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d1stalker · 3 months ago

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Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James.

Your James.

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself.

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing.

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence.

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust. He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him.

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin.

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you.

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream.

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood.

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh.

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there.

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him.

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity.

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week.

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own.

To you, he’s still James.

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it.

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own.

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body.

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say.

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines.

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly.

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close.

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end.

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still.

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know.

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air.

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze.

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain.

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence.

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving.

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes.

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew.

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries.

The first time you did it, it was an accident.

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet.

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart.

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it.

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past.

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves.

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery.

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next.

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes.

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions.

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him?

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word.

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier.

He doesn’t remember you.

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again.

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet.

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together.

Because we were everything to each other.

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving.

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile.

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns.

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom.

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed.

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk.

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did.

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you.

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run.

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different.

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?”

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back.

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything.

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page.

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still.

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly.

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail.

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face.

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart.

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord.

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James.

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

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luveline · 1 year ago

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𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧

remus’ touch after a long night prompts a tired confession (and a slew of clumsy kisses).

requested here. modern au. fem!reader, 3.6k.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“I'm going to bed,” Sirius mumbles, scratching at his eyes as he gets up. “Don't let her sleep in her makeup. She'll get an eye infection.”

Your eyes are getting sore, but it's hardly Remus' responsibility to make sure you wash your face tonight, nor Sirius’ to remind you. “I'm a big girl.”

Sirius sends you a smile, ignoring your chiding. “Goodnight, my loves,” he says, waving you both away as he heads out of the living room and up the stairs.

“Notice how he didn't do his dishes?” Remus asks, shifting beside you.

He's sitting as he tends to, slouched in a way that can't be good for his back in the long run but is clearly comfortable short term. His chin is on his chest, his legs kicked out under the coffee table, which is decorated by the casualties of the night. Sirius’ dinner plate, Remus’ mug, James’ rarely used handheld console. He'd been playing a cutesy farming sim before he said goodnight an hour ago. Sirius stayed to mess with James’ crops and eat a late supper. You're surprised it took him as long as it did to admit defeat.

“What time is it?” you ask.

You're laying on the sofa with your socked feet tucked behind Remus’ back, of which he's yet to complain. His elbow brushes your shin as he brings up his arm. “Nearly one in the morning, now,” he reads from his watch. “Let's go to bed too, yeah?”

“I don't want to.” You turn your face into the pillow behind your neck.

“Me neither,” Remus says, dropping his hand on your knee.

You watch another twenty minutes of TV together failing to summon the energy to stand, but the want for a glass of water grows too big. Your head throbs as you get up, offering your hands to the pretzel that is your favourite housemate.

Remus turns off the TV and lights. You lock the front door. He carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen and you fill up two glasses of water to take with you. It's all so… regular. A routine you share nearly every night, only to climb into your two separate beds.

He ushers you out of the kitchen and down the hallway with his hand behind your shoulders, his touch a phantom as you ascend the stairs.

You're silent beside the creak of the old wood, too tired to speak. Remus is similarly quiet, though he does whisper, “Watch,” when you nearly kick the box of Halloween decorations waiting to be taken up into the attic.

You leave your water on the towel box in the alcove and dance around one another in the bathroom. Sirius’ toothbrush lays on the sink still wet, but otherwise there's no signs of him.

You're feeling very, very tired. You hadn't realised how bad it was until you're putting your toothbrush in your mouth, leant up against the window sill, a slot of cold air seeping in from the dark outside. Your eyes shutter closed. The scrubbing sound of Remus brushing his teeth is almost lulling.

He swills out his mouth and washes his brush. “Here,” he says gently. You open your eyes just enough to see him beckoning you forward. “Dove, your necklace.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You turn your back to him.

His fingers are damp and cool on your skin as he unclasps your necklace. He often takes it off for you. It's one of the things you'll miss when you guys aren't living together anymore, the slow meander to his bedroom, the wood of his door jam on your cheek as you lean against it and give him a hopeful smile. Sometimes he's awake, reading a novel on his side in bed or listening to music at his desk, other times he's sleeping. On those occasions you spend too long lingering, stolen seconds spent staring at the rise and fall of his shoulder.

“Thank you,” you say as he puts your necklace in the jewellery dish. It comes out missing vowels, lips stuck together as though honeyed.

You spit pathetically in the sink, rinse your brush, and consider sitting down. “I'm tired,” you whine, wiping your lips.

“I know,” Remus says, giving you a fond nudge. “Just wash your face and get on with it.”

“You first. I'm going to nap standing up for a bit.”

He puts as much of his hair behind his ears as he can and turns on the tap. This is just as familiar as brushing your teeth together. It's not quite as bad as watching James Perfect Skin Potter wash his face with bar soap, but you have to admit that Remus’ eight-nine pence face soap hurts your heart. He washes it off, pats his face dry, and takes the small bottle of bio oil out of the medicine cabinet to pipette onto his pinky finger. “Wash your face,” he says, smoothing the oil into his scars one by one.

You shake your head. “M'gonna do it in the morning.”

“That's why your eye was swollen a few weeks ago. You know yourself you won't.”

“I might,” you say, letting out a big breath as you rub your sore eyes even sorer, “I'm too tired.”

“Can you sit up, at least?”

“No.” Remus takes you by the shoulders and forces you to sit on the edge of the bath. “Aggressive?”

“Don't fall in,” he says, cupping your cheek briefly as if to make sure you've heard.

You are hearing him, seeing him, even feeling the immensity of his touch, but you're tired, and you know you can let yourself relax completely with him. You'd be the same with James or Sirius, though neither of them could have your head feeling so dizzyingly light from a single touch as Remus can. You probably wouldn't let them persuade you into this, either, tilting your head back to watch through blurry vision as Remus soaks a cotton round in your facial oil.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Was that a dracula impression?”

“I command you.”

You close your eyes. The queasy feeling of oil drags against your lids as Remus wipes them, loosening the stiff tubes of mascara that coat your lashes. It's not a short process because he's very, very gentle, holding your face delicately as though you're a flower in need of coddling, and him the sun. It's the only metaphor that would ever make sense for you and Remus; he's like the sun even if it goes against every statement he's ever made about himself, or anyone else has, for that matter. People think he's a moody, sarcastic boy, and he is, but he's also a vestibule of sweetness, softness, and warmth. The kind of heat you'd only ever feel kissing your skin under the summer sun. But more than that, he's the relief that follows when the clouds come out.

And his hands are all over you. Your head gets heavier by the minute, eased into dozing by his touch and quiet tones. “We're almost done. I'm gonna have to carry you to bed at this rate.”

“I'm going to miss this so much one day,” you say. It's easier to admit when you're not looking at him.

Remus turns on the tap. Hot water runs, you can tell by the sound as strange as it seems, and he wrings the dirtied cotton round before replacing it with a new one. He wets it, bringing it just that touch too hot to your cheeks to wipe you down. “What are you going to miss, dove?”

“Us. You. I'm going to miss you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, but one day I will be. James will finally have had enough of us and I'll,” —you swallow around nothing as a rivulet of water runs down your cheek, a cooling tear from the cotton round— “have to move out and we'll never see each other anymore.”

“Don't be silly, you're not going anywhere.”

“It's not about the going,” you murmur, peeling your eyes open tentatively as his dabbing follows down your cheek to your neck. “I miss you sometimes and we still live together. I can't imagine how much I'll miss you…”

Remus puts the cotton round aside. He takes your face into his hand, and suddenly his touch feels raw, nothing like it had moments ago. Because Remus would wash your makeup off for you any day of the week, but his looking at you like this, so unshielded and unabashed, is a rarity.

“You won't have to miss me. Even if we did move away from each other, I wouldn't let it be that far.”

“Friends move away all the time. We don't speak to half the people we knew at school.”

“I only really knew you and the boys,” he says. It isn't true but it is at the same time. Together, you'd been a happy lot, but your current housemates are the ones you'd known. “And see? We're still together.”

“But for how long?” you ask.

Remus brings his second hand, holding your face entirely. He covers your cheeks, index fingers sliding slowly under your ears. He's exceedingly gentle, and his eyes are soft. He holds you like you're made of glass, like you could break under a hint of pressure. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side as though he might lean in for a kiss. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but Remus is a very purposeful soul. He'd do much worse to wind you up if you wanted him to.

You sober up. It's like he has caffeine in his palms.

“You want to go where I'm going, is that it?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say, barely say, voice shame-facedly weak. Is he asking what you think he is?

“Do you want to start now?”

You breathe out as one of his hands shifts down your jaw. “Yeah, I… I want to start now.”

“Okay, dove. Then close your eyes again.”

You hold his gaze for a second that feels infinitely long and short at once, your heart racing. Clarity has returned, a thrust into wakefulness even if your fatigue ties knots around your ankles. You look at him in his late night glory, his scars shining a pink-white like the petals of a young peony flower, and you know it's happening now.

You shut your eyes.

He steps closer, though the bath you're perched on is low, and he has to bend a considerable amount to reach you. The weight of his hands on you doesn't change, not even as he grows near enough to sense the heat of his breath against your lips. It's his nose that makes first contact as it slides against yours, and then his forehead presses down into you, his lips noticeably absent. Each contiguity between you thrums.

A pit opens in your chest, cleaved by his voice as he says, “I'm going to kiss you, okay? S'that what you want?”

Your hands don't feel like your own. Under the sickening nervousness twining its way through your ribs, you're excited. You're smiling, your voice shaped by it. “Yeah. It's what I want,” you say.

“Good. It's what I've wanted for a while–” while pressed into your lips, all shaken up by an emotion you've never heard him speak with. He kisses you and you're frozen, and he waits and waits and pulls away to push back in. You remember yourself then, responding to his wading with some pressure of your own. Sparked back to life.

It's so strange. It doesn't feel real. Remus Lupin kisses you heated and hard for just long enough to feel it in your teeth before he pulls away. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his fingertip running down your cheek, following that same path as your earlier rivulet. To think he saw it, really saw it, locked it away to remember and trace into your skin now… maybe he's seen much more of you than you realised all along.

“Will you do it again?” you say under your breath.

Remus must hear the thread of insecurity running through your question; you're afraid he'll say no, but he strokes your cheek again with that unfathomable softness and says, “Yeah, dove, of course I will.”

“Do you want to?”

And that's less insecurity and more selfishness, wanting the confession. He hears that, too.

“I want to kiss you more than I've ever wanted anything,” he says, eye to eye with you, your head tipped up and your heart in your throat, twitching and fizzling like a firecracker. “Yeah? And all that missing me you've been doing? All your worrying? You don't need to do that. You've never needed to do that–”

“I just never thought you liked me like that.” You and Remus aren't new to one another. “You've been the same since the day we met.”

Remus’ hands get a little more solid where he's holding you. “Dove. Dove, are you mad?”

“Remus–”

“Maybe I have been the same, but did you really not notice that I–” He squeezes your cheeks playfully, almost in disbelief. “If you want me, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere without you. You're not going anywhere without me.”

“So you like me?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyebrows pinched together at the starts. “Of course I do.” He laughs. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“Oh,” you say, lifting your head.

Remus shuts his eyes a millisecond before you shut your own and kisses you again. The second round is softer, his smile to yours and struggling to find purchase. His breath huffs out in a minty laugh, shockwaves through your mouth.

“Stop laughing,” he breathes, his hands falling to your neck, your shoulders.

“You first.”

Your lips part under his, a split-second of contact. He yanks away before things can get too heavy, and you're glad he does, but for a moment you feel the loss like a wave of vertigo.

“Sorry, I'm going too fast, and you're tired.” His touch is ticklish behind your shoulder.

“It's okay. Maybe it is a bit fast, but I'm not tired anymore,” you confess.

Remus hugs you, cementing every feeling for him you have as he wraps his arms around you from over your shoulders, a deft hand cupped behind your neck. “That's not true. I can feel your back shaking. Let's go to bed.”

“After that?”

“What, are you worried it won't have happened in the morning?” he asks genuinely.

You go limp in his arms as he takes your weight against his chest. Not worried, but rather not sure you can be away from him so soon. You ask him in a whisper if you can come and sit with him, not to sleep with him, not to do anything else, and he whispers back, Anything you want. You both entertain the lie that you won't fall asleep in his bed.

—

Remus tenses as he hears the scuffling sounds of movement downstairs. It takes a train of thought awakening for him to realise it's only James, rising early as usual to put on a load of washing and prepare bits for lunch before he goes off for training. He can see him in his mind's eye if he tries, his friend dressed in the red and white rugby uniform, green socks up over his calves and white cleats scrubbed pristine for another ruck in the mud.

Remus’ relaxes, stretching out in bed until his hand bumps into something rigid.

He flinches.

You're laying on the mattress beside him, your head slipped off of the pillows and your arm tucked beneath you. It doesn't look comfortable, and if it were any other morning he'd pull it straight for you, but.

I kissed you, he thinks to himself, as though talking to you. He turns away from you until his back clicks and alleviates the ache in his hips, though he has to settle eventually, back on his back, no way of ignoring you. He doesn't want to ignore you. The opposite —why are you so far away? Can he hold you?

What are the rules here?

Kissing… not dating… You're here in his bed, you'd asked to stay.

He takes your hand and pulls at your arm. Still sleeping, you mumble and move onto your back, releasing the pressure on your shoulder as he pulls you toward his chest. Your face is impassive, lax in sleep.

He should let you sleep.

“Dove,” he says, stroking up the length of your arm.

“Mm?” you hum.

“I need to ask you something.”

You twitch awake with a small cough. Your eyes are red with a lack of sleep as you open them, blinking, and he wishes stupidly that he could make it better. He makes a sympathetic sound for want of more to do.

“Why have you woken me up?” you ask, blinking at him. You gather that there's nothing urgent happening and push your face into his shoulder, practically nuzzling him. “It's Saturday.”

“I just need to ask you something.”

“So ask me,” you encourage through your sleepiness.

The washing machine whirs downstairs. It’s an old machine that you often joke is taking off into orbit during the final spin, loud as anything. He can barely hear your sluggish breathing underneath it, but he can't miss the catch in it after he asks, “Can I be your boyfriend?”

It's not the catch he's expecting. You laugh and readjust, wrapping your arms around him from the side and kissing the side of his neck clumsily. “Y'u asked me last night,” you say in a borderless run-on, sounding about as dopily in love as he's ever heard you.

He thinks about it. Yes, he did, after he'd kissed you many more times than he should've and curled up in bed with you, hands held loosely beneath the blankets. He remembers the question, the answer. The last kiss that followed, and you falling asleep beside him.

“I need a coffee,” he says, encouraging your head back so he can kiss your temple.

“No, you need to sleep more with me. And maybe kiss me again. If you want to.”

Sleeping isn't half as interesting as kissing you. He slots his nose against yours and languishes in the feeling of your lips, wondering if he's having a false start. He could still be dreaming. It would make sense.

The door clatters open with a curse. James stands in the doorway with a folded pile of Remus' washing from the radiators in his arms, an apology on his lips, “Sorry, mate, the door got away from– oh my god. Oh my god?”

Remus isn't an overly shy guy but he can't deal with this. “For fuck's sake,” he mutters, dropping his face into your shoulder. Your arm wraps under his neck, fingers splayed across his cheek.

“James–” you begin, resigned to your fate.

“This is flat-cest. This is the cardinal sin.”

“We don't live in a flat,” Remus says.

“That makes it worse. You can't even blame close quarters.” Remus peeks up to watch James in the doorway, still clinging to Remus’ washing, pure shock curdling his features. He shakes his head. “I'm telling Sirius.”

“Please don't!” you say.

You slump back into the pillows as James leaves anyways.

Remus hugs your soft abdomen. “Don't worry,” he says.

“I guess it's a good thing you've already asked me out,” you say.

“Why, what can they do?” Remus asks, wondering if he's allowed to put his face on your chest or if that's too forward. You rake a hand through his hair and encourage him forward, to his delight.

Frantic words. You and Remus loved up in bed despite it.

“I'm chucking them out!”

“James, they've been seeing for weeks. Can I go back to sleep?”

“What?!”

You grumble into his hair. “That's not even true… Does everyone know, then? That I liked you?”

Remus thinks of the shadow of you in the doorway, that sheepish smile you send his way before you ask him to unclasp your necklace before bed, or your face as he’d wiped the sooty stain of mascara from your cheek last night, half in love with him as you fell asleep in his palm.

“I don't think so, lovely,” he comforts. “Don't worry about it. We'll clear it up at lunch time. James isn't even mad, he's just sulking thinking we didn't tell him.”

“How could you not tell me?” James asks on cue, rounding the door again, arms ever tighter around the bundle of Remus’ clothes. He assumes it's being kept hostage. “I thought we were best mates.”

“James,” you say softly, all sympathy.

Remus likes the feeling of your voice under his ear, and your slightly too-quick heartbeat. He could fall asleep here and now if it weren't for the company.

“It's new,” you're saying, softness melded to a sweet pride. “Okay? I've barely told Remus how I feel, of course I was going to tell you. We were only talking about it last night. It really hasn't been weeks, Sirius is a stirrer.”

Remus pulls the covers up over your heads and climbs on top of you in a rush, demanding that the both of you be left alone, to James’ great annoyance but your delight, your laughter loud in the shell of his ear. Your chest shakes with it beneath him.

A great wad of fabric hits him in the legs. “Twats,” James says, seemingly stalking off.

Your whisper sends shivers down his spine. “We're alone again. Do you have anything else to ask me while you're too tired to remember?” you tease.

There's not a chance in the world that Remus would ever forget this.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed, it's been a little bit since I wrote for remus like this so I was actually a bit nervous and I hope it's okay :D <3

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #marauders era #remus x reader #remus x you #marauders #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin blurb #marauders x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #the marauders

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pucksandpower · 4 months ago

Text

For the Best

Logan Sargeant x Wolff!Reader

Summary: Logan thinks that losing his Williams seat marks the beginning of the end … little does he know that it’s really just the start of the rest of his life

Logan steps into the cool, air-conditioned room, his race suit clinging to his skin after a grueling drive. The contrast between the bustling paddock and the quiet meeting room is jarring, and he can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.

His team principal sits at the head of the table, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by a somber expression. Beside him, to Logan’s surprise, is the imposing figure of Mercedes’ team principal.

“Logan, thanks for coming,” James begins, his voice careful and measured. “Please, have a seat.”

Logan slides into a chair, his heart rate picking up. “What’s this about?” He asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

James and Toto exchange a glance before James clears his throat. “Logan, you’ve been a valuable part of our team, and we’ve appreciated your dedication and hard work.”

The use of past tense doesn’t escape Logan’s notice. His stomach drops.

“But?” Logan prompts, bracing himself.

James sighs. “But we’ve decided to go in a different direction for next season. We’ll be announcing tomorrow that we’re signing Carlos Sainz.”

The words hit Logan like a physical blow. He knew his seat wasn’t secure, but hearing it confirmed ... it’s devastating.

“I-I see,” Logan manages, his voice barely above a whisper.

Toto leans forward, his piercing gaze fixed on Logan. “This is where I come in, Logan. We’ve been watching your progress closely, and while Williams may not have a race seat for you next year, we see potential in you.”

Logan’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Mercedes and Williams would like to offer you a position as a reserve driver for next season,” Toto explains. “It would give you the opportunity to stay involved in F1, continue your development, and potentially step in if needed.”

Logan’s mind races. It’s not a race seat, but it’s something. A lifeline in a sport that can be ruthlessly unforgiving.

“I ... I don’t know what to say,” Logan admits, his voice shaky.

James leans in, his expression softening. “Logan, I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear. But this could be a great opportunity for you. You’d be working with one of the top teams in the sport.”

Logan nods slowly, trying to process everything. “Can I ask ... why? Why make this decision now?”

James shifts uncomfortably. “It’s a combination of factors. Carlos became available, and with his experience ...”

“You think he can bring more to the team,” Logan finishes, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.

“Logan,” Toto interjects, his tone firm but not unkind. “This sport is brutal, we all know that. But it’s also about timing and opportunities. This reserve role could set you up for future success.”

Logan takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “And if I say no? If I want to pursue other options?”

James and Toto exchange another glance. “That’s your prerogative,” James says carefully. “But I would strongly advise you to consider this offer. It’s not often a driver gets this kind of opportunity with a team like Mercedes.”

Logan nods, his mind whirling. “How long do I have to decide?”

“We’d need an answer by the end of the week,” Toto replies. “We understand this is a big decision, but we also need to move forward with our plans.”

Logan stands up, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the small room. “I ... I need some time to think about this. Is that okay?”

James nods, standing as well. “Of course, Logan. Take the time you need. But please, keep this conversation confidential until the announcement on Monday.”

Logan nods numbly, turning towards the door. As he reaches for the handle, Toto’s voice stops him.

“Logan,” the Mercedes boss says, his tone softer than before. “I know this feels like a setback. But sometimes, a step back can lead to two steps forward. Don’t lose faith in yourself.”

Logan meets Toto’s gaze, seeing a mix of sympathy and determination in the older man’s eyes. He manages a weak smile. “Thank you, Mr. Wolff. I’ll ... I’ll be in touch.”

As Logan steps out of the room, the hectic sounds of the paddock wash over him. And not for the first time in his F1 career, he feels completely lost in the familiar chaos.

***

Logan sits alone at a table in the Mercedes cafeteria, pushing his food around his plate. It’s his first day as a reserve driver, and the reality of his situation is sinking in. The familiar faces he’d grown accustomed to at Williams are replaced by a sea of strangers, all wearing the unmistakable Mercedes black and silver.

He takes a halfhearted bite of his chicken, lost in thought. The clink of a tray beside him startles him out of his reverie.

“Mind if I join you?” A cheerful voice asks.

Logan looks up to see a young woman with a bright smile sliding into the seat across from him. Her eyes sparkle with warmth and curiosity.

“Uh, sure,” Logan manages, caught off guard by the unexpected company.

You beam at him, extending a hand. “I’m Y/N. You must be Logan, right? The new reserve driver?”

Logan nods, shaking your hand. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

“So, how’s your first day going?” You ask, digging into your own lunch with enthusiasm.

Logan shrugs, trying to muster up some positivity. “It’s ... different. Still trying to find my bearings, I guess.”

You nod sympathetically. “I can imagine. It must be a big change from Williams. But hey, everyone here is pretty friendly once you get to know them. Give it time.”

Logan finds himself relaxing a bit in the face of your easy-going demeanor. “Thanks. I appreciate that. So, uh, what do you do here?”

You laugh, a melodious sound that draws a few glances from nearby tables. “Oh, a bit of everything, really. I like to keep busy. But tell me more about you! How are you finding Brackley compared to Grove?”

Logan blinks, surprised by your genuine interest. “It’s ... bigger, for sure. More advanced facilities. It’s a bit overwhelming, to be honest.”

You lean in, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Want to know a secret? It can be overwhelming for all of us sometimes. But that’s what makes it exciting, right?”

A small smile tugs at Logan’s lips. “I guess you’re right. It’s just ... I keep thinking about what could have been, you know? If I’d kept my race seat ...”

Your expression softens. “I get it. It’s tough to feel like you’re taking a step back. But sometimes, that step back gives you the perspective you need to leap forward.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “You sound like To- I mean, Mr. Wolff.”

You grin mischievously. “Well, great minds think alike, I suppose. But seriously, Logan, try to see this as an opportunity. You’re working with one of the best teams in F1. There’s so much you can learn here.”

Logan nods slowly, your enthusiasm starting to rub off on him. “You’re right. I should be grateful for this chance. It’s just hard not to feel a bit ... lost, I guess.”

“That’s totally normal,” you assure him. “But you know what? I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine here. You’ve got that spark, Logan. I can see it.”

Logan feels a warmth spreading through his chest at your words. “Thanks, Y/N. That ... that means a lot.”

You wave off his gratitude with a smile. “Hey, newbies have to stick together, right?”

Logan tilts his head, confused. “Newbies? How long have you been here?”

You laugh again, and Logan finds himself thinking it’s a sound he could get used to. “Oh, I’ve been around forever. But I still feel new sometimes. This place is always evolving, always pushing forward. It keeps you on your toes.”

Logan nods, understanding dawning. “I can see that. It’s a bit intimidating, actually. Everyone here seems so ... focused. Driven.”

“That’s the Mercedes way,” you agree. “But don’t let it psych you out. We’re all human here. Well, except for the cars, of course.”

Logan chuckles, surprising himself. It’s the first time he’s laughed since ... well, since that meeting with James and Toto.

“So,” you continue, leaning forward with interest, “tell me about your journey. How did you end up in F1?”

Logan hesitates for a moment, then finds himself opening up. He tells you about his early days in karting, the move to Europe, the struggles and triumphs in the junior categories. You listen intently, asking thoughtful questions and offering encouragement.

“... and then Williams gave me my shot,” Logan concludes. “It was a dream come true, you know? But now ...”

You reach across the table, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “Hey, your F1 journey isn’t over. It’s just taking a different path. And who knows? This could lead to even better things.”

Logan feels a flutter in his chest at your touch, quickly pushing the feeling aside. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you say with conviction. “You’ve got talent. Anyone can see that. And now you’ve got the backing of Mercedes. That’s a powerful combination.”

Logan finds himself smiling, your optimism infectious. “Thanks, Y/N. I ... I really needed to hear that today.”

You wink at him. “Anytime. That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Friends?” Logan echoes, surprised but pleased.

“Of course!” you exclaim. “Unless you’d rather keep eating lunch alone?”

Logan shakes his head quickly. “No, no. Friends sounds good. Great, actually.”

You beam at him. “Excellent. Now, let me give you the inside scoop on the best coffee spots around here. Trust me, you’re going to need it.”

As you launch into a detailed description of the various cafes and their specialties, Logan finds himself relaxing fully for the first time since arriving at Mercedes. Your easy banter and genuine interest make him feel welcome, like he might actually belong here after all.

“... and whatever you do, avoid the vending machine on the third floor,” you’re saying. “It ate my money twice last week, and-”

“Y/N,” a familiar voice interrupts.

Logan looks up to see Toto Wolff standing beside their table, his imposing figure casting a shadow. Logan immediately straightens, suddenly very aware of his posture.

“Oh, hi Vati!” You say brightly.

Logan’s brain short-circuits. Vati? His eyes dart between you and Toto, noticing for the first time the similarities in your features.

Toto smiles warmly at you, then drops a kiss on top of your head. “I see you’re making our new reserve driver feel welcome.”

You grin up at your father. “Of course! Someone has to show him the ropes around here.”

Toto nods approvingly, then turns to Logan. “I hope my daughter isn’t talking your ear off. She can be quite enthusiastic.”

Logan, still reeling from the revelation, manages to stammer out, “N-no, sir. She’s been very helpful.”

“Good,” Toto says. “Y/N, don’t forget about the meeting at three. Logan, keep up the good work. I look forward to seeing what you can do in the simulator next week.”

With that, Toto strides away, leaving Logan staring at you in shock.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You okay there, Logan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Logan tries to speak, fails, then tries again. “You ... you’re Toto Wolff’s daughter?”

You nod, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Yep. Did I forget to mention that?”

Logan feels his face heating up. “I-I had no idea. I thought you were in PR or something.”

You burst out laughing. “PR? Oh, that’s a good one. No, I’m more of a behind-the-scenes type. Strategy, data analysis, that sort of thing.”

Logan’s mind is reeling. He’s been sitting here, pouring his heart out to his boss’s daughter. The boss’s daughter who is smart, funny, and undeniably attractive. The boss’s daughter who he might have been developing a tiny crush on.

“I’m sorry,” Logan says, mortified. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have-”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “Logan, relax. I’m still the same person I was five minutes ago. The only thing that’s changed is that now you know I have an overprotective dad who happens to run the team.”

Logan swallows hard. “Right. No pressure or anything.”

You lean in, your eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hey, look on the bright side. Now you’ve got an inside track to the big boss. Just don’t ask me to put in a good word for you. I have a strict no nepotism policy.”

Despite his embarrassment, Logan finds himself chuckling. “Noted. I’ll just have to impress him on my own merits, then.”

“That’s the spirit,” you say, raising your water bottle in a mock toast. “To new beginnings and unexpected friendships.”

Logan clinks his own bottle against yours, a smile spreading across his face despite his lingering shock. “To new beginnings,” he echoes.

As you launch back into conversation, Logan can’t help but think that his time at Mercedes might be more interesting than he’d anticipated. And maybe, just maybe, this step back might lead to something amazing after all.

***

Logan leans against the table, his eyes fixed on the monitors displaying George Russell’s lap times. The Australian sun beats down on the Albert Park circuit, but inside the Mercedes garage, the atmosphere is tense with concentration as pre-season testing commences.

“Looking good, George,” Marcus Dudley, his race engineer, says into the radio. “Let’s push for one more flying lap before we bring you in.”

Logan nods to himself, impressed by George’s consistency. He’s about to turn to grab a water bottle when a collective gasp from the crew draws his attention back to the screens.

George’s car is spinning, kicking up dust and gravel as it careens towards the barrier. The sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting concrete echoes through the speakers.

“George, are you okay?” Marcus calls urgently. “George, do you copy?”

Silence.

Logan’s heart races as he watches the still car, willing George to respond. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you rushing past, your face pale with worry.

“Carmen,” you call out, spotting George’s girlfriend near the back of the garage. You reach her just as her knees seem to give out, catching her before she falls.

Logan wants to help, but he knows his place. He turns back to the screens, straining to hear any news.

Marcus tries again, his voice tight with concern. “George, if you can hear me, give us any sign. Tap the radio, move your hand, anything.”

Still nothing.

The garage erupts into controlled chaos. Toto strides in, his face a mask of worry. “What happened?” He demands.

“Lost the rear in turn 11,” one of the engineers reports. “Looks like a suspension failure, but we won’t know for sure until we get the car back.”

Toto nods grimly. “And George?”

Marcus shakes his head. “No response on the radio.”

Logan watches as the medical car speeds towards the crash site. He catches snippets of radio chatter from the marshals.

“Driver non-responsive ... possible head trauma ... prepare for extraction ...”

The words send a chill down Logan’s spine. This is the dark side of the sport they all love, the ever-present danger that lurks behind every high-speed corner.

You appear at Logan’s side, your face etched with worry. “Any news?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan shakes his head. “Nothing yet. They’re working on getting him out now.”

You nod, biting your lower lip. “Carmen ... she’s not doing well. I’ve got Aleix with her now.”

Logan glances over to where Carmen sits, hunched over, the arm of George’s performance coach around her shoulders. The sight makes his chest tighten.

“This is my fault,” you murmur.

Logan turns to you, surprised. “What? How could this possibly be your fault?”

You run a hand through your hair, frustration evident in every movement. “I was the one who pushed for the new suspension design. If I had just stuck with the old one ...”

“Hey,” Logan says firmly, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You can’t think like that. We all know the risks. George knows the risks. This isn’t on you.”

You give him a weak smile, gratitude flashing in your eyes. “Thanks, Logan. I just ... I can’t help but feel responsible.”

Before Logan can respond, a flurry of activity on the screens catches their attention. The medical team has successfully extracted George from the car.

“He’s out,” Marcus announces, his relief palpable. “Still unconscious, but he’s breathing on his own.”

A collective sigh of relief ripples through the garage. Carmen lets out a sob, burying her face in Aleix’s shoulder.

Toto approaches you and Logan, his face grim but composed. “They’re airlifting him to the hospital for full scans. Y/N, I need you to go with Carmen. Logan, I want you suited up and ready. If George can’t drive ...”

The implication hangs in the air. Logan nods, his throat suddenly dry. “Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”

As Toto moves away to handle the press, you turn to Logan. “Are you okay?” You ask, concern evident in your voice.

Logan takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I think so. It’s just ... this isn’t how I wanted my chance to come.”

You squeeze his arm gently. “I know. But George would want you to do your best. That’s all any of us can do right now.”

Logan nods, trying to steel himself for what might come next. “You’re right. Go take care of Carmen. I’ll ... I’ll be here if you need me.”

You give him a grateful smile before hurrying off to Carmen’s side. Logan watches as you gently lead her out of the garage, whispering words of comfort.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. Logan finds himself going through the motions of preparation, all while keeping an ear out for any news about George. The garage is unnaturally quiet, the usual banter and joking replaced by tense whispers and worried glances.

Finally, Marcus approaches Logan, his face drawn with fatigue. “They’re loading George into the chopper now. Toto wants you on standby, but we won’t make any decisions until we hear from the medical team.”

Logan nods, his stomach churning with a mix of concern for George and nervous anticipation. “Understood. How ... how does he look?”

Marcus sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Still unconscious, but stable. They’re optimistic, but they won’t know more until they run some tests at the hospital.”

As if on cue, the distant thrum of helicopter blades fills the air. Logan steps out of the garage, shielding his eyes against the sun as he watches the medical helicopter rise into the sky, carrying George away.

You appear beside him, your eyes red-rimmed but dry. “Carmen’s gone with him,” you say softly. “Vati arranged for a car to take her to the hospital.”

Logan nods, not taking his eyes off the retreating helicopter. “This is the part of the job we try not to think about, isn’t it?”

You lean against him slightly, seeking comfort. “Yeah. It’s easy to forget sometimes, when everything’s going well. But days like today ... they remind us of the reality.”

Logan wraps an arm around your shoulders, offering what support he can. “George is tough. He’ll pull through this.”

You nod against his shoulder. “I hope so. God, I hope so.”

As the helicopter disappears from view, Logan feels the weight of the moment settle over him. The exhilaration of potentially getting his chance to drive is tempered by the circumstances that might make it possible.

“Come on,” he says gently, guiding you back towards the garage. “Let’s get back inside. There’s work to be done, and George would kick our butts if he knew we were standing around moping.”

You manage a weak chuckle. “You’re right. He’d probably tell us to get back to optimizing the aero package or something.”

As they walk back into the garage, Logan can’t help but feel the shift in the atmosphere. The team moves with renewed purpose, channeling their worry into productivity.

Toto approaches them, his face set in determined lines. “Logan, I need you in the simulator within the hour. If George can’t drive, we need you ready to step in at a moment’s notice.”

Logan straightens, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. “Yes, sir. I won’t let the team down.”

Toto nods approvingly. “I know you won’t. Y/N, I need you to liaise with the medical team. Keep me updated on George’s condition.”

You nod, already pulling out your phone. “On it, Vati.”

As Toto moves away, Logan turns to you. “Hey,” he says softly, “we’ve got this, okay? Whatever happens, we’ll handle it.”

You give him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Logan. I ... I’m glad you’re here.”

Logan feels a warmth spread through his chest at your words. “Me too,” he says. “Now, let’s show everyone what Mercedes is made of.”

***

Logan’s heart pounds as he approaches Toto’s office. The events of the past twenty-four hours have left him in a state of emotional whiplash, torn between concern for George and the possibility of his own opportunity.

He knocks on the door, hearing Toto’s muffled “Come in.” Taking a deep breath, Logan enters.

Toto looks up from his desk, his face etched with fatigue. “Logan, thank you for coming. Please, sit down.”

Logan sinks into the chair across from Toto, his mouth suddenly dry. “How ... how’s George?” He manages to ask.

Toto sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “Not good, I’m afraid. The doctors have completed their initial assessments. George has suffered multiple injuries — a concussion, fractured ribs, and a broken collarbone. The most concerning is a compound fracture in his left leg.”

Logan winces, imagining the pain George must be in. “That sounds serious.”

“It is,” Toto confirms. “The medical team estimates his recovery will take around nine months. Which brings me to why I’ve called you here.”

Logan’s pulse quickens, a mix of anticipation and guilt churning in his stomach.

Toto leans forward, his gaze intense. “We need you to step up, Logan. The team needs you to drive full-time for the entire season.”

Despite having suspected this might be coming, hearing the words out loud leaves Logan momentarily speechless.

“I ... of course, sir,” he finally manages. “I’ll do whatever the team needs.”

Toto nods, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “I know this isn’t how you wanted your chance to come. But I believe you’re ready for this. George believes it too.”

Logan’s head snaps up. “You’ve spoken to George?”

“Briefly,” Toto confirms. “He’s still groggy from the pain medication, but he was clear on one thing — he wants you in that car.”

A lump forms in Logan’s throat. “I ... I don’t know what to say.”

Toto stands, coming around the desk to place a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “You don’t need to say anything. Just drive, Logan. Show us what you’re capable of.”

Logan nods, standing as well. “I won’t let you down, sir. Or George.”

As he turns to leave, Toto’s voice stops him. “Logan? Remember, this is your chance. Don’t waste it feeling guilty. George wouldn’t want that.”

Logan manages a weak smile. “I’ll try to remember that. Thank you, Toto.”

Stepping out of Toto’s office, Logan feels as though he’s in a daze. This is what he’s been working towards his entire career — a full-time drive with a top team. So why does it feel so complicated?

Instead of heading to the cafeteria or his driver’s room, Logan finds himself walking towards the simulator. He nods at the technician on duty, who looks surprised to see him.

“Logan? We weren’t expecting you today ...”

“I know,” Logan says, already reaching for his racing gloves. “But I need to be in there. Can you set up a long run in Melbourne?”

The technician hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Of course. Just ... don’t overdo it, okay?”

Logan manages a tight smile. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.��

As he settles into the simulator, Logan feels a sense of calm wash over him. Here, in this imitation of a race car, things make sense. There’s no guilt, no complicated emotions — just him, the track, and the pursuit of speed.

Hours pass in a blur of virtual laps and telemetry data. Logan pushes himself harder with each run, shaving off tenths of a second here and there. He’s so focused that he doesn’t hear the door open behind him.

“You know, I’m pretty sure there are labor laws against working this hard,” your voice cuts through his concentration.

Logan startles, nearly losing control of the virtual car. He quickly ends the simulation and turns to face you, sheepishly running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

“Y/N, I didn’t hear you come in.”

You raise an eyebrow, holding up a small box. “Clearly. I’ve been standing here for five minutes, watching you try to bend the laws of physics.”

Logan manages a weak chuckle. “Just trying to get up to speed. What’s in the box?”

You grin, opening it to reveal a single cupcake with rainbow sprinkles. “A little celebration. Vati told me about your promotion.”

The sight of the cupcake makes Logan’s stomach twist uncomfortably. “I ... I don’t really feel like celebrating.”

Your smile fades, replaced by a look of understanding. “I get it. But Logan, running yourself ragged in here won’t help anyone. Least of all George.”

Logan sighs, slumping in the simulator seat. “I know. It’s just ... this isn’t how I wanted it to happen. George is hurt and I’m benefiting from it. It feels wrong.”

You set the cupcake down and perch on the edge of the simulator, your eyes soft with sympathy. “Logan, listen to me. What happened to George is terrible, but it’s not your fault. And taking this opportunity doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Logan asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I should be devastated that my teammate is hurt, not ... not excited about getting my chance.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his arm. “Who says you can’t be both? You can be worried about George and excited about your opportunity. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Logan looks up at you, seeing the sincerity in your eyes. “I just ... I don’t want people to think I’m taking advantage of the situation.”

You shake your head firmly. “Anyone who knows you would never think that. And you know what? George wouldn’t want you feeling this way. He’d want you to grab this chance with both hands and show everyone what you can do.”

Logan manages a small smile. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“That’s because I am,” you say, squeezing his arm gently. “I talked to George earlier. You know what he said? He said, and I quote, ‘Tell that American idiot to stop moping and start driving. I didn’t crash just for him to waste this chance.’”

A surprised laugh escapes Logan. “He really said that?”

You grin. “Well, maybe I paraphrased a bit. The pain meds make him a little ... colorful. But the sentiment is there.”

Logan shakes his head, feeling some of the weight lift from his shoulders. “George Russell, giving pep talks from his hospital bed. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know him,” you say simply. “And you know he’s right. Logan, this is your moment. Don’t let guilt or fear hold you back.”

Logan takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “You’re right. Both of you. I just ... I needed to hear it, I guess.”

You smile, reaching for the cupcake. “That’s what friends are for. Now, are you going to help me eat this or do I have to force-feed you?”

Logan chuckles, accepting the cupcake. “I wouldn’t dream of making you eat alone.”

As the two of you share the small treat, Logan feels something shift inside him. The guilt doesn’t disappear entirely, but it’s tempered now by determination. George is counting on him, the team is counting on him, and he’s not going to let them down.

“So,” you say, licking frosting off your finger, “what’s next on the agenda, hotshot? More simulator laps?”

Logan shakes his head, a newfound energy coursing through him. “No, I think I’ve done enough of that for today. I was thinking maybe we could go over some of the race strategies? If you’re not too busy, that is.”

Your eyes light up. “Are you kidding? Strategy talk is my favorite kind of talk. But first, you’re going to take a shower and eat a proper meal. Can’t have our driver passing out from exhaustion, can we?”

Logan grins, feeling truly relaxed for the first time since George’s accident. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

As you leave the simulator together, Logan feels a surge of gratitude. For George’s support, for the team’s faith in him, and for your friendship. Whatever challenges lie ahead, he knows he won’t face them alone.

“Hey, Y/N?” He says as you walk down the corridor.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. For everything.”

You bump your shoulder against his, a warm smile on your face. “Anytime, Sargeant. Now, let’s go plot your path to Formula 1 glory. I hear the catering team made lasagna today.”

Logan laughs, matching your stride. The road ahead won’t be easy, but with friends like you by his side, he’s ready to face whatever comes his way.

***

The Australian sun beats down on the Albert Park circuit as Logan sits in his Mercedes, heart pounding in his chest. The familiar pre-race butterflies are amplified tenfold — this isn’t just any race, it’s his debut for Mercedes.

“Okay Logan, how are we feeling?” Marcus Dudley’s voice crackles through the radio.

Logan takes a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Remember, clean start, manage those tires, and we’ll see where we end up. You’ve got this, kid.”

As the formation lap begins, Logan can’t help but think of George, watching from his hospital bed. This one’s for you, he thinks.

“And we’re off for the formation lap here in Melbourne. All eyes are on Logan Sargeant today, the young American making his Mercedes debut in rather unexpected circumstances.”

“That’s right, Crofty. It’s a big ask, stepping into George Russell’s shoes after that nasty crash in testing. But Toto Wolff clearly sees something in Sargeant, and this is his chance to prove the Mercedes boss right.”

The cars line up on the grid. Logan’s eyes are fixed on the lights. Red ... red ... red ...

“Lights out and away we go!”

Logan reacts instantly, getting a clean start off the line. He holds his position into the first corner, fending off a challenge from behind.

“And it’s a good start for Sargeant, maintaining his fifth place into Turn 1. His rookie teammate Kimi Antonelli has also held position in seventh.”

The first few laps are a blur of intense focus. Logan settles into a rhythm, hitting his marks and managing the gap to the cars ahead and behind.

“Great job, Logan,” Marcus says. “You’re keeping pace with the leaders. Let’s see if we can put some pressure on Norris ahead.”

Logan grits his teeth, pushing harder. He closes the gap to Lando’s McLaren, looking for any opportunity to make a move.

“Sargeant is really impressing here in his Mercedes debut. He’s matching the pace of the frontrunners and is now right on the gearbox of Lando Norris.”

On lap 15, Logan sees his chance. Norris locks up slightly into Turn 3, and Logan pounces, sweeping around the outside to take fourth place.

“Yes!” Logan exclaims, unable to contain his excitement.

“Brilliant move, Logan!” Marcus cheers. “P4 now, let’s keep this up!”

“What a pass from Sargeant! He’s showing no signs of first-race nerves here, making a bold move on the more experienced McLaren driver. The Mercedes pit wall will no doubt be delighted with this performance so far.”

The race continues, with Logan holding his position firmly. He’s in a rhythm now, hitting every apex, managing his tires expertly.

Around the halfway point, things get more challenging. “Logan, we’ve got Verstappen closing in behind. He’s on fresher tires, so don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Marcus warns.

Logan nods to himself, adjusting his focus. He defends hard but fair, making his car as wide as possible on the straights.

“Verstappen is all over the back of Sargeant now. This is a real test for the young American — can he hold off the reigning world champion?”

For several laps, Logan and Max engage in a thrilling battle. Logan uses every trick in his arsenal, positioning his car perfectly to deny Max any opportunity.

“This is exceptional defensive driving from Sargeant. He’s not putting a wheel wrong under immense pressure from Verstappen.”

Finally, on lap 42, Max makes his move, slipping past Logan into Turn 1.

“Verstappen’s through,” Logan reports, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“No worries, Logan,” Marcus reassures him. “You did brilliantly to hold him off for so long. We’re still on for a great result here. Keep pushing!”

The final laps of the race are a test of endurance. Logan’s arms ache, his neck strains against the g-forces, but he pushes through the fatigue.

“As we enter the final lap here in Melbourne, Logan Sargeant is holding steady in fifth place. What a debut this has been for the American in the Mercedes!”

Logan crosses the finish line, a mix of exhaustion and elation washing over him. He’s done it — he’s finished his first race for Mercedes.

“And that’s the chequered flag, Logan!” Marcus’ voice comes through, filled with excitement. “P4! Fantastic job, mate!”

Logan blinks in confusion. “P4? But Verstappen passed me ...”

“Leclerc had a late puncture,” Marcus explains. “You moved back up to fourth. I’m completely serious, Logan. You’ve just finished P4 in your first race for us. You should be incredibly proud.”

The reality of his achievement starts to sink in. “I ... wow. Thank you, Marcus. Thank you to everyone on the team. This is ... it’s incredible.”

As Logan does his cool-down lap, waving to the cheering crowds, he feels a surge of emotion. This is what he’s worked for his entire life, and he’s proved he belongs here.

“What a drive from Logan Sargeant! Fourth place in his Mercedes debut. Toto Wolff must be feeling very good about his decision right now.”

“Absolutely, Martin. Sargeant has shown real maturity and pace today. This could be the start of something special for the young American.”

Logan pulls into parc fermé, parking behind the top three cars. As he climbs out, he’s immediately engulfed in a group hug by the Mercedes team.

Toto appears, a broad smile on his face. “Excellent job, Logan. You’ve made us all very proud today.”

“Thank you, sir,” Logan says, still slightly dazed. “I couldn’t have done it without the team’s support.”

As Logan makes his way through the paddock, he’s stopped by various team members and even rival drivers offering congratulations. It’s surreal, but Logan soaks in every moment.

Suddenly, he spots a familiar face pushing through the crowd. You’re beaming, your eyes shining with pride and unshed tears.

“Logan!” You exclaim, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. “That was amazing! I knew you could do it!”

Logan hugs you back, laughing. “I can hardly believe it myself. P4 ... it’s like a dream.”

You pull back, your hands on his shoulders. “Well, believe it. You earned this, Logan. Every single bit of it.”

As you chat excitedly about the race, Logan’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out to see a message from George.

Not bad for a newbie. Next time aim for the podium 😉 Seriously though, great job. Proud of you.

Logan grins, showing you the message. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me next race.”

You laugh, linking your arm through his. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re up for the challenge. But first, I think this calls for a celebration. Vati is organizing a team dinner. You up for it?”

Logan nods, feeling a warmth spread through his chest that has nothing to do with the Australian heat. “Absolutely. Lead the way!”

As you walk towards the Mercedes hospitality area, Logan can’t help but reflect on the whirlwind of the past few weeks. From reserve driver to P4 in his debut race with the team — it’s more than he could have ever imagined.

“Hey,” you say softly, nudging him. “What are you thinking about?”

Logan smiles, squeezing your arm gently. “Just ... grateful. For this opportunity, for the team’s faith in me, for your support. I couldn’t have done this without you, Y/N.”

You blush slightly, looking pleased. “That’s what friends are for, right? Now come on, American boy. Time to bask in your well-deserved glory.”

As you join the celebrating team, Logan feels a sense of belonging wash over him. This is where he’s meant to be, and he’s ready for whatever challenges and triumphs lie ahead.

***

The Miami sun beats down on the podium as Logan stands there, still in disbelief. The weight of the P2 trophy in his hands feels surreal, a reminder of what he’s just achieved. The roar of the crowd, the spray of champagne, the elation of his first podium finish — it’s almost too much to process.

As he steps down from the podium, sticky with champagne and grinning from ear to ear, Logan is immediately engulfed by the Mercedes team. Hands pat his back, voices offer congratulations, but it all becomes a blur as he spots a familiar figure pushing through the crowd.

You burst through, your eyes shining with pride and excitement. Without hesitation, you throw your arms around him, not caring about the champagne that’s now soaking into your team shirt.

“Logan! Oh my god, you did it!” You exclaim, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “I’m so, so proud of you!”

Logan laughs, wrapping his free arm around you and spinning you both around in a moment of pure joy. “I can hardly believe it myself,” he admits as he sets you down. “It’s like a dream.”

You pull back, your hands on his shoulders, beaming up at him. “Well, believe it, hotshot. P2 in your home race — you’ve earned this!”

Logan feels a warmth spread through his chest that has nothing to do with the Miami heat. “Thanks, Y/N. I couldn’t have done it without the team’s support. Without your support.”

You shake your head, still grinning. “Oh no, this was all you out there on the track. But speaking of support ...” Your eyes sparkle mischievously. “We absolutely have to celebrate properly tonight. Miami style!”

Logan raises an eyebrow, amused. “Miami style? Should I be worried?”

You laugh, the sound making Logan’s heart skip a beat. “Only if you’re afraid of having too much fun. Come on, it’s your first podium, in your home race no less! We have to mark the occasion.”

Before Logan can respond, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. The brief contact sends a jolt through him, leaving him momentarily speechless.

“Promise me you’ll come out with the team tonight,” you say, your eyes locked on his. “No excuses about needing to analyze data or whatever. Tonight, we celebrate!”

Logan nods, still a bit dazed from the kiss. “I ... yeah, of course. I promise.”

You beam at him. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details later. Now, go bask in your well-deserved glory. I think there are about a hundred journalists waiting to talk to Miami’s new hero.”

With a wink, you disappear back into the crowd, leaving Logan standing there, trophy in hand and mind reeling.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of interviews, photographs, and congratulations. Logan goes through the motions, answering questions on autopilot while his mind keeps drifting back to that moment with you.

It didn’t mean anything, he tells himself. You’re European, after all. Cheek kisses are just a normal thing, right? It was just excitement over the podium, nothing more.

But try as he might, Logan can’t shake the memory of your lips on his cheek, the way his heart raced at your touch.

“Earth to Logan,” Marcus’ voice cuts through his thoughts. “You still with us, mate?”

Logan blinks, focusing on his race engineer. “Sorry, what was that?”

Marcus grins knowingly. “I said, great job out there today. You should be proud. But maybe save the daydreaming for after the debrief, yeah?”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up. “Right, sorry. Just ... still processing everything, I guess.”

“I bet,” Marcus chuckles. “First podium’s always special. Even more so on home turf. Now, let’s go over those last few laps ...”

As they dive into the race analysis, Logan tries to focus. But his mind keeps wandering. To the podium. To the celebration to come. To you.

It’s just excitement over the race result, he rationalizes. You’re his boss’s daughter, for crying out loud. And more importantly, you’re his friend. One of his best friends, if he’s honest with himself. He can’t risk messing that up by reading too much into a friendly gesture.

The debrief finally ends, and Logan heads back to his driver’s room to change. As he’s pulling on a fresh team shirt, his phone buzzes with a text from you.

E11EVEN at 10 PM. Wear something nice 😘 Can’t wait to celebrate with you!

Logan stares at the message, his heart doing that annoying skip thing again. It’s just a normal text, he tells himself. Friends celebrate together all the time. The kiss doesn’t mean anything.

Right?

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. This is ridiculous. He just achieved his first podium in Formula 1, at his home race no less. He should be on top of the world, not overthinking a simple friendly interaction.

As he leaves the track, Logan is stopped by a group of fans clamoring for autographs and selfies. He obliges with a smile, the excitement of the crowd helping to lift his mood.

“Logan! Logan!” A young boy calls out. “You were amazing today! I want to be just like you when I grow up!”

Logan kneels down to the boy’s level, touched by his enthusiasm. “Thanks, buddy. Just remember, it takes a lot of hard work and dedication. But if you believe in yourself and never give up, you can achieve anything.”

The boy nods solemnly, clutching his newly signed cap to his chest. “I will! I’m going to practice every day!”

As Logan stands, he catches sight of you talking to some team members nearby. You glance over, catching his eye, and give him a warm smile and a thumbs up. Logan feels that now-familiar flutter in his chest and quickly turns back to the fans.

It’s going to be a long night, he thinks to himself.

Back at the hotel, Logan takes his time getting ready for the celebration. He stands in front of the mirror, fussing with his hair and second-guessing his outfit choice. Why is he so nervous? It’s just a team celebration, like dozens he’s been to before.

But it’s not just any celebration, a voice in his head reminds him. It’s his first podium celebration. And you’ll be there.

Logan groans, running a hand through his hair and messing it up again. “Get it together, Sargeant,” he mutters to his reflection. “It’s just a night out with the team. With your friend. Your boss’s daughter. Who you definitely don’t have any non-platonic feelings for.”

Even he doesn’t believe himself.

A knock at the door startles him out of his internal monologue. “Logan? You ready?” Kimi’s voice calls out.

Logan takes a deep breath, giving himself one last look in the mirror. “Yeah, coming!” He calls back.

As he joins Kimi in the hallway, his teammate gives him an appraising look. “Not bad, Sargeant. Trying to impress someone?”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up. “What? No, I just ... wanted to look nice for the celebration.”

Kimi raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Uh-huh. Sure. Come on, lover boy. Your adoring public awaits.”

As they make their way to the club, Logan tries to calm his nerves. It’s just a normal team celebration, he tells himself. Nothing to be nervous about. You’re just friends. Really good friends who sometimes share cheek kisses and make his heart race with a simple smile.

Oh, who is he kidding? He’s in trouble and he knows it.

The bass from the club is audible from down the street, and as they approach, Logan sees a line stretching around the block. But Kimi leads him straight to the VIP entrance, where they’re immediately ushered inside.

The club is a sensory overload — pulsing music, flashing lights, and the press of bodies on the dance floor. Logan blinks, trying to adjust to the atmosphere. Suddenly, he feels a hand on his arm and turns to see you beaming up at him.

“You made it!” You shout over the music, your eyes sparkling in the club lights. “Come on, everyone’s waiting to toast the man of the hour!”

As you lead him through the crowd, your hand still on his arm, Logan tries to ignore the electricity he feels at your touch. Friends touch all the time, he reminds himself. It doesn’t mean anything.

You reach a VIP section where the rest of the team is gathered. A cheer goes up as they spot Logan, and suddenly he’s being passed around for hugs and backslaps and congratulations.

Toto appears, handing Logan a glass of champagne. “To Logan,” he says, raising his own glass. “For a brilliant drive and Mercedes’ first podium of the season. May it be the first of many!”

The team echoes the toast and Logan takes a sip of the bubbly, feeling a surge of pride and belonging. This is what he’s worked for his entire life and he’s finally made it.

As the celebration continues, Logan finds himself relaxing, caught up in the excitement and camaraderie of the team. He chats with mechanics, engineers, and fellow drivers, reliving the best moments of the race.

But his eyes keep drifting back to you. You’re in your element, moving from group to group, laughing and chatting animatedly. Every now and then, you glance his way, flashing him a smile that makes his heart race.

It’s just the atmosphere, Logan tells himself. The adrenaline from the race, the excitement of the celebration. That’s all it is.

But as the night wears on and the champagne flows freely, Logan finds it harder and harder to maintain that rationalization. Especially when you grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor, your body moving in perfect rhythm to the pulsing beat.

“Come on!” You shout over the music, grinning up at him. “Show me some of those dance moves!”

Logan laughs, letting himself get caught up in the moment. He may not be the world’s best dancer, but with you smiling at him like that, he feels like he could take on anything.

As you dance, Logan can’t help but notice how perfectly you fit against him, how natural it feels to have his hands on your waist as you move together. It’s just dancing, he reminds himself. Friends dance together all the time.

But when the DJ switches to a slower song and you step closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, Logan knows he’s fighting a losing battle. There’s no denying the way his heart races, the way his skin tingles where you touch him.

As you sway together, Logan finally allows himself to admit the truth he’s been trying to ignore for months. He’s falling for you, hard and fast, and he has no idea what to do about it.

You look up at him, your eyes soft in the dim light of the club. “I’m really proud of you,” you say, your voice barely audible over the music. “You belong here, you know. On the podium, in F1, with m-” you cut yourself off, biting your lip.

Logan’s heart leaps. Were you about to say “with me”? He wants to ask, wants to pull you closer and find out if you feel this connection too.

But before he can say anything, the song ends and the moment is broken. You step back, a slightly flustered look on your face.

“I, uh ... I need a drink,” you say quickly. “Want anything?”

Logan shakes his head, still trying to process what just happened. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

As you disappear into the crowd, Logan makes his way back to the VIP section, his mind reeling. What was that? Did he imagine the moment between you? And more importantly, what is he going to do about these feelings he can no longer deny?

As he sinks into a plush couch, Logan realizes that his first podium might not be the most significant event of the night after all. Whatever happens next, he knows one thing for certain — his relationship with you will never be the same.

***

The Union Jack flutters in the cool Silverstone breeze as Logan crosses the finish line, his heart pounding in his ears. The chequered flag waves, and suddenly, the reality hits him like a tidal wave.

“Logan, you’ve done it!” Marcus’ voice crackles through the radio, filled with unbridled joy. “P1! Your first Formula 1 win!”

Logan lets out a whoop of excitement, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! We did it, guys! Thank you, thank you so much!”

As he starts his cooldown lap, waving to the cheering crowds, Logan can’t help but chuckle at the irony. An American winning the British Grand Prix. He can almost hear the collective groan of disappointment from the British fans who were hoping for a home victory.

“Sorry, folks,” he murmurs to himself, grinning. “The colonists strike again.”

The sea of orange in the grandstands catches his eye — Dutch fans who always come to support Max Verstappen no matter the location. Logan remembers the intense battle he had with the reigning world champion in the closing laps. The memory sends another surge of pride through him. He didn’t just win, he beat the best of the best.

As he rounds the final corner, heading towards parc fermé, Logan’s mind drifts to you. He wonders if you’re watching, if you’re as excited as he is. Ever since that kiss on the cheek in Miami, he’s been unable to get you out of his head. Every smile, every touch, every late-night strategy session has taken on new meaning.

But fear has held him back. Fear of ruining your friendship, fear of making things awkward with the team, fear of misreading the signals. So he’s kept his feelings bottled up, content (or so he tells himself) with your close friendship.

Logan pulls into his spot in parc fermé, bringing the car to a stop. He takes a deep breath, savoring this moment. His first win. It almost doesn’t feel real.

He unclips his harness and stands up in the cockpit, raising his arms in triumph. The roar of the crowd washes over him and he spots his team gathered at the barriers, jumping and cheering.

Without hesitation, Logan clambers out of the car and runs towards them. He leaps over the barrier, immediately engulfed in a sea of jubilant Mercedes personnel. Hands pat his back, voices offer congratulations, but Logan is searching for one face in particular.

Suddenly, the crowd parts, and there you are. Your eyes are shining with pride and something else, something that makes Logan’s heart race even faster than it already is.

Before he can say anything, you stride forward purposefully. Your hands grasp the collar of his race suit, and in one swift motion, you pull him towards you and press your lips firmly against his.

For a split second, Logan is too shocked to react. But then his brain catches up, and he’s kissing you back with every ounce of pent-up emotion he’s been holding back for months.

The world around you fades away — the cheering crowd, the flashing cameras, the excited chatter of the team. All Logan can focus on is the softness of your lips, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the rightness of this moment.

When you finally break apart, both slightly breathless, Logan can’t help but grin. “Wow,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. “That was ...”

“Long overdue,” you finish for him, a matching grin on your face.

Logan chuckles, his arms still wrapped around your waist. “I couldn’t agree more. But, uh ... your dad isn’t going to fire me for this, is he?”

You laugh, the sound music to Logan’s ears. “Please. He’s been trying to set us up for months. I think he’ll be relieved we finally figured it out on our own.”

Before Logan can respond, a throat clears behind them. They turn to see Toto standing there, an amused smirk on his face.

“While I’m thrilled you two have finally sorted yourselves out,” he says dryly, “perhaps we could save the more ... intimate celebrations for after the podium ceremony?”

Logan feels his face heat up, but you just laugh, linking your arm through his. “Sorry, Vati. Got caught up in the moment. Come on, Logan. Time to get you on that top step where you belong.”

As you make your way through the paddock, Logan can’t wipe the grin off his face. Crew members, other drivers, and media personnel offer their congratulations, but it all feels secondary to the warmth of you pressed against his side.

“So,” Logan says as they near the cooldown room, “does this mean you’ll be my date to the celebration tonight?”

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I might have other plans. I hear there’s this hot new F1 winner in town ...”

Logan laughs, pulling you closer. “Oh yeah? Well, I happen to know him pretty well. I could put in a good word for you.”

You smile up at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. “I’d appreciate that. But you should know, I’m not really interested in a fling. I’m more of a long-term kind of girl.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat at the implication. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I’m in this for the long haul.”

Your smile softens, and you lean up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Glad we’re on the same page. Now go, your adoring public awaits. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

As Logan steps onto the podium not long after, the cheers of the crowd washing over him, he can’t help but think that this — the trophy, the champagne, the adulation — is only the second-best thing to happen to him today.

The ceremony passes in a blur of anthems, champagne sprays, and beaming smiles. Logan clutches his trophy, still hardly believing it’s real. As he steps down from the podium, he’s immediately swarmed by journalists, all clamoring for a quote from F1’s newest race winner.

“Logan! How does it feel to win your first Grand Prix?”

Logan grins, his eyes finding you in the crowd. “It’s incredible. A dream come true. But you know what? I have a feeling this is just the beginning.”

“What do you mean by that?” Another reporter asks.

Logan’s grin widens. “Let’s just say I’m feeling pretty unbeatable right now, both on and off the track.”

You roll your eyes at him from behind the journalists, but your smile gives away your amusement.

As the interviews wind down, Logan finally manages to break away from the press. He makes his way back to you, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“So,” he says, sliding an arm around your waist, “about the team celebration ...”

You lean into him, a mischievous glint in your eye. “Oh, I think we might need to have our own private celebration first. You know, to properly commemorate your first win.”

Logan feels a thrill run through him at your words. “I like the way you think. But, uh ... what about your dad?”

You laugh, linking your fingers with his. “Logan, my dad’s the one who’s been pushing us together for months. Trust me, he’ll be thrilled. Although maybe don’t kiss me like that in front of him again. There are some things a father doesn’t need to see.”

Logan chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Noted. So, what now?”

“Now,” you say, tugging him towards the Mercedes motorhome, “we go change. Then we make a brief appearance at the team celebration. And after that ...” you trail off, your eyes twinkling with promise.

“After that?” Logan prompts, his heart racing with anticipation.

You grin up at him. “After that, we start our own celebration. I think we have a lot of lost time to make up for, don’t you?”

Logan nods, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Absolutely. And hey, I’m a quick learner. I bet I can make up for that lost time in record speed.”

You laugh, the sound making Logan’s heart soar. “Always the racer. But you know what? I think this is one race where taking it slow might be the winning strategy.”

As you make their way through the paddock, hand-in-hand, Logan can’t help but marvel at how much his life has changed in just a few short months. From reserve driver to race winner, from pining in silence to ... whatever this wonderful new thing with you is.

One thing’s for sure — this win will always be special. Not just because it’s his first, but because it’s the day everything finally fell into place. The day he not only conquered the track but also found the courage (with a little help) to follow his heart.

As the two of you reach the Mercedes motorhome, Logan pulls you close for one more quick kiss. “Hey,” he says softly, “just in case I forget to say it later ... thank you. For believing in me, for supporting me, for ... well, for everything.”

You smile up at him, your eyes soft with affection. “Always, Logan. Now come on, race winner. We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

***

The bright lights of the Tonight Show studio beat down on Logan as he sits across from Jimmy Fallon, trying to keep his nerves in check. It’s his first major American talk show appearance, and he wants to make a good impression.

Jimmy leans forward, a warm smile on his face. “So, Logan, it’s been quite a year for you, hasn’t it? From losing your seat at Williams to winning races with Mercedes. How has your life changed?”

Logan chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Oh man, Jimmy, where do I even start? It’s been an absolute whirlwind. You know, when I lost that Williams seat, I thought my F1 dream was over. I was devastated.”

Jimmy nods sympathetically. “I can imagine. That must have been tough.”

“It was,” Logan agrees. “But you know what? Looking back now, I can honestly say it was one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really? How so?”

Logan grins, leaning forward in his chair. “Well, first of all, it led to this incredible opportunity with Mercedes. I mean, going from potentially being out of F1 to driving for one of the top teams? It’s like something out of a movie.”

The audience cheers, and Logan feels a surge of pride. He’s come a long way from that dejected kid in Toto’s office last year.

“But that’s not all,” Logan continues, his smile softening. “Losing that seat also led me to the love of my life.”

A collective “aww” rises from the audience, and Jimmy leans in, clearly sensing a good story. “Tell us more!”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up slightly, but he can’t keep the smile off his face. “Her name is Y/N. She works for Mercedes, and she’s ... she’s amazing. Smart, funny, beautiful. She was the one who really helped me believe in myself when I joined the team.”

Jimmy grins. “Sounds like quite a woman. How did you two get together?”

Logan laughs, remembering that day at Silverstone. “Well, I’d been pining after her for months, too scared to make a move. Then I won my first race at the British Grand Prix, and she just ... grabbed me and kissed me right there in parc fermé. In front of the whole team, the cameras, everyone.”

The audience cheers and whistles, and Jimmy laughs. “Wow! Talk about a victory celebration! So, she made the first move, huh?”

Logan nods, grinning. “Yep. Thank god one of us had the courage. Although I have to say, her dad being my boss made things a little awkward at first.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Wait, what? Her dad is your boss? You mean ...”

“Yep,” Logan confirms, enjoying the host’s reaction. “I’m dating the boss’s daughter. Toto Wolff’s daughter, to be exact.”

The audience gasps and murmurs, and Jimmy leans back in his chair, looking impressed. “Wow. That’s ... that’s quite a story. So, how does Toto feel about all this?”

Logan chuckles. “You know, he’s been surprisingly cool about it. Turns out he’d been trying to set us up for months. I think he was just relieved we finally figured it out on our own.”

Jimmy laughs. “Well, that’s good to hear. No awkward ‘stay away from my daughter’ talks then?”

“Oh, there were talks,” Logan says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “But they were more along the lines of ‘if you hurt her, I’ll demote you to test driver faster than you can say DRS.’”

The audience laughs, and Jimmy shakes his head in amusement. “Sounds like you’ve got quite the incentive to be on your best behavior!”

Logan nods, his expression softening. “Absolutely. But you know, even without that ... Y/N is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’d never do anything to mess that up.”

Another “aww” rises from the audience, and Jimmy smiles warmly. “That’s beautiful, Logan. It sounds like things are really falling into place for you.”

“They really are,” Logan agrees. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he adds, “And you know what? I’ve actually got a little scoop for you, Jimmy. The team’s given me permission to reveal something pretty big.”

Jimmy’s eyes light up and he leans in as well. “Oh? Do tell!”

Logan grins, then stage whispers, loud enough for the audience to hear, “I’ve just signed a contract extension with Mercedes. I’ll be with the team until 2028.”

The audience erupts in cheers, and Jimmy’s jaw drops. “What? Logan, that’s incredible! Congratulations!”

Logan beams, feeling a surge of pride and excitement. “Thanks, Jimmy. I still can’t quite believe it myself. Three more years with one of the top teams in F1 ... it’s a dream come true.”

Jimmy shakes his head in amazement. “Wow. From losing your Williams seat to a long-term contract with Mercedes. That’s quite the turnaround.”

“It really is,” Logan agrees. “And you know what? I owe a lot of it to Y/N. She’s been my biggest supporter, my rock through all of this. I don’t think I could have done it without her.”

Jimmy smiles warmly. “It sounds like you two make quite the team. Is she here tonight?”

Logan nods, glancing towards the audience. “She is, actually. She’s sitting right over there.”

The camera pans to where you’re sitting, and you give a shy wave as the audience applauds. Logan feels his heart swell with affection at the sight of you.

Jimmy turns back to Logan, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, Logan, now that you’ve got this long-term contract sorted out ... any other long-term plans in the works? Maybe involving a certain boss’s daughter?”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up, but he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “Well, Jimmy, let’s just say that when you find the right person, you want to hold onto them for as long as possible. But for now, we’re just enjoying the ride.”

Jimmy nods approvingly. “Well, it sounds like you’ve got a lot to celebrate. Speaking of which, I hear you’ve brought something special to share with us tonight?”

Logan grins, reaching behind his chair to pull out a bottle of champagne. “That’s right. This is the same type of champagne we used for my first win at Silverstone. I thought we could recreate a little podium celebration right here on the show.”

Jimmy’s eyes light up with excitement. “Oh, this is going to be fun! But wait, don’t you usually spray this stuff around?”

Logan laughs, standing up. “We sure do. Hope you don’t mind getting a little wet!”

As Logan shakes the bottle and pops the cork, spraying champagne all over a laughing Jimmy and the cheering audience, he can’t help but marvel at how far he’s come. From the depths of disappointment to the heights of success, both on and off the track.

After the champagne settles and they’re both wiping their faces, Jimmy turns to Logan with a grin. “Alright, Logan, before we let you go, I’ve got one more question for you. What’s next? You’ve got the dream job, the dream girl ... what more could Logan Sargeant possibly want?”

Logan pauses for a moment, considering. “You know, a year ago I would have said winning the World Championship was the ultimate goal. And don’t get me wrong, that’s still very much on my radar. But now ... now I think my goal is just to keep living this dream for as long as I can. To keep pushing myself on the track, to keep growing and learning, and to keep building a life with Y/N.”

He glances over at you in the audience, his eyes softening. “Because at the end of the day, all the trophies and champagne in the world don’t mean much if you don’t have someone to share them with.”

The audience “awws” once more, and Jimmy nods approvingly. “Well said, Logan. I think that’s a perfect note to end on. Ladies and gentlemen, Logan Sargeant!”

As the audience applauds and the show cuts to commercial, Logan makes his way off the stage, his heart full. He finds you waiting for him in the wings, a proud smile on your face.

“You were amazing out there,” you say, wrapping your arms around him.

Logan hugs you back, breathing in the familiar scent of your perfume. “Thanks. I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much with all that mushy stuff.”

You laugh, pulling back to look at him. “Are you kidding? I loved every second of it. Although I have to say, that champagne spray was a bit much. You do realize you’re not actually on a podium, right?”

Logan grins sheepishly. “Sorry, force of habit. But hey, at least I didn’t kiss you in front of millions of viewers. That’s progress, right?”

You roll your eyes fondly. “My hero. Come on, liebling. Let’s go celebrate your big reveal properly.”

As you walk hand-in-hand towards the exit, Logan feels a sense of contentment wash over him. It’s been one hell of a journey, but with you by his side and a bright future ahead, he knows the best is yet to come.

And as you step out into the New York night, Logan can’t help but think that this — the glamor, the success, the adoration — is nothing compared to the simple joy of having you by his side.

Because in the end, it’s not about the trophies or the champagne. It’s about the journey and the people you share it with.

For Logan Sargeant, former underdog turned rising star, the real victory isn’t just on the track. It’s in the love he’s found, the dreams he’s achieving, and the future he’s building — one lap at a time.

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f1fantasys · 13 days ago

Note

Balenciaga, Nike,and 1 with lando please and thanks youuu♥︎♥︎

BIRTHDAY BOYYYYY FIC

NB - This has nothing to do with Lando's birthday, it's just the name.

Here we go! First fic from the prompt list! Sorry for the delay! This turned out a little longer than expected, and i think i may have gone off track towards the end buuuut hope you all enjoy!

Balenciaga - swallowing his cum Nike - caught by his parents #1 - rough and filthy

3.7K words

During the summer break, at least a week was always spent with Lando's parents on their yacht - it had been a given for the last 3 years you'd been dating. And you absolutely loved it; you loved them like your own so it was always something you looked forward to.

Lando has ended the European leg of the races on a high, so everyones mood was ecstatic to say the least.

His? haha

He was ecstatic, sure, but he was also fucking horny for you every second of every day you'd been on the yacht.

On day 1, Lando had woken you up with his face between your legs, pulling and sucking at your clit as his fingers slid through your slick folds before he frantically thrust them in and out of you, making you cum twice within a matter of seconds. The night ended with him banging you hard against your cabin door, hand snaked round your throat as he pounded into you relentlessly.

You'd both been at it every day since, and to say you were sore would be an understatement, but all he had to do was give you a single look, or touch, and your body was putty in his hands, begging him for more until you were both shaking in each others arms.

Today was day 4, a lazy day for everyone just lounging around and working on a good tan.

By the time dinner was finished, everyone was exhausted from being out in the sun all day, and had retreated to their rooms.

Lando and you decided to just chill out on the decks, open another bottle of wine and spend some time together.

It started off innocently, it really did, until Lando stripped down into nothing but his boxers, saying something about needling to cool down in the pool.

Your eyes shamelessly eyed his body up and down as he took the few steps to get into the water, involuntarily squeezing your thighs together as he let his arms rest on the side, showing off his taunt arm muscles and flexing his back ones.

His own eyes stayed trained on yours, knowing very well he was leading you on and would get what he wanted sooner rather than later.

But you kept your ground, trying to focus on talking about something or the other, trying to keep yourself distracted.

He could see you fidgeting, your legs bouncing up and down. Hell, he was fucking hard as rock by just watching you do practically nothing.

''Come here, y/n'' he said, a warning edge to his tone.

You gave him a look, not saying anything, until he got out of the water, shred his boxers on the walk to you, and pulled you up, before walking hand and hand back to the water.

All you could keep your eyes on was his thick girth, lose and springing up and down, hard.

''Lan-'' you started, though he cut you off by placing a finger on your lips.

The cool water was a relief to your core, but Lando quickly manhandled you to sit up on the edge, taking his place between your legs.

You wrapped your legs around his torso as he untied your bikini strings, letting the top fall off to show off your perky boobs and pink nipples that had stiffened due to the the old as well.

Lando licked his lips as he reached forward and latched his mouth onto your left nipple. Gently suckling on it and circling his tongue around it as his hand harshly tugged and pinched on your right nipple.

Your hands found his hair and pulled on his curls, breathless moans leaving your mouth as you bit down on your bottom lip, though the quietness went out the window when Lando's one hand pushed your bikini bottoms to the side and immediately plunged two fingers through your core.

''Lando, fuck!'' you hissed, jumping at his actions as you thought he was taking his sweet time with you.

He was not.

Lando kept his eyes trained on yours as he let your nipples go and spread your legs further, giving himself enough room to fit his head between you, before he devoured your cunt with his tongue, while thrusting his fingers roughly.

A series of swear words left your mouth as you leaned back and tried to give him better access, and within minutes your body was trembling, shaking violently as you came all over his mouth.

Lando made sure to swallow everything up before he helped you sit up again, pulling you down for a heated kiss that quickly had him sliding his tongue into your mouth as you moaned into him.

''Lan'' you panted, ''need-'' ''need to taste you'' you said, between kisses, sounding more desperate than you have in the past few days.

''Yeah?'' he asked, mischievous glint in his eyes when he pulled back.

''Uh huh'' you said, sliding yourself back into the water and instructing him to now sit at the edge.

He complied without fuss, because he was just as desperate to feel your lips around him.

You pumped his dick a few times, concentrating on stroking the thick vein at the side which had Lando squirming above you.

You teased him now as you pulled back completely and squeezed your one boob in your hand while the other continued to pump him, licking your lips as you saw a bead of pre cum already leaking through his slit at the top.

''Y/n, please'' he begged, and just because you were in the mood and wanted to hear him beg some more, you pulled your boobs right up to your mouth and circled your tongue around your nipple.

Lando's eyes darkened as he gawked at your actions, his dick twitching in your hands as he watched you, mouth open and in awe at the sight of you.

''Fucking hell, baby, please'' he said, already gathering your hair out of your face into a makeshift ponytail.

How could you say no to him when he asked you like that?

So you finally gave Lando what he wanted - you deep throated him straight away, gagging when hie tip brushed against the back of your throat as you bobbed your head up and down his long shaft.

You played with his balls and pumped the part of him that you couldn't fit into your mouth, tears already stinging the corners of your eyes as Lando's hold on your hair tightened, when finally he just cupped your face and held it still, fucking his dick in and out of your mouth.

''That's it, yeah, takes me to well baby, fuck'' he mumbled between breaths as you could tell he was already close with the way his cock was pulsating.

You pulled back for a second, ''cum for me Lan, let me taste you, yeah?'' you cooed before resuming your activities, and with one harsh suck later, Lando was emptying his load down the back of your throat as he let out harsh grunts and moans.

His taste was salty and warm, just the way you loved. ''So delicious Lan'' you smiled up at him, cheeks flushed and eagerly ready for more.

''Come here'' he said quickly, getting you up and pulling you out the water. Lando scooped your naked body (and his) up and rushed over to the bar.

You hissed when he placed you down on the cool counter top, body still shivering from being in the cold water.

''Gonna warm you up yeah?''

''Fuck Lando, please, need to feel you'' you said impatiently.

Lando spread your legs with his knee as his hand gave his already hard cock a few strokes, sliding his tip through your folds to gather some slick.

Eventually, he settled at your hole, pushing in with one hard thrust.

You held your breath, fingers digging into his biceps at the intrusion, while his mouth found yours and gave you a sloppy kiss.

Then he started moving, pulling out of you completely before pushing all the way in, setting a quick pace as if you were short of time, but really you just couldn't get enough of each other.

''So tight, as if i haven't fucked you enough these days'' he said, smirking at you. He knew you'd have an answer to that, so he quickly brought his hand up to your throat, giving you a few gentle squeezes as he continued to fuck in and out of you.

''Gonna come Lan'' you cooed as you felt your orgasm approaching hard and fast, and withing seconds your body was shuddering in Lando's arms, body feeling like jelly so he had to hold you up now.

''Fucking love you'' he mumbled, more to himself when he looked down to the place you were joined, your thick cum coating his cock was enough to edge him closer to his own orgasm.

You leaned forward and gave his nipples a few kitten licks, sweat dripping down his whole body. He hissed when you bit down on his left one, sending you a warning. Only your name though. ''Y/n''

Just as Lando picked up the pace even more, now chasing his high, you heard a door open, though your minds were too fucked out to even respond.

Until you heard a gasp, and Lando's mum's voice.

''Oh''

You both froze, your movements coming to a halt as you looked each other with wide eyes, Lando's dick stopping halfway on its way into your cunt. His arms snaked their way around your body to rest against your ass in an attempt to cover it.

He looked over his shoulder to see Cisca standing there with her own pair of wide eyes, mouth agape. You took this opportunity to bury your head in his chest, trying to control your breathing as his as well was going at 1000 miles per hour.

All of you too embarrassed to respond, but your mind was screaming at Cisca to walk way without saying another word.

That thought was short lived though, as suddenly the door opened and closed again and now it was Adam's voice that filled your ears.

''Cis, what are you-'' he cut himself off at the scene in front of him.

''Oh'' was all he said after.

It was all probably about 30 seconds, though it felt like 5 hours, and you gave Lando warning eyes, begging him to say something to get his parents out of here and back inside. Your body was starting to squirm at the feeling of Lando's dick softening inside of you, the moment fleeting away with each second.

Finally, he coughed, and at the same time Adam cleared his throat.

''We''ll leave you to it'' he mumbled quickly before pulling Cisca back inside behind him.

As soon as the door shut you both let out a series of swear words, your bodies finally relaxing even though you didn't know how you'd ever face his parents again.

Lando looked down and gently peeled himself out of you. He cupped your face in his hands. ''Sorry'' he said, looking shy and embarrassed at what had just happened.

'''Don't be. Serves us right for trying to fuck in a place where anyone from the family could have walked in'' you said, leaning forward to peck his nose scar.

He smiled. ''Make it up to you later?'' he asked.

''You better!'' you squealed as he helped you off the counter and threw you a towel to cover up.

Time jump

For the last few days of summer break, you and Lando had opted to spend them quietly at home before the roar of the season began again.

It was a lazy day today, Lando was streaming with Max while you were preparing dinner.

As you were waiting for the oven to be done, your mind drifted the last few weeks. It was easily the best summer break anyone could dream of - sun, sea, sand and sex, lots of sex.

You could feel yourself blushing just thinking of all the nasty you did during the holiday, and suddenly, as if you hadn't had enough, you felt your core dripping with want.

Without thinking, you switched off the oven and made a beeline for the room Lando was in, stripping and leaving a trail of clothes all the way from the kitchen.

You knew his set up, so you knew all the ways to avoid the camera, though when you opened the door and Lando looked up from his screen he had to do a literal double take, his eyes wide and mouth agape, licking his lips as you made your way into the room.

Max's voice through his headphones reminded Lando where he was and what he was doing again as he tried to get back into the stream though he was failing miserably.

''Bro what the fuck what's wrong with you?'' you heard Max ask as you crawled under the desk and sat on your knees, watching Lando through hooded eyes.

He still had his own eyes on you, one hand already snaked down into his shorts at the sight of your naked body leaning down in front of him.

''Lando!'' Max yelled.

''I, fuck'' he jolted in his seat. ''Nothing, just..nothing'' he said, trying to ignore you and get back to talking to the chat.

You giggled to yourself and gently leaned up to palm his thick girth through his shorts before pulling at the them to tell him to remove them.

He kept his eyes in the screen, not even listening to what Max was saying as he subtlety lifted himself just enough to let you slide his shorts and boxers down, springing his achingly hard dick free.

You breath couldn't help but hitch at the sight of it standing tall, red and angry, with precum already sliding down the sides.

Quickly, you pumped him a few times, your thumb swiping his tip to spread the precum. You watched how Lando held his breath, before sighing and mumbled a fuck it, before he turned his camera off, though left the mic on.

Finally he was free to look down at you, biting his lower lip and mouthing a ''dirty'' down to you as you leaned forward and have his slit a few kitten licks before letting your tongue run over the thick vein at the side.

Lando's hands found your head and roughly pulled your forward, giving you no option but to take his load into your mouth, hard and deep.

His hold on your head tightened as you watched him lean back in his chair and let out a series of silent moans.

You pumped whatever you couldn't fit in your mouth as one hand fondled with his balls, pulling and tugging at them harshly when you started gagging around Lando, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

You had spit running down your chin and dropping onto you thighs as you clenched them together, your core begging for some attention of its own.

Lando tried his best to concentrate on what ever was going on with his stream, but everytime your tongue circle his tip his mind short circuited and he had to ground himself to make sure he wouldn't moan into the mic.

You could feel his dick start to twitch uncontrollably in your mouth, knowing he was close, and within a few seconds with no warning, Lando let his cum splutter down your throat as he clenched his fists on his chair handles, biting his bottom lip agonizingly hard to keep quiet, letting out a few staggered breaths.

Your own mind forgot where you were for a second, and as soon as you got a taste of him, you moaned a little too loudly, halting your movements for a split second.

You looked up at Lando and saw him mouth ''swallow it'' to you, to which you gladly obliged because he was delicious.

Max of course, caught up to what was happening. He indirectly threw teases at Lando which luckily the chat hopefully wouldn't catch on to.

As you sucked Lando dry, you pulled back and took a few breaths.

You needed more.

Your cunt was begging you for something, anything.

You looked up at Lando again, cheeks flushed, and sent him a silent ''please'' You watched as his eyes turned shades darker.

Just one look at you like that on your knees, and he was putty in your hands.

He ended the stream with no goodbyes, no explanation, nothing.

He roughly pulled you out from under the table and carried you to the bedroom, throwing you on the bed.

''You asked for it baby'' he harshly said, hovering above you as you peeled his tshirt off.

Finally, he lowered down and attacked your lips with his own. Clashes of teeth and tongue, biting and nipping as you fought each other, spit messing your chins already.

You let your hands wander his toned body - following the outlines of his taunt muscles, eventually settling at his precious hair, pulling at it to edge him on.

Lando lowered his lips to your neck, finding your sweet spots which had you biting your own lips in anticipation of what was to come.

He hen went to your boobs, taking his sweet time tugging and suckling on your nipples, while his eyes stayed trained on yours.

Your cunt, for one, was getting impatient, clenching around air, begging for something.

''Please Lando'' you said, innocently as you could so he'd give in.

''Patience baby. Gonna ruin you tonight''

After spending a ridiculous amount of time on your boobs, Lando finally traveled further south, and thank god he didn't waste time in getting down and dirty.

He devoured your pussy that had been dripping, for him.

''So wet y/n. Wet for me, yeah?'' he asked.

You quickly nodded, wanting to boost his ego before you fucking exploded.

''All for you Lan'' you panted as he slid his tongue through your folds multiple times before starting to thrust into your hole as he held your legs apart strongly.

Your hands returned to his hair, pulling at it roughly as you very quickly felt the warmth start to build up in your stomach.

''M close'' you cooed, taking a boob into your hand and squeezing it a few times.

Lando had let his fingers find your clit, and this threw you over the edge, shaking and shuddering underneath him as you came all over his face, while you let obscene noises and moans leave your mouth, praising him for how good his fucking tongue is.

He licked up all your cum before reaching up and letting some drip straight from his mouth down into your yours - his own series of ''fucks'' leaving his mouth at the sight of you tasting yourself.

But as much as you loved when he ate you out, you loved his dick more.

So you reached down and took his thick girth into your hands, pumping it a few times before bringing it to your entrance and guiding it through you.

You gasped at the intrusion, eyes locked on Lando's as he bottomed out in you, before he started moving, thrusting out fully before slamming back into you roughly, fucking into you roughly.

''Fuck. So tight baby'' he mumbled as he leaned down to kiss you again.

''Lan please, harder. Fuck me harder, please'' you begged, needing more and more of him and your nails dug deep into the muscles of his back, surely leaving bruises.

''If i fuck you any harder I'm gonna break you'' he said breathlessly.

''Then break me'' you pressed, taking him by surprise.

He smirked, ''and this is why i fucking love you so much'' he whispered before picking up his pace even more, literally ramming his body into yours.

You shut you eyes and before you knew it your orgasm had taken over your body, cum exploding out of you as you swear you could see stars, all the while Lando's pace didn't slow one bit.

Suddenly though, he pulled out of you.

You looked down at him, confused, irritated that he'd stopped. But you mind quickly phased out as he bought his mouth to your cunt and collected as much of your cum as he could on his tongue, leaning up to engulf you in a dirty, filthy kiss. Both your cheeks and chins' were sticky and slimy but you couldn't care one bit because that was hot.

Lando manhandled your body to flip you over onto all fours, before he thrust himself through your cunt and resumed a rapid pace again, while his one hand found your throat and the other pinched your nipples.

''Lan, fuck, close. Gonna cum'' you mumbled as you felt him him you G-spot over and over and over and then your mind blanked.

You couldn't think straight. All you knew was there was liquid flying out of you left right and center, you could feel Lando's tongue, and all you ears could hear was Lando praising you for ''being the sexiest thing to grace this earth, how he's gonna make you squirt every day for the rest of your lives because fuck, there was nothing hotter than that''

Wait. What? Did he just say squirt?

Then your brain caught up, and your eyes flew open.

Lando was still ramming into you, so you looked back at him with the biggest look of embarrassment because wdym you squirted?

His whole face was wet with slick and sweat. He looked hot.

You tried to talk, but you couldn't, your body and mind a mixture of a lot of things. And with the way Lando was chasing his high now, you figured you'd let him finish before attempting to comprehend what was happening.

''I'm gonna cum y/n'' he warned. ''One day fuck a baby into this pretty cunt of your's'''he whispered, more to himself.

You clenched your walls around his throbbing dick, yet another orgasm coming over you, and within seconds he was spasmming and letting his load go deep within you, his own pornographic moans and grunts leaving his mouth.

Finally, you both fell forward, you on the bed and he on top of you, breathless and sticky, trying to calm your shaking bodies.

You could feel Lando softening inside you, and you both hissed when he slid out, your cunt extremely sensitive.

He gave you a sheepish smile before pulling you to lay on top of him.

''Please interrupt my stream more often if this is what I'll get. Squirming? Fucking sexiest shit you've ever done baby''

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 smut #lando norris #f1 fic #lando x reader #lando smut #lando norris smut #ln4 ln #ln4 #ln #lando #norris

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bunnycvnts · 8 months ago

Text

new bf!rafe getting babied while he’s sick & falling deeper in love

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

his room was dark despite being midday, thanks to the blackout curtains shielding an array of windows lining his bedroom walls. you tiptoed carefully into the room, easing the door shut gently with your foot, your hands occupied by the tray of goodies for your sick boyfriend. on the tray was a bowl of soup, tissues, two cool washcloths, and a freshly refilled water bottle.

earlier that day, it didn’t take long for you to realize rafe had come down with something. he had been moodier than normal, sneezing and coughing unnecessarily loud, and his nose had been rubbed raw from toilet paper. you ushered him quickly into his room, telling him to nap while you ran out to grab a few things. the trip took longer than you’d thought, and by the time you arrived back to tannyhill, the boy was out cold.

rafe felt the bed dip with weight, and a groan left his lips. his eyes fluttered open and closed repeatedly as you took his temperature. “‘m fine, babe. seriously. jus’ have a cold or something.” you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, the thermometer showing a whopping 101.5 temperature, indicating a fever.

“mhm, i know. just humor me. will make me feel better knowing you’re getting some rest.” you knew how he was. he wouldn’t do anything for himself, but if it meant doing it for you…well, he could manage that. anything to please his girl. rafe nodded his head slightly, prompting you to carry on with your nurse facade.

offering the warm soup, he was quick to deny it, claiming his stomach was turning, and he definitely didn’t have any sort of appetite, so you left it on the tray resting on his desk. a moan of relief followed the cold cloth resting against his forehead and sliding down his skin.

“feels nice,” he grumbled out. your lips formed into a pout, as if you were looking at a sad puppy. he was just so cute, you couldn’t help but lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “i know, baby.”

rafes mouth upturned at the petname, always a sucker for verbal affection. his brain felt like mush, and he wasn’t entirely sure that you weren’t some figment of his imagination. a moment of weakness, leading him to conjure up someone who knew how to relieve some of the pain he was feeling and make his heart melt at the same time.

you helped him sit up, slipping some medicine into his mouth, followed by water to help him swallow it down. his chest was bare, a light sheen of sweat sweeping across his skin. you were quick to grab the second cloth and gently run it down his chest, cleaning him off and easing the heat he felt. goosebumps rose on his skin at the cold cloth, despite his moans of relief.

his eyes had remained mostly closed, peaking at you sometimes when you’d stop touching him, wondering where you’d gone, but each time he was met with a sweet kiss to his cheek and another swipe of the cold cloth among various areas of his skin. his heart felt heavy with love as you cared for him, gazing at you each time you turned away to grab different items for him. you were like an angel, swooping down and holding his heart in your hands, bringing it back to health.

when the cloth ran warm from his heat, you placed it back on the tray, so you could use it again later after running it under some water. your hand met his forehead, trying to gauge his temperature, even though you already knew what it was.

“my poor baby, bet you feel so icky right now.” you pouted down at him, watching as his cheeks flushed deeper.

“stop it. i’m fine.” his words did nothing to stop the smile forming on his lips. he was a sucker for your sweet words. he forced his eyes open to look at you, raising his arms out to gesture you in.

“baby, you have a fever. i know you’re too warm; cuddling won’t help.” despite your response to his gesture, it didn’t take much to convince you, which you proved as you lay next to him when he grumbled at you. rafe rested his head on your skin, feeling the coolness of it against his cheek. “just for a sec, promise. jus’ a second.”

you laid there for the rest of the night, as he had quickly fallen back asleep on you. your soft skin and scent, which he loved so much, provided more comfort than a cool washcloth or some warm soup ever could.

taglist: @sunkissedrafe

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long-live-astronerd-ghost-king · 10 months ago

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DPXDC Prompt. Dead on main with priest Jason: Father Todd brings the Ghost King’s cult into the World of the Living.

So, when Jason dies and returns, the League of Assassins fails to hold him for long because spirits from Far Frozen pick him up after seeing teen through the Lazarus pit.

Jason quickly realizes that, well, they’re kinda obsessed with their cult of the Great One. And yeah the cult of the ruling Ghost King was very popular during the reign of the Pariah Dark but back then the rituals were carried out more out of fear. Now things are different. The population of the Ghost Zone has become interested in the activities of Frostbite and his loyal spirits because of an attempt to understand what kind of ghost the new ruler is and how best to thank and appease him. So Jason had no shortage of stories about the teenager's deeds.

~~~~

Jason to Frostbite: Well, you guys and your lil hobby are nice but I don't understand at all what's so cool about this guy, even if he defeated Pariah Dark and gets along with most of the Ancients…

Danny: *comes to visit Frostbite*, *slips and falls three times, sets the kitchen on fire in an attempt to make coffee then sheepishly smiles at Jason*.

Jason to Frostbite: ... Okay, Understandable, I Hope Danny Has a Nice Day and Some Sleep.

Tucker: Congratulations, you've acquired another Paulina. Great job. Danny: I'd rather he just asked me out instead of worshipping me. What the hell? I'm just a semi-ghost.

Tucker: Maybe things would be easier if you just gave him your phone number, you know? Danny: But he didn't ask. Tucker: Why didn't you ask? Danny: I couldn't! He's Robin himself, you know? Tucker: Well, good luck to you idiots to grow old alone near the altars of each other's name. Danny: Actually lil altar in his honor is not such a bad idea. Maybe this way he'll understand that I like him too.. Tucker: Danny, no!

~~~~

New in Gotham robbers break into Jason's place: Hey, father, God ordered you to share with your neighbors, so bring us some money or we.. Jason, who is talking on the phone with Danny: In fact, he just said that if you don't get out of here now, he will turn a blind eye to the fact that I will use my guns.

Danny*screams internally*: Oh Ancients, he's sooo cool!

Pandora: Honey, we're happy for you but stop flooding us with spam. You have already told 5 times during prayer how good his abs and chest look and how perfect Todd is when he reads aloud. We get it, okay? Clockwork: Well, I actually enjoy it. It's so much more interesting to watch while listening to the internal dialogue. Show must go on~ Danny: ...Get out of my mind! Nocturn: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lords in vain if you don't want to share with us, lil blob. So rude.

~~~Team Song: You Are My Religion · Firehouse~~~~

#dpxdc prompt #dpxdc crossover #dpxdc memes #dpxdc au #dpxdc #dcxdp #priest jason todd #dead on main #danny x jason

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diamonddaze01 · 15 days ago

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fleeing feelings

pairing: hvc x fem!reader | best friend!seungkwan genre: best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, university au wc: 9.6k warnings: alcohol consumption (pls drink responsibly!!) a/n: for @k-vanity 's “falling for you” event! My prompts were London Fog (“You said what to who now?! Why?!”) and Pumpkin Spice Latte (“Excuse me, but is this seat taken?”) // enormous thank you to @cheolism for the most gorgeous banner // and thank you to my lovely betas @lovetaroandtaemin and @tusswrites

summary: so you might have told vernon you loved him while drunk – now all you have to do is avoid him. forever.

The headache is real.

It feels like someone decided your skull was the perfect canvas for a jackhammer. Each throb sends waves of pain coursing through your brain, and even the soft hum of the world outside your window seems like an assault on your fragile state. If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re pretty sure your last memory was of collapsing into your bed after a night of regrettable decisions, you’d swear you were dying.

You blink up at the ceiling, groaning as sunlight streams through the blinds, slicing through the dim room like a guilty conscience. Your eyes ache at the brightness, and you throw a hand over your face in an attempt to shield yourself from the assault. The cold sheets are a welcome contrast to the fire that’s raging inside your head.

You wish for sleep, but it doesn’t come. Instead, you're greeted by an annoyingly chipper voice, too loud for a Sunday morning at 11 a.m.

"Morning!" Seungkwan chirps, a little too cheerfully for someone who clearly has no understanding of the term hangover. He's holding a glass of water, like it’s the most exciting thing in the world, and you can't help but squint at him through half-closed eyes. He’s got that same gleeful smile on his face, looking way too awake for someone who shares an apartment with someone who just wants to die right now.

"Seungkwan, please... It’s too early for your brand of happiness," you croak, your voice hoarse and barely audible. Your throat feels like you swallowed sandpaper, and you barely have the strength to sit up.

"Well, it’s already late enough for me to help you feel better," he says with a grin that’s too wide to be genuine, handing you the glass of water and an aspirin like it’s some kind of miracle cure. "You don’t want to end up like last time, do you?"

You roll your eyes, trying to sit up but the world tilts dangerously. You clutch the glass like it might actually save you, your fingers trembling from the effort. "Last time?" you mutter, still a little too disoriented to make sense of anything. “I barely remember last night.”

Seungkwan’s grin stretches even wider. "Oh, last night was a memorable one," he says, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, like he’s got the best secret in the world.

You squint at him, struggling to keep your eyes open. "What do you mean by that?"

The moment it leaves your mouth, the memories come rushing back, one after another, like a broken dam finally giving way. You and Vernon had gone outside for some air, the cool night breeze refreshing against your skin. You remember the conversation turning quiet, the alcohol still buzzing in your veins, the way the breeze ruffled his hair, and then...

Oh god. Oh no.

You freeze, the blood draining from your face as your stomach drops. Your heart stutters in your chest as you try to piece it together. You had told Vernon you loved him. In your drunken haze, it had slipped out, but now? Now it feels like the kind of thing you would never, ever do if you weren’t so far gone on cheap whiskey and bad decisions.

You look at Seungkwan, your face crumpling in embarrassment. "I... I told Vernon... I told him I love him."

Seungkwan blinks at you, the shock clear on his face. For a second, it seems like he doesn’t even know how to respond. Then, his eyes widen comically, and a burst of laughter bursts from him. "You said what to who?!" He takes a step back, as if the sheer magnitude of your confession has physically knocked him off balance. "You confessed? To Vernon?" He cackles, his laugh loud and echoing in the quiet of your room.

You slump back against your pillow, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. You wish the floor would just swallow you up. "I didn’t mean to! I was drunk—okay?" you mutter, your words barely making it out.

Seungkwan is practically vibrating with laughter. "Oh my god, you actually did it," he says between fits of giggles. "That’s so—wait, wait. What did Vernon say back?"

And that’s when the panic sets in. You stare blankly at Seungkwan, your brain spinning. You want to remember, you need to remember what he said back, but it’s a complete blank. The memory of his face, his expression, even his words—they’re gone. As if it never happened. You feel a new wave of nausea rising in your stomach.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to speak. "I don’t remember," you confess, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Seungkwan stops laughing, blinking at you like he’s just realized you might be serious. "What do you mean you don’t remember?" he asks, sounding more confused than before.

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead, trying to steady your dizzying thoughts. "I... I can’t remember what he said back. And that’s worse than not hearing anything at all."

Seungkwan’s face falters for a second, then the teasing glint returns in his eyes. "Well... you have to face him, right? He’s literally just down the hall," he points out, his voice softening as he sits on the edge of your bed. "And you’re gonna have to talk to him eventually. You can’t avoid him forever."

You frown, looking at him as if he's spoken a foreign language. "And why the hell not?"

Seungkwan leans in, his finger counting off the reasons like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life. "One: he’s our best friend. Two: he lives down the hall, not in another universe. And three..." He pauses, dramatically. "He’s your BEST FRIEND."

You groan, rolling over and burying your face into your pillow, desperate to block out the light, the noise, and Seungkwan’s well-meaning logic. "You already said that," you mumble into the fabric, wishing the pillow could swallow you whole.

"I’m emphasizing," Seungkwan replies, sitting back in a huff. "Emphasizing that he knows you like the back of his hand, stupid. He’s not gonna let you avoid him."

You moan into the pillow. "I can’t even think about facing him right now, Seungkwan. Not today."

"Tough. You’re facing him eventually, whether you like it or not," Seungkwan says, but his voice softens, his hand brushing your back comfortingly. "But hey, I’m your best friend. I’m here to support you through whatever happens."

You just grunt in response, curling back into the pillow like it might somehow shield you from reality. "Great. As long as you’re here to watch me suffer."

Seungkwan grins, his voice full of mischief. "That’s the plan."

You can feel the weight of your poor life choices pressing down on you as you sit in the overpriced, over-crowded coffee shop, nursing the lukewarm disaster that is your latte. It's one of those days where everything tastes like regret—coffee included. Your laptop screen blurs as you try to focus on your prelab. You're supposed to be working, supposed to be productive, but all you can do is mentally list everything that went wrong in your life in the past 48 hours.

The lab professor? Completely useless. Your grade? Already plummeting. And as for the whole Vernon situation? Yeah, let's not talk about that.

You can feel the throbbing pain in your temples as your mind drifts back to that night—the confession that slipped out of your mouth when you were way too drunk. The look on Vernon’s face... God, you're so embarrassed. If there was a hole to crawl into, you’d dive right in and never resurface.

Beside you, Seungkwan is breezing through his own prelab, the same one you’re supposed to be working on, but it seems like he’s in a completely different world. As usual. He taps away at his laptop, his fingers moving in a rhythm like he’s been here for hours—when in reality, he probably hasn’t even started yet. You scowl at your laptop as the blinking cursor mocks you for not getting anything done.

You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself together. "God, I hate this class. And I hate that professor," you mutter, rubbing your temples. "Why did I even sign up for this? Why is life like this?"

Seungkwan doesn’t look up from his screen, but you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Because you're a glutton for punishment. You're just mad because the only thing you're getting out of this lab is the overpriced coffee."

You huff, sloshing your latte around in its cup in a way that makes you wish you could just drown in it. "Yeah, well, I’m about to drown in this lab report if I don’t figure it out soon."

"Should’ve taken easier classes," Seungkwan snorts, and you shoot him a glare. He knows you better than anyone, and he knows you're not the type to shy away from a challenge. You don’t even have the energy to argue, so you let him win this one.

The door chimes as someone enters, and your focus breaks. You glance up, hoping it's just some random student walking in to grab their iced coffee, but no.

Of course not.

You hear that low, familiar voice, the one that makes your heart do a little flip. "Is this seat taken?"

No. No. Fuck.

There, standing by the table, looking like he belongs in some glossy magazine for college students who know how to look effortlessly cool, is Vernon. The guy you still haven’t figured out how to face after that monumental fuck-up of a confession two days ago. And now? Now he’s standing there, staring at you and Seungkwan with a hesitant smile, probably wondering if it’s safe to sit down or if you’re about to sprint out of here like a coward.

Seungkwan, the absolute bastard, beams at Vernon. "Oh no, it’s totally free," he says, too eager. He's so happy to make this as awkward as possible. You could almost feel the smugness radiating off him. "Come sit, Vernon. We could use the company!"

Your heart sinks into your stomach as Vernon takes the seat across from you, not missing the subtle shift in your posture. He looks at you with those eyes of his, eyes that are both too warm and too intense, and you feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You can’t look at him. You can’t.

You force a smile, but it feels like you’re pushing your lips together with a crowbar. "Uh, yeah. Just working on it," you mumble, barely even aware of what you just said. Your brain is too busy doing its best to not short-circuit. You take another sip of your latte, hoping the caffeine will somehow pull you together. It doesn’t.

Seungkwan, the little devil, doesn’t help at all. He’s practically radiating glee, enjoying your discomfort far too much. "Yeah, Y/N here is just dying to finish her part of the report," he says, clearly trying to get a rise out of you. "But it's okay, she’s doing just fine! Aren’t you?" He shoots you a wink, but Vernon doesn’t catch it—thank God.

Your eyes flick to your screen, looking for any excuse to not talk to Vernon right now. You just need to not look at him. "Actually, I forgot something," you blurt out, standing up abruptly, not even thinking it through. "I just... I need to grab something. I’ll be back in a second."

You don’t wait for anyone to respond. You don’t even look at Vernon as you grab your bag and make a hasty retreat to the counter. Your heart is pounding in your ears, and your breath feels shallow. This was a terrible idea. Why did you invite him to work on the prelab in the first place? Was it because you wanted an excuse to spend time with him? To not feel so much?

You don’t know.

You leave the cafe altogether, your mind racing, and find yourself walking aimlessly for a few minutes, trying to cool off. The cold air outside stings your cheeks, but it’s a welcome distraction from the heat of embarrassment still flushing through your body.

You pull out your phone, needing something to take your mind off everything. It pings almost immediately with a message from Seungkwan:

Boo 🍊: so... how long are u gonna avoid him

You laugh weakly, but it’s more from disbelief than anything else. You text back quickly:

Y/N: i’m not avoiding him

Y/N: i’m just

Y/N: strategically distancing myself until i can look him in the eye without dying of shame

Boo 🍊: ur not gonna go back to the cafe because its too much?

Your phone dings again in quick succession.

Boo 🍊: u realize ur only making it worse right

You squeeze your eyes shut, biting your lip to suppress a groan. Oh god, Seungkwan, shut up.

Y/N: i’m already halfway across campus

Y/N: oh well, can’t exactly go back now

Boo 🍊: he looks like you kicked him in the nuts and then ran away btw

Boo 🍊: i’m keeping him company

Boo 🍊: ur not getting away with this btw i’m never letting u live this down

You exhale loudly, already feeling the weight of your decision in the pit of your stomach. What did you think would happen? You’ve messed this up royally. Again.

Y/N: I hate you so much.

Boo 🍊: no u don’t ! you’ll see him again soon. probably tomorrow

Y/N: fuck you

Boo 🍊: love u too! don’t worry i’ll handle this

Boo 🍊: good luck with that prelab see u at home <3

You slump your shoulders in defeat, staring at the screen of your phone. There’s no getting out of this. You’ve somehow managed to make this even more awkward. Of course, Seungkwan would drag it out. You wouldn’t expect any less from him.

You drag yourself back into the apartment, the weight of your failed escape attempt still heavy on your shoulders. The door slams behind you, and you sigh deeply, almost as if trying to shake the embarrassment off your body. You kick your shoes off and leave them by the door, your bag slung over your shoulder like a dead weight. You’re so done with everything.

The apartment feels like it’s mocking you—seemingly quiet, except for the hum of Seungkwan’s obnoxiously loud voice floating from the living room. You hear the faint click of his phone screen as you shuffle toward the couch. You can practically feel him smirking at your impending doom even before you see him.

Sure enough, when you walk into the living room, he’s lounging on the couch, sprawled across it in his usual dramatic fashion. He’s scrolling through his phone, one leg thrown over the side, looking like he hasn’t had a care in the world since he woke up.

You throw yourself onto the couch next to him, feeling the familiar softness of the cushions sink beneath you. The weight of the last few hours presses down on your chest. It’s so comfortable here, but you can’t fully relax. Not with him sitting right next to you, clearly enjoying the aftermath of your spectacular mess.

“Don’t even say it,” you groan, pushing yourself into the cushions like they might swallow you whole.

He doesn’t even glance up from his phone. Instead, he lets out a small, knowing laugh. “So... how’s the avoidance game going?”

You just close your eyes for a moment, willing yourself to disappear. “I’m never leaving my room again. Ever.”

Seungkwan bursts into laughter, the sound filling the small apartment and bouncing off the walls. It’s enough to make your skin crawl, but you can’t help but feel a bit of a tug at your own lips. He’s genuinely enjoying your misery, and you hate it. “I mean, it’s been two days, and you’ve already chickened out at the café. That’s a solid record.”

You groan dramatically, rolling your head back against the cushion. “I didn’t chicken out. I just... needed a moment to not make eye contact with him, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” Seungkwan says, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s why you bolted out of there like a squirrel avoiding a hawk.”

You push his shoulder weakly, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Shut up, Boo. You have no idea how embarrassing it was.”

“Of course I do,” he says smugly, setting his phone down on the coffee table with a soft thud. “I was the one trying to hold a conversation with Vernon while you were having your little meltdown across campus.”

“Can we please not talk about it?” You bury your face in your hands, muffling your groan of embarrassment.

Seungkwan’s voice is dripping with amusement. “Well, you better figure it out soon. You invited him to our café session, and now you’re running away from your own mess. It’s hilarious.”

You sit up, rubbing your face in exasperation. “I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye again.”

Seungkwan shrugs, his grin still wickedly satisfied. “Well, it’s not like you have much of a choice. I mean, unless you’re planning to live in that room of yours forever?”

You lean back against the couch, the soft fabric cool against your skin. You feel the weight of your thoughts settle in again, and with it, the overwhelming desire to hide from the world. “I can’t,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s gonna know I’m avoiding him on purpose.”

“Yeah, he’s not that dumb,” Seungkwan says, flipping through his phone lazily. “But you know what? You could avoid him for a while. You just need to avoid... everything you’re supposed to do, forever.”

You turn your head slowly to look at him. “That’s your solution? Run away?”

“Pretty much,” Seungkwan says, completely unfazed. “But you have to be more creative. Maybe pretend you’re dead? Or like you have the plague?”

You snort, despite yourself, the idea so absurd that it almost lightens the mood. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just start wearing a sign around my neck: Please, don’t talk to me. I’m a walking disaster.”

Seungkwan grins, his eyes lighting up mischievously. “Honestly, I think it’s a good look for you.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hold back a laugh. “You’re the worst.”

Seungkwan stretches out, his grin wide and smug. “Look, I saved you today, but don’t expect me to keep doing this forever. At some point, you’re on your own.” He reaches for his phone, ready to return to his lazy scrolling.

You sit up, the absurdity of the situation hitting you in waves. “Yeah, I’ll figure it out... eventually.”

Seungkwan gives you a side-eye. “Sure you will. But for now, enjoy the free ride, disaster queen.”

It’s just your luck that, of all people, Vernon is your lab partner today. The second your professor calls your name, you feel your stomach twist into knots. You swear your internal groan echoes in the hum of the fluorescent lights above you. Why him?

Across the lab, Vernon’s already tugging on his gloves, eyeing the instructions on the counter like he’s got his shit together. You can’t help but stare at him for a second, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, the way he moves like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The thought of having to work with him makes you feel like you’ve been thrown into a pressure cooker, and you’re about to explode.

You try to focus, really, you do. But it’s impossible. Your brain keeps wandering back to him. His fucking hums. His stupid little smile. The way his dark eyes flicker up every now and then to make sure you’re still there. It’s like he knows exactly how much he’s fucking with your head, and the worst part? He’s probably not even trying.

A Bunsen burner hisses in the background, and the sound almost makes you flinch, like it's too loud in the otherwise quiet lab. You try to focus on the beaker in front of you. Try to just get through this. But it’s hard when all you can feel is the weight of his gaze on you.

“Got it, Y/N?” Vernon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He’s leaning against the counter now, watching you with a lazy grin, like he knows what he's doing to you.

Your face flushes involuntarily, and you shoot him a tight smile, hoping to play it cool. “Yeah, got it,” you mumble, though your mind is a jumbled mess. Your hand shakes slightly as you pick up the pipette, and you swear he notices, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s even worse. You hate how easy it is for him to get under your skin.

It’s bad enough that you’re stuck with him, but now you’ve got to get through an hour-long experiment without combusting. The tension is palpable, and it’s making you want to crawl out of your skin.

But then, just as you’re about to lose it, you spot Seungkwan strutting back from the fume hood. You swear you can feel the relief hit your chest like a tidal wave. Perfect.

Seungkwan doesn’t seem to notice you until you’re already walking toward him, your feet moving on their own accord, desperate to make the switch. When he looks up, his gaze flickers over you, and that smirk creeps onto his lips. The one you know too well. The one that says, I’m going to fuck with you now.

“What’s up, Y/N?” he asks, popping his gum. “Need help with the chemical equations? Or is it more of a personal emergency?”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “I need to switch lab partners, Seungkwan. Like, now.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Really? What’s wrong? Does Vernon’s inability to mix chemicals properly scare you, or are you just that tired of looking at his face?”

You grimace, frustration bubbling in your chest. God, why’s he gotta make it worse? “No, it’s just… I can’t focus with him staring at me every five seconds.”

Seungkwan’s smirk widens, and you can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Oh, so that’s what it is, huh? You’re not focused because Vernon keeps looking at you like you’re his personal chemistry experiment?”

Your heart rate spikes. Fuck off, Seungkwan. “Shut up, I’m being serious,” you mutter, but you can hear the hitch in your voice, and it makes you want to punch yourself in the face.

Seungkwan doesn’t let up, leaning in closer with that same cocky grin, looking far too pleased with himself. “Is that why you’ve been staring at him for the last five minutes, then?” he teases, and you swear you can hear the little giggle in his voice. “I didn’t realize we were doing that kind of experiment today.”

Your blood goes hot. “Stop it!” you hiss, but you can’t keep the embarrassed flush from spreading across your face. “I just need you to switch with me, Seungkwan. That’s it.”

Seungkwan chuckles lowly, clearly having way too much fun with this. “Oh, okay. So you want me to switch with you just because you can’t handle the heat, huh?” He taps his chin, like he’s thinking about it, but it’s obvious he’s already decided.

“Fine,” you say, voice low but firm. “But only if you actually want me to send that video of you drunkenly crying about chickens to the entire friend group. You remember that one, right? The one where you were saying, ‘Those chickens are my babies, I love them so much’?”

Seungkwan’s eyes widen, and for a second, you swear you see a flicker of panic. You almost smile, but you hold it in. Gotcha.

“No,” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to backpedal. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would,” you reply smoothly, crossing your arms. You can feel the smug grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “So, how about it? You switch with me, or I make everyone’s day a little more interesting?”

Seungkwan looks around the room, clearly considering his options. He’s not stupid enough to let that video go public. “Okay, okay, fine. You win, Y/N. But you owe me for this one, big time.”

You give him a sweet smile. “Deal.”

Seungkwan walks over to Vernon, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Vernon, buddy, looks like you’re stuck with me as your partner today.”

You barely suppress a laugh as Vernon’s head jerks up in surprise. “Wait, what? Really?”

You take that as your cue and grab your stuff, moving toward Chan’s station. You’re feeling lighter already, knowing the rest of this class won’t be nearly as awkward. Chan’s a great guy—easygoing, level-headed, and most importantly, not Vernon.

You set your bag down on the counter and look over at Chan, who’s already elbow-deep in his notes, completely unaware of the chaos you just caused. “Hey, Chan,” you say, forcing a cheerful tone despite everything. “Looks like we’re partners now.”

He looks up with a bright smile, oblivious to the fact that he’s been dragged into your mess. “Oh, hey, Y/N! Sounds good to me.” He’s so sweet and always so positive, but… well, the thing is, Chan could not for the life of him keep track of chemical reactions if his life depended on it. This could be the worst decision you’ve made today.

You sit down, a little defeated, as you adjust your gloves and open the instructions. You’re partnered with Chan now, but nothing feels quite right. As sweet as he is, chemistry might as well be a foreign language to him. You glance back over at Vernon’s lab station, which, of course, is conveniently located just a few feet away. You can hear the familiar sound of Vernon and Seungkwan’s voices drifting toward you, but you’re so not ready to face them just yet.

You feel your chest tighten as you try to ignore it, but then Vernon speaks again. “I don’t bite, Y/N,” he teases, his voice cutting through the air like a soft command. It’s casual, playful even, but it does nothing to stop the heat that floods your face.

You swallow hard, praying the blush on your cheeks isn’t visible. This is not the moment. Not the perfect moment to have him distract you. Your pulse picks up at the sound of his voice again, and you can almost feel his gaze on you. You don’t look back, but you know he’s probably waiting for a response.

“Y/N?” Chan says softly, his voice pulling you out of your mental spiral. “Are you okay?”

You quickly look away, feeling that familiar heat creeping up your neck. “I’m fine,” you mutter to yourself. “I’m fine.”

Your stomach flips as an idea strikes you—fake sick. You’ve done it before, and it’s a perfect way to buy yourself some time away from Vernon, maybe even the entire day.

Just get through this, and then you can run away forever.

Your body starts to tremble slightly as you put a hand to your forehead, doing your best to sound miserable. “Ugh, I don’t feel so good...”

Chan immediately rushes to your side, concern flashing across his face, and you can hear Seungkwan's snort of disbelief. Vernon looks at you with a furrowed brow, clearly not buying it. But he’s too polite to say anything. “You sure? You look kinda green.”

That’s your cue. You make a dramatic move, leaning over the lab counter, your hands gripping it as if you're about to collapse. Your stomach gives another exaggerated roll as you close your eyes. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” you say in a voice that’s so over the top, it sounds like it came straight out of a soap opera.

You expect Vernon to panic, maybe grab your arm to steady you, but instead, he just stares at you, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Really?” he asks slowly, clearly unconvinced. "Or is it that you want to run away again?"

Oh my god. You freeze, horrified that Vernon might actually be onto you. You try to hide your terror behind your palm, rubbing your eyes like you’re just too tired to keep up the act. “No! No... I’m definitely sick,” you say with a cough for added effect.

But Vernon isn’t having it. He places his hands on his hips, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “You’re not even trying to hide it. Just admit you’re avoiding me. What’s the deal?”

You panic, fully aware that your ridiculous performance isn’t going to fool him for long. You grab your bag off the back of the chair with a look of pure desperation. “No, no! I just—uh, I need to go to the bathroom! I’ll be right back, promise!”

Before Chan can protest, you push past him, stumbling out of the lab with as much speed as your shaking legs can muster. You burst out into the hallway, nearly running into a group of students on their way to their next class. Too close. You force your breathing to steady as you walk briskly, acting like you haven’t just staged the most obvious escape ever.

You round the corner, ducking into the nearest restroom. You push open the door, locking it behind you, leaning against the cool tile wall as you try to gather yourself. What is wrong with you?

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Seungkwan, of course.

Boo 🍊: i was joking when i said u should get the plague idiot

Boo 🍊: ur the worst actor i’ve ever seen

Y/N: i had to ok

Y/N: this is a nightmare.

Your phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Boo 🍊: ur so obvious it’s kinda gross

Boo 🍊: chan’s gonna fail this lab for u. also. U NEED TO TALK TO VERNON AT SOME POINT

Y/N: not today!

It’s Friday night. One week since that confession. And honestly? All you want right now is a shot of shitty tequila, a cheap beer, and some damn good music to drown out the past seven days. You’re tired of thinking about it. You’re tired of pretending like last weekend never happened.

The second you and Seungkwan step through the door of Mingyu’s house, you're hit with a wave of noise. It’s too loud, the bass too heavy, but somehow, that’s exactly what you need. The house is packed, the kind of party that screams “let’s fuck up everything in the best way possible.” You spot Mingyu behind the kitchen counter, already wearing that signature smirk of his, mixing drinks for whoever’s brave enough to stand in line. But then—of course—your night has to take a turn.

Vernon.

He’s sprawled out on the couch, head bopping to some random SoundCloud rap, looking way too at ease in his flannel and backwards cap. Fucking perfect. You mentally groan. You’d hoped for at least a few hours of peace tonight, but apparently, that’s not in the cards.

Seungkwan nudges you, elbow digging into your side. “Well, well, well,” he says with that knowing grin. “Guess your worst nightmare is here.”

You shove him back, rolling your eyes. “Don’t make it worse.”

“Too late,” Seungkwan chirps. “Now, let’s get some tequila in your system.”

You head straight for the kitchen, not bothering with small talk. The music is too loud, the room too warm, and your head is already swimming with the thought of one thing: tequila. You pull the bottle off the shelf with the same speed as if it’s your lifeline, and without hesitation, you pour yourself a generous shot. No chaser. Just straight into your system.

Seungkwan eyes you carefully from the counter. “Careful,” he singsongs in your ear, his voice dripping with teasing. “That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.”

You shoot him a sideways glance, the corners of your lips twitching upward. “Shut up,” you mutter, then down the tequila like it’s water. The burn sears down your throat, and the warmth spreads through your chest almost immediately.

You reach for another shot when—just your fucking luck—Vernon walks into the kitchen. His eyes land on you instantly, like he knew exactly where to find you. You want to swallow him whole—no, just pretend he's not even here– but you know that’s not going to happen.

“Wow, look who’s getting to the good stuff early,” Vernon says, voice as smooth as ever. His gaze flicks down to your hand around the bottle, and then right back up to your face, and something in his eyes makes you want to melt into a puddle on the floor.

Seungkwan shoots you a sideways look, his smirk turning even more mischievous. With a dramatic sigh, he pushes himself off the counter, clearly done with this conversation already. “Alright, well, have fun with that,” he says in a sing-songy voice, clearly aware of how uncomfortable this is getting. Then, he makes his exit, blowing you a mocking kiss from the doorway before disappearing into the living room.

You roll your eyes at his back, shooting him a silent curse with your eyes, but the moment Vernon steps forward, all that annoyance evaporates into something else entirely. Your focus is back on him, and that damn smirk on his face.

“Didn’t know tequila was your thing,” Vernon says casually, leaning against the counter next to you. You move to pour another shot, but Vernon steps closer, cornering you against the counter with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. The proximity is almost suffocating, and you feel your pulse spike in your neck, your heart pounding. You try not to make eye contact, your gaze fixed firmly on the bottle in your hand, as if it could somehow shield you from him.

Vernon’s smirk widens, and he leans in slightly. “Y’know, you need to look at me to make conversation,” he says, voice low and teasing.

Before you can even process what’s happening, his hand slides under your jaw, his fingers gently but firmly lifting your chin until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

Your breath hitches in your throat, and for a second, you forget to breathe. His eyes are almost burning into you, and you can’t look away—not that you want to.

For a second, you forget about everything. Your entire focus narrows to the guy standing in front of you, the guy who’s been fucking with your head for over a week now. You try to focus, try to snap yourself out of it, but damn—he looks good. Too good. That stupid backwards cap, the flannel shirt that’s just loose enough, the way his jawline sharpens under the dim kitchen light. You swallow, trying to keep your cool, but fuck, he’s too close. Too damn close. You want to push him away, but the closeness has your body freezing, every nerve on edge.

It’s the same feeling you had last week. And it’s happening again.

Fuck. No. This is not how it’s supposed to go.

Your mind races, trying to think of something, anything, to get out of this. Then—like a miracle—Mingyu strolls by, not even realizing the chaos you’re trying to keep under control. You latch onto him like a lifeline.

“Mingyu! HI!” you shout, ducking under Vernon’s arm and making a beeline for him. You grip his arm with a little too much force, probably dragging him away from whatever conversation he was having with someone else. He looks at you, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, but you don’t even give him a chance to ask why you’re acting like a madman.

“Long time no see! Let’s catch up!” you practically drag him out of the kitchen before Vernon can say anything, and Mingyu shoots a glance over his shoulder at you. He looks confused, but soon the music envelops you, and he happily throws an arm around your shoulder and pulls you onto the dance floor.

The music is a blur of bass and off-key notes, but the tequila in your system helps dull everything, smooths out the jagged edges of your thoughts. Mingyu is practically yelling in your ear, his voice way too loud for the volume of the song, but you can’t help but laugh at his unrelenting enthusiasm. He’s screaming the lyrics to some cheesy pop song—something from five years ago that you can’t even remember the name of—but he’s grinning, and you can’t help but mirror his energy. For a moment, the heat of the room and the chaos of the party become distant, fading into the background, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you forget about Vernon. You forget about everything.

Mingyu pulls you into a ridiculous spin, and you laugh, the sound lost in the music. His arm tightens around your shoulders as he twirls you back into his chest, but just as you feel yourself getting lost in the rhythm, your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s Seungkwan.

You swipe the screen without thinking, still caught in the whirl of the dance floor.

Boo 🍊: he’s staring at you

Your heart drops.

You freeze mid-spin, suddenly feeling too warm, too exposed, like you’re still back in that kitchen, caught between the tequila, the tension, and the pull of Vernon’s eyes. The phone screen flickers in your hand, but you don’t even need to read the message again to know what it means. You know Seungkwan’s been watching the two of you dance around each other, and you know who he is. Vernon’s watching you. He’s staring.

You glance over your shoulder instinctively, and there—across the room, leaning against the doorframe—is Vernon. That tantalizing smirk is still in place, like it’s carved into his face. His eyes are on you, not even trying to hide it, and that stupid look on his face says everything. The way he watches you makes your skin tingle, and the realization hits you harder than the tequila burn in your stomach.

“Yo, you good?” Mingyu’s voice cuts through the noise, pulling you back to the present. You swallow hard, still trying to shake the feeling of Vernon’s gaze on you. You force a smile and nod, but all you can think about is the way Vernon is watching you.

“Mingyu,” you murmur, grabbing his wrist, “I think I need a drink. I’ll be right back.”

Before he can protest, you make a beeline for the kitchen again, your feet moving quicker than you can process. You need space. You need air. The heat of the dance floor still clings to your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating feeling that’s starting to build in your chest. The tequila's starting to wear off, but your nerves are still shot, and you can’t get rid of the image of Vernon leaning against the doorframe, eyes fixed on you like he’s just waiting for you to make a move.

The kitchen’s quieter, the music a distant hum, and you’re almost grateful for the space, the absence of people. You grab the tequila bottle again, not caring if anyone’s watching. You pour yourself another shot, but before you can even bring it to your lips, you hear footsteps approaching. You don’t need to look up to know who it is.

“I think we should talk,” Vernon’s voice sounds closer than you expect. You try not to flinch, but you can’t stop yourself from stiffening. You move to step away, but then his hand is on the counter next to you, trapping you in place. You don’t want to look at him, not after everything that’s happened.

“I’m serious,” he adds, tone shifting just slightly. There’s a quiet edge to his voice, a softness you’ve never heard before, but it only makes you hesitate more.

You finally raise your gaze, and for the first time tonight, you meet his eyes. His smirk is still there, but there’s something else too—something you can’t quite place.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” you say, your voice lower than you intended.

Vernon’s eyes flicker for a moment, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face, but the moment’s gone too quickly. He chuckles lightly, not mocking, but with a sense of finality.

“Fair enough.” He straightens up, taking a step back, giving you a little more space, but still standing there. “But just so you know…” His voice softens again, the teasing replaced with something a little too sincere for your comfort. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Fuck. That’s it. You can’t be here anymore.

You spin on your heel, heading straight for Seungkwan, who’s been knee-deep in a Mario Kart championship with Soonyoung and Seokmin. The game is so intense that Seungkwan barely notices you storming up to him, too busy yelling at the screen as he tries to secure his victory.

“Time to go,” you say, your voice sharp enough that even Seungkwan can’t ignore it.

He looks up from his game, a little confused. “What? We just GOT HERE!”

“TIME TO GO, SEUNGKWAN,” you hiss, a little louder this time, unable to mask the frustration that’s bubbling up in your chest.

Seungkwan groans, annoyed that his Mario Kart dominance is being interrupted, but he stands up anyway, muttering something about the injustice of it all.

But then, like a fucking curse, Vernon appears in front of you, stepping into your path just as you try to make your exit. His presence feels almost too heavy in the moment, his gaze unrelenting as his lips curl into that same familiar smirk.

“Leaving so early?” he asks, voice laced with amusement, and his eyes lock on yours, steady and impossible to ignore. It makes your stomach flip, and you feel that heat in your cheeks you can’t seem to get rid of.

You avoid his gaze, turning your face just enough to escape the intensity of it. “Oh yeah, early morning,” you mumble, desperate to get out of there. “Lots of stuff to do, classes and all…”

Vernon tilts his head slightly, his smirk widening as if he can see right through your bullshit. “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he says, voice matter-of-fact, as if calling out your feeble excuse is somehow amusing to him.

Shit.

You try to force a smile through it, but it feels like it’s made of plastic, fake and thin. You avoid his gaze like it’s radioactive. “Yeah, uh… just, you know—okay, bye!” You nearly shove Seungkwan out the door before Vernon can say another word.

The second the door slams shut behind you, Seungkwan bursts out laughing, his voice loud in the quiet of the carpark.

“You’re such a mess,” he cackles, still trying to catch his breath. “Did you seriously try to pull the early morning classes excuse? Like, no one knows tomorrow’s Saturday?”

You shoot him a middle finger, too tired to even care. “Shut up, Seungkwan. Just drive.”

He laughs harder, but at least he doesn’t push it further. Seungkwan’s car engine roars to life, and as he drives off, the weight of the night slowly lifts from your shoulders. But in the back of your mind, you can still feel Vernon’s eyes on you, like they never really left.

Dinner a week later is nothing fancy—just some ramen you scrounged up after dragging yourself through another shit show of a week. The kitchen, warm and dimly lit by the overhead light, feels like a small refuge, and for a second, you’re fine with being here. The steam rising from your bowl swirls in the air, and you twirl the noodles absentmindedly, trying to ignore the weight of everything slowly settling over you.

Seungkwan’s sitting across from you, casually slurping his ramen, but there’s something in the way his eyes flicker up, a strange glint in them, that makes you pause. The silence stretches for a moment, the kind that feels like it’s waiting for something, and then, as if he can’t hold it in any longer, he drops the bomb.

“Vernon’s coming over later.”

You freeze, a piece of noodle hanging from your chopsticks, your eyes wide. “WHAT?” You nearly choke on the noodles, the shock making you forget to swallow. “Why the hell is he coming over? Are you—seriously?”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, lips curling into a grin that doesn’t match his feigned innocence. “Just to study,” he says, shrugging like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Our lab midterm is in a couple of days, and we can’t figure out the damn ratios for the prelab.”

Your mind stutters, trying to catch up with what he’s saying. Vernon, your uncomfortably charming classmate, is coming here. Of course he is. “Seungkwan, you know I—” You stop, frustrated, searching for words that aren’t quite coming. This is your house, your space, and you’re already struggling with the thought of being alone with him. The awkward tension from the last few days suddenly feels so much heavier now.

Seungkwan, not missing a beat, looks over at you with a teasing grin. “Haven’t you run away enough? It’s been, like, almost two weeks.” He’s got that smirk on his face again, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing all the right buttons to get you riled up.

You glare at him, trying to muster some kind of defense, but your words come out quieter than you expect. “I’m not running away,” you snap, though it’s weak. It’s been two weeks of exactly that. “I’m just—busy. You know, college stuff.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, and you feel your resolve crumble under his knowing look. “Yeah, sure. College stuff. That’s totally why you’ve been dodging Vernon for the past week. Can’t blame you though—guy’s got a way of making things... uncomfortable.” He chuckles at his own joke, but there’s an edge of teasing that cuts too close to the truth.

You groan, rubbing your face in frustration. “Stop making this worse.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Seungkwan shrugs, his grin widening. “Haven’t you thought about actually talking to him? It’s not like you’ve got that much time before he shows up.”

“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, then, more to yourself, “I didn’t plan this. He didn’t plan this. This is... This is all just—” You stop yourself, shaking your head, your words trailing off.

Seungkwan chuckles again, but this time, it’s softer, almost like he’s giving you space to breathe. “Look, I’m just saying, maybe stop running away for once. You’ll figure it out.” He slaps you lightly on the back, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

But before you can even gather your thoughts, Seungkwan’s phone rings. He picks it up immediately, urgency lacing his voice, and you’re taken off guard.

“Seokmin?” He pauses, listening. “What? Is the fish… what? It can’t breathe??” He gasps, standing up quickly. “I’ll be right there, man, I swear! I’m coming now!”

He hangs up, looking at you, his face twisting into exaggerated concern. “Emergency. Seokmin’s fish is dying.”

You blink, disbelief painted on your face. “You’re fucking joking. You’re actually leaving me with Vernon? Alone?”

“Yup!” Seungkwan says, already halfway to the door. “You’re on your own, Y/N! Don’t burn the place down!” His laugh echoes as he bolts out, leaving you standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring after him in utter disbelief.

Great. Just great.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rings. Your stomach does a flip, nerves bubbling in your chest. You almost consider pretending you’re not home, hiding in your bedroom until Vernon leaves. But that’s childish, and you can’t avoid this forever. With a sigh, you pull yourself to the door and open it, finding Vernon standing there, looking annoyingly comfortable with that goddamn grin on his face.

“Hi,” he says, voice teasing but warm. “So, Seungkwan tells me we’re doing some studying?”

You step aside to let him in. The last thing you want is to be rude, but the silence that follows as you both walk to the kitchen feels suffocating. You can practically feel the tension hanging in the air, thick with all the things you’ve been avoiding. His presence lingers, like it’s always been there, and yet it’s different now.

Vernon leans against the counter casually, and you busy yourself with rearranging things on the counter, anything to avoid looking at him. You can feel his eyes on you, but you can’t make yourself meet them. Every time you think about what happened, your heart races, and the words you said to him feel like a blur. But they’re always there, hovering on the edge of your thoughts.

Finally, Vernon breaks the silence, his voice softer than before. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You freeze. The air in the room seems to tighten, and his words land with the weight of a trap you didn’t see coming.

“What?” You try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out rough, more strained than you intended. “Pshhhh nooooo.”

“You have.” Vernon pushes off the counter, stepping closer to you. His movements are deliberate, but there’s a softness in them as he closes the space. His eyes remain locked on yours, steady and searching, like he’s waiting for you to crack, to finally admit something. You can’t look away, your breath shallow, the pulse at your neck pounding hard. “And you can’t even look me in the eye. Did I do something wrong?”

His voice is gentle, almost too gentle, and it makes your chest tighten. You shift uncomfortably, your arms folding across your body, a silent defense against the intensity of his gaze. The room feels smaller now, every inch of space filled with the heat between you. You feel trapped, your heart hammering in your chest, yet there's nowhere you'd rather be—and that's the problem.

“No, Vern, I just—” You stop, sucking in a breath, trying to steady yourself. “I said something I didn’t mean the other night.”

Vernon’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something in them—recognition, maybe? The way his lips part slightly, a mix of confusion and understanding. “You didn’t mean it?”

The words hit like a physical blow, and your stomach twists. You want to take them back, but instead, you find yourself retreating into yourself, avoiding his gaze. “I—what?”

“Did you mean it?” Vernon presses, and you swear you can feel his gaze like a weight on your skin. He’s not backing off, not letting this go.

You’re caught. You open your mouth, but no words come out, and the silence between you feels like it’s suffocating. You feel the heat rising to your face, your hands trembling by your sides.

“Mean what?” you finally manage, voice quieter than you’d like.

He steps even closer now, his body inches from yours, and his gaze doesn’t falter. His lips barely part as he speaks, the words lingering in the air between you. “Don’t play dumb with me, Y/N. You told me you loved me.”

The room spins, the ground beneath you feeling unsteady. You blink, your chest tightening as the memory of that night rushes back, sharp and overwhelming. Your hands move restlessly, clutching at the counter as if it’ll keep you from falling.

“But I was drunk—” You stumble over the words, desperate to explain, but his gaze doesn’t waver. His eyes are steady, unwavering, and you can’t escape them.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts,” Vernon says softly, his voice firm, but there’s no anger in it—only a certainty that rattles you.

“I just didn’t mean to put you on the spot—” You try again, but this time, he stops you, his tone more reassuring than you expect.

“You didn’t,” he says quietly, his hand reaching out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture. “You didn’t put me on the spot.”

“Okay?” you ask, your voice uncertain. You can’t tell if you’ve just misunderstood everything or if this moment has shifted entirely. You blink at him, still trying to catch up.

Vernon smiles then, a soft, almost affectionate smile, and the air between you shifts. The tension eases just a little, but it’s still thick, like something’s hanging in the balance. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“No…” you whisper, the words coming out almost too quietly, but Vernon just laughs.

“I said I loved you too, idiot.”

You freeze. The words crash into your chest, and you feel the ground tilt beneath you again. This time, it’s harder to recover from. “You—you WHAT?”

Vernon chuckles, his grin widening, and this time, it’s teasing, almost mischievous. “Come on,” he says, stepping closer. His chest is almost brushing yours now. “I love you too. Can you stop running away now?”

“I WASN’T!” you protest, but the words fall flat, not convincing even yourself. Your body is tense, but his proximity makes your heart race in a way you don’t quite understand.

“You were,” Vernon says, his smirk softening just enough to catch you off guard. You feel your knees go weak at the way his gaze softens, like he’s pulling you into something you’re not sure you’re ready for. “But it was kinda cute, y’know?”

Before you can even think of a response, he's right there, too close—like, uncomfortably close. His presence feels like it’s swallowing up all the space between you, and suddenly, you’re backed up against the counter, like he’s somehow managed to get you cornered without even trying. It’s all too familiar, too much like that night at the party. You can’t help but stiffen, but it’s not bad, just... intense.

You can feel the heat radiating off him now, like it’s pulling you in, and the way he’s leaning in just enough that you can’t help but tilt your head to meet his eyes—your heart starts hammering in your chest. Too close. Way too close. Your body wants to take a step back, but you don’t, mostly because you’re pretty sure you’re not even sure where to go from here.

And he knows it. You can see it in the way he’s standing, like he's completely unbothered, like it’s no big deal that he’s got you backed up into a corner. Your shoulders feel tense, but your feet just stay planted where they are, like they’ve been glued to the floor. His gaze locks with yours, and you can feel that pull, that thing that makes it hard to breathe—like your chest is getting tight and you’re not sure if you want to run or stay.

There’s this low buzz in the air between you two, and you don’t know how much of it is him or how much is just your heart freaking out. His breath is right there, close enough that you’re aware of the way it catches every time you look at him. And you can’t even tell if you’re annoyed at how close he’s gotten or if your mind is too distracted by how nice it feels to have him this near.

You’re trapped, but you’re not sure if you mind it. It’s like your chest is about to burst from the tension, or maybe it’s going to stop completely. Either way, you're not entirely sure which one you're hoping for.

“No more running,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, eyes never leaving yours. There’s no doubt in his tone, no hesitation, like he’s already made up his mind. The space between you two feels charged now, the air thick with the unspoken.

“No more running,” you echo, the words slipping out before you can stop them, and for the first time, they feel right. You’re not sure why, but you believe it.

And then, Vernon leans in, his lips brushing against yours.

The kiss is slow, soft at first, like he’s giving you space to catch up. His lips are warm and a little sweet, tasting faintly of mint from the gum he’s been chewing earlier. You inhale through your nose, catching the subtle scent of his cologne—fresh, with a hint of wood and citrus—that wraps around you like it’s always been there, like it’s familiar. Every part of him seems to make the world outside feel distant, unimportant. The tension, the uncertainty, the past few days—they don’t matter anymore.

The pressure of his lips increases, more certain now, and the warmth of his mouth sends a flutter through you. You lean in, responding, your hand instinctively finding the chain around his neck, pulling him closer, as if you can’t quite get enough of him. It’s slow, deliberate, like he wants to savor it just as much as you do. For the first time in days, everything feels like it’s in its right place.

When he pulls back, it’s just enough to speak, his lips still lingering on yours. “Y’know,” he says with a playful grin, “We could’ve been doing this two weeks ago if you weren’t so emotionally constipated.”

You laugh, breathless, pulling him closer by his chain. The heat creeping up your neck is almost unbearable. “Shut up,” you protest, half-smiling. “You can’t blame a girl for what she says when she’s drunk.”

“I won’t,” he agrees with a smirk, kissing you again, this time a little more urgently. “But I can’t make any promises about Seungkwan.”

From the hallway, you hear Seungkwan’s unmistakable voice, a triumphant cheer echoing from the door.

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peachesofteal · 1 year ago

Text

Light on - single mom/neighbors fic Simon Riley/female reader Prompt: You ask Simon to babysit for you last minute. For @that-fangirl-1106 and three anons

“Thank you so, so much. I owe you.”

Simon stops short at your door, brows raising in surprise. He expected to see you in your ‘house clothes’ as you call them, leggings, or an old pair of jeans with a t shirt. Instead, you’re wearing a skirt, a short skirt, swell of your breasts just visible inside the V of your shirt, and his stomach twists, confusion thrumming in his veins. What is this? Where are you going? When you called and asked him to help you watch Emma for a bit, he just assumed it was so you could run some errands or something, take some time for yourself. Not for… whatever this is.

You’ve got Emmaline on your hip, waist curved to accommodate her, and she’s babbling at you with a happy smile.

“Are you sure it’s not an inconvenience? My sitter bailed last minute.” The door lock clicks into place behind him, and he holds his tongue, stopping the flow of one hundred questions, biting down on the urge to pull you into his chest and tell you- you’re not actually going anywhere.

Would you agree? Would you look up at him with that sweet, beautiful face, and tell him that you won’t? That you’ll stay here, with him, instead. Where you belong.

“Simon?” Shit.

“It’s fine. I’m happy to help.” Emma coos, looking up at him, little legs wriggling in her onesie and his heart thumps a little harder, the green poison of jealously cooling just slightly when he realizes it doesn’t matter where you’re going. You’ll be coming home to him, and Emmaline, at the end of your night.

Still. He has to ask. He has to know.

“Where are you going?” You hand the baby to him, clucking softly, rubbing your fingers through her wispy crop of curls.

“Out with this guy I met!” You’re excited, practically beaming, and your fingers find the hem of your shirt, anxiously plucking at it. “It’s been a while since like-“ you stop yourself, embarrassment heating your face, and you clear your throat. “No one’s asked me on a date in a while. Single moms aren’t really… a hot commodity.” His stomach clenches at the idea of another man thinking you’re a hot anything, let alone even looking in your direction.

“Where are you going? Who is he?”

“To the little Thai spot on seventh.” You give him an odd look. “And he’s a guy I met at the library.”

“The library?”

“Yeah, during story time.” You’re pulling a jacket on, and he clenches his jaw so tight he could chew through concrete. “Alright, baby, love you.” You step into his orbit, dab of perfume still wet on your neck, heat pressing into his side when you bend to kiss Emma on her forehead. Your hand brushes his against her back, something clouding your gaze when you look up into his face, something hopeful and honeyed sweet, with just a glimpse of longing, enough that blood roars in his ears.

He should ask you to stay, tell you he’ll take you instead. Or take you somewhere better, take you anywhere you want to go.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches you slip out the front door, blowing the baby in his arms one last kiss goodnight with a wave of your palm.

An hour later, a key scrapes against the metal of the lock. He’s got Emmaline and her favorite stuffed giraffe in his arms, walking circles in the kitchen, bouncing her lightly to try to soothe her pre bedtime tears, a normal routine he’s seen you do more than once.

You slip through the door with a whispered apology, tired eyes rimmed in red.

“Hey.” You reach for Emma, giving her a big smile and holding her to your chest, little kisses from your lips dotting her head, her cheeks. Your eyes slip closed, tension sagging from your shoulders, and he frowns,

“What happened?”

“Nothing. He uh, didn’t show.” Oh, sweetheart. You shrug, brushing it off. “But that’s okay, isn’t it?” you coo at Emma, smoothing a hand up and down her back. “Yeah, that’s okay. Mum doesn’t need anyone but you, huh Emmaline?” You say something about putting her to bed, and he barely hears you, too busy thinking about finding the piece of shit that decided to stand you up and breaking every bone in his body.

You reappear once you’ve got her down, and he still hasn’t made himself scarce, lingering in your kitchen, hands in his pockets. He feels out of place, heart panging at the dejected look at your face.

“Fuck that guy.” He grunts, and you crack a smile, tucking your arms around yourself. “He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah.” You’re sullen, rejected, and it makes his blood boil, rage coursing through him knowing that someone made you feel less than the wonder you are. “Thanks for… I guess hanging out with her for a little while, at least. It was really nice of you.”

“Anytime.” The kitchen is silent for a moment, reflecting your somber mood, and just as he’s about to tell you how stupid that guy is, how much of fool he is to not see what he missed out on, how much he didn’t deserve a single second of your time, you sigh out a whispered confession.

“I guess it was pretty stupid.”

“What was stupid, sweetheart?”

“Going on a date when I have a baby at home. Thinking someone would even want a single mom with a baby at home.” You roll your eyes. “You know, as soon I got out the door, I was thinking about coming back? Couldn’t stop thinking about her. Wishing I was hanging out with my own daughter, and you… instead of going on a date.” His heart latches onto your words, hoarding them close, trying to memorize them so he can recall every syllable when he closes his eyes tonight.

“That’s not stupid.” He wants to comfort you, promise you that it’s the farthest thing from stupid.

“Maybe. Either way doesn’t matter, right? I got stood up.” You wince.

“Whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve a minute of your time.” Your lips part, a little stunned by the steadfast vow, before splitting into a delicate smile, and your head ducks.

“Thanks, Simon.”

#peaches writes #light on #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader

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jamminvroomvroom · 8 months ago

Note

Hey girlll I love your blog so so so much! Congrats on the 4k bc you absolutely deserve it🫶🏼

I just had a little angsty request for Charles lando or Oscar (you can pick any you’re feeling more atm, I eat up anything ab my boys)

I saw this prompt maybe you could use - - "I can be there when you need me!" "But I did, and you weren't."

late night talking.

op x fem norris!reader

in which lando’s little sister has been sneaking around with his teammate, but it’s starting to have its challenges…

hiiiii thank u sm anon! love this request love you MWAH! so appreciative of this request and all of the others and that y’all trust me to bring your ideas to life!! i hope this hits the way you wanted it to! let me know what you think, big love 🤍

songs to set the mood: late night talking by harry styles, i love you by billie eilish, over my head by james marriott, if these walls could talk by 5sos

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, angst, fluff, a bit of hurt/comfort, secret relationship, brothers teammate trope (r is lando’s sister), fingering, morning sex, angsty needy sex, lando being an embarrassing little shit

4.1k words

sex and talking. sex and talking. sex and talking.

that’s what you do, oscar and you.

you watch him all weekend, eyes trailing his lean frame, the way his body moves under papaya fabric. then, when your brother finally leaves you alone, you sneak into oscar’s arms, room, bed, whatever’s closest.

you have your way with one another, nothing untouched, unexplored, and then you talk and talk until your lips hurt from stretched out grins and a satisfying ache sets into your spent limbs. you sneak out when the sun comes up the next day and join lando for breakfast in whatever hotel you’re in that weekend.

rinse, repeat.

you can remember the first time you saw him in real life, way back in early 2023, clear as day. you were in bahrain with your brother for testing, the sun in your eyes, and there he was. awkward, stocky, hands buried deep in his mclaren administered slacks. he was littered with moles, mousey brown hair catching the rays of light, chocolate eyes conveying cool confidence that didn’t at all match up with his uncomfortable stance. you could kiss over those moles like a game of dot to dot, tug on his strands that looked like smooth chocolate frosting, sink into his brown irises until you drowned.

lando had caught you staring, sending his elbow into your ribs, and when you turned to glare at him, cuss him out, you saw a look of warning. his eyes said: don’t you fucking dare.

and you didn’t dare, not for a while at least.

“o-osc.” you whine, panting through the waves of eye-watering pleasure.

he’s got you laid out across his massage table, two fingers scissoring into your sodden cunt as his thumb bumps your clit in messy circles.

it’s rare that you sneak away so brazenly like this during a race weekend.

“you gotta be quiet.” oscar shushes you, eyes flitting between your own watery pair and his fingers where they’re working you open.

“trying.” you breathe, slapping your own hand over your mouth when your belly tightens one last time. one wrong move and the entirety of the hospitality suite will know. lando will know. perhaps all of china will know. that’s how good he fucking feels.

you sob into your palm, bucking your hips wildly as you fall apart, spilling all around his relentless fingers. he fucks you through it, grinning coyly as your muffled cries subside.

“c’mere.” oscar lulls, pulling you back towards him. he kisses you deeply, smiling against your lips.

“i should go.” you mumble, pushing his hair back and raking your fingers through his hair.

oscar nods apathetically, reserved all of the sudden. you frown, stealing another quick kiss. you stumble to your feet fixing your underwear and your skirt, and grab your bag from the small sofa.

“we need to be more careful.” his words make your blood run cold.

“more careful?”

you sneak in and out of hotel rooms under the cover of night, you have his name disguised in your phone, you never speak to him in public.

“this was risky.” oscar shrugs. he looks antsy, his entire demeanour changing in a matter of minutes, the ecstasy of watching you writhe all for him worn off.

“this- i- you’re the one who dragged me in here, piastri.” you accuse. ‘piastri’ is reserved for when you’re pissed off, a cagey step back from the affection ‘osc’ that you usually called him. “whatever, i’ve got to go.”

“i’ll see you later?” he poses it as a question, uncertain that you’ll show. he has never been uncertain before, not with you, not with a lot of things. bile rises in your throat, and you scoff.

you can’t reply. the door slams behind you.

“where’ve you been?” lando ruffles your hair, a single eyebrow raised suspiciously.

“got bored with watching you look at data so i went for a walk.” you reply nonchalantly, pushing his hand away.

he hums in response, nodding slowly. it’s like he doesn’t quite believe you but he quickly moves on.

“you coming out with us after the race tomorrow?” lando asks.

“depends on who ‘us’ is.” you reply curtly. you don’t wanna look at oscar’s stupid, handsome face for a second longer than you have to. a familiar sadness sinks into your bones.

“couple of the drivers, alex, carlos, oh and oscar might even be swayed.” you grit your teeth, suddenly frustrated. “anyway, since when do you have beef with drivers? little miss sunshine fallen out with someone?” lando sounds confused, accusatory.

you stay silent, walking into the back of the garage, praying someone will come and steal your brother away.

“hey, you gonna tell me what the problem i-?”

“lando, we need you to look at this.” your brother gets cut off by a frantic engineer, your prayers answered, and is quickly lost to the chaos of the garage.

a pair of warm eyes burn into the side of your head. you turn to see oscar watching you, his eyebrows furrowed as if he’s studying you. he’s fidgeting, playing with his fingers, something strange for the man as cool as a cucumber. you look away as quickly as you can, managing to tear your eyes away from him, a lump forming in your throat which you swallow down.

it’s painful, really. sex and talking, it’s not enough, never has been for even a second. oscar piastri, australian f1 driver, number 81, quickly became your oscar, somewhat against your will.

somewhere in hungary, about 8 months ago

“are we really doing this, piastri?” you giggle, throwing your head back as his lips work your neck.

“need you.” he groans into your skin, low and needy. you’ve never heard him sound so disheveled, so desperate, a far cry from his usual, monotonous self.

“want you, osc.” you pant when his lips find your sweet spot, the feeling of him so delicious on your body.

“have me.” he whispers, falling into bed with you in his lap.

you lay there basking in stunned silence afterwards, a layer of sweat coating your knackered body. your shoulder is pressed flush with oscar’s, not an inch of space between you while you both stare at the ceiling, sporting matching lazy grins.

“i can’t believe we did that.” oscar mutters, a layer of disbelief in his voice.

“i think we should do it again.” you tease, except you are deadly serious.

“agreed.” he breathes.

“this stays between us, right?” you whisper, shyly.

“always.”

always makes your skin crawl now. you’re sick of having him in the dark, of having to avoid him in public for fear of turning into a lovesick fool. it’s embarrassing, really, unrequited love.

you can barely follow qualifying, staring blankly at the empty space in the garage where oscar’s car resides. you manage to catch the radio message through the headset you have on, the one where oscar’s muttering about a stupid mistake that’s just knocked him out. he’s limping back to the pits, licking his wounds.

you feel a pang in your chest, sympathetic and disappointed for him. you wonder what his mistake was, where his mind was. you’ll wait for the right moment, swallow the ache in your heart and your pride, and you’ll comfort him. he gets led away by frustrated engineers immediately, studying lines of data with furrowed eyebrows. you watch from afar, but then your heart sinks to your feet when four words sound through your headphones.

“lando, are you okay?”

will sounds stressed, repeating the four words that make your world stop spinning on its axis. everyone in the garage is staring at the tv screen, breaths held, stomachs tight.

your brothers car sits in tatters, carbon fibre littering the track. you can see the fluorescents of his helmet burrowed in the cockpit, still. your mouth hangs open, one hand clutching your chest, the other covering your quivering lips. you’re numb.

that feeling returns, the one of eyes burning into your weathered features. your wide eyes flit to the australian boy watching you from across the garage, and you beg silently for him to just come to you, pull you close, tell you that lando is okay and that he loves you back.

and lando is okay, his winded voice reassuring you over the radio.

but you stand there alone.

just like always.

somewhere in brazil, about 5 months ago

“what’s your favourite colour?” oscar mumbles lazily, lips bumping your cheekbone.

you’re curled up on his lap watching the sunset from his balcony. he was well behind lando after qualifying, and he’d craved a moment alone with you all day.

the air was thick, humid, the hot orange sun sinking far off in the horizon. you turn to face him, his features illuminated by the hazy glow. the sunlight makes his chocolate eyes sparkle warmly, so pretty.

“brown.” you whisper, scanning his face.

he laughs lowly, his chest rumbling.

“brown?” he questions teasingly.

“yep.” you grin, pecking his lips softly.

“why?”

“go look at those pretty eyes of yours in the mirror.” you retort smoothly, threading your fingers through his shower-damp strands.

“you flirting with me?”

“you bet i am.”

you twist back around, facing the view once more, moulding into his body. he kisses over your shoulder, resting his chin. you stay there content until the sun is gone and the stars twinkle.

the air in the room is thick, awkwardly silent.

he stands leaning against the desk, opposite where you sit on your bed. the lights are low in your hotel room, the imprint of your body still fresh against the mattress. you’d been crying when he knocked, eyes rimmed red, skin flushed raw.

“you just stood there.” you croak.

“love, i-“

“don’t call me that. please.”

hurt flashes across his features, but like he knows it’s not fair of him to complain, he buries it immediately.

“i just… will you hear me out?” oscar pleads quietly.

you nod feebly.

“it’s impossible. this, us. i wanted to go to you but i- i couldn’t, i didn’t know how that would look and i didn’t want to jeopardise this.”

“but you did.” you whisper. his face shatters, falling fast.

“no, no, i can be there when you need me-“

“but you weren’t!” you cry, your body physically sinking, your shoulders drooping.

“i can fix this, i will.”

“i think we need to stop this, osc. it’s too painful for me. i’ve tried to move past the hurt but after today…” your voice shakes and you crumble, the first tear falling.

“i’m not trying to hurt you.” he crosses the space between you in two rushed steps, collapsing to his knees before you.

“that’s not good enough.” you bite back. “i’m not going to be some guys dirty little secret. i won’t do it anymore oscar.”

“i was trying to protect you… this.” he gestures between you desperately

“i know, oscar. i know! but i never asked you to do that. i can’t love you in a hotel room for the rest of my life.” the words slip from your tongue, abrasive and messy, before your brain can catch up.

you grimace, biting your tongue, but oscar’s reaction couldn’t be further from your own. his watery eyes widen, pink lips pulling into a boyish grin.

“i don’t want to love you in a hotel room for the rest of my life either.” oscar whispers, tentatively taking your hands. you stare down at your slowly intertwining fingers, a familiar warmth oozing through your body. “i wanna love you everywhere.”

“show me.” you murmur through shaky breath.

“i will.” he leans in, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “for as long as you let me, i will.”

“just come here.” your fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him into a kiss, one born of frustration, and longing, and a year of late night talking about everything except how much you love each other.

oscar pushes you back onto the bed, crawling over you, starving. you pull him flush against you, leaving no room between your bodies. you crave the feel of his entire weight pressing you into the mattress and as he does, you feel at home. when you pull apart, catching your breaths, he says it properly, for the first time, and the world gets lighter.

“i love you.” oscar cups your jaw, those chocolate eyes boring into yours, the intensity of it knocking you for six. “always.” he adds.

the meaning of the word changes. always doesn’t mean a shameful, taboo secret anymore. life is breathed into the six lettered word; always means you and him, together, finally out of the shadows.

“i love you, osc.” you whisper.

he’s smiling when he kisses you again, unbuttoning your blouse like he’ll die if he doesn’t get the offending item off of your frame. you retaliate by shoving his t-shirt up his back, tugging greedily at it to strip him bare. the material comes off easily and as he sits up to throw it away, you shrug off your blouse and it meets his shirt on the floor. his hands smooth over your curves, brushing the pudge of your belly as he finds the zip of your skirt, ruining the fasten in his state of haste. you barely notice the way he’s ruined the item of clothing, urgently unbuttoning his jeans. your underwear is gone too, nothing separating you but your bra, restless hands on heated skin.

“we need to be quiet.” you breathe. “lando’s next door.” oscar giggles, tinged pink.

“get on top, love.” he drawls, flipping onto his back and taking you with him.

he sits up with you in his lap, nothing anchoring either of you in the middle of the bed. the imprint of your devastated form is gone, replaced by the shape of him. you can feel the head of his cock nudging through your folds, slicking him up so that he can slide nice and deep. he trails his fingers between your legs, thumbing at your clit in deft circles, just the way he knows you like it. you’re mewling in his lap, grinding down on the pad of his thumb; it’s so good but it’s not enough.

“please, osc.” you pant, urging him to let you sink down on his cock. you can see how red it is, feel the way it throbs for you, and the need to be full of him is almost paralysing.

“come on, pretty girl. fill yourself up.” oscar mutters against the shell of your ear.

he kisses down your throat as you slide down on him, dropping your hips firm against his.

“fuck.” you cry, your forehead falling against his shoulder.

“you okay, sweetheart? feel so good for me.” oscar coos, his fingertips digging hard into your hips.

“so good, baby.” your head rolls back, feeling him hit that spot tucked away within your walls.

your breaths mingle, your breasts flush against his chest, and as if he realises that he never stripped you of your pesky bra, he grunts, unclasping the black lace and flinging it somewhere far away. he gently mumbles an awestruck “fuck”, as if he hasn’t seen your tits a million and one times before, and latches onto your nipple. his tongue works in slow circles, matching the pace of your hips working languidly on his cock, and you keen further into his body.

“prettiest girl for me.” oscar grits out, his eyes squeezing shut when you clamp down on him, hard.

you’re both trying so hard to be quiet, overwhelmed by touch and taste, love. you’re growing tired, hurtling towards a desperate release, and oscar can sense it, the feel of your quivering thighs tightening around his hips spurring him on. he grinds up into you, maintaining your pace, but he’s fucking you harder now, the anticipation of your release sending shivers down his spine.

“you gonna cum for me?” oscar grunts, holding your hips down against him. you can’t move, his hold too tight and your body too tired, all you can do is wait for your orgasm to hit like a ton of bricks. you nod frantically.

“yes, oscar, please baby.” you beg for it, and like the true gentleman he is, the calloused pad of his pointer finger finds its home on your clit, sending you into an upwards spiral.

it’s as if you’re levitating when you let go, in a dreamlike state, your teeth sinking hard into his pale shoulder to muffle a surefire whine of his name. he’s rutting into you, prolonging the bliss.

“cum inside of me.” you urge, voice barely above a whisper. well, you’ve certainly never done this before.

oscar’s eyes roll into the back of his head, tears pricking his lash line. a guttural gasp of your name spills from his lips when he lets go, painting your insides warm and white. you stare at the tiny indents your teeth had left on his thick shoulder, his breath hitting the crook of your neck warm and wet as he comes down.

“‘m yours, and i’m here. i’m always gonna be here, i promise.” oscar speaks so quietly that you wonder if you’ve imagined it.

“when i made that mistake today, i was thinking about you.”

you’ve been laying there in silence for a while now, tucked under his arm when he speaks. you turn to look at him, perplexed.

“what?”

“i felt so awful about what i said after we, you know. you looked so upset with me, and i don’t blame you.” oscar sighs.

“i just don’t want to feel like a shameful secret, osc.” you tell him quietly, the words heavy on your tongue.

“you won’t, not anymore. ‘m so sorry, sweetheart.” he lulls, kissing over your hairline.

“how do we make this work? and how are we ever gonna explain this to-“

“lando.” oscar cuts you off, shifting uncomfortable. “he’s going to murder me and my entire bloodline.” he chuckles nervously.

“he won’t murder you. he might put you in a gravel trap, though.” you roll onto your side, smiling teasingly up at him and he rolls his eyes.

“i’ll take the heat. you’re worth it.”

“promise me.” you pant, his hips grinding into you. you’re curled into his chest, still spooning and barely awake. he’d woken up needy, and you were even needier, the faint glow of early morning sunshine washing over you through a crack in the beige curtains.

“anything.” oscar stutters, his breath warm against the back of your neck. his nose bumps your skin, teeth scraping the shell of your ear.

you stop meeting his thrusts. he whines low, wordlessly pleading for you to resume. he ruts his hips against your ass, chasing friction.

“tell me it’s all gonna be different now.”

“i already told you, i-“ oscar grunts.

“promise me.” you purposely clamp down on him, a hiss sounding from between his gritted teeth.

“promise, i promise, i love you.”

you giggle, rocking your hips again, fucking yourself onto him once more.

“i know.”

“you gonna let me off the hook?” oscar pants in your ear, tugging on your earlobe with his teeth.

“still gotta prove yourself, piastri.” you moan.

he feels deeper like this and he knows it, revelling in the way he’s filled you up so perfectly. he rolls into you slowly, sliding against each and every spot that makes you squirm. you drop your guard, going limp in his arms to let him finish you off.

“you nearly there, sweetheart? you gonna cum for me, love?” his accents thickens in the mornings, husky and intoxicating. you fall apart, then, and he stays buried inside of you, the only sounds in the room your matching heavy breathing.

“i need you to get dressed.” oscar kisses your cheek.

“kicking me out already?” you feign offence, looking at him over your shoulder.

his fingers come to cup your chin, his forehead resting against yours.

“there’s something we gotta do.”

you’re wearing your skirt from the day before, the waistband rolled over to make up for the oscar-destroyed zipper. his hoodie that you’ve stolen almost completely covers the short skirt, and your messy hair and poorly removed makeup don’t do much to convince anyone that you’d actually slept in your own room last night.

still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you don’t really comprehend where oscar is leading you, but when the elevator dings, signalling that you’ve reached the restaurant floor, you’re suddenly painfully awake. time seems to move in slow motion, your tummy twisting as you realise what’s about to happen.

ahead of you, tucked into the corner of the restaurant is your brother, jon, and ashley. lando is already draped in team kit, the papaya of his hoodie blaring obnoxiously for once, a warning sign.

“oscar, what-“

“i’m doing this.” he affirms, speeding up his stride.

oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god.

your heart speeds up, dropping to the pit in your belly when lando notices you, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched, eyes taking in the bewildering sight before him. his baby sister, disheveled and wide-eyed, and his teammate holding her hand, on a mission.

“what the fuck am i looking at?” lando doesn’t sound angry, per say, more perplexed than anything. there is an edge to his voice that you don’t particularly like, but he hasn’t started swinging yet, you suppose.

“i’m in love with your sister. like, for real. you deserve to know that.” oscar says confidently, somewhat monotonously.

lando opens his mouth, closes it. opens it again, closes it. he repeats the process a few more times, going through the motions of an emotional rollercoaster.

but then, he sighs deeply, a grin of disbelief stretching across his face. jon bangs on the table excitedly, and ash is shaking his head.

“you owe us so much money.” jon laughs, his head tipping back.

“pay up, boss.” ash sticks his hand out expectantly, smirking across the table.

“what… what?” you exclaim, narrowing your eyes in confusion.

“i didn’t wanna believe them.” lando shrugs.

“don’t blame you.” oscar chimes in, and you stare between the two mclaren drivers in bewilderment.

“are you okay with this?” you question, staring your brother in the eyes, still a bit disoriented by the entire situation. his face softens, a genuine smile lingering small on his lips.

“if you’re happy, i’ll make my peace with it.” lando’s eyes flit between you and oscar.

all of the sudden, a look of horror crosses his face, and his voice turns stern.

“but,” he inhales shakily. “if i ever, ever, hear again what i think i heard last night,” he glares at oscar, pointing one firm finger at the australian, who stands up a bit straighter. “you’re dead, piastri.”

jon and ash bite back giggles at the empty threat, and you take it upon yourself to put an end to the situation before it gets any more awkward.

“well, on that note!” you sing-song, dragging oscar away.

“and make sure you’re using protection!” lando calls out, panic stricken, big brother mode activated.

“oh my god.” you blush dark pink, speeding up, the elevator in your sights.

“that went well.” oscar quips sarcastically. he looks rather happy with himself.

you kiss him as soon as the metal doors shut.

you do go out after the race, but for once it’s not to drink away the memories of a weekend in oscar’s arms. this time, it’s to celebrate the fact that you can love him out loud, and he’ll do the same right back.

you’re dancing in his arms, bright lights in shades of blues and purples streaming over your bodies. oscar holds you close, keeps you wrapped in his arms, despite the shock on the faces of others at the sight of lando norris’s baby sister publicly besotted with his teammate.

when oscar kisses you deep, smiling against your lips that taste like cherry liquor, you know that this last year of your life wasn’t in vain.

you and oscar, you’re built to last.

“how did you not see it, mate?” charles beams, crinkles by his eyes from the wide smile he’s sporting. he’s clearly drunk, but lando is too.

it appears he’s clocked the brits sister and her australian suitor on the dance floor.

the monagasque has rocked up to the bar with alex and pierre in tow, the three of them slapping lando on the back as they arrive.

“i guess there were signs.” lando shrugs, dragging his finger over the rim of the crystal glass.

“signs? mate it was obvious.” pierre chuckles, pushing lando’s shoulder.

“wait, you all knew?” lando splutters.

yeah. duh. come on, man.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“it’s funnier.” charles… winks? it’s hard to tell with him.

lando finds you in the crowd, grinning up at oscar like he hung the stars in the sky. the younger mclaren driver returns your look, and it sparks warmth in lando’s chest.

you’re gonna be okay.

hehe

taglist

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