing sliding your hand into his hair. Katsuki's hands pushes up his tee-shirt as he circles his thumb over your hip bone you both smile into the kiss you pull away slowly lips still touching you mutter against his “Happy Birthday love” 

The rest of the night is with you spent in Katsuki's arms as he teaches you how to make one of his favorite meals you had begged him to let you cook him a meal because he's the birthday boy, but he said no way in hell muttering something about how he's the chef and he does all the cooking. You just giggled and cuddled closer. After dinner and cleaning up you both decided a movie would be nice so you both cuddled up under a blanket and a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table; thirty minutes later you were asleep in Bakugo's lap as he played with your hair, it smelled like peaches due to your shampoo he smiled as he turned off the tv and gently got up laying your head on the couch as he threw out the last of the popcorn he walks back over to you curled up like a little bunny he takes his phone out of his pocket and makes sure the flash is off so it doesn't wake you up as he takes a picture of your sleeping form, setting it to his wallpaper he slides it back into his pocket he carefully picks you up bridal style “ let's go to bed bunny” he smiles as he carries you upstairs to his room setting you on his bed he watches as you sink into it comfortably brushing your hair out of your face he just sits next to you for a moment admiring your beauty and hoping his kids look like you. Kissing your forehead, he gets up to take a quick shower to wash off the day once he's clean he finds clean boxers and crawls into bed with you wrapping his arms around you pulling you into his chest he whispers into the silent room “I’ll crawl home to you.”

[witchygagirlwrites]

Rhea Halstead

Jay Halstead x Reader (nicknamed Rogue)

Rogue Verse

You and Jay welcome your baby girl Rhea

Warnings: a little suggestive and non descriptive childbirth

You were pacing across the bathroom floor and could hear Jay just outside the door pacing too. “That’s not helping my nerves baby” you called out and he laughed “Well you could’ve let me in Rogue and I wouldn’t be pacing. This is the best I can do princess” fair enough. You had locked him out while you took the test because you simply did not want to be looking him in the eye while you peed on the little plastic stick.

Your period was late, like nearly three weeks late. The first week you didn’t really think anything about it, you worked a high stress job that was very physical at times. It happened. The second week you started to worry. When it clicked towards the third week and you were getting nauseous at smells you normally liked and winded during chases that shouldn’t have winded you? That was when you panicked.

“Jay?” you called lightly and heard his footsteps halt “Yeah sweetheart?” you swallowed hard, not sure how to word this question without sounding like you were doubting him. “Do you want it to be positive or negative?” you asked, barely above a whisper. His voice came out in a sigh “I don’t know what to say here baby. I feel like this is a test and if I get the answer wrong I’m going to end up hurting you again”

“Just the truth Jay” you laid your head against the door, knowing he was more than likely in a similar position on the other side. “The truth? I even told Ryatt more than once that the only way I would ever want children would be if they came out of you. A baby with you? That would be a dream because it would be a mixture of me and the love of my life. So yeah, we may have only been married a little over a year but you’ve been the center of my world for so long Rogue. If that test is positive I’m not going to exactly be mad”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep tears at bay as the alarm on your phone that was on the counter went off at the same time that the alarm on Jay’s phone buzzed through the door. “Can I come in to look with you?” he asked and you reached to unlock the door.

He stepped in and pulled you into his arms. “I love you with everything. No matter what. Now, the truth from you. What do you want that test to say?” you shook your head and admitted “I don’t know”

He wrapped both arms around you and that was how the two of you walked over to pick the test up. He turned it over and staring back at you was two dark pink lines. You took a staggered breath. “Rogue?” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your pulse. You knew he was worried because you’d gone silent. “I’m pregnant” you whispered and he nodded, gently turning your head so he could look you in the eyes “What are you thinking gorgeous?”

You smiled brightly “That I hope the baby has your eyes and your smile” he grinned “And here I was thinking I hope the baby has your eyes and your smile” then pulled you into a kiss. “We’re gonna have a baby!”

You were sitting at your desk in the bullpen, a hand on your ever growing stomach. Mouse walked by and stopped, a smile slipping onto his face “Please tell me that’s just movement and I’m not about to have to call Jay?”

You laughed “Easy officer Gerwitz, it’s just your niece playing hockey with my kidneys is all” “She being active?” he asked and you nodded, “She’s running out of room” you were around months and it was painfully clear that this baby was taking after Jay and Ryatt on the height. 

A small smile slipped onto your face at the thought of your baby having characteristics of your brother. Who knew? Maybe she’d have Ry’s smile? 

Mouse laughed “Well tell her to hold her horses. You’ve got a few more weeks before she can make her debut into the world” you ran a hand across your stomach and felt Rhea’s foot follow the motion “She’s excited. She hears all the good stuff going on around here”

Your pregnancy had actually come at a good time for Mouse. He’d been conflicted about his place in the unit and unsure about joining the academy and being a rookie at his age until Voight assured him that the unit would still need his skills therefore as soon as he could he’d pull him. So now while you were on desk duty and getting ready for maternity leave they had an extra officer on hand. It didn't hurt matters that he’d already had so damn much training going in from him and Jay being in the rangers.

______________________

You heard the gate pop and glanced up to see everyone coming up. Erin and Voight were first. She smiled when her eyes landed on you “I swear you get cuter daily Rogue” you shook your head “I swear you need glasses worse and worse daily Lindsay” she laughed and went to her desk.

Behind her was Jay, the smile that slipped onto his face when he saw you made your heart flip. “Hey baby” you grunted when the moment he spoke Rhea felt like she did a freaking backflip. He was to your side in an instant, Erin was on her feet, Voight from before going into his office and pretty much everyone was on high alert. You felt your face warm “Sorry, she um she did a backflip when she heard Jay and there isn’t a lot of room left in there if we’re being honest here”

Everyone let out a collective sigh of relief and went on about their jobs while Jay squatted down in front of you. He spread both hands across your stomach “You giving your mama a hard time little miss?” you watched your stomach as Rhea wiggled to get closer to his voice and shook your head “Daddy’s girl, through and through” he grinned and pressed a kiss to your stomach through your shirt then stood to press a kiss to your lips “I love my girls with everything”

You were half asleep next to Jay. He had his arms around your waist and your back was to his chest. “Jay?” you whispered and he responded by kissing your shoulder that was bare from the camisole you’d worn to bed. “Yeah baby?” he finally spoke, voice heavy with sleep.

“Are you still attracted to me?” you had no idea where the thought had come from but it popped up so it was popping out. He sat up so damn fast you were surprised he didn’t get a little vertigo. “What?” you turned a little to face him better. You couldn’t lay on your back because everything shifted too much “I’m freaking huge” you laughed and he shook his head “Rogue, baby..love of my life..you are pregnant with my daughter! You’re gonna have to be a little bigger baby so she can grow”

“I can’t even wear your shirts anymore” you whispered, feeling ridiculous when tears sprung to your eyes. “I don’t care, I’ll buy bigger ones. Do you know how fucking sexy you are? Right here, right now?” you rolled your eyes and he shifted to pull you into his lap, your back against his chest “You have my ring on your finger, you’re swollen with my child..babe..it takes everything in me to not be begging you constantly to let me fuck you” 

You turned to look at him and grinned “How very caveman of you Mr Halstead” he laughed and pressed a kiss to your lips “I love you, I love every part of you. Want me to show you? Please baby give me the go ahead to love on you” you raised an eyebrow “What position can we do with my stomach?” a grin slipped onto his face “Lay on your side love, I’ve got you” 

His hands came to your hips, helping you to lay down on your side. You felt his lips teasing at your neck as his hands slipped under the camisole you had on. The moment his fingertips brushed across your nipples you whimpered and he chuckled lightly “I’ve got you beautiful, let me take care of you”

Jay watched you walk through the bullpen, a smirk slipping onto his face when you slapped Adam behind the head with a folder because he called you a duck. You did have an adorable little waddle going on. You should’ve gone on maternity leave a week before but you hated being alone and Voight didn’t mind. The only rule he had was if the unit drug any offenders in you had to go into his office and stay until they were down in holding for your safety.

You stopped to hand Erin the folder and he turned his attention back to the reports strewn across his desk. “Rogue!” Erin’s voice made his eyes fly up and his heart dropped to his feet when he saw you were doubled up, holding onto the side of her desk. He was out of his chair and across the room before anyone else could move. When he got to your side he realized the crotch of the leggings you wore were wet. “Baby?” he asked and you looked up at him “I think my water just broke”

“I’ll call a bus” Adam offered, Erin pushed her chair behind you for Jay to ease you down into. You squeezed his hand “I’m a little scared Jay, not gonna lie” he squatted down in front of the chair, rubbing your knee “I’m gonna be right here at your side princess. I promise you” 

Once you got to the hospital Jay helped you strip out of your clothes and into a gown by the time your OB walked in.  “So I hear we have a little Halstead ready to join us?” she asked and you nodded “I think so”

She washed her hands and put on gloves “Let me check and see how far dilated you are and we’ll go from there” you nodded and reached out, Jay slipped his hand into yours. She smiled at the action then pulled the stool over so she could sit down and check you.

______________________

“Well Mrs Halstead I think we won’t have to wait long before Rhea makes her appearance” she announced and you gritted your teeth through a contraction before asking how far dilated you were. She looked up at you “All the way” then looked at Jay “Dad? Wanna get up there and help her?” 

Jay grinned and quickly climbed into the bed behind you, putting a leg on either side of your body to support you against his chest. Your OB nodded to him “Get her down as far as you can” he helped you to scoot down. She looked at you “Ok when you feel the need to push, take a deep breath and give it all you’ve got”

You nodded and felt Jay’s arms around you as he whispered in your ear “You are the most amazing person I have ever known, baby. You’ve got this. Bring our babygirl to us” you nodded again and looked back at him “I love you” “I love you too”

______________________

Everything hurt, it felt like you’d been pushing for hours when in reality if you looked at the clock on the wall only about twenty minutes had passed. You fell back against Jay’s chest, struggling to get a lung full of air. “Deep breath” your doctor offered and you nodded. “Fuck Jay why the hell do you have to have such broad shoulders?” he laughed lightly “In my defense Ryatt was pretty broad too” you nodded “Fair enough”

“One more push and you’ll have it” you groaned “Let’s do this” Jay helped you up and you gripped his arms as you pushed with everything you had in you. It felt like a fucking truck was running over the lower half of your body then the pain started to fade and as it faded a shrill little cry filled the room.

You fell back against Jay, watching as the nurse cleaned the tiny little body that had just been pulled from you. “Look at her baby. You did that” Jay whispered, pressing kisses to your neck.

The nurses got her cleaned and wrapped in a blanket before bringing her back over to you. She held her out to you and you took her in your arms. “God she’s beautiful” Jay’s voice was so low as he spoke, his arms wrapping around you even further. You nodded “She is. We have a daughter Jay” he pressed a kiss to your temple “I know, she’s amazing. You’re amazing”

The doctor and nurses left to give you two some privacy with her. You shifted to be halfway laying against Jay’s chest with her in your arms. He ran his finger down her face “We made her” you laughed “Yeah we did” 

He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips “I love you with everything” you smiled against his mouth “I love you too Jay” he leaned down and kiss the top of her head “I love you with everything little Miss Rhea Halstead” you smiled when she made a light cooing sound. “Look at that, little daddy’s girl”

He pulled you closer, “I don’t know what I would do if I wouldn’t have gotten you back. I’ve got everything I ever wanted here in my arms” you smiled up at him “I guess someone was looking out for you huh?” he smiled and pressed another kiss to your lips “Guess so” everyone would be wanting to meet her soon, Will would be using his credentials to sneak in if need be but for the next little while? You and Jay were enjoying your little slice of peace with your baby girl. 

@allisonargent144

@voidvinyls

@bonnyclydecat