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ham1lton · 7 months ago

Text

X MARKS THE SPOT!

pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.

faceclaim: jessica alba.

summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.

warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3

author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D

now part of a trilogy!

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liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others

yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!

view all 298,727 comments

user1: MOTHERRR

user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!

-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

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“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

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EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

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r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

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u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

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liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

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‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

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view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

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[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.

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liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir! with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’

mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘trailblazer’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

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— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)

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foragerknits · 8 months ago

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Sometimes I think about how in order to be a writer today you cannot have internet privacy. I was reading an article in which a journalist recalls collaborating with Mary Oliver, who was notoriously private. Oliver refused to communicate with them through fax or email and said (through her publisher) that she would hand them written notes at an event she was doing in New York City. It struck me that Mary Oliver in 2024 would have almost no chance of becoming a successful poet. Writers today have to have a social media presence to have a built in audience so publishers can be assured that they will get sales and to bear the brunt of social media marketing. They have to be available and put themselves on the internet in every way possible.

More and more I read interviews from artists across many mediums talk about how if you cannot market on Tik Tok your chances of success diminish. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be an online influencer and I am surely not saying that the author-influencer is a new phenomenon, but it should not be a pre-requisite for being a successful writer. I love that writers like Mary Oliver, Elena Ferrante, and Donna Tart exist, and it is not talked enough about how they could not begin a career in 2024 and achieve the same amount of success unless they were well connected or extremely lucky. It makes me sad that this is the state of publishing.

#mary oliver #wild geese #influencer #capitalism #late stage capitalism

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blvdprn · 5 months ago

Text

VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL

# jjk men ; 柔術廻戦男 ) x domtop male reader

synopsis special day with your lovely boyfriend

ft. gojō, getō, nanami, tōji, & naoya

warnings non-specified nsfw, suguru’s part is shorter srry, slight homophobia & misogyny from naoya surprise surprise

wc not counted

It was your first ever Valentine’s Day with your boyfriend. Or rather, the first Valentine’s Day when neither of you was busy. Usually, one or the other had a job to do that day —seeing as work never rests— but today, finally, you were both free.

And you were pretty excited.

See, you’ve been planning a little something for a while. After a nice and romantic day filled with sexual tension and ending with a candle-lit dinner, a surprise was waiting for you and your boyfriend at home.

Your sex life wasn’t lacking per se, it was more so some things went unexplored because of an insufficient amount of time. Usually (and sadly), you guys had quickies. There was nothing special about it, it was just a way to relieve stress and show each other that yes you still find the other very appealing. I mean, how could you not? Living with an insanely attractive man and what’s that? Dating said, attractive man? Mmmm, yes, please.

Pushing the key into the lock after paying the bill and driving home, you were nearly shaking with anticipation for what was about to come. Opening the door to your shared house, you quickly pulled the man in, knowing damn well you’d get a noise complaint in the morning. Or at the very least, a nasty stink eye from your neighbours.

—GOJŌ SATORU ( 五条悟 ) : cock bondage

“Fuck!”

“Mm— what’s wrong Satoru? I thought you could take it?”

Right now he was spread out so beautifully for you, knees touching his shoulders and ankles near your shoulders as a result of you pushing his thighs upwards. You were fucking him deep and slow at the moment, making him see stars.

Oh, and how could you forget the pretty pink ribbon tied under and between his balls, reaching the base of his cute red dick and creating a small bow.

“I-I can! This is nothINGGGHH,” cried the man under you, moaning the last part of his sentence.

You laughed. “Doesn’t seem like nothing, sweetheart.”

Satoru blushed even harder, whether from you calling him out or the endearing pet name, you couldn’t tell. Pouting a little, he scratches the hands holding his thighs down. “Just take this thing off… I want to cum already and this stupid thing won’t let me!”

“Awe,” you coo. “Other than giving your cock a nice touch, that was the whole point of it.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Yeah, but you’re taking this dick though!”

“Man just shut up and— FUUUCK!”

Your hips switched pace, from slow to fast, but equally as deep. You should thank all those stupid times Satoru dragged you out on a run for the insane speed you currently held.

“S-shit,” you groaned. “Look at your cute little dick. Looks s-so pretty with the bow…” And although his length was perfect (just like him) and you were just teasing, it really did look pretty. The light pink of the satin ribbon contrasted nicely with the darker shade of him.

Satoru could barely respond, overwhelmed with both the feeling of needing to cum but not being able to, and feeling your cock touching his prostate with every thrust. Slight tears left his eyes, blurring his vision from fully seeing the way small amounts of pre cum ran down the satin around him.

You noticed this, and feeling pity for your pathetic boyfriend, you let one of his thighs go in order to untie the ribbon, knowing you were at your limit too. Immediately, he threw his head back, letting out a loud and whiny moan that would surely wake the neighbours if they weren’t already awake.

Muffling his moan with a kiss, you pulled out right on time, both of your hot fluids mixing together and on his stomach.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you mumbled against his lips. Only receiving a slight laugh in response.

When you were about to pull away, his legs slid down, wrapping themselves around your hips and waist with surprising strength from someone who was just shaking.

“Where do you think you’re going, babe? We’re not done here yet.” Satoru said, staring at your eyes darkly, and all you could do was gulp.

‘Oh, boy.’

—GETŌ SUGURU ( 夏油傑 ) : collaring

“Is this really necessary?”

“What?” you questioned. “You don’t like it?”

“Darling, it’s embarrassing.”

You huffed. “Which part? The leash or my name on it?”

“Both.” You could practically see him giving you a side eye from your question, even though his back was facing you.

“Well,” you hummed. “Just don’t think about it.”

“And how am I not supposed to do that?”

Expecting an answer, he didn’t imagine you would pull the leash back while giving a powerful thrust. Which is why he couldn’t control the loud and surprised moan that escaped from his lips.

“A-ah! A warning would’ve been n-nice.”

You shushed him. “Don’t think.”

“Mmh— this is going t-to make my throat sore…”

“Liar,” you tutted. “I’ve seen you swallow those curses. This is nothing for you, Suguru.”

He stayed silent, but not for long, because you started rapidly thrusting again with only one goal in mind.

“F-feels so good, darling!” He moaned, gripping the sheets below him, only being able to see your silhouette moving because of the small candles on each side of the bed. “Haaahh—”

Pulling the leash again, you lowered your body so your stomach was almost directly onto Suguru’s back and your face hooked onto his shoulder. In this position, his head was pulled back, and you were able to see the way the nameplate with your name on it moved with each of your thrusts.

Suguru moaned louder, somewhat liking how your name was engraved into something that was on him. He enjoyed the harsh feeling of the collar digging into his Adam’s apple. And he certainly savoured the sounds leaving your mouth that was directly behind his right ear.

Drool escaped his lips, having no choice but to let it fall out of his mouth because he wasn’t able to properly swallow it.

With one strong arm holding him up, he let the other grab your head, pulling you into a necessary and messy kiss. Gasping with every breath, his fingers tightened more and more on some of your longer strands, feeling himself about to cum.

“Darling— I’m ab-bout to—”

“It’s okay… You can cum more anyway.”

And with that, he knew the night was going to be long.

—NANAMI KENTO ( 七海建人 ) : wax play

Quiet pants slipped past your boyfriend’s lips. The heat of the wax on his skin was a great contrast to his cold body. It was embarrassing, how much he liked it. When you first brought it up, Kento was hesitant, never before trying something that was considered so… kinky (by his standards anyway, not yours).

“Ngh…” he moaned softly.

You smile at him, eyes bright with happiness. “It seems like you’re enjoying yourself, Kento.”

Pink dusted his cheeks, shamefully averting his eyes from your face. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”

With amusement in your voice and a raised eyebrow, you ask, “Not as bad? But you’re making such cute noises.” Your teasing doesn’t stop there. “It’s bad to lie to the love of your life, you know, and on such a special day too.”

“Don’t tease. Fine, I like the warmth.”

“Of course you do, I knew you would.”

With that, you dipped the candle in your hand, hot wax falling and hitting the blonde man under you. His fit stomach clenched, abs pronounced more than normal as a result.

“By the way,” you muttered. “The wax turns into lotion.” To show him, you moved one of your fingers around some of the hardened wax, watching how it turned into liquid again, but this time it had a semi-cold watery texture. And to your enjoyment, you see the way his eyes watch and silently plea for your hands to move the wax somewhere else.

“That’s…” he begins, eyebrow twitching a bit. “Nice.”

“Very.”

Continuing to pour the hot wax down, down, down. You reach his naked thighs, seeing his pale skin slightly tremble. He wasn’t able to hold in the “hurry” that he covered by putting his hand over his mouth.

“S-shit!” Kento said, being muffled by his hand, letting out an uncharacteristic squeal the moment the blistering heat travelled to his inner thighs.

You chuckled, appreciating the almost once-in-a-lifetime view.

Closer and closer, all Kento was able to feel was a need that he never thought he’d have. A shameful and embarrassing thought rushed through his head, one that he wasn’t quite sure he could vocally tell you in fear that it was a little too much. But like always, you could read him like the back of your hand, so you knew exactly what he wanted.

“Fffffffuuuuuckk—” Was all he let out the moment the wax made contact with the base of his dick.

With an idea in your mind, you swiftly stained his cock with the red burning heat, hearing the desperate cries he let out for you to continue. Even louder moans reached your ears the moment your hand went into contact with it, sweetly massaging up and down so the now lotion wasn’t able to cool down quickly enough.

Kento unexpectedly reached down, grabbing onto your hand so the lotion could be spread everywhere. From his balls to his stomach and up his pecs, it didn’t seem like he knew what he was doing, only trying to feel the fire-like warmth from smearing all over him.

With his moans in the air and his senseless voice sounding in the quiet night, you knew this was just starting. After all, you guys hadn’t even fucked yet.

—FUSHIGURO TŌJI ( 伏黒甚爾 ) : riding crop

Never in your fucking life did you think he was actually going to let you do this? I mean sure, you’ve explored a little bit before but you thought this was going to be too excessive for him, that he was even going to be annoyed with you.

But that wasn’t the case at all.

Sure he looked a little ticked off at first, but after thinking about it for a bit he laughed and challenged you.

Which is what brought you to now.

Toji’s strong form was lying on the rose-covered bed, something he scoffed at but you were sure you saw a tiny dust of pink on his cheeks before he turned away. His back was to you, a rare sight, seeing as it made him feel like he had no control. Although you were certain it also made him feel exposed and embarrassed if his red-coloured ears were anything to go by.

You could see his muscular back flexing with any slight movement he did, his veiny arms twitching and big biceps tightening.

All in all, he looked delicious.

The crop tightened in your hand, its leather end glided down the curve of Toji’s spine. A perfect fit, touching every nook and cranny, leaving absolutely nothing unmarked.

An annoyed huff left his nose. “Would you hurry it up?”

You tsked, “Patience.”

“That’s something I don’t have right now and you know it. Unless you don’t know what you’re fucking doing?”

With a hum, you decided to give him what he wanted, knowing this was going to be the last time you did so tonight.

A harsh slap was heard when leather hit unblemished skin, turning it into a soft pink.

Toji’s shoulders stiffened, and you were sure he held in any sounds he was about to make.

“Hey,” you called out. “Don’t hold your noises in.”

“I’m not, you’re just weak.”

‘Right.’

Hit. Again.

This continued on until his back was covered in colour, yet nothing escaped his lips. Not until the leather hit his ass.

“Fu—”

Continuing your assault on his round ass, you never gave him enough time to complain. And even though it was embarrassing for him, he was glad you didn’t stop, because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to say anything anyway, and it felt so good.

When you knew bruises were going to form, you stopped to turn Toji around, letting the crop trail from his giant pecs to his twitching dick. Only then did you notice that he had come already, but the look in his eyes was telling you to hit something else.

And who were you to deny? Guess he really had you wrapped around his finger.

—ZEN’IN NAOYA ( 禪院直哉 ) : feminisation

“What the fuck is this?” Were the only words to come out of your boyfriend when he saw the short red dress with a frilly skirt on your shared bed.

“A present.”

“It’s a fucking dress. Do I look like a damn woman to you?”

Ah yes, you decided this was going to be a slight punishment for all the times he’s said some dumb shit about women.

“You call women whores. Maybe I should treat you like one so you can know the difference, no?”

Naoya’s eyes screamed in rage, how dare you compare him to them? “It’s bad enough I’m with you —a man who can’t even give me an offspring— but now you want me to be a stupid woman?” His fists were clenched and ready to beat some sense into you (as if he could). “You fucking—”

And then suddenly his top half was leaning on the edge of the bed, wrists pinned behind his back by your hands, and his legs trying to keep himself up to not slide down and fall to the floor.

He hiccuped, not understanding how one minute he was about to launch a punch at you, then the next he had the stupid dress on with the skirt flipped up so as to not get in the way of your continuous thrusts.

“Awe,” you coo mockingly. “What happened to all the talking back? I thought you didn’t want to wear this, but look at you! Looking all pretty and taking me so well. Now aren’t you a doll?”

Naoya was so fucking embarrassed, both by your words and what he was wearing. Why did he like this?

“S-shut the fuck uP— NGHH!”

With only one of your hands pinning his wrists, the other slipped past the cloth of the dress on the chest area. Luckily, your arms were long enough, so there was no need to take your eyes off his hole swallowing your dick, just to pinch one of his nipples.

“I’m not a w-whore! Stop it!” He cried out, but really, he didn’t want you to stop.

“Really?” You pulled on his perky nipple, feeling the way he clenched around you. “But your pussy seems to like it when I play with your tits?”

He whined, slight sobs making his shoulders shake. “Not a pussy!”

You moaned, liking how his voice rose when he said that. “You’re so wet here though.” And with that, your other hand let go of his wrists, Naoya hastily having to grab the sheets under him.

Your hand slipped around his surprisingly slim waist, grabbing a handful of his nodding cock and tracing your thumb against the slit.

“See? You’re so sensitive when I touch your clit.”

Naoya’s mind went blank, everything around him went ignored except for your words and the pleasurable feeling you gave him everywhere your hands and dick touched. Before he knew it, he came, panting against the sheets stained with his drool.

But, oh, you weren’t done with him yet. You still hadn’t come after all.

notes: better late than nvr! i ws planning on writing for sukuna & choso too but ran out of time so 🤷

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bitters-n-sweets · 2 months ago

Text

coffee tables pt. 2 — jack abbot x fem!reader Jack visits his ex-girlfriend’s apartment to help build a coffee table, but as old memories resurface and quiet confessions are shared, the day slowly turns into a chance to begin again.

warnings: flashback to the past, nothing 18+

part one || masterlist

Jack stands in front of your apartment door, toolbox in hand, trying to calm the nerves he thought he'd buried months ago. It's Saturday—his day off—and he decides to spend it building a coffee table with you. Somehow, it feels more intimate than it should.

You've been texting all week, your messages short and sometimes teasing, but always warm. He takes a breath, finally lifts his hand, and almost knocks, but you open the door first.

You've been waiting for him behind the door, watching him. "Were you gonna knock or just keep standing there like a creep?" you tease, not realizing the irony.

Jack exhales a nervous breath and cracks a small smile. "Sorry. Was deciding between knocking or faking a maintenance request."

You step aside so he can come in. "Well, you’ve got the toolkit. Might as well earn your keep."

The apartment smells just like he remembers it, he looks around to reminisce for a bit before spotting the half-assembled coffee table still sprawled across the living room floor.

"I figured I’d finish what you started," Jack says, lifting the toolbox.

"Before it finishes me off?" you joke.

"It almost did," he reminds you that the piece of glass almost cut your femoral artery, "Are you recovering okay?"

"Yeah, I can walk without much pain now. The meds help."

He nods, "That's good. I can take a look for you later."

"Okay, yeah, sure." You don't protest.

The mood is awkward at first. Small talk. Dry jokes. "Tool sizes". But it doesn’t take long before you warm up to each other. He fits a bolt in place while you read the instructions upside down, the rhythm of your banter slowly syncing. You snort when he grunts at the wrong size screw, and he rolls his eyes when you say you should’ve just bought a pre-built one.

"Remember the bookshelf we built for your place?" you say at one point, legs tucked beneath you on the floor.

Jack pauses, head tilted. "The one that fell over after a week?"

"You insisted we didn’t need the wall bracket."

He laughs. "And you still let me build furniture."

"Touché."

"Alright so where does this screw go?" Jack holds up a singular screw that looks just like the other ten.

"Um... there?" You point to a threaded hole, squinting. "Oh wait, but it could also be the other one. Ugh, I don't know, they all have the same measurements."

Jack shrugs and screws it into one of the holes while muttering, mostly to himself, "That's right, it goes in the square hole..."

You freeze. "Was that—"

"Yes, yes it was," he replies without missing a beat.

"Who taught you??"

"Night shifts can get boring sometimes."

You laugh, the kind that escapes before you can think about it, and Jack glances at you with a smile that lingers just a second too long.

A few hours later, the coffee table is finally finished. It's off by maybe 1cm, but it'll do.

“We did it. Functional table. No injuries. Only minor emotional peril.” Jack says as he stretches his legs.

“Honestly, I’m—.”

“Hungry?”

You nod, "YES."

And he pulls out his phone. “Your usual order still the same?”

Your eyes flick to his. “You remember?”

Jack only smiles and places the order.

You try to hide your smile and stand up. "I'm opening a bottle of wine. We're celebrating this."

"You're on meds."

"And you are on your day off." You smile at him, pouring two glasses. "I'll just have one." You try to convince him while he rolls his eyes.

There is no going between you and your wine.

"Mind if I use the bathroom?"

"You already know where it is."

As he steps into the hallway, he sees one photo still hanging on your wall. Cracked glass. Your arms wrapped around each other, blurry with motion but full of joy. The memory slams into him.

It’s late, and your apartment feels too small for the fight you’re having. "You’re always at the hospital," you say, voice shaking. "Even when you don’t have to be." "It’s not that simple," Jack snaps. "People rely on me." "And I don’t?" He turns too fast. His elbow knocks the picture frame off the wall. It crashes to the floor, splintering the glass. You both freeze. Something in him falters. He picks up the frame and sets it on the counter. "I can’t do this," he mutters before walking out.

Jack stares at the cracked photo now, throat tight. You wander over to where Jack is, and realize what he's looking at.

"You still have it." He states.

"I thought about throwing it away," you reply. "But I couldn't."

"I kept some things too," Jack says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Not yet.

You fall into silence, but it’s warmer this time. He reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. You let him.

"You know," you dare yourself to say, your voice barely above a whisper, "I used to sit in this apartment and think… maybe he’ll show up. Say he’s sorry. Say he wants to try again."

"I’m here now," Jack says. "And I am sorry. And I—"

There’s a knock at the door. The food delivery.

Dinner is quiet, softer. You split the last of the wine, and you laugh at his terrible jokes. When the bottle’s empty and the plates are cleared, you stay sitting on the floor, closer than before. Hands almost touching.

Both wanting to pick up where the serious conversation last ended, but also fearing where it might lead.

Jack reaches for his glass of wine and pauses. "You remember the night the power went out?"

You blink. "The storm?"

He nods. "We were stuck here. Couldn’t even order food because your phone died and mine barely had signal."

"We lit every candle in the apartment. I think I still have wax stains on that old bookshelf." You smile at the memory. "That was probably a fire hazard."

Jack chuckles. "And you made us play that ridiculous card game. Loser had to answer a personal question."

"I was trying to get to know you better," you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "You’re not exactly an open book."

He shakes his head with a faint smile, one of those rare ones that tug more at memory than amusement. “Still not, I guess.”

“I asked you your fears,” you continue, voice softer now. “You told me you wanted to be a good man. That night. You said you didn’t know if you were, but you wanted to try.”

Jack’s smile fades—not from regret, but more longing. "Yeah. I remember. I was scared I'd let you down."

"You did."

He looks down, his fingers absently brushing a speck of dust from the table’s edge. But then you add, just as gently:

"But you're here now."

He looks up. Meets your eyes. There’s something unspoken hanging between you—pain, promises that shattered and ones still waiting to be made.

And that silence, again—this time warm, thick, forgiving.

He swallows, as if laying his heart bare, and asks, “Can you give me another chance?”

Your fingers find his, and you squeeze, quietly telling him yes.

He looks at you with that softness in his eyes, the one that makes your chest ache. His hand rises gently to your cheek, and your breath catches.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice almost shaking.

“I missed you too.”

And then, finally, he leans in.

So do you.

The kiss is careful at first—like testing the coffee table you just built. But when your hand slips to his chest and his thumb grazes your jaw, it deepens into something more certain. Something lived-in and familiar, and still electric.

It’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

#jack abbot #dr abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x female reader #female reader #jack abbot the pitt #the pitt #jack abbot fluff #jack abbot angst #angst with happy ending

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k1mbe3rly · 6 months ago

Note

can you write a daeho smut where hes upset and gets hard while reader is comforting him then said reader makes him jerk off in front of her? then maybe after theres more smut with him as the sub? SORRY THIS IS MY FIRST REQUEST IDK IF IM DOIGN IT RIGHT

ngl this is so creative that i’m doing it right after writing hella 😈😈 lowkey seeing the image of it 😩

Comfort took a wrong turn (i had no idea what to name this😢)

warnings: Smut, sub!dae-ho, lowkey some reason getting turned on, gentle fucking, praising

You’ve been noticing Dae-ho flinching or getting nervous every single time he hears a gunshot, you knew he was an ex marine so maybe he had trauma? your not sure.

Whenever they were gonna go shoot the guards to get to the control room , Dae-ho decided to stay back, after awhile he had heard a ton gunshots, he covered his ears, shaking in his bed

You had went up to him and crawled next to him, you looked at him in a bit of concern, “I’m sorry! i’m so sorry.. i just can’t do this! the gunshots!” he whimpered out, his hands shaking still covering his ears as he shut his hair, “it’s gonna be okay..i promise, nothing is gonna happen to you if just stay here okay?” you said hugging him

Even tho his ears were covered he can still hear you but just a bit muffled, he finally put his hands down, still shaking he slowly wrapped his hands around you as well, “Y/n..it won’t stop! im sorry.” he whispered, you stroked his hair a bit, he leaned into your touch, allowing you to stroke his hair, “Shhh.. it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, do you trust me?” you say back to him

He looks up at you a nodded, you get a little bit closer your hands wrapped behind his neck and one hand still stroking his hair, your body was against him, he barely realized and his body begins feeling a bit hot, his cheeks were burning up as well as he looked down as your body, your boobs slightly pressed up against his shoulder

He begin feeling really hot and looks down and notices he has a bulge in his pants. He gulped as his adam’s apple bounced along his gulp, “It’s gonna be okay dae-ho, just don’t focus too much on the sounds okay? focus on me for now” you whispered as he nodded, he slightly moved you to be infront of him so kinda on his lap which you didn’t mind, you kept hugging him as he begin rubbing and down your back, he was thinking about many lewd thoughts about you. He shut his eyes as bucked his hips, you felt him did so, as you backed up a bit in confusion and looked down noticing he was hard

He quickly flushed in embarrassment and tried hiding his bulge, “i-i’m sorry! i couldn’t help it.. you were just so close to me and-“ he begin quickly explaining but you cut him off with a chuckle, “You got hard from me basically trying to comfort you?” you spoke, he nodded , “That’s..that’s kinda pathetic” you said while sitting on his lap on his bulge, he let out a whine “I-i know i’m sorry! i couldn’t help it i promise it won’t happen again!” he quickly said “Yea..make sure it doesn’t. But for now i want you to take off your pants okay?” you said rubbing his cheek as he quickly nodded

You got up sitting on his legs instead of his lap, he pushed down his pants to his knees, His boxers strained with a small wet spot, his cock slightly twitching in his wet boxers, you smirked at him, “Good boy.. now take those off as well”, he chuckled nervously at the praise but quickly listen shoving them down to his knee, his cock was spilling pre cum as the cold air that hit his cock made him shiver, “Stroke yourself for me” you said simply, he looks at you with puppy eyes, just like a puppy he quickly follows your orders

He begin stroking himself, his hands going up and down his cock, his breath hitched as he looked down at his cock than back at you, he kept going small whines falling out his mouth, you smirked at him as you bit your lip and continued watching, feeling your pussy slightly throbbing, your desire to make him moan out your name but you wanted to wait, he continued stroking himself as moans begin falling out

He went faster, his cock twitching a bit, you traveled your hands under your pants and slightly rubbed yourself at the sight of him, he made a small gasp when he saw you, he kept jerking himself off and while a loud whine he came, his cum spilling over his hand as he panted, he shut his eyes a bit before looking at you, you had took your hands out of pants, “Wow..what a performance you can put on” you said quietly, “C-can i fuck you? please? i-i wanna be inside you!” he said breathlessly, you chuckled a bit and got closer

“Are you able to handle it?” you questioned him, he quickly nodded, “Yes! yes please.. im able too!” he said looking like a puppy who’s tail is wagging, he slowly got on top of you placing you down on the bed gently

he begins taking off your pants and panties, he looks at your cunt which was soaking wet, he smiled a bit as he spread your, he then placed himself between your legs, grabbing his cock a bit and lining himself on your entrance, “Are.. are you okay with this?” he gently asked, you nodded, he then begin pushing his tip in as he moaned at the warmth feeling, he pushed in nice and slowly making sure he doesn’t hurt you, once his full length was inside you he gently asked you “Does it hurt?”, you shaked your head “No” you simply said as he nodded, “Okay ima start moving..” he said as he slowly pulled back and begin thrusting into you gently making sure not to go too rough or too fast

you moaned softly as he leaned over you, his face in your neck and his hands on each side of your head, he moved his hips nice and slowly, “Yea..just like that baby, nice and slowly” you spoke softly as he shivered, your hands went to his hair slightly gripping it as he kept pushing into you in and out, you kept moaning softly “A-am i doing good?” he questioned, “Mhm..your doing just good baby, so good, what a good boy..” you spoke softly as his cock twitched when you called him a good boy, he tried hiding his big smile against your neck as he kept thrusting into you, his cock hitting deep and into the spot that makes you cum, “Yea~ right there baby, keep going..” you moaned softly as he nodded and kept hitting that exact spot, your orgasm approached as he kept hitting your g spot, “Shit baby- i’m gonna cum~” you moaned out as he tried going a bit faster making you cum quickly, you moaned out as you cummed, a white ring line formed, he stopped and looked at you with pure love, even tho he barely knows you, you looked back at him and smiled warmly

“i-i think i’m in love with you..” he said blinking at you as you chuckled and shaked your head

#squid game #squid game smut #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game s2 #kang dae ho #kang dae ho x reader #kang dae ho smut #player 388 #player 388 smut #player 388 x reader

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succubusvalentine · 18 hours ago

Text

King Simon Riley sharing his Queen with his Knight. CW : threesome, cunnilingus, cum, PiV, biting.

Simon was no fool. He could recognise the gaze of desire in your eyes, you were his wife. Of course he could tell.

Recently, he'd noticed your eyes lingering on not only him when you come to watch his training sessions. But also his guard, Johnny. Your gaze full of hunger, thighs clenching together under your gown.

And Johnny had been staring at you, too. Especially when you would curtsey in front of him, his eyes immediately going to the bust of your gown. His mouth practically salivating.

And when you sometimes got snippy with Johnny for being in the wrong area of the palace? Simon would see Johnny nod, then rush off to a nearby bathroom or closet.

See, Simon wasn't angry at his wife and knight craving to get their hands over one another. He'd felt both you and Johnny quiver underneath him. Though, he hadn't fucked Johnny since his early twenties. But he has no doubts Johnny was still as insatiable as he was back then.

And Simon sometimes got busy, too busy to fuck you the way he knew you craved. He'd only have five or ten minutes to fuck you, when you both knew you needed far longer to be fully satisfied.

Simon told Johnny to stay after a meeting to discuss battle tactics, and had your lady-in-waiting tell you to join them.

Then, Simon confronted you two on your obvious desire for one another, both of you obviously denied it as he expected. Frantically attempting to prove your innocence. Though Simon saw right through it.

Simon silenced you by lifting you up onto the long table, making you gasp as he shoved your gown up, both men realising you were going without panties.

"Simon likes having easy access" You admit sheepishly, Simon smiling wolfishly at you. Pulling your thighs apart, then turning to Johnny, who couldn't take his eyes off your cunt. Simon snapping his fingers at him, grabbing his attention.

"Go on" Simon tells Johnny, "Get on your knees and eat her pussy"

The two of you looked horrified, Johnny opening his mouth hesitantly before Simon grabs the back of his neck and forces him on his knees in front of you, the sound of his leg plates hitting the stone floor echoing in the room.

"Mate...Yer serious?" Johnny asked, eyes flickering between your glistening heat and Simons dark eyes. While it seemed Johnny was being a good friend by making sure Simon was okay with this, he was really just waiting for permission. Because the moment Simon gives a nod, Johnny shoved his face between your legs. Groaning at the scent and taste of you, his hips bucking up against nothing as you grab his hair and pull.

Simon could see the guilt and shame intertwining with the pleasure his Knight was giving you. He knew that would prohibit you from coming, which he wouldn't allow.

Simon stepped closer to the table, leaning in and biting down gently on your collarbone. "'S alrigh' love, want to watch you get fucked by my Knight" Simon whispered against the hollow of your throat, sucking the skin there for a moment. And you nod breathlessly at his words.

Simon smirked and bit you one more time before turning to Johnny and barking orders at him. The knight hurriedly getting up from his knees and unclasping some of his armour, his cock leaking pre cum, your mouth salivating at the sight. But before either you or Johnny could do anything, Simon grasped Johnnys cock and nudged the tip between your swollen folds. Making you whine and buck your hips.

You grabbed Johnnys shoulder tightly as Simon let him thrust into you. He wasn't as thick as Simon, but by the Gods, he was long.

Simon asked you a silent question, if you were ready for Johnny to fuck you, if you were adjusted to his size. And once you nod, Simon looked at Johnny.

"Fuck your Queen the way she deserves. Prove your worth, Knight" Simon growled, his tone when using Johnnys title mocking. Yet you swore you saw Johnnys pupils dilate.

Johnny grabbed your left leg and pushed it up against your chest, his hips immediately setting an unforgiving pace. Which had you moaning loudly, echoing within the room.

"O-Oh fuck- oh by the Gods!" you cry out, Johnny panting like a dog above you.

"Yer so fucking tight Bonnie" Johnny groaned, his hand moving between you to rub at your clit, Making you arch against him.

"Feel good, Birdie?" Simon asked, and you nod dumbly, your chin being roughly grabbed. "Words" your husband growled.

"It's good, it's so so good, Si. Fuck I'm close! Gonna come!" you gasp, thighs tensing and trembling.

"Never heard a pretty Royal like yerself speak so dirty, lass" Johnny grinned, angling his hips until you nearly screamed under him. Your release flooding you, head tilting back as your gummy walls clench down on Johnnys cock so tightly he can barely move. But it was enough, Johnny getting close, Simon could tell.

Simon grabbed Johnny by his grown out mohawk, "Don't you dare come in her, I don't need an illegitimate heir because of you" he threatened. You wanted to protest, to tell your husband to be kinder to his Knight, but from the look on Johnnys face and the small whine he let out, you realise he enjoyed when Simon was mean. An unsurprising revelation, to say the least.

You huff and whimper at the sudden emptiness when Johnny pulled out, but your eyes don't leave his cock as he tugged it furiously, your stomach soon being covered in milky ropes.

Simon chuckled and carefully shoved Johnny to the side, fishing out his own cock despite your tired glazed over eyes and trembling legs, smirking down at you when he grabs your hips and manhandled you to his liking.

"Come on now, love. Let's show Johnny how a King fucks his wife"

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, birth, post-birth emotional disconnect.

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

2024

This was not the plan.

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

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

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

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

But not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amelia?”

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

Fiona.

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

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

Amelia nodded so fast her braid whipped against her shoulder.

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

Another nod. Shaky this time.

Fiona’s hand was warm. Dry.

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

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

She needed Lando.

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

“Where’s—” Amelia rasped.

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

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

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

Amelia blinked.

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

“White noise,” Amelia croaked.

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

The static hum clicked on and it helped.

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

“Better?” Fiona asked.

Amelia gave a thumbs up.

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

Amelia nodded.

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

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

He would come.

She just had to hold out until he did.

—

Lando was pacing.

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

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

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

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

Lando couldn't even look.

He was still reliving Turn 3.

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

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

Puncture. Floor damage. Game over.

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

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

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

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

No one said anything. No one dared.

The media would already be writing the headlines.

‘Norris cracks under championship pressure.’

He didn’t care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando’s stomach dropped.

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

“Home. To England. Amelia just called.”

The words hit harder than the collision.

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia:

IN LABOUR!

Tracey:

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

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

The guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

Two weeks early.

Was it the crash?

The stress?

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

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

Did he do this?

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

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

Lando didn’t wait.

He ran.

Helmet abandoned. Suit unzipped. Gloves forgotten.

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

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

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

“Amelia’s in labour.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. “Wait—now?”

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

Behind them: rapid footsteps. Heavy breathing.

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

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

Max went still. “Shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

There was a beat of silence. Lando swallowed.

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

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

Lando’s lungs hurt. His heart was racing.

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

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

—

The receptionist barely looked up before buzzing the doors open.

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

His shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.

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

He was too late. He was too late.

He should’ve answered the phone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve been there.

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

“Norris?” She asked knowingly.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t here.

He turned a corner.

She needed you.

He reached the door.

And stopped.

He could hear her.

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

He opened the door.

Amelia was there. On the bed.

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

A yellow golf-ball in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she saw him.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did. With shaking hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes softened. “They came?”

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

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

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

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

Lando exhaled with relief.

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

—

It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a cry.

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

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

Amelia couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

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

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

This wasn’t theoretical.

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

This was weight. Heat. Movement.

A baby. Her baby.

On her. In her arms.

Not inside anymore.

The disconnect hit her like a crash.

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

And so did Lando. And her mom.

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

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

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

A heart that had come from her.

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

Ada.

Her name had been a theory. A hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that made it worse.

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

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

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

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

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

Ada shifted, rooting instinctively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It bounced harmlessly off his leg. He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he murmured.

Amelia still didn’t look away from Ada.

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

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

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

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

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

And Amelia fell in love.

—

The room was quiet.

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

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

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

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

Amelia hadn’t spoken in a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ada twitched, shifting closer into her chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Amelia was sleeping.

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

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

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

Ada.

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

Lando couldn’t stop looking at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ada scrunched her nose, then relaxed again.

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

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

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

Lando exhaled, slow and ragged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was falling asleep again.

He watched her eyelids flutter.

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

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

—

There was a soft knock.

Amelia stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open.

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

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

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

The door opened.

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

For a moment, no one spoke.

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

His voice cracked.

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

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

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

Then, he looked at Ada.

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

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

But Oscar hadn’t moved.

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

She gave him a nod.

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

He was warm and real and trembling just slightly.

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

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

Oscar nodded into her shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar still hadn’t looked at the baby.

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

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

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

She fit perfectly into his arms.

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

Amelia lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

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

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

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

—

The house was too quiet.

Which was absurd, given they were no longer alone.

But that was exactly the problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t feel qualified.”

“You grew her.”

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

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

She stared at him.

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

“We can take turns.”

“But you need to sleep.”

“I’ll nap tomorrow.”

“Lando.”

“Amelia.”

She cracked a smile then — barely, but real.

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

Amelia hesitated.

Then nodded.

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

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

Amelia didn’t need to be told twice.

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

No blankets. No teddies. No safety hazards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t say 'Let it go.'

He knew better.

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

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

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

“Did you have a favourite toy?”

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

“Were you scared of the dark?”

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

The questions weren’t idle.

They were a defence. A rhythm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Lando just watched.

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

He kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle.

—

By day three, the house had softened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She asleep yet?” He asked, pausing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then: voices. Familiar ones.

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

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

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

“You have done so well,” she whispered.

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

“We know.”

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

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

“Go sit down. We’ve got this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did. She already knew he would.

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

The baby was sleeping.

The house was quiet.

And they were not alone.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if she gets cold?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. But she’s our human baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still asleep.

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

—

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

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

Ada had just gone down in her bassinet upstairs.

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

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

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

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

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her.”

“Lando—”

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

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

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

Everyone paused.

Then started to laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia stared at her daughter as she ate her lasagna.

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

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

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

—

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

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

She turned a page absently. Then another.

Then paused, head tilting slightly.

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

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

Just her husband. Bathing their daughter.

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

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

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

She trusted him.

Completely.

With the most precious thing in the entire world.

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

He looked up and grinned when he saw her.

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

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her eyes soft.

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

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

She nodded.

Ada squealed and splashed her fists in the water.

Amelia smiled at her little girl.

—

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

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

Too many overlapping sounds.

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

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

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

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

Amelia gave a small nod. Didn’t speak.

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

Lando was already there.

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

“You made it,” he breathed.

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

And the plan was always the comfort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lifted a hand. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door.

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

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

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

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

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long Amelia stayed.

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

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

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

She had a baby girl to focus on.

And Lando would follow her home when he was done.

—

The front door clicked softly shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia blinked.

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

The room felt full. But not crowded.

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

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

Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando passed her a fork.

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

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

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

574 notes · View notes

roanofarcc · 1 month ago

Text

THE PAST MEETS THE FUTURE

pairing: congressmen bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: bucky wasn’t so naive as to believe is past was behind him completely, but he didn’t think he’d pull you down with him

warnings: mentions of Hydra. violence against the reader but nothing overly descriptive. reader is kidnapped. hurt/comfort. ANGST with a happy ending. some slight bucky barnes self-loathing.

word count. 4.1k | masterlist

Bucky Barnes didn’t believe in a higher power or that everything happened for a reason; he’d been delt enough shitty cards to know that couldn’t possibly be true. Yet, he sometimes felt like you stumbling into his office, soaked to the bone from the rain with two soggy coffee cups and a resume printed in red ink, was some sort of divine intervention.

You were a whirlwind of chaos in a never-ending brigade of meetings, conferences, and hearings. You had six alarms set because you had trouble being on time. You sometimes dropped the professional lingo in front of the wrong people. And on more than one occasion, your notes for his briefing were illegible.

He’d been asked why he kept you around and not trade in your wide-eyed gazes for a more polished assistant who always wore matching socks and never traded in his usual coffee order to force him to ‘branch out.’ The thing was, you were far from bad at your job. Even if he couldn’t read your notes, they were more than thorough. You kept his desk clean when it started to match his scattered mind. You made sure he ate and was somehow more timely with his life than your own. You always showed up, rain or shine, like the world was still some bright, shiny thing to you.

Most importantly, you cared. You cared about everything. From the spider who lived in your house plants to the strangers you passed on the streets. You cared about doing good and still believed that the world held a lot of it.

Before Bucky hired you, you made coffee for men who were too good to remember your name and smiled at women who rolled their eyes when you spoke. You weren’t naive either; you knew of those things. You knew that you were bad at juggling too many things and always forgot an umbrella when it rained. You knew that there were bad people and things you couldn’t fix with a smile and upbeat attitude; that didn’t deter you, though. You couldn’t save the world or rid it of evil, but you would try, and you wouldn’t let that shake your optimism.

That was why Bucky kept you around. Each time you waltzed through his office door, it was like the sun emerging after a terrible thunderstorm. A breath of fresh air, a gentle reminder that despite whatever skeletons he had in his closet or evil that lurked in the shadows, there would still be people like you. That was who he was doing it for, suffering through political jargon and torture in the form of galas and networking opportunities disguised behind words like ‘charity’ and ‘fundraiser.’

“Cinnamon or blueberry?” were the first words you said that morning, pushing the door open with your foot as you held two cups of coffee.

Bucky glanced up from a document he’d been mulling over since he arrived just ten minutes prior.

“Who would put blueberries in coffee?” he asked, slight humor playing in his tone.

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you strode up to his desk and set down one of the cups. “Cinnamon it is,” you said. “And to answer your question, a genius.”

With a light chuckle, Bucky reached for the warm cup and felt himself relax just slightly. The world of a congressman was more social than he had anticipated. He worried about spending so much time with people, his patience and social ability pulled to the brink of snapping. On top of that, when it was suggested that he get an assistant, he felt pre-annoyed at the thought of spending his only alone time with someone sharing his office. But you proved to be a nice break from his pandering and polite nodding. It wasn’t a struggle to share a space with you; it became a relief.

When he was able to retreat to his office or kick off his day there, he looked forward to your presence.

“A little birdie told me you won over the favor of Senator Jones,” you said, taking a seat at your desk.

Bucky shrugged. “Maybe. If anything, he doesn’t loathe me, which is progress.”

“I don’t think anyone loathes you.”

“Trust me, they do, but the feeling’s mutual.”

You eyed him for a moment before shaking your head. “I don’t think people like what you’re doing, that’s all.”

Bucky eyed you back, the document forgotten on his desktop. “Yeah? What am I doing?” He didn’t ask it to challenge you, but rather for you to remind him. Bucky often felt lost, like he had joined Congress in a stupid misstep and mistake that he thought he could right his wrong in a different way.

The world had always been ruled by the iron fists of politics, but the grasp only got tighter. He had felt it was either join or be squeezed to death by it. Maybe he could loosen the reins, make a difference even if it was small. But the more he got to know most of the people in the political sphere, the more he feared he had just become another cog in the machine he’d never escape.

“Trying to change things for the better,” you said simply. “Which is more than what most of these people are doing. A lot of them have only known full stomachs, lined pockets, and a world made by them for them. But you? You know how bad things can be. And maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but that’s a good thing. People will see that, eventually.”

He tried to let your words soothe the ache in his brain, patch the doubt in his bones, but even your sugary optimism had a hard time breaking through.

“If they could look past my rap sheet.” There was enough blood on his hands to paint the white house red, inside and out. He’d done terrible things, not all of which could be waved away because he wasn’t in control of his mind. People had a hard time looking past that. They had just enough to elect him as he tugged on the public's adoration of veterans while running. But their support had been weakening since more eyes were on him, meaning more hands dug into his past.

You shook your head. “When people are hung up on the past, you gotta make them focus on the future.”

Bucky smiled, soft and comfortable. He didn’t know where his political career would lead, but he knew that, if you’d have him, he’d keep you along as long as he could. You were light and shook the gloom from his mind, which wasn’t an easy feat.

It was odd, and maybe a little unprofessional, that he enjoyed your presence so. But you were more than just an assistant to Bucky. A friend, perhaps. Someone he could think clearly with and not throw up some mock, veiled version of himself.

“You’ve been hanging around the speech writers?” he said, teasing.

You laughed, a pretty sound that drowned out the drone of the city. “Maybe.”

On your way home, you bundled your jacket close to your body, shoes clicking along the sidewalk as you strode down the familiar path. You walked the same way every day, past your favorite coffee shop and taking a turn by the little family-owned bookstore that stood strong as the city continued to grow around it.

The walk to your apartment wasn’t too bad, something you could walk in your sleep.

In your pocket, your phone buzzed. Picking it up with a smile at the caller ID, you answered, “Miss me already, Congressman?”

On the other line, Bucky let out a small laugh, which you always took as a victory.

When you first heard of the job opening for James Bucanan Barnes' assistant, people butted in with every rumor and grueling detail of the man’s complicated past. That didn’t deter you, though. If anything, it made you more interested in the position.

You expected some brooding, short-tempered, and intimidating man to greet you when you arrived. And perhaps some people would have seen him that way, but you had a habit of noticing the little things about people that others often ignored or overlooked.

Sure, Bucky had a resting expression that bordered on brooding. But you saw the hint of amusement in his bright eyes when you cracked an ill-timed joke or brought him some fancy flavored coffee. You noticed the way he turned his chair when the sunlight of the day peered in through the window of his office, as if he was basking in it, savoring it. You picked up on how the soft hum of the radio untensed his shoulders after a long meeting and how he abandoned the work that stressed him when you started babbling on about something only slightly more interesting.

Despite what others said of him, or the past that haunted him, you saw a man just trying to do good and wade his way through the mountains of bullshit others set in his path. You saw someone tired but determined, and you admired that, which is why you not only stayed at the job but enjoyed it.

“I’m looking for the print-out of Director Dean’s proposal, but can’t seem to…” Bucky trailed off, followed by rustling papers. “Find it.”

“Did you already look through the pile on the right-hand side of your desk?” Bucky hummed in response. You thought for a moment, searching your brain for where you had set down the documents.

As you did so, a shoulder of someone walking opposite you knocked into yours. You stumbled, but shook it off, only to be yanked back as the person passed you, a hand tugging hard on the purse resting on your shoulder. You yelped in surprise as you were spun around on the quiet sidewalk, on a nearly empty side street you knew like the back of your hand.

Bucky said your name, but you were too distracted by the towering man with his face half-hidden by a dark colored hoodie. Before you could tell him to have your purse, keep whatever he wanted, and avoid any trouble, he grabbed your other shoulder and shoved you hard against the side of a building.

You still had your phone in your hand, pressed against the side of your face with white knuckles. “Bucky!” you yelled frantically, a tightness in your chest as panic took hold.

The man tore your purse from your arm, kicking it away along with the hope that he was just there to rob you. The last thing he seemed interested in was your belongings, which made your skin crawl as his dark expression blocked out the soft rays of the setting sunlight.

You heard Bucky ask you what was wrong before repeating your name, but the man ripped your cell from your hand, using his other hand to grab your throat, applying enough pressure to make your panic burn like a wildfire through your veins. You kicked and thrashed, trying to break free, but he was strong, too strong. His finger squeezed your throat, cutting off your air.

Tears fell down your cheeks, but you didn’t give up your struggle. You dug your nails into his hands, peeling back the skin and making him bleed, but he didn’t even flinch at the contact. He was tight-jawed and dead-eyed, choking you out on a street that had once brought you a sense of familiarity and comfort. It all vanished so fast as little black dots peppered your vision.

Despite your efforts, you lost consciousness, succumbing to the inky darkness of the inside of your eyelids.

Satisfied as your body slumped forward, the man dropped you onto the ground before speaking into your cell phone. “Soldat,” he said, voice low and dangerous, promising a harsh reminder to the man on the other side of the call.

Bucky paced back and forth across Sam’s office, clenching and unclenching his fists.

On the computer, Joaquin worked as quickly as his fingers could type to track down your cellphone, while Sam dug up any information on the man who took you. And as much as Bucky wanted to assist, he felt useless and as if every nerve in his body was firing off in the utmost uncomfortable of ways.

He just couldn’t understand how it happened, how he could let something like that happen.

“Bucky, you’re wearing a hole in my carpet,” Sam said.

“I was on the phone with her, Sam,” Bucky said, stopping his pacing only to drag his hands down the length of his face. “And just a block away. I don’t understand-”

Sam placed a warm hand on his shoulder, his face calm in the wake of Bucky’s panic. “Listen, we will find her. We know that whoever took her is only interested in using her to get to you.” Bucky scoffed, Sam’s words only sinking him further into a pit of restlessness. “Which means,” Sam continued. “They will keep her around and drop some kind of hint that’ll send you on their tail. They want a trap, but they don’t know that we know that.”

The rational side of Bucky knew that Sam was right. The people who took you only targeted you to lure him, or rather the Winter Soldier, into whatever scheme or trap they had set up. Yet, Bucky had no idea what they’d do to you in the meantime. Taking you alone was enough to swarm him with guilt, but if they hurt you in the process? He didn’t know how to handle that in a ‘congressman’ fashion, only in a Winter Soldier-like fashion, and he had a feeling that was what whoever took you wanted.

But, God, he was angry and worried and couldn’t stop thinking about how bleak the world- his world- would be without you in it or if that traumatizing event bled the optimism right out of you.

“I think I got something!” Joaquin shouted, peaking around his monitor.

You were in shock; that was the only real way to describe it. A numbness coated your body, not even allowing panic to break through. You just felt nothing, which you weren’t sure was better or worse than panic, fear, and something even worse.

Binds cut into the skin of your wrist and ankles, holding your hands behind your back and legs together. The concrete floor was cold, pressed against your cheek, a conflicting temperature to the sweat on your trembling form.

You didn’t know where you were, and only half remember how you got there. From lazily dragging your eyes around as much of the place as you could without moving your head from where it rested on the ground, you knew you were in a room, dark with no windows, and all concrete. It smelled damp and old, and there was a door on the far side you knew had to be locked.

A part of you begged to try it away, to let yourself at least try to find a way out. But the numbness was debilitating, keeping you in place. You were scared that if you moved, the numbness would break and you’d feel the full surge of panic.

You hadn’t seen anyone, which was probably a good thing. Yet, you itched to know where the hell you were and who the hell took you. And why?

The questions replayed in your mind on a loop, again and again, until your thoughts were interrupted by sudden commotion coming from the other side of the door. The boom of voices intertwined with gunfire shattered the numbness and wrapped you up in a panic that bled into your bones.

You shook, heart beating so fast in your chest it was hard to breathe. Tears blurred your vision as you struggled to sit up, but crying irritated your bruised throat, only making you cry harder.

Once you were seated upright, you kicked your feet and pushed yourself back to the far side of the room until your back hit the wall.

The noise grew louder, getting closer to the door before it rattled.

Something between a sob and a scream tumbled from your lips as you struggled against the ties on your wrist. Each movement hurt, and something wet started to drip from your wrists down your hands, but you didn’t stop, trying desperately to get your hands free before whoever was on the other side of the door entered.

But the binds were too tight and refused to give away as someone broke through the door and stumbled inside, resulting in another, more guttural scream from you.

You were crying too hard to see much in the darkness of the room, terrified of what was going to happen to you.

However, instead of the long list of horrible things you expected to occur next, a soft voice said your name. Soft and familiar, you realized, as they said it again.

Blinking back some of your tears, you cleared your vision just enough to see a head of black hair and baby blue eyes come level with your eyesight.

“B-Bucky?” you croaked out.

He nodded, close enough in front of you to touch, but his hands remained at his sides as he kneeled. “It’s me,” he said, reassuringly. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

You crumbled at his words, crying harder, but not because you were scared; you were relieved. He slowly reached out, setting a warm hand on your knee. “I’m going to cut your legs and hands free, okay?” He didn’t make a move until you nodded and tried your best to stay still as he pulled a knife from his pocket.

Bucky cut you loose, first your legs, then your hands. The second you hand control of your limbs again, you turned to face him with a tear-streaked face drenched in gratefulness, too. Without hesitation, you hooked your arms around his neck and pressed your face into his shoulder. To you, in that moment, he was the safest place. He had found you, came for you. He told you that you were safe, and you believed him without hesitation. Your thoughts were only solidified as his arms wrapped around you, firm yet carefully holding you.

After you had calmed down a little, Bucky had helped you out of the building, bidding a brief thank you and goodbye to Sam and Joaquin, who stayed behind to take care of the ex-Hydra operative who still had unfinished business with the Winter Soldier who lay dead in the warehouse. They wanted to ensure he was working alone and had no other tricks up his sleeve, allowing Bucky to accompany you back to your apartment.

Guilt chewed at Bucky as he took your spare key from your shaking hands and opened the door. The bruise around your neck was more prominent in the light of your apartment, molted reds and growing blues in clear hand prints. Dried blood circled your wrists like sick bracelets, and you hadn’t stopped shaking since he found you.

And it was his fault. Every mark on your body was his fault, and it made his stomach churn. You were only taken because you were close with him, and the ghost of his mistakes still clung to his shadows no matter how long he’d been fighting for the light and freedom from the Winter Soldier.

That part of him was rid from his mind, but not from the world. There were still people out there who either wanted the Winter Soldier to pay or to bring him back to do their bidding. Bucky could handle that, though, or he thought he could. But it had never dawned on him that they could use the few people he, Bucky Barnes, had grown close to as a weapon against him.

If he had known that, he never would have grown so fond of you, never wanted to have placed you in even the smallest amount of danger. And he should have known better, but he became too captivated in a life semi-normal- as normal as it would get for someone like him- to realize he still had skeletons clawing to get out of his closet.

He felt so guilty that it made him nauseous.

Bucky helped you onto the couch before he glanced around your kitchen, spotting a clean rag folded beside the sink. He soaked it in warm water before returning to you, kneeling in front of the couch.

Wordlessly, you gave him your hand and he, ever so carefully, cleaned up the dried blood from your wrists, muttered an apology each time flinched.

Once he was done, Bucky stood up and turned just slightly to step away, but you caught his wrist. There was a startling fear in your eyes, something that struck him violently, bringing even more of an ache to his gut. “Don’t leave,” you whispered, voice as shaky as the rest of your body.

God, Bucky didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want you to quit. He didn’t want to ever not see your bright and shining face every morning for as long as he could keep you around. But that wasn’t fair to you. It was selfish, and he had been proven just how selfish in one of the worst ways possible.

He gently squeezed your hand. “This…” he began, but trailed off, the words caught in his throat for a moment. “This was my fault.”

“What?” You didn’t let go of his hand, only held it tighter as if keeping him in place.

To the best of his ability, he explained, guilt weighing him down with each word so heavily he thought he’d fall right through the floor. He knew you, and most people, knew of his past- the little ugly bits and pieces. And while the Winter Soldier was dead, there were people out there who would never accept that, going to measures as extreme as plucking the people he cared for off the street to add weight to Bucky’s conscious. He told you how your connection to him, despite it being nothing but a job, put you at risk, which he should have calculated.

He said he was sorry, maybe too many times, but it couldn’t make up for the tremble in your figure or bruises on your skin.

Your silence cut through him, hot but understandable. He had already started to picture his office without you, dark and too quiet. He had already started to picture his life without you, drab and cold. You were like the sun, and he was already saying goodbye, giving you up because not only could he not fathom ever putting you in danger again, but because there was no conceivable way you’d stay after that.

“Bucky,” you said his name too softly, he had to look away, distract himself with a spot on your wall. But then you said his name again and tugged on his hand that you, for some reason, were still holding.

“You found me,” you then said.

He shook his head. “You should’ve never needed to be found in the first place,” he countered.

“Would you still have looked for me if some random person who didn’t know you at all took me?”

Bucky looked at you, brows furrowed and confused. “Of course,” he answered like a reflex because he’d look for you no matter what or when or where.

Despite your puffy eyes and bruised neck, your lips quirked up in a small smile. “I don’t blame you, Bucky.”

“You should.” Because it was his fault.

But you shook your head and stood up, body unsteady as you clutched onto his hand before taking his other. “You found me, and I’d trust you to do it again.”

Bucky stared at you. He couldn’t understand the words you were saying. Trust was earned, and what had he done to earn yours?

You let go of his hands, and for a moment, he thought you had come to the same conclusion he had; he didn’t deserve it, not after what had just happened. But then you hugged him, holding tight with your head on his chest. His hands hovered, shaking just slightly, before he hugged you back with such delicacy.

“I trust you,” you muttered into the fabric of his shirt. “But…” Bucky's breath hitched, expecting the next words from your mouth to confirm his own thoughts. “But I need you to trust me too.” He felt his heart tighten as tears started to dampen his shirt. “And I need you to stay, please.”

There was no world in which he could’ve said no to you in that moment. Not when you were crying and holding onto him.

With his heart drumming in his chest, and guilt retreating just enough to let him nod his head. It wouldn’t leave, not for a while anyway, but it released its hold enough for him to whisper, “I will.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel fanfic #congressman barnes #mcu #bucky barnes fanfiction #sam wilson #joaquin torres

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