#to be clear it was not this bad when it started. when it started it seemed like normally maybe slightly out there conclusions he was drawing

[alinathinkstoomuch]

A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was standing right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[inkandapex]

butterflies

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: After a tough triple header, Lando’s feeling the pressure, and you’re there to offer him comfort. As he opens up about his struggles, a surprising confession slips out.

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: swearing, mental health

The triple header was finally over. But it had chewed Lando up and spat him out along the way.

Three weekends. Three countries — Japan, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia — each one stacking exhaustion, frustration, and pressure on his shoulders like invisible weights he couldn’t shake off.

It had started so well. Pole position. A first win of the season. A lead in the championship standings. For a brief, brilliant moment, it felt like everything was falling into place.

And then, almost overnight, it began to unravel.

A costly mistake during qualifying. A crash in Saudi that left him stranded in P10 on the grid. Every misstep gnawed at him, louder and sharper than any of the praise that followed.

His team, his fans, his family, they all tried to reassure him. Finishing P4 from a backfoot start was an incredible recovery. They told him they were proud. They told him to hold his head high.

But Lando being Lando, he carried the weight of every mistake like a scar carved into his chest.

Everyone saw it, the way each race seemed to pull him a little further away from himself. The slump of his shoulders, the blankness in his gaze when he thought no one was looking. When he scrolled through his phone late at night, the hateful comments and cruel jokes flashing across his screen, dissecting him, mocking him, criticizing every tiny misstep like he wasn’t even human.

Hours after the Saudi race, the four of you — Max, P, Lando, and you — ended up crashing in Lando’s hotel room, ordering a late dinner to fill the silence no one really wanted to break.

Lando was half-sprawled across the sofa, lazily scrolling through his phone. His leg bounced restlessly up and down, his other hand busy chewing at the edge of his thumb, a nervous habit he never quite managed to shake. You watched him from your spot across the sofa, feeling the unease bleeding off of him in waves.

Max and P had disappeared to pick up the food, leaving just you and Lando behind in the low hum of the AC in the hotel room.

You sighed, placing your phone down in your lap.

“You wanna talk about it?” you asked gently.

Lando glanced up, almost like he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone. His leg kept bouncing, hand slowly dropping from his mouth. “Hm?” he mumbled.

“You want to talk about it?” you repeated, shifting forward so you were properly facing him. “Whatever’s been bothering you.”

He cleared his throat, mirroring your movement like it gave him something to do. “I’m good,” he said, a little too quickly.

You didn’t buy it for a second.

“You’re clearly not, Lan,” you said, frowning. “When’s the last time you had proper sleep? No offense, but... you look like shit.”

He actually chuckled at that, a low, rough sound. Five years of friendship meant he expected nothing less than brutal honesty from you.

“I’m fine, Y/N. You worry too much.”

“Because I care,” you shot back, voice softer now. “You’re too hard on yourself, you know that? You’re doing a great job—"

“—I’m not,” he interrupted sharply, voice cracking just slightly. His hands scrubbed roughly over his face. “I’m not. And I should be. Everyone expects better from me, and I can’t fucking deliver.”

The words spilled out fast, like he couldn’t hold them in any longer.

You felt your chest tighten at the way he said it, like it wasn’t frustration talking. It was something deeper. Defeat.

Quietly, closing the gap, sitting closer to him without a word. You didn’t try to tell him he was wrong. You didn’t start listing achievements or statistics he already knew by heart. Instead, you leaned your shoulder against his, solid and steady.

“You’re allowed to have bad days, Lan,” you said simply. “One race doesn’t erase who you are. What you’ve built. You’re not just... results on a page.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His leg stilled. His phone slipped from his hand onto the cushion.

For the first time all night, he let himself lean into you, just a little. Just enough. Head ever so gently resting on your shoulder

And for now, you took that as a win.

You sighed, letting your head rest lightly against his, your fingers finding his hand and tracing slow, soothing circles across the back of it. "It’s only been... what? Five races?" you said quietly. "You’ve got so much more ahead of you, Lan."

He let out a bitter laugh, low and tight in his chest. "It’s only been five, and I’ve already fucked up every single one," he muttered. "If I haven’t ruined the whole race, I’ve made at least one critical mistake every damn time."

"You’re not perfect, Lan," you said, squeezing his hand a little tighter, grounding him.

He shook his head against you, the words tumbling out faster now, rough around the edges. "Oscar’s not making mistakes like I am. And Max — everyone keeps saying he shouldn't be that fast in the Red Bull, but he is. He's that good. And me—" He broke off, swallowing hard.

"You’re not Oscar," you said firmly.

"You’re not Max... you’re not Lewis either. You’re Lando. And that’s more than enough."

You pull away slightly, shifting so you’re fully facing him, needing him to see that you mean every word. "It breaks my heart to see you like this," you say quietly, your voice thick with feeling. "Doubting yourself. Look how far you’ve come, Lan. You should be proud."

He offers a small, tired smile, nodding once. "I know..." he murmurs. "It’s just— sometimes it gets too much, you know? I knew what I was signing up for, but... that doesn’t mean the comments, the criticism, all the shit people say... it doesn’t mean it doesn’t get to me. I wish I didn't care so much about what others thought about me"

Your heart twists painfully in your chest. Without thinking, you squeeze his hand again, anchoring him. "Then you wouldn't be you anymore...and we know you’re worth more than anything they have to say," you say, shrugging like it’s the simplest truth in the world. "I want you to be world champion, Lan. I want you to chase every dream you’ve ever had. But if it means losing yourself in the process..."

You shake your head, voice turning fierce with emotion. "If it means losing the Lando I know and love? Fuck the championship."

"Yeah?" His head snaps toward you, a smirk pulling at his lips, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"You love me?"

You roll your eyes, suddenly finding your nails very interesting, anything to distract from the heat creeping up your neck. "Out of everything I just said, that’s what you choose to focus on?"

He laughs, a real one this time, soft and a little mischievous, and nudges his knee against yours. "I love you too, you muppet."

He sighs, settling back against your shoulder like it’s the only place he wants to be. "Having you here with me... it helps," he says quietly.

"I hope you know that. You make everything easier."

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest, and press a soft kiss to the top of his head before resting yours against his again. "Mind saying that again?" you tease, voice light. "Maybe once Max gets back... just so he can hear who your favourite friend really is?"

Lando laughs, and it’s music to your ears, its bright, real, almost like you could see the weight slowly lifting off his chest. "Oh, trust me," he says, nudging you. "He knows he lost to you a long time ago. He doesn’t give me butterflies in my tummy like you do."

You chuckle, a surprised laugh slipping out. "I give you butterflies?"

"Oh, shut up..." Lando muttered, letting out a soft yawn as he nuzzled closer to you, his face buried in your shoulder. "Sometimes I feel like you rile me up on purpose."

"Hey, I do not!" you protested, slapping his leg.

"Ow!" Lando dodged, laughing through the pain. "Alright, fine. Maybe it’s just my tiny crush on you talking."

You smirked, teasing him. "You have a crush on me? How old are you, ten?"

Lando shot you a playful look. "How old are you, ten?" he mocked, sticking out his tongue. "I’ve liked you for a while now, you knob."

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. What the hell? Was he serious, or was he just messing with you? You sat there, stiff and dumbfounded, unsure of what to make of it.

"You're just tired. Sleep it off," you said, trying to brush it off, though your mind was spinning.

"I’m fucking exhausted," he yawned again, his eyes already fluttering closed. "But it doesn’t make me a liar." He shifted slightly, his voice softer now.

"You can even ask Max when he comes back."

Silence.

You couldn’t think of anything to say. Your mind raced with a thousand different scenarios, trying to figure out if he was joking or if there was something real in his words. Surely, he was just messing with you, right?

"Since when?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

No response. Just the hum of the AC and Lando’s steady breathing. As much as you wanted to wake him up and demand answers, you knew he needed the rest more than you needed clarity.

You stayed still, afraid to disturb him. Just enough movement to pick up your phone and scroll through your feed, passing the time as you waited for Max and P.

Lando's head was now resting gently on your lap, his legs curled up in a relaxed position, peacefully asleep. Not long later, Max and P arrived, chatting softly as they entered the room.

As soon as they were both in view, you held a finger to your lips, signaling them to keep quiet. P smiled, nodding, and walked over to the kitchen to grab some utensils. Max, however, made his way over to you with the bags of food in hand.

"Finally got him to sleep, huh?" Max said with a grin.

You nodded, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Took a while, but he's resting."

Max took the opportunity to pull his phone out of his pocket, immediately snapping photos of you and Lando.

You quickly grabbed the throw pillow beside you and tossed it at him.

He dodged it with ease, raising his hands in surrender. "He’d want photos," he said, the smirk never leaving his face.

He’d want photos? Now you were even more confused.

You cleared your throat, trying to brush off the confusion as you gathered your thoughts. "He... uh... he said something to me before he nodded off."

Max’s attention was fully on the food now as he unpacked the containers, "Yeah?"

You took a deep breath, still unsure of how to approach it. "He told me he had a crush on me..." you said with a nervous chuckle.

Max didn’t even flinch. He continued unpacking, casually licking the sauce off his finger, "Oh, you really didn’t know?"

You frowned, your confusion deepening. "What do you mean?"

Max shrugged, clearly not fazed. "I've always assumed you noticed it by now... or that P had told you a while back." He casually shrugged again, tossing the food containers onto the counter. "Thought you were just pretending you didn’t know until he actually confessed."

No fucking way. After all these years of keeping your feelings to yourself, to find out this man — the one napping on your lap right now — likes you too?

"You're fucking with me," you laugh in disbelief. "Since when?"

Max scoffs, clearly amused. "Since months after you two first met?"

"I'll help P out, I’ll grab some ice too," he adds, before heading off into the kitchen.

You stay frozen, your mind racing, still trying to process the whirlwind of emotions.

"Believe me now?"

Lando’s voice pulls you from your trance. You glance down, finding him looking up at you with sleepy, half-lidded eyes and a cheeky grin tugging at his lips.

You roll your eyes, reaching down to pinch his cheek. "You’re so annoying."

"Secrets out..." Lando chuckles, sitting up and stretching. "Gotta take you out on a proper date now."

"I’d love that, actually." You smile softly, feeling a warmth spread through you. Without thinking, you offer him the box of spring rolls.

Lando reaches for a spring roll, popping it into his mouth with a relaxed smile.

"This is good," he says, rubbing his tummy in satisfaction. "Gotta keep the butterflies fed."

[miaoua3]

RIDING SEUNCHEOL'S FACE LIKE FULL-BLOWN SITTING AND GRINDING ON IT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH

YUUUUUUUP PREACH IT GURLLL YOU COULDNT TELL ME CHEOL ISNT A CERTIFIED MUNCH OHMYLORD THE NASTINESS THAT IM ABOUT TO WRITE OOOF-

Sit On It

Pairing: bf! scoups x f!reader

Genre: the nastiest smut i will probably ever write (MDNI), face sitting, praise, power play (slight), cunnulingus

Description: you make cheol’s terrible day so so much better by finally fulfilling his biggest fantasy-you sitting on his face.

Note: hyperventilating just by thinking about sitting on his beautiful face, eyebrows furrowed, big arms wrapped around my thighs- UNHOLY THOUGHTS BEGONE XJAJAKANNSOQJAIA (also, not proofread, as per usual💔)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

here’s the thing-a lot of things that you and cheol did in the bedroom was relatively new to you, considering that your previous lovers (if you can even call them that by the lack of effort they put) were selfish and conceded. so when you two started dating, and eventually sleeping together, it was surprising to experience being with someone who was so…giving, almost catering to all of your needs.

that man, if he could, he would spend every waking moment of his between your legs, either lapping and licking and sucking on your sweet pussy, or pounding into it with the force that makes the whole bed move, never mind your body.

still, there was one thing you two still have yet to try. something he has expressed he would love to do-or, well, for you to do to him.

or rather to his face.

naturally, he respected your wishes and you saying ‘no’ to his proposal. but you could see how pouty he turns every time he tries to ask if maybe you have changed your mind yet, only for you to vigorously shake your head.

it’s not that you don’t want to, it’s just…

it’s one thing to have him lay between your legs, lapping on your juices and make you soak both his face and his sheets.

it’s an entirely different thing to have that control over him-over the situation- and just grind on his face, to make yourself cum all over it, when usually he’s the one to usually make you cream all over his face.

and you thought your answer wouldn’t change. not for a while at least.

…well. about that.

you just felt so bad. he came back from work visibly under stress, his thick eyebrows set in a frown so deep they were almost touching.

he barely said anything to you, a clear sign that one wrong word could set him off, hence why he’s avoiding any conversation that could leas up to that.

he immediately locked himself up in the shower for a while, before he came back and went directly to your room, laying flatly on his back. his naked chest rose up and down in shallow and stressed sighs, face hidden in the elbow of his arm that he threw over his gorgeous face.

he just looked so…tense, you felt like you had to do something.

and so, before you knew it, you let your shorts and panties hit the floor, your (actually, cheol’s) shirt following next.

he was just laying there, deep in thought, that he didn’t ever hear you walk across the room, didn’t even pay too much attention to the mattress dipping under your weight as you crawled towards him.

it was only when you forcefully removed his arm from his face that he was ready to say something, mean things to snap at you just on the tip of his tongue immediately dying the moment he registered your nakedness.

at first, he was ready to decline your offer, ready to say that he wouldn’t be too gentle on you right now if you two decided to have sex, that he would use you rather than love you. and that is something he wouldn’t allow to happen, not with you.

but then.

instead of straddling his hips, you went ahead and put your other leg.

on the other side of his shoulder.

cheol just stares up at you, at your gorgeous body, an angle making him both salivate and his lips completely dry, your sweet pussy that he loved more than almost anything in this world hovering over his chin, so close yet so far away.

cheol followed the trail that is your body-your wetness right in front of his eyes, followed by your soft tummy, the curves of your waist connecting right into your chest where your soft and bouncy tits stood proudly, and lastly your visibly shy and nervous face.

he could feel himself panting already, ready to actually suffocate under your weight if you would so kindly let him. but despite his urges and needs, he waited. waited for you to make the first move.

waited for you to take control.

gulping one last time, in low and raspy voice you asked him one final question.

“still want me to sit on it, baby?”

and so here you were, head thrown back as the moans flew freely out of your mouth. almost like an instinct, like an animal, you were unconsciously grinding all over his face, your juices smeared all over his mouth, cheeks, and even nose. and yet, cheol just continued to lap on your pussy like a good boy that he was.

he was so so loud as well, you can’t honestly remember if you have ever heard him be so vocal, maybe even more vocal than you. his groans were bordering on animalistic ones, vibrations coming from his mouth traveling through your pussy, through your quivering tummy and shaky chest, all the way to your ears.

his big and strong arms were strongly wrapped around your thighs, locking them in place, so even if you wanted to move, cheol wouldn’t allow you to.

your hands were so indecisive, going from strongly holding onto the headboard, to leaning back on one, hand pressed into his chest that was tight from the lack of the air, while the other was holding onto his hair, pulling on it as you were grinding all over his beautiful face.

you peaked over your tits to look at his face, only to see his eyes closed in pleasure, eyebrows now furrowed in pure ecstasy instead of anger. you notice his eyes trying to open for a second, only for them to roll back into his head the moment you circle your hips again.

and the noises-god, it was so loud and nasty, it was all the more turn on.

you were just moving your hips, sometimes back and forth, properly grinding on his hungry lips, sometimes just making circular motions, smearing your precum all over his face.

which he seems to like so much, as every time you did it, you could feel his hips buckle upwards into the air and his moans travel through your pussy.

his tongue was splitting your lips apart before dipping inside your hole, collecting your sweetness on his tongue before swallowing it, the tip of his tongue then lapping at your clit for a second before doing it all over again. you swore, it almost looked like he was passionately making out, except it was with your pussy and not with you.

you were worried that you might be too heavy, that you were suffocating him, but that seems to be exactly what he wanted, as any time you tried to raise your hips a bit and let him breathe, he would just harshly pull you back down, a sound somewhere between disapproval and warning leaving him before he goes back to being a moaning mess.

it actually came so naturally to you- being in control. you weren’t even aware just how much control you had over him right at this moment. you were the one that set the pace, the one that used your hold on his hair to move his face in the direction that you wanted him to, the one who was a babbling mess, words like “such a good boy for me” and “fuck, just like that, baby, you do it so good” involuntarily leaving your mouth.

and cheol, just like a good boy you claimed he was, took whatever you gave him.

he was so lost in the pleasure, that he didn’t even notice just how close he was to cumming untouched until your hips started buckling out of control as well, moans getting breathier the closer you were getting to creaming all over his face.

before you knew it, you harshly pulled on his hair to push his face further into your pussy as you threw your head back, a loud scream escaping you as you reached your orgasm and came all over his face, your cum smearing all over his lips and chin as he tried to clean it all up, to swallow it, to lose himself in the pleasure for just a bit longer.

after you became sensitive, you recoiled away from his touch, finally being able to lift your hips away from his face and let him breathe again.

upon you lifting yourself up, cheol uses his newfound to take one deep breath, shakily filling his lungs with fresh air. he wasn’t even aware of just how oxygen deprived he was until he tried looking up at you only for everything to become very very blurry for him.

you two just stayed like that for a minute or so, both looking at each other as your chests were heaving.

and as you were looking at each other, a clear agreement was concluded between you two as you two were trying to come back to your sanities.

fuck, we are going back from this.

[tsunodaradio]

the summer you turned pretty ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒 & 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

the story of you, mclaren’s golden boys, and the summer that changes everything.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x mclaren marketing admin!reader x oscar piastri. ꔮ word count: 12.2k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, friendship. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. slight time skip (set in 2027), tension tension tensionnn!!!, not really a love triangle, loosely based off the summer i turned pretty where oscar is conrad and lando is jeremiah. ꔮ commentary box: yeah.., yeah. this is a thing, i guess. much thanks to @binisainz and @norrisradio for watching me spiral over this. consider this a warm-up for the challengers au 🙂‍↕️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

There’s something about the air this time around.

You feel it the second you step out of the van, your trainers hitting the gravel with a muted crunch. A breeze ruffles the hem of your McLaren-issued shorts, sticky with sweat from the long drive, and you breathe it in. Salt, pine, heat radiating off the tarmac like a living thing.

It’s the fourth time you’ve made this pilgrimage, the fourth summer you’ve found yourself somewhere off-grid with the team. Official cameras conveniently ‘forget’ to roll. Every work email is answered with a flip-flopped foot and a cocktail in hand. 

Life at McLaren never really started until you survived the off-season getaway. 

Everyone knew it. No one said it out loud.

The rented-out summer home sprawls out in front of you, all whitewashed stone and terracotta roof tiles, perched high above an aquamarine stretch of water so clear it looks Photoshopped. A few bright towels already cling to the poolside chairs; someone’s left a trail of sandy flip-flops like breadcrumbs. You can hear laughter somewhere—muffled, distant, a memory you haven’t made yet.

The whole place hums under the weight of something not quite visible. A static charge. A warning shot fired low across the bow.

Oscar had won the 2026 World Drivers’ Championship, wrestling the 2025 crown from Lando in a way that was almost surgical. No drama, no big public blowout. Just a clean, clinical dethroning that had stunned the paddock stupid.

But it wasn’t clean. Not really. You’d seen the cracks up close. The stiff smiles. The way Lando’s jaw would tick when Oscar’s name got thrown around in meetings. The brittle way Oscar would pretend not to notice.

Now, with both their contracts coming up and the whole world speculating if McLaren could even keep them both, the air buzzes with something volatile. Not anger, exactly. Not yet. Just—

“You coming or what?” a voice calls out, snapping you out of your reverie. You turn to see Callum from logistics waving you in, already wearing a sleeveless tee and a grin that promises poor life decisions.

You wave back, laughing under your breath. Whatever. Let the future burn itself down later.

Right now, you’ve got one week. One week to drink bad beer by the pool, to dance barefoot to someone’s crackling Bluetooth speaker, to pretend that you’re just a marketing admin on holiday and not someone who spends their life airbrushing tensions away with pastel graphics and PR spins.

One week before everything changes.

You’re going to enjoy the hell out of it.

Except you don't even make it to the front steps before they find you.

Lando’s laugh cuts through the air first. Unmistakable, that full kind of sound that’s always gotten him exactly what he wanted. He strides across the gravel with a beer in hand, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Tan already sunk into his skin like he belongs here more than anywhere else.

Oscar is a step behind him, hands shoved into the pockets of his board shorts, mouth pulled into that familiar half-smile that never quite gives away what he’s thinking. Cool. Untouchable. But not when it comes to you.

You’ve known them both since 2023. Started the same year as Oscar, actually, back when he was still the ‘new kid’ and Lando was the anointed heir of McLaren. Watching them now, it’s almost funny how much and how little has changed.

“Well, well, well,” Lando drawls, his gaze raking down the length of you without a shred of shame. “Someone’s been hitting the gym.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Typical. Lando always wielded charm like a blunt weapon. Flirt first, apologize later—if at all.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shoot back, crossing your arms to fend off the fluster you feel prickling your skin.

“You should.” His grin turns a little wolfish, a little sharper at the edges. It’s always been like this with Lando. Sharp banter, quick jabs, a constant underlying dare in his words.

Oscar, on the other hand, doesn’t say anything. He just glances at you, quick, his gaze flickering over the obvious changes. The toned arms, the tighter shorts, the way you stand a little differently now, more sure of yourself. It’s the sun you’ve caught over the spring, the way your hair is lighter. The confidence, fitting you a little easier now. 

“Ignore him,” Oscar says finally, voice dry as ever. “He thinks a compliment a day keeps HR away.”

Lando snickers, entirely unbothered. “No one’s filing any complaints.”

“Yet,” Oscar adds under his breath, and you catch the twitch of a real smile before he looks away, as if he’s embarrassed to be caught being funny.

The dynamic between them is sharper this year, the edges harder to ignore. Lando’s a little too loud; Oscar’s a little too careful. And you, well—

You shoulder your bag higher. Whatever storm is brewing, it’s not here yet. 

When Lando is pulled away by another group, you find yourself next to Oscar, the two of you naturally falling into step. “He’s subtle, huh?” you say, nodding toward where Lando is already readying to play a match of beach volleyball.

Oscar snorts. “As a brick through a window.”

Your laughter comes easier with him. No games, no showmanship. Just the same effortless back-and-forth you’ve had since you both joined McLare. Young, new, a little out of your depths. You’ve grown alongside each other in different ways, but the familiarity remains.

“You look good, by the way,” Oscar says after a beat, almost too casual.

You glance at him, but he’s already looking away. “Thanks, Piastri,” you say, nudging his elbow lightly. “Big year for compliments, huh?”

He hums noncommittally, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes. Something that makes you feel seen in a way that’s infinitely more dangerous than Lando’s brand of unashamed attention.

Voices call your names from across the courtyard. A group from the marketing team waves you over, already laying claim to beach chairs and plotting the evening’s games.

“Duty calls,” you say with a mock salute.

Oscar lifts a hand in farewell. “See you.”

The first few hours are a whirlwind of people claiming rooms, of staff trading sunblock and shots and secrets. By the time it’s evening, the beach air is thick with the scent of salt, laughter bouncing between bodies huddled in threadbare hoodies and board shorts. Someone passes a bottle of cheap rum around. Someone else suggests Truth or Dare, and against your better judgment, you let yourself be roped in.

You’re perched on a faded picnic blanket with a handful of your favorite coworkers. Marketing assistants, junior engineers, a couple of race strategy interns. A makeshift family built over late nights and endless deadlines.

“Alright, you,” Tom from engineering says, pointing at you with a grin. His cheeks are already flushed from the booze. “Truth: which of our two golden boys is more crush-worthy?”

A chorus of oohs rises from the circle. You groan, tossing a handful of sand in Tom's general direction. “What are we, twelve?”

“Come on! You have to answer.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, sighing dramatically as if it’s the most inconvenient question in the world. Still, your heart skips a beat. You know there’s only ever been one answer.

“Oscar,” you say finally, shrugging like it doesn't cost you anything. “It’s always been Oscar.”

The teasing jeers come quick, but you just grin and take a swig from the bottle when it’s passed your way. It’s easier to laugh it off than to sink into the memories unspooling quietly in your mind.

You think about your first day at McLaren. You’d both been rookies, wide-eyed and trying not to drown in a sea of expectation. Oscar had been fresh off his earlier championships. This quiet, determined presence in a world built for louder voices. You had locked eyes across the cafeteria once, both awkwardly holding trays of uninspiring food, and he’d given you a small, tentative smile.

It hadn’t been fireworks. It hadn’t been some earth-shattering moment you could write a novel about. It had been something smaller, quieter. A seed planted in good soil.

Over the years, you’d watched him grow into himself. Sharper on track, still dry-humored and steady off it. Always polite. Always a little reserved. And always, somehow, softer towards you.

You were no fool, though. You never once mistook kindness for something more. You knew what your place was. A marketing admin, barely visible on race weekends unless a driver needed to be somewhere for a shoot. You’d been content to stay in your lane, to admire him like you admired the sunsets over the paddock, or the roar of the engines on a Sunday afternoon.

Beautiful things. Distant things.

If Oscar was nicer to you than he was to others, you chalked it up to that shared sentiment. You were both once the least important people in the room, both standing on the shaky ground of McLaren’s legacy, and rookies tended to stick together. 

Someone nudges you, laughing, and you shake yourself out of it, laughing along. The night spins onward, bright and blurry. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up with sand in your hair and regret in your bones.

But for now, you pass the bottle to the left, and let the fire warm your skin.

The next morning is slow and heavy, the sun just starting to burn off the early haze. You’re pulling your hair into a loose ponytail, half-listening to chatter around the shared bathroom when Mia from digital points her toothbrush at you and says, “You know he’s been checking you out, right?”

“Who?”

Mia rolls her eyes dramatically, toothpaste foam threatening to spill. She jerks her chin toward the open doorway. “Norris.” 

Curious and a little dubious, you step out into the hall. Sure enough, there he is, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a mug. His gaze finds yours immediately, unapologetically. When he notices you catching him, his mouth quirks into a slow, confident grin.

“Morning,” he calls.

“Morning,” you reply as casually as you can manage.

He sets down his mug. “Fancy a run?”

You hesitate, glancing around for signs of anyone else. Usually, the drivers corral a whole group when they go on these runs. But there’s no one hovering by the door with sneakers in hand. It’s just Lando, looking infuriatingly fresh and ready.

“Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. He grins, and it’s the same sort of smile he has when he’s standing on the top step of the podium. 

You lace up your trainers quickly and meet him outside. The air is cooler by the beach, the ocean stretching out endlessly beside you. You jog in an easy rhythm, sand crunching faintly under your feet. It’s quiet for a while. Just the waves and the distant call of gulls.

“You look different this summer,” Lando says after a stretch of silence. His voice is low, almost thoughtful.

You laugh breathlessly. “Bad different or good different?”

“Good. Very good,” he says with a lopsided smile. “More... sure of yourself.”

The compliment lands oddly heavy in your chest. “Maybe I’m just better at pretending now.”

He shoots you a sideways glance, sharp and knowing. “Or maybe you’re better at being who you are.”

The words catch you off-guard, more meaningful than the easy flirtations you’d expected. For a while, neither of you speak. You just run, side by side, until the sun climbs higher and the morning grows warmer.

It’s always been a little different with Lando. He was the occasional headache of the marketing team, the one that warranted one or two more PR releases than Oscar. Off the track, though, you were always pleasantly surprised at who Lando could be underneath the orange race suit. 

He was the thoughtful kind, the type to know everybody’s birthdays and to stop for any kid asking for an autograph. He never minced words, but he was not unkind, either. He just felt everything deeply, whether it was a loss, or a win, or the sentiment of an unassuming summer day.

When you finally loop back toward the house, your skin is sticky with sweat and your mind is spinning. Lando bumps his shoulder lightly against yours as you walk up the porch steps.

“Good run,” he says, like it means something more.

You nod, pretending your heartbeat is only from the exercise.

Inside, the house is waking up properly now. Music playing, laughter bouncing. You disappear into the crowd, feeling Lando’s eyes on your back the whole way, and wondering, not for the last time that day, what the hell just happened. 

You try not to think of it during the day. You focus on the team exercises, the planning, the downtime. You count down the seconds until your favorite parts of these summers: the bonfires in the evening. 

Lanterns swing lazily from the wooden beams overhead, casting a dappled light over the courtyard where most of the team has gathered. It’s bright and loud, and it reminds you of why you continue to stay despite the shitty management and the questionable policies. The people here are good people. 

Lando shimmers in the center of it all. He’s a social butterfly, fluttering from interns to old-timers with small talk that makes you feel special for a few, precious moments. What endears you the most is that you know he’s not putting on a show. Lando likes the team, likes the beach and the woodsmoke and the invincibility of these moments away from the public eye. 

You feel like something’s missing, though. You wander off in search of that puzzle piece, and that’s when you spot him. 

Oscar, tucked away by the side of the house, half-shielded by the drooping branches of a tree. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his posture hunched as he scrolls through his phone. You smile to yourself.

“Hiding, are we?” you call out, keeping your voice light.

Oscar doesn’t start. He just glances at you, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Strategic retreat.”

You chuckle and wander closer, careful not to intrude too much. “Fair. You lasted longer than I thought you would,” you sya. 

“Peer pressure’s a powerful thing.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Just thought I’d come say ‘hi’ before you went full hermit.”

You’re about to wander back off to the beach when Oscar says in an uncharacteristic rush of words, “You don’t have to go.”

You freeze for a beat. When you look over, Oscar’s already looking at you—steady, earnest, like he actually means it.

“If you want,” he adds, more casually now. As if he’s giving you an out instead.

Your heart does that stupid thing it always does around him. A warm stutter you can never quite control. You move closer, sitting down a comfortable distance away. Close enough to talk, far enough not to spook the moment.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

The night hums around you and between it all, a quiet little space you carve out with Oscar, just the two of you. You wonder, not for the first time, if he feels it too. The anticipation when the amps turn on. The thick tension. 

It’s not something you’re willing to stake your friendship over, so you let the moment pass as many others before it. By the time the two of you are heading back to the throng, you’re only reminded of where you belong in the complex hierarchy of co-worker friendships. 

The next morning, the sun is high and hot by the time everyone spills out onto the open field just beyond the house. There’s a haphazard setup of cones, makeshift goals, and a suspicious number of foam batons. 

Classic team-building chaos.

Brian from HR claps his hands together. “Alright! Lando, Oscar, you know the drill.”

There's a collective hum of excitement as people start gathering behind them, ready to be picked. You hang back, adjusting the hem of your shorts and shielding your eyes from the sun. It’s almost a tradition at this point: drivers lead, employees follow, and everyone ends up in some over-competitive version of capture-the-flag or ultimate frisbee.

Lando and Oscar stand a few feet apart, each looking unfairly good in their McLaren-branded athletic gear.

“Ladies first,” Lando says with a smirk, tossing a foam baton into the air and catching it with a little spin. “Pick whoever you want, mate.”

Oscar just gives him a bemused look. “You’re only saying that because you want to steal half my picks.”

“It’s called strategy,” Lando replies smoothly, tapping his temple. “That’s why I'm the smart one.”

Oscar snorts, but then his eyes flick to you—brief, almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking.

You feel it more than you see it: the way the energy subtly shifts. The people around you start elbowing each other, stifling laughs. There’s no hiding it now. You’re not the most athletic, not really the kind of member who brings in the winning shot, but you’re close enough to both drivers for this squirmish to become an annual thing. 

“I’ll take—” Oscar starts, but Lando cuts in.

“Nope. Mine.” 

A ripple of amusement runs through the group. Someone whistles. You cross your arms, eyebrows raised in mock affront.

Oscar’s mouth twitches at the corner, betraying the tiniest smile. “That’s not how this works. You let me pick first.” 

“Rock, Paper, Scissors for her?” Lando says cheekily, already raising his hand into position.

I’m right here, you’re tempted to tease, but you’re already red-faced from their attempts to stake claim. Oscar sighs like Lando is the greatest burden on earth. He humors him anyway.

They square up. A few of the engineers start chanting under their breath: “Rock, paper, scissors! Rock, paper, scissors!”

They throw once.

Lando’s scissors against Oscar’s rock.

A loud cheer goes up. Lando groans theatrically, dragging his hands down his face.

“Fine,” Lando grumbles, shooting you half a smirk. “But just know, you’re missing out on being on the winning team.”

You laugh, falling into step next to Oscar as the rest of the group starts getting sorted out.

“Don’t let him fool you,” you tease under your breath. “You’re the only reason this team has a chance.”

Oscar flashes you a look. One warm enough to melt every rational thought right out of your sun-drenched head.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Wouldn't want to win without you anyway.”

You’re still brushing sand from your hands as the games kick off, a whole series of activities spread across the beach: tug-of-war, three-legged races, trivia relays. The energy is infectious, easy to get swept into, almost enough to make you forget about the heavy things hanging in the background—the contracts, the titles, the unspoken rivalries.

Oscar is relentless. Competitive in a way that most people wouldn't expect if they only ever saw his calm interviews. It’s an open secret, just how intense Oscar could get when it came to things like these.

His team moves like a machine, coordinated and precise, while Lando’s team operates with chaotic enthusiasm, making up for what they lack in organization with sheer willpower and noise.

You’re laughing as you hurl yourself into a sack for the next race, the sand hot and uneven under your feet. The world tips violently when you stumble, crashing face-first into the beach. Grit fills your mouth, your skin stings. 

When you push yourself upright, coughing, Oscar is already tossing a snide comment over his shoulder: “Maybe stick to admin work.”

It lands harder than it should. 

Maybe because it’s him. Maybe because it’s been four years of pretending you didn’t really care what Oscar thought of you. The sting rises up quicker than you can shove it down, and it only worsens when you notice Lando’s sharp gaze.

“Mate,” Lando snipes, breaking from his own team to glare at Oscar. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Oscar hesitates, like he realizes it a second too late, but someone calls for the next round and the moment fractures before it can settle into anything more. You paste a smile on your face and dive back into the games like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just realize that no matter how long you stayed at McLaren, some things might always hurt a little more than they should.

The games end in a tangle of cheers and whoops, Oscar’s team carrying their homemade ‘trophy’—an old beach umbrella someone had scrawled CHAMPIONS across with an orange Sharpie. The sun dips lower, bleeding oranges and reds across the sky, painting everyone in a warm, careless glow. Music drifts the easy beat of a summer song nobody will remember by winter.

You’re crouched at the edge of it all, nursing a plastic cup of water in a bid to fill the hollow feeling buzzing under your ribs. Oscar is somewhere in the throng, a grin splitting his face. He’s pulled into photos, hands slung over shoulders, the weight of his careless comment seemingly long gone from his mind.

You’re fine. You swear you are. 

It’s stupid to let it fester, stupid to feel the prickle of tears when you’ve fought so hard to be seen as part of this team, not just the girl who sends calendar invites and films content.

You want to believe that Oscar hadn’t meant to be cruel, that it’d been adrenaline-fueled trash talk. That the remark wasn’t some thought that’s been on the back of his mind for years now, just waiting for a moment to come to head. 

God, what does it say about you that you’re the one hurt, and you’re still making excuses for Oscar? 

You’re contemplating how soon you can sneak back to the house without making it obvious when Lando drops down beside you, kicking up a puff of sand.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, easy. The kind of ‘hey’ that slips into the cracks you've been trying to mortar over all afternoon.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Lando notices. Of course he does.

“You’re shit at hiding it, you know,” he adds, nudging your elbow with his.

You huff out a laugh, more breath than sound. “I’m fine.”

He doesn't say anything right away. Just picks at a piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand, giving you enough space to either lie again or actually talk.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but patient. The sky darkens a little more. The ocean breathes in and out.

“You were killing it out there,” Lando offers eventually. “Seriously. You’ve got, like, a mean sack race face.”

A real laugh slips out this time, unguarded, and Lando grins that I-finished-P1 smile again.

“I just…” You dig your toes into the sand. “Sometimes it feels like I’m never going to be… y’know. Actually one of you.”

Lando frowns, properly frowns, like the idea physically pains him. “That’s bull.” 

“Tell that to Oscar.”

“Oscar’s a dick sometimes. We all are. Doesn’t mean we don’t see you. Doesn’t mean you don’t matter.”

It’s said so simply, so plainly, that for a second you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re McLaren,” Lando insists, nudging you again. Gentler this time. “Always have been.”

Your throat burns. You blink hard at the horizon, refusing to cry over something as stupid as a sack race, and a throwaway comment, and Lando Norris’ sincerity.

Lando stands, brushing the sand from his shorts, and holds out a hand.

“C’mon,” he says. “Bonfire’s starting. I’ll get you the good marshmallows.”

You let him pull you to your feet, the weight in your chest easing just a little. Maybe not everything was perfect. Maybe not everyone saw you the way you wanted. But right now, Lando did.

It’s enough. 

The bonfire spits and crackles as the night sinks deeper, a hundred tiny embers dancing into the dark. Someone’s switched the playlist to slower songs, the kind you know all the words to without trying. 

Lando sticks by you the entire evening.

Making sure you get the first roasted marshmallow. Shoving his hoodie at you when the breeze picks up. Sitting close enough that your knees bump sometimes, casual but intentional. It’s as if he’s decided that tonight, you are his responsibility, and he’s damn well going to make sure you feel wanted.

You don’t care if it’s pity. You let him. You let yourself take all of it, because Oscar’s comment had been a papercut in the thick skin you’d built over the years. Lando soothes it, whether or not he’s aware. 

Across the fire, Oscar laughs at something one of the mechanics says, but you can feel it—the way his gaze finds you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way it sticks, hot and restless.

You force yourself to ignore it. You’re not going to cause a scene. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.

You’re practically sleepwalking by the time you make it back to your room, the party still humming faintly through the walls. You peel off your clothes and collapse onto the bed in Lando’s hoodie, the scent of fire and salt clinging to your skin.

You’re just about to drift off when your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Your lockscreen—a photo of the most recent McLaren 1-2 finish—lights up with a text. 

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:03 AM]: You up?

You stare at it, your heart kicking once, stupid and traitorous. You think about ignoring it.

You don’t.

You [2:05 AM]: barely

The typing dots pop up immediately.

Disappear.

Pop up again.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:06 AM]: About earlier 

You bite your lip hard enough to sting.

You [2:07 AM]: it’s fine

It’s not. You both know it.

Another pause.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:09 AM]: It’s not

You sigh into your pillow, the ache behind your eyes starting to burn.

You [2:10 AM]: i don’t want to do this over text

The response comes faster this time.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:10 AM]: Can we talk tomorrow morning?

You hesitate. The safe thing would be to say no. To let it slide, bury it under the sand and sun and pretend none of it mattered.

But you’re tired of pretending.

You [2:11 AM]: yeah. ok.

Oscar doesn’t reply after that. Your screen goes dark. 

You roll onto your side, pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself, and finally, finally let sleep take you under.

The next morning, you’d been half-hoping Oscar would forget the plan from the night before—pretend it was just another drunken text with no follow-up—but no. He texts about getting breakfast for everybody else; you wait on the porch, your hands shoved in Lando’s hoodie as you groggily wonder why the hell you agreed to this. 

Oscar emerges moments later, cap pulled low, shirt wrinkled, looking like he hates everything about being awake before noon.

“Nice hoodie,” he says, deadpan, barely glancing at you as he shoulders past you and heads towards the direction of the nearest bakery.

You snort, following him into the fresh sting of morning air. “Sorry, didn’t realize there was a dress code for pastry runs.”

“Well, I didn’t realize Lando was your stylist now.”

“And I didn’t realize you cared.”

Oscar cuts a look at you, the edge of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk or a grimace. It's hard to tell with him sometimes. “I don’t,” he says way too fast.

You bump your shoulder against his as you cross the street. “You’re being weird about this.”

“I’m not being weird,” Oscar mutters, jaw tight. “I’m…” He trails off, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. “Shit, I’m going about this all wrong.”

You blink at him, mid-step. “About what?”

“Forget it.”

The bakery is tucked into a corner of the sleepy town, all blue awnings and window boxes bursting with flowers. A little bell jingles when you push the door open, the smell of fresh bread and sugar wrapping around you like a hug.

Oscar heads straight for the counter, scanning the rows of pastries with a frown like he’s plotting a strategy. You trail after him, trying not to feel weirdly self-conscious about the hoodie swallowing your frame.

For some reason, both your claws are out. You point out the doughnuts and Oscar makes some snide comment about cavities. He surveys the croissants and you mumble about his predictability. You feel it, then, what he had said earlier. On going about this all wrong. 

You’re convinced the two of you are one sarcastic comment away from a physical altercation when a comment stops you both in your tracks. “You two remind me of my wife and me,” the elderly baker says cheerfully, wiping his hands on a flour-dusted apron as he rings your orders up.

You almost choke. “Oh, we’re not—”

“—Not like that,” Oscar says at the same time, voice a little too sharp.

The baker chuckles, clearly not convinced, and hands over the bags stuffed with pastries. Oscar wordlessly pulls out his wallet, shoving a tip into the jar. Way more than necessary.

You raise an eyebrow as you step outside. “Generous.”

“Guilt tax,” Oscar mutters.

You open your mouth to poke at that—because honestly, it’s too easy—but then you catch the look on his face. Not exactly regretful. More like… determined. Stubborn. That same look he gets right before a race starts when he’s locked in.

For the first time all morning, you wonder if maybe you’re not the only one trying to pretend things don't matter as much as they do.

The walk back to the beach house is quiet, the smell of warm bread thick between you. Just as the house comes back into view, Oscar clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says, his voice lower, realer. “About yesterday. The team games.”

You pause.

“I was a dick. I’m sorry,” he says. 

You glance over. Oscar’s staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the brown paper bag of doughnuts. The one he’d bitched about but still got. 

You let a beat pass. Then: “I accept your apology, But,” you add, grinning, “I’m still gonna tease you forever about getting weird over Lando’s hoodie.”

He lets out a groan of pure suffering. “I wasn’t being weird.” 

“You know,” you say, voice casual, “if it’s that big a deal, I wouldn’t mind wearing one of yours.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You head towards the house, pastries in tow, leaving Oscar spluttering behind you.

It’s an exhilarating feeling, you realize. You haven’t flirted with Oscar the same way you do with Lando, out of fear that you would simply keel over and give up at first sight of the Australian’s blush. But it’s easier than you thought, and nothing amuses you more than the reddened tips of Oscar’s ears when he comes in after you.

After breakfast, you retreat upstairs for some air. You open your door and stop short.

Sitting neatly on your bed is a hoodie. Folded almost too carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave it at all.

On top, a scrap of paper, the ink a little smudged:

Keep your word. — o.p.

Just like that, he’s back to having that one-up on you. 

You hastily pull off Lando’s hoodie and tug on Oscar’s without thinking. The sleeves swallow your hands; the fabric is warm in a recently-got-ironed kind of way, and it smells faintly of soap and sunscreen.

Is it too late to keel over? 

The pool gleams under the sun, finally coaxed into full operation after a solid day of half the team fighting with buttons and levers. Someone’s pulled out a portable sound mixer. Someone else has brought out mocktails. The air buzzes with a rare, lazy kind of joy.

You’re sitting on a deck chair, wrapped up in Oscar’s hoodie, sipping something neon pink through a straw. Honestly, it’s too warm to be in a hoodie, but you’ll be damned to not ‘keep your word’. Besides, the knowing smile that Oscar tries to fight is worth the sweat on your back. 

One of your co-workers, Chloe, plops down next to you.

“This is not very hot girl summer of you,” she whines, tugging at Oscar’s hoodie like a child. 

You wrinkle your nose. “It’s a perfectly fine hoodie, Chlo.” 

“You know what would be even more fine? The bikini sitting at the bottom of your suitcase.” 

“Did you rummage through—” 

“Tomato, tomato. Put on the damn swimsuit you bought specifically for this trip!��� Chloe punctuates the threat with a pointed look. The kind that says, Don’t make me drag you. You have no doubts she’d do it, too, so you set down your drink with a groan of dramatic reluctance. 

“If I get sunburnt, I’m blaming you,” you grumble as she cheers and practically shoves you back into the house. 

In your room, you peel off the hoodie and shorts before swapping them for the bikini—a simple black two-piece that suddenly feels much more revealing now that you actually have to walk back out in it. 

The chatter quiets a fraction when you step out. Not dramatically, but enough that you notice. Enough that Lando’s eyebrows climb a little higher than normal. Even Oscar’s head turns, his lips parting slightly in what might be surprise if he wasn’t quick enough in hiding it.

“Finally decided to join the rest of us mortals,” Lando crows, tossing a beach ball between his hands. “Looking good, admin.”

You roll your eyes but can’t quite fight the smile tugging at your mouth. Before you can even think about easing into the pool like a normal person, Lando and Oscar exchange a look. A look you recognize all too late.

“Don’t you dare—” you’re starting, but it doesn’t matter. 

Too late.

Lando goes low, grabbing you by the ankles. Oscar effortlessly hauls you up with strong arms through your middle. You’re swung around a bit for good measure, and then you’re airborne for half a heartbeat before crashing into the pool with a splash.

The water is warm from the sun, but it still shocks the breath out of you. You surface, sputtering, as Lando and Oscar double over with laughter. Everyone else watches on with the same amusement, knowing the boys’ tendencies for mischief when they were in a particular mood. 

“You absolute menaces,” you declare, wiping water from your face. “I think I twisted my ankle, man.”

Oscar’s laughter cuts off instantly. “Wait, seriously?” His brow furrows, and before you can blink, he’s crouched at the edge of the pool, leaning down to get a closer look.

“Which one?” he asks, already reaching to haul you out.

You grab his outstretched hand and yank.

Oscar yelps—an actual, undignified yelp—as you drag him headfirst into the water beside you.

He resurfaces, blinking water from his lashes, completely betrayed. “You—”

You’re already laughing, kicking away from him. 

“That’s for the sack race comment!” you crow, paddling backward.

He shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “I thought we were past that,” he calls out, splashing water in your eyes. You retaliate before attempting to dart away. 

The afternoon blurs into sun-drenched chaos. People drift in and out of the pool, mock battles and splash wars springing up as naturally as breathing. The laughter is loud, the water warm, and for a while, everything feels suspended, easy.

Mid-afternoon, someone shouts “Chicken fight!” and it's immediately game on. Chloe clambers onto Oscar’s shoulders without hesitation, while you tread water nearby, laughing at the whole ridiculousness of it.

Before you can react, strong hands wrap around your waist.

“My turn, love,” Lando announces triumphantly, already hoisting you up onto his shoulders. “You were on Oscar’s team last time. You’re mine now.” 

You squeal, half from shock, half from trying to stay balanced as Lando’s hands steady you by your thighs. Your heart stumbles a little. His grip is firm, his fingers warm and sure against the hem of your bikini bottoms. 

You catch Oscar looking at you from below Chloe, his gaze a little too intense for something as stupid as a pool game. Your stomach flips uneasily.

Focus, you tell yourself. This is supposed to be fun.

It’s fun to have Chloe lunge at you, her giggles bright as she sinks her nails into your sunburnt shoulders. It’s fun to have Lando moving underneath you, shouting up reassurances like get her and that’s my girl. It’s fun to feel Oscar watching your every move, and not because he’s strategizing. 

You thread your fingers through Lando’s hair as Chloe tries to push you backward. Lando’s hands shift slightly higher on your thighs, nearly underneath your bikini. Maybe by accident, maybe not. You feel the difference immediately. An inch more of skin under his touch, a flash of heat that makes your breath catch.

You’re still trying to process that when, all of a sudden, Lando jerks underneath you with a loud “Oof!” and sinks halfway underwater.

Chloe shrieks in laughter, nearly tumbling off Oscar.

You slide off Lando’s shoulders in the commotion, landing back in the water with a splash. As you surface, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, looking absolutely unapologetic as he pulls back his leg. 

Lando pops up a moment later. He’s wheezing, his hands clasped over his swim shorts. “What the hell, Osc!” he rasps, the sound punched out of him after being ungraciously kneed in the groin. 

Oscar shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Slipped.”

You cough out a laugh, half in disbelief. Chloe floats past you, cackling.

Lando glares at Oscar, but that eventually cracks into a grin. “C’mere, you,” the Brit coos, lunging for his co-driver. Before his head can be shoved down, Oscar throws you a wink—quick, private.

Your cheeks burn hotter than the sun overhead, and you duck underwater before anyone can comment on it.

That day’s dinner stretches into the warm evening, the long table lined with empty plates, half-drunk glasses of wine, and the low hum of conversation. The sun dips lower, casting everything in a syrupy, forgiving glow. It feels almost perfect, if not for the gnawing restlessness you can’t quite name.

For once, neither Lando nor Oscar are by your side.

Lando leans back in his chair, laughing at something one of the engineers says, his fingers curled around a sweating can of soda. Oscar is farther down the table, deep in a serious discussion with one of the strategists, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing way.

You’re free to breathe, to think. It’s then that the reality of the summer settles in, heavy and unrelenting.

Everyone’s been talking about it in hushed tones when they think the drivers aren’t listening. 

Will Lando stay with McLaren? After years of loyalty, of being the heart and soul of the team, will he finally walk away for a shot at something different, something better? 

And Oscar—Oscar, who’s no longer just the promising rookie but the reigning World Champion—faces the brutal weight of defending everything he’s fought for. Will he make it? Will he relent, or will he be something greater than what was expected of him? 

You can feel it thrumming under every casual exchange, every shared joke. The quiet tug-of-war. The clash of futures neither of them are quite ready to admit they want different things from.

And yet, somehow, it’s you who feels pulled taut between them.

Lando catches your eye across the table and winks. Easy, breezy, the same way he always has. He makes it seem as if there’s nothing complicated about any of this.

Almost immediately after, Oscar glances up from his conversation and smiles at you. Soft and crooked, like you’re the one safe thing in a world that’s otherwise slipping sideways.

Your chest tightens.

You’re caught, but you don't even know what in. Caught between loyalty and ambition. Between the comfort of what’s always been and the thrill, the fear, of what might change. Between two boys who are friends, rivals, teammates and something else you’re not sure you want to name.

You pick at your food, your appetite long gone, and wonder when exactly this summer stopped feeling endless and started feeling like a ticking clock.

The summer heat is clinging to everything. It’s the kind that demands you do something, anything before you’re swallowed whole.

Plans start to splinter over breakfast.

“Surf’s up,” Oscar says, tossing a board into the back of one of the jeeps. The sun catches in his hair, making him look unfairly effortless. “Who’s in?”

“Or,” Lando calls out from the kitchen, a trail of crumbs following his words, “we could do something that doesn’t involve dying under a wave. There’s a sick hiking trail up the cliffs. Views are unreal.”

There’s a beat, and then the divide begins. Some of the team flock toward Oscar, lured by the thrill of the ocean; others gravitate to Lando, drawn to the promise of a rugged adventure.

You stand in the middle, heart hammering a little too hard for something that’s supposed to be casual. Supposed to be fun.

It feels like a metaphor you’re not ready to face.

“You’re not coming?” Lando asks, mock-offended, pulling a pout that would be funny if it didn’t make something in your chest ache. “Gonna miss you,” he adds, lighter, teasing.

Oscar, carrying two boards now, smirks over his shoulder. “Guess she’s tired of babysitting you, Lan.”

You force a laugh you don't quite feel. “Maybe I just need a break from both of you.”

They both react predictably. Lando clutches his heart in fake agony, Oscar shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. You don’t wait for more. You duck back into the house, the coolness of the shaded hallway swallowing you up.

For the first time in days, you’re alone.

You wonder if choosing yourself is just another way of choosing at all.

You spend the afternoon alone, and it’s a kind of peace you didn’t realize you needed.

The beach house creaks with the slow, easy rhythm of the ocean breeze. You move from room to room without urgency. Sometimes reading on the porch, sometimes just watching the water glitter beyond the dunes.

By the time the sun starts to slip lower, you hear footsteps, wet and clumsy on the deck. Oscar appears first, his wetsuit peeled down to his waist. Sand dusting his hair and shoulders, water still dripping from his grin.

You laugh despite yourself. “Come here,” you say, the affection leaking into your tone before you can hold it back.

Oscar ambles over, letting you reach up and card your fingers through his messy hair, brushing the sand out with a few playful tugs. His gaze is steady on yours, warm enough that you have to focus on some nondescript point past him to hide the way your face heats.

“Had fun?” you ask for the sake of asking. 

He raises his shoulders in a shrug, his eyes never leaving your face. “Could have been more fun,” he says simply, his words loaded with implication you’re not about to confront. 

Oscar opens his mouth to say something else—

The door swings open again. Loud. Dramatic.

Lando stumbles in with a theatrical groan, one hand clutching his shin. “Ow. Ow. Pretty sure I’m dying.”

You arch a brow. “You’re so full of it,” you accuse, dropping your hands from Oscar’s hair. 

“Seriously,” he insists, dragging himself toward the couch like he’s reenacting the third act of a war movie. “Tragic end to a heroic hike.”

You roll your eyes but motion him over anyway, reaching for the first aid kit you know is stashed under the side table. When Lando props his leg up, you find a scrape. Minor. Nothing to justify the Oscar-worthy performance.

Still, you crouch beside him, carefully dabbing at the cut.

“Big baby,” you mutter.

Lando grins, completely unashamed. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You look up, catching the cheeky glint in his eye. The very obvious satisfaction of having pulled your attention away from Oscar.

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

Lando snickers. Oscar, toweling off his hair nearby, watches the exchange with a faint shake of his head. A half-smile tugs at his mouth like he can’t even pretend to be annoyed.

You tape a bandage neatly over Lando’s scrape, pretending not to feel the weight of both of their gazes pressing into you from opposite ends of the room.

The bonfire crackles in the pit, casting gold onto every face circled around it. You’re seated between Oscar and Lando—close enough that your knees brush both of theirs. It wasn’t planned. Just the way the night unfolded. Just the way they looked at you when you arrived, and the way neither of them moved an inch as you lowered yourself into the space between.

Lando’s been chatty all evening, but now his voice takes on a teasing edge.

“So,” he says, leaning back on his palms. “You seeing anyone?”

“That’s direct,” you hum, gaze focused on the s’more in front of you that won’t cooperate. 

He grins, eyes glinting in the firelight. “I’m just saying. You’ve been dodging the topic for, what, four summers now?”

Oscar shifts beside you. Just barely.

“You always seem very invested in my love life,” you comment, though you can already feel your heart picking up.

“I’m invested in you,” Lando says plainly. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

Oscar lets out a sound that might’ve been a scoff. “Back off, mate.”

The air thins like someone’s turned off the music. Everything goes on around the three of you, but in this little corner of the bonfire, something blaze and burns in a different way. 

Lando raises a brow, turning toward Oscar. “What? We’re just talking.”

Oscar doesn’t meet his gaze. “You’re grilling her,” he grunts, shoving his stick into the sand with uncharacteristic force. 

“I’m curious.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Okay,” you interject. “Let’s not fight over me like I’m some prize, yeah?”

Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees now, attention swinging back to you. “We’re not fighting.”

Oscar speaks without looking. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You look between them. Their faces both angled toward the fire now, lit in shifting amber tones. There it is again—the live wire of tension crackling between the two of them, beneath Lando’s wicked smirk and Oscar’s bouncing knee. 

Except it’s not about racing, now, is it? 

Lando taps your knee, snapping you out of your thoughts. “So? Are you?”

You chuckle, deflecting. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Oscar huffs beside you. Lando chuckles.

The laughter and music swell again. But nothing really returns to normal.

It’s an uneasy thought that makes a home in your bones all the way until the next day. The morning sun streams through the sheer curtains, lighting the hallway in a sleepy glow. Your footsteps are slow against the wooden floor as you pad barefoot toward the kitchen, the house quiet save for distant clinks of coffee mugs.

You nearly bump into Oscar rounding the corner. His hair’s a mess, still damp from the shower, and there’s a barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

“Morning,” he greets. “Didn’t think I’d run into you before the chaos starts.”

You frown, still foggy from sleep. “What chaos?”

He blinks, then breaks out into a wider smile. Amused, fond. “You forgot?”

You stare at him, confused, until it hits you.

The annual sand rail race.

Every summer, tucked into the off-season downtime, it’s the one competition that’s just for bragging rights. The leaderboard is even scrawled on a whiteboard in the garage, a running tally of victories and sore losers. So far, it’s 2-2. Lando and Oscar locked in their own personal tie.

Oscar watches the realization dawn on your face. “Right,” you murmur. “Race day.”

“Mm.” He studies you for a beat. “Hey.”

You glance up at him.

“I know you’re not a prize to be won,” he says, voice a little quieter now. “That’s not what this is.”

You nod slowly, watching him. You don’t know where this conversation is going. You’re not sure if you want to know. 

“But, uhm…” He trails off, his gaze flicking down to the walls before finding your eyes again. “I hope you’ll be rooting for me.”

The sheer sincerity of it nearly bowls you over. It’s not a command, not an order. It’s a wistful invitation, a shy confession made by a man who typically knew how to ask for anything else. But this was not a weekend off or a car upgrade. Hell, it wasn’t even anything consequential—not a date, not anything like that. 

Just for you to root for him. And yet he asks for it as if it’s something that matters, that makes everything do-or-die, and you wish it didn’t affect you as much as it does. 

You put on a front. You tilt your head, lips tugging up despite the hammering of your heart underneath your ribs. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you bring me coffee before the race.”

Oscar scoffs. “Bribery. Noted.”

But he’s smiling as he passes you, his shoulder brushing yours. And there’s coffee waiting for you when you get to the kitchen, poured into the mug that Oscar has repeatedly claimed as his. 

You sip from it, feeling the weight of the day shift. Something in the air is charged. Not just about the race, but everything teetering around it.

The sand rail track near the house buzzes with energy as the McLaren staff and team trickle in, excitement thrumming in the air. Someone brings a clipboard to track the bets. Within minutes, a frenzy of numbers and names clutters the surface. Playful taunts echo between the team members, each person rooting for either Lando or Oscar with a kind of fervor usually reserved for proper race days.

You slip your own bet into the mix quietly. You don't reveal it when one of the engineers presses you for an answer. You just shake your head and let them assume whatever they want. After all, it feels a little too intimate, too weighted, to share out loud.

When you make your way to the sidelines, Lando catches your eye. His grin is crooked, and he tosses you a flying kiss as he climbs into his sand rail buggy, helmet tucked under his arm. Oscar, a few meters away, adjusts his gloves with practiced ease, the sharp set of his jaw betraying his focus.

The start is as lawless as you would expect from the two of them.

Engines roar to life with a guttural snarl, tires kicking up dry sand as they lurch forward. Lando takes an aggressive line right off the bat, cutting tight against the first corner, his buggy tilting precariously before settling.

Oscar, ever the tactician, plays it smoother. He hangs back just enough to find a cleaner line, aiming for consistency instead of showmanship. His turns are precise, efficient, the kind of calculated risk that usually pays dividends on the track.

But Lando—Lando races like the world might end tomorrow. 

His buggy dances across the sand, skimming close to the edge of control. His reckless daring makes your stomach twist with nerves and awe in equal measure.

Lap after lap, they trade the lead in a blur of flying sand and roaring engines. The track isn't long, but it’s rough and unforgiving, peppered with bumps and hairpin turns.

On the final lap, it’s neck and neck. You can feel the tension in the crowd, everyone leaning forward unconsciously, breath held. Money is on the line, sure, but so is pride. And something else, something you’re not ready to admit. 

Oscar has the inside line on the last major turn. Lando guns it anyway, swinging wide, almost off-track—only to slingshot past in the final straight with a burst of speed that has everyone screaming.

Lando crosses the makeshift finish line a second ahead of Oscar. He throws his arms up in victory even before the sand settles. 

The cheers are deafening.

You clap along with everyone else, and your heart pounds for reasons that have nothing to do with the race itself.

Later, the house is alive with celebration. 

The playlist is one of Lando’s favorites, and a cooler filled with drinks appears out of nowhere. Lando is hoisted onto someone’s shoulders for a victory lap around the deck, soaking in the glory. Everyone is loud, laughing, riding the high of a race that felt more like a championship showdown than a friendly bout.

Oscar is nowhere to be seen. 

You slip away from the noise, letting the sound of celebration blur into the background. The beach dock stretches out ahead, wooden planks weathered and warm beneath your feet. There, at the edge, Oscar sits with his feet dangling just above the water, his arms braced behind him as he stares out at the horizon.

You wordlessly sit beside him, close but not touching, letting the silence settle for a beat.

“I should’ve had that,” Oscar mutters, his voice low and rough. He doesn't look at you. He’s not usually the type to take unkindly to losses; he’s always the type to make some comment about wanting to finish one place higher whenever he’s P2, but he doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t wallow. 

He does tonight. You don’t know why. 

“You almost did,” you offer, and Oscar scoffs. 

“Almost doesn’t count.”

You pull your legs up, crossing them underneath you. “It’s a bummer,” you concede. “Especially now that I’m fifteen dollars down ‘cause of you.” 

That earns a glance. His brows lift, eyes searching your face. “Seriously?”

You nod. “You asked me to bet on you, didn’t you?” 

Oscar huffs a laugh, but there’s something soft behind it. His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth.

It plays out like a movie scene, like something you’d imagined time and time again as some sort of maladaptive daydream. You’re frozen, focused on the way Oscar looks underneath the moonlight. How he shifts imperceptibly closer. How he leans in soundlessly, as if he might scare the moment otherwise. 

Your eyes flutter close. 

And then—

“CANNONBALL!”

Your eyes snap open just in time. Lando sails over both your heads in a blur of tanned limbs and unchecked chaos, crashing into the water with an explosive splash. Saltwater sprays over you and Oscar, dousing the moment in cold.

You yelp, shielding your face too late, and Oscar jerks back, blinking in disbelief.

Lando resurfaces with a triumphant whoop, grinning brightly. “Did I interrupt something?” he calls, treading water with the ease of someone completely unbothered.

Oscar wipes his face with a groan. “Go to hell, man.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as your heart is still hammering in your chest.

The moment’s gone, but it lingers in the edges, in the way Oscar’s hand almost finds yours again on the dock, in the way you both glance toward the water and then back at each other, unsure of what comes next. Lando, dripping in seawater and drunk on his earlier victory, pulls everybody in for a swim.

You follow, hopeful it will help you forget.

It doesn’t.

The beach house quiets into the low hum of waves and the distant buzz of the crickets outside. Most everyone is asleep or pretending to be. You toss and turn, too wired to drift off, your mind replaying the moment by the dock on a loop: Oscar’s closeness, the soft look in his eyes, the way he leaned in like gravity had decided for the both of you. 

Until Lando, in all his chaotic timing, had crashed down from the sky like a rogue asteroid.

Eventually, you give up. You throw on a hoodie—not Oscar’s, not Lando’s, just your own—and pad into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under your steps. The fridge hums gently in the corner, and you pull out a glass, filling it with water from the tap.

You don’t notice Lando until he speaks.

"Can’t sleep either?"

He’s leaning against the counter, shirtless, a half-eaten packet of biscuits in one hand. His hair’s a mess and there’s a kind of easy, rare quiet around him.

You start, nearly dropping your glass. Squint at Lando through the darkness of the kitchen, you can’t help but hiss, “Why are you just standing there in the dark?”

“I like the dramatic effect.”

“Well, congrats. You scared me.”

He waves a biscuit like a peace offering. “Want one?”

You shake your head, and he shrugs before popping it in his mouth. There’s a moment of silence, the kind that teeters between awkward and intimate. Then Lando tilts his head at you, chewing slowly.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Your lips pull into a frown. “What kind of secret?”

He pushes off the counter and walks over. He doesn’t comment when your eyes flick over to his toned abdomen or his bare shoulders; if anything, the way he leans against the island across you means he wants you to keep looking. “Two secrets, actually,” he says conspiratorially. 

You raise your eyebrows, intrigued. In the dark kitchen, you can make out the beginnings of Lando’s toothy smile. He knows he has you hook, line, sinker. 

He holds up one finger. “First, I only just realized this summer that you—” He gestures vaguely in your direction, then clears his throat. “You’re actually really pretty. Like, ridiculously. And I don’t know if that’s new or if I’ve just been blind.”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“I’m serious. Hey, look at me.” His eyes are surprisingly intense as he forces you to hold his gaze, willing it purely through sincerity alone. “You’re attractive. I’m not about to deny that fact just because you don’t want to hear it.” 

Your mouth feels dry. Your palms feel clammy. You suddenly wish you’d just slept off your unease.

“Second secret,” he continues, tone shifting. There’s something much more serious, now. Something consequential. “Except you can’t tell a soul. I mean it.” 

“Norris, I swear—” 

“There’s an email from another team,” Lando divulges, as casually as he might comment on the weather, “burning a hole in my phone.” 

There had been whispers, of course. In the paddock. In the McLaren garage. In the media room. Anywhere and everywhere Lando Norris’ name existed. 

Someone reported that it was Red Bull. A strategist ran numbers and alleged it was Mercedes. 

But there had been no confirmation, no slip-up from the managers or team principals. Negotiations were made behind closed doors. Decisions trickled down after the fact, and rarely were people like you aware before the news was already meant to break. 

Now, though, you find your stomach twisting as Lando stares at you through the darkness. He suddenly feels much like the sand outside this beach house—slipping right through your fingers. 

“Are you leaving?” you manage. 

He looks at you for a long beat, assessing the question you’ve decided to ask, then smiles faintly.

“Dunno yet,” he says. “Guess I’m waiting for something worth staying for.”

The air stills around you. For a moment, the two of you only look at each other, trapped in this summertime snow globe of indecision. The only sounds are the gentle clink of the glass as you set it down—the weight of it suddenly too heavy for your quivering fingers—and the ocean beyond the walls. The one that has seen you through four years of summers with Lando and Oscar. 

“What does that mean?” you exhale, even though you already have some idea. 

Lando grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re smart,” he says. Not in a taunt, but in a matter-of-fact way. “You’ll figure it out.”

He bites into another biscuit, winks, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there with the world’s most damning secret. 

You’re in your head for most of the next day.

Lando’s words keep circling back, like a tide you can't fight: Something worth staying for. You wish he’d said it with a little less charm, a little less Lando. But he hadn’t. He’d said it with that easy smile, the one that hides how serious he might be underneath. The one that makes it impossible to tell whether he means any of it or all of it. 

So now you’re stuck with it. The way he looked at you in the dim kitchen light. The way he popped another biscuit into his mouth like he hadn’t just handed you a loaded gun and walked off, not even watching his back to see if you’d shoot him.

Everything feels sideways. Every time you pass him in the hallway, your pulse does something stupid. Every laugh over breakfast, every casual brush of his arm against yours. It’s like something has shifted. Something that makes your skin buzz.

And Oscar feels it.

You know he does because he’s been trying to catch you alone all day. In the kitchen, during meals, on the walk down to the beach. But you keep dodging, not even consciously. You’re just not ready to talk about what almost happened. Not while the words worth staying for keep ringing in your ears.

By the time the sun dips low and the smell of dinner wafts through the beach house, Oscar gives up. He stops chasing, stops looking for the right moment.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

He sits across the room that night, slouched into the cushions, nursing a drink he hasn’t touched in half an hour. There’s something quiet in his posture, something that reads like retreat. His gaze is soft when it finds yours.

No longer searching, just lingering. Like he’s memorizing you before something ends.

And you? You’re still stuck, still wondering what Lando saw in you last night that made him say it. It’s driving you crazy, and you refuse to let it give you any more grief beyond the time you’ve already dwelled on it. 

The tide whispers in and out as you jog along the wet sand, trailing the shape of Lando’s footprints.

You see him before he sees you. His silhouette cutting through the misted sun, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls damp with sweat. He’s always moved like this, light on his feet, like running is more instinct than effort.

“Lando,” you call out, voice too loud in the quiet.

He slows. “Morning,” he greets, brows arching as you fall in beside him, breathless and determined. It’s the second to the last day of the week-long retreat. A little over 24 hours since Lando entrusted you with the two halves of his heart. 

You don’t stutter. “I can’t be the reason you stay.”

That stops him. Full stop, mid-stride. His breath clouds between you. “Whoa. You’ve been stewing on that all this time?” 

“I don’t want that on me,” you insist. “If you stay, it has to be for the team. For you. For Osc—Piastri.”

Lando blinks. Then, his face breaks out into a knowing grin, curling around your sincerity. Not to snuff it out, but more to let it take hold. 

“You really thought I was serious?” he says, half-laughing. “I was mostly joking. Kind of.”

You cross your arms. Lando is deflecting, trying to make it seem less than it really is, but you’re not about to call him out. 

He runs a hand through his curls, then looks at you—really looks. The same way Oscar had last night, as if he’s trying to figure out which parts of you he can beg and barter for. 

“I don’t think I’m done here,” he admits, decides. “I think I can still get a couple more championships with McLaren.” 

A relieved sigh escapes you. “Okay, that’s—” 

“And as for my other secret,” he interrupts, his hands planting on his hips. His tone is lighter, but his words are not any less cutting. “There’s always gonna be something between you and Osc, huh?” 

You freeze. 

You’d almost forgotten that. The ‘secret’ of Lando realizing you’re attractive, of him seeing you some other way than what you’re accustomed to. You try to stutter out some bullshit excuse, only to realize you had two hoodies to choose from today, and the one you’re wearing is not Lando’s. 

His words land heavier than his tone suggests, but he doesn’t linger. Instead, he flashes a grin and steps back, putting space between you. Just enough to see if you’ll pull him back in.

You don’t.

“Go ahead. Have your fun with him,” Lando says. Easy, breezy. “But when I get that WDC, I’m coming back to collect.”

He’s gone before you can respond, before you can discern if his words are a threat or a promise. Sand kicks up behind him as he disappears into the dawn. McLaren’s golden boy, setting course for the sun. 

That night, the energy is heavy and sparkling—like the last few drops of something good that's about to run out.

The group piles into the living room, a mess of sunburnt faces and half-drunk laughter. Everyone is tangled up in cushions and throw blankets. An empty bottle of vodka spins over the floor, clinking against the hardwood as it points and wobbles. The rules are easy: truth or dare, no take backs, no running away.

You’re trying not to stare at Oscar.

You’ve spent the better part of the day trying to catch him alone. Every time you moved toward him, he moved away, so you gave up after a while. You couldn’t blame him. You hadn’t exactly made yourself easy to reach lately, and he had his pride.

The bottle spins again. Spins and spins.

Eventually, it teeters to a stop and points squarely at Oscar.

A whoop goes up from the group. Someone slurs, “Truth or dare, Piastri!”

“Truth,” he answers, tongue already heavy and words just a bit slurred. 

Someone from accounting leans forward, grinning wickedly. “Have you ever had a crush on someone from McLaren?”

It’s the sort of drunk, easy question everyone expects to be laughed off. Everyone expects some half-hearted dodge, some teasing deflection.

But Oscar doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he says simply, his eyes steady.

Laughter ripples through the room. Someone shouts, “Who?!”

And then. 

And then. 

Oscar’s gaze finds you across the crowd, unwavering. The whole room feels like it tilts sideways. 

You forget how to breathe.

He says your name. You’re tipsy, but you’re fairly sure of it. Your name has always sounded different when Oscar said it. 

The room goes still for a moment before exploding into hoots and teasing cheers. “Mate,” Lando crows at his side, half-drunk and loud, “you’ve noticed the glow-up too, huh? She’s different this summer, right?”

Oscar frowns, almost like he doesn’t understand the joke. You feel every molecule of air between you stretch thin.

His next words are an absentminded mumble, almost lost to the clamor of activity in the circle. 

“It’s not just this summer,” he says to no one in particular. 

You don’t know what to do with your hands. With your heart. With the way Oscar is looking at you like you hung the stars. 

Has he always looked at you like this? 

You’re not sure who moves first. The bottle spins again. More shots get passed around. This is the part of the summer you’d been waiting for. 

Knowing something has shifted. Knowing nothing is ever going to feel quite the same again.

Oscar groans the moment he sits down at breakfast, squinting at his plate like it’s personally offended him. You offer him an Aspirin and a sympathetic grin. 

“Rough night?” 

He scowls half-heartedly as he rubs at his temples. “Who even brought out the tequila?”

“That would be you,” you inform him brightly, plucking a piece of toast from his plate.

You fall into a companionable silence as the rest of the team trickles in, blurry-eyed and sun-kissed from too much fun. Packing starts soon. The last full day hangs heavy, sweet with goodbyes not yet said.

Later, as you help Oscar load his things into the boot of his car, the air between you shifts. Enough to make you slow down. You fold up a beach towel, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

You’re both dragging your feet through the sand, both trying to extend this moment before you’re thrown back into the whirlwind of race weekends and media obligations. 

“Hey, uh,” he starts tentatively, “about last night. The game. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

You blink, confused. “Disrespectful?” 

“Yeah.” He tongues the inside of his cheek, looking younger than you’ve ever seen him. “You know, since you and Lando are—you know.” 

No, you don’t know. You’re not sure where the wrong impression might’ve landed, but you figure it’s somewhere between the day you spent ignoring Oscar and your lackluster reaction to his drunken admission. 

“We’re not,” you say, your words tripping over each other in their haste. “Lando and I—we’re not.” 

Oscar lifts a brow. “Really?” 

“Really,” you confirm, heart stammering now. You look down at your feet, breathe in the oceanside one last time, and you make a choice.

“I, um. I’ve liked you for a while, actually,” you manage. “I just didn’t think you felt the same. And I don’t expect anything now, I mean—people say things when they’re drunk, and—” 

Oscar Piastri wants it on record: gravity has nothing to do with him kissing you. The choice is all his. His desperation, his yearning, his urge to quiet the doubts that threaten to bubble out of you. 

It’s a quick thing. Over before you can properly respond. His cheeks are red as he pulls back; it has nothing to do with the sun. 

There’s something serious in his gaze. Something soft. “I was drunk, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it,” he says, eyes still fixed on your lips. “I’ve thought you were beautiful since the day I met you at MTC.” 

You open your mouth, but all that escapes is a quiet, stunned breath.

“And, fuck, okay,” he exhales nervously, “I think I want more than just summers with you.” 

You don’t overthink it. You lean in, hands curling into the front of his shirt. “Okay,” you whisper, and then you’re pulling him in to kiss him again, for longer, for more.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

The house is half-empty by the time you're saying your see you laters, the air thick with that bittersweet ache that always clings to the end of something golden. People are hugging, snapping last-minute selfies, pretending they’re not already thinking about inboxes and deadlines. 

You’re not pretending. Not today.

You’re watching Oscar load the last of the bags into his car, quiet and sure, the way he always moves when he thinks no one’s paying attention. There’s something unmistakable in the way he glances at you, like this week didn’t just change the rhythm of your summer but the shape of something much bigger.

You think about the other summers, the ones you thought were just fun and fleeting. You remember tequila shots Oscar took so you didn’t have to, the quiet way he always offered you the window seat on the flight home. 

That first summer, when he set down his hoodie on the sand so you wouldn’t have to sit on it, and you’d laughed and called him a grandma. 

You hadn’t seen it then. Or maybe you had, but you were too afraid to believe it.

Lando swings by with a backpack slung over his shoulder, squinting at the two of you with that trademark mischief. His eyes flick from you to Oscar, back again. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. Just smirks knowingly and claps Oscar on the shoulder.

You grin, wide and wordless, and toss Lando a little wave as he heads for his own ride. Thank you, it says. For not making it weird. For always knowing.

Lando waves back at you. It’s strategic, too. His phone is in his hand, the screen angled towards you. You catch the glimpse of his Mail app being open. How there’s nothing unread in it, how he makes his own choice at the same time that you do. 

Your attention is drawn back to Oscar when he clears his throat. “You, uh, still need a ride?” he asks with feigned calmness. 

You lift a brow, biting back a giddy grin. “You’re going the complete opposite direction.”

“Roads are roads,” he says, like it’s that simple.

And, somehow, it is.

You slide into the passenger seat, folding your legs up as Oscar starts the engine. The breeze curls in through the open windows. It smells like salt, and sun, and something you never want to forget.

The road curves away from the coast, and still, summer clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. For the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what’s on the other side of it.

Oscar glances at you as you stick one hand out the window, letting the breeze slip between your fingers. You hadn’t noticed it then, but you do now. How he looks at you, how he saves smiles for you. 

How roads are roads, and all of yours have led to him. ⛐

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 09. Oh no!

PREV PART Trigger warning: (past, current) mental + physical + emotional neglect, (name) pretends everything is fine, talking down of oneself, Reader isn't out towards the batfamily yet, mental gymnastics, disabilties are finally talked about, guilt, I think this is my longest chapter yet, pls tell me if I missed any warnings main m.list        series m.list

When you woke up your body felt sluggish as you try to remember what happened, you must have a fever, why else would Alfred be at your bedside sleeping. Seeing him there reminds you of the times your heart ached for his comfort, for the times you wished he would finally stand up for you. But he didn’t, he never takes your side.

Their reaction to you passing out must’ve been extreme, because the moment you tried to manoeuvre past Alfred Dick was there, standing in front of your door with a panicked expression. “You shouldn’t get out of bed,” he says with an attempted smile. It just makes you narrow your eyes and spitefully stand up. You ignore how the room spins and how your pain spreads to your neck and fingertips. It’s almost as if Dick can sense your discomfort (it would be a first) because the moment you lose your balance he’s there to keep you standing straight. “you really are stubborn.”

His words weren’t meant to make you flinch, but they still did. You don’t trust him, and you might never, anything negative from him puts you on edge (even if his statement is true). You never know how any of your siblings will react, and quite frankly you always found Dick the most difficult from all of your siblings. Impossible to read and always wearing that fake smile, he always used that smile when he interacted with you, keeping his real smiles for his true family. “Don’t touch me,” you hiss, raising your voice enough to wake Alfred up and enough for Dick to step back.

“(name),” he whispers as he moves towards you, checking your temperature with his hand not allowing you to flinch away from him. “Good, no fever….” Yet your eyes look anywhere but at his.

“Now that you’ve done the bare minimum to keep yourselves from wallowing in guilt,” you start, ignoring how Alfred’s face falls, how Dick’s breath becomes ragged and uneven. “I want you both to leave, I need to change for school.”

“You don’t seriously think you are going to school,” Dick says as his eyebrows furrow, his arm crossed on his chest. “not after passing out like that.”

You laugh, you couldn’t help it. Now they want to care for your health. “Didn’t you guys not send me to a hospital after I was viciously beaten and possibly had internal bleeding?” you shot back, and finally they look guilty. Their guilty faces and nervous ticks make you smile, finally you feel heard. “I pass out quite often, especially since then, I am going to school so get out, I’m going to be late.”

“At least let me drop you off,” Dick says before Alfred can protests. “it would make sense, Damian’s classes are in one of your school buildings today.”

You laugh. “Oh, he doesn’t want to be seen with me. Don’t you know?” But when you see Alfred’s nails digging in his palm you start to feel guilty. Perhaps Jason’s right and you are being a piece of shit. “But fine, I suppose, just get out I need to do my hair and put my uniform on.”

They listen, but once you close your door Alfred and Dick stare at each other. Having a conversation with each other with just their eyes. You are hiding something about your health, and they’ll force to the doctor if they must. “I’ll brief Damian of the plan,” Dick tells Alfred. “I’ll try to get more information out of them.”

Alfred nods and sighs; “Duke has been helpful but evasive, but it’s clear he doesn’t trust us.”

Dick nods, and he can’t help but think; ‘Who would? If they knew what we did?’

“He’s honouring (Name)’s autonomy,” Dick acknowledges as he brushed his hair back with his hands. “more then we have ever done…”

Awh, the poor bats are becoming self-aware, and guilt is weighing heavy. Too bad that it isn’t enough to compensate for your pain.

You, who had quickly done your hair (honestly you tried, it looks terrible but it is too much for you to handle right now, so it’s alright) and put on your uniform, was now in the kitchen, grabbing a quick bite to eat and make some lunch. It was important to nourish your body after such a health incident. You need to take care of yourself, alright? Otherwise Maria and Duke would absolutely hound you on this. You just wish Cassandra wasn’t here, analysing your every move. “You’re in pain,” she says simply. “you have been for a while.”

“Wow,” you say without thinking, looking over your shoulder slightly amused. “you’ve only noticed now?”

“I’m not talking about mental pain,” she says, and that makes you freeze, dropping your lunch box in your bag and you couldn’t be more glad about getting one with an extra safety lock. “you are ill.” You chuckle, you couldn’t believe it. Cassandra knows, and she has known for a while. “Is it because of Jason?”

You turn around as you place your back on the counter. “What has Duke told you?” you aren’t angry with him, no, whatever he told them, it doesn’t matter. He’s just trying to help. “Or is that just a small personal theory?”

“A theory, Duke has been evasive with his answers,” she admits, her eyes narrowing as she tries to read your body language. But it comes up the same as always, on edge, in pain and angry. “said that he wouldn’t break his future sister’s trust.”

“Huh, so Brucie is adopting him,” you comment.

“But he has told us the full story about what Jason did,” Stephanie says, coming into the room pretending as if she hasn’t been eavesdropping from the moment she realised Cassandra was trying to get answers out of you. “I’m sorry, if I knew-”

You scoff, cutting off her sentences. Your eyes watering, you always wanted acknowledgement of what happened. You wanted these girls to tell you what your family did was wrong. But it’s too late now, and Cassandra could read that. She could see your shoulders tense, biting your lip as you try and keep your breathing steady. You feel unsafe, and she wonders if she didn’t ignore your pain. If she realised the damage they were doing to you, would you be happier? Would you be healthier?

Oh, having a moral compass can be quite difficult, can’t it?

“I don’t want none of your apologies,” you tell them, your eyes look dull and they feel lifeless. Something Stephanie often saw with the victims her father created. Is she just as bad as her father? At this point she would say to a degree. And if you will allow her to, she’ll do anything to make it right. But there is no time for that, Dick is here to drive you to school. “and our conversation is done, Cassandra, be sure to keep your mouth shut.”

While Stephanie hasn’t heard the whole conversation you two had (and could you really call it a conversation?) Cassandra obviously asked something about your health. Something that you have hidden from them all, even legally.

Well illegally, seriously, how did you perfect replicating Bruce’s signature? Even Tim couldn’t replicate it to that degree, if he were to compare your falsified signature with one of Bruce’s actual signatures it barely has any differences (Barbara would love to learn from you). The ink only looks thicker on your falsified one, Bruce always kept his pen-strokes light and precise.

But there is no time to ponder about that right now, they need to focus on you actually getting into Dick’s care. He bugged it with one of his earpieces so that the bat-family could analyse you interacting with Dick and Damian. The two you always interacted with the most before Jason’s attack, but even that was limited.

When you got into the car, you notice how Damian was sulking. Something you’ve never seen him do, besides that one time that Bruce scolded him loud enough that you could hear him from your room. You ignore him and buckle yourself in, joining him on the backseat. “Don’t you want to sit in the front seat?” Damian asks confused, and you shake your head. No way in hell are you sitting next to Dick.

“I don’t like the passenger seat.” Liar, liar pants on fire~!

Damian’s eyes narrow and scratches the skin under his nail. ‘huh,’ you think, absentmindedly. ‘we have similar anxiety ticks.’

With that Dick drives away, trying to build up a conversation. But truly, you couldn’t give a shit. You’re texting with Duke, you have chemistry the first hour, and you want to make sure that he knows that you don’t blame him for letting Bruce adopt him and such. That you just hope that he would keep your back and stay close to you when he joins the family.

Truly, aren’t you embarrassed by this? How insecure can you be?

‘Ofc, I won’t! I swear I’ll explain everything once B signs the papers. Thank you for not being mad :)’ The text makes you smile, once Duke swears something, he keeps that promise. He’s more trustworthy than your mother, she always had her fair share of secrets.

‘I could never be mad at my favourite brother, and you didn’t out me so that makes me not being mad a lot easier /hj’ you sent back before closing your phone, closing your eyes in as you feel stress leaving your body. You’re excited to see him again, you can’t wait to tell your friends about Duke joining your family. It would make your time left there a lot more bearable.

The thought of not being alone withyour ‘family’ anymore made your frown disappear. But it returned the moment you got closer to school. “Drop me off here,” you say, ignoring how Damian’s hand itches. Clearly wanting to grab your uniform jacket. “my friends are waiting for me.”

Dick nods, knowing he shouldn’t push you. You’ll just shut down even more, and it would become even more difficult to re-connect connect with you. He could feel bile rise in his throat the longer he thought about what he has done, about the behaviour he has been complicate in. Oh, but how can he make you see that it was all for the best? How can he make himself see that it was all for the best?

He can’t, he should be on his knees begging for your forgiveness, but he knew that it wouldn’t be enough. He just doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know where he went wrong.

“That was a disaster,” Damian says when he can see you running up to your friends. Dick sighs, but he agrees. Damian knows it, he can see the disappointment on his older brother’s face, it makes him angry at you. But at the same time, why was he angry at you for their behaviour? Why did he give up your love for Jason when he was clearly in the wrong? Is it because of his time in the league, or is there still hatred in his body for you just simply existing?

Oh, what can the bat-family do when all they’ve done is estrange themselves from you? Can they redeem themselves, or will Duke take their place? Will your friends take their place besides your side?

With Duke you would still be apart of their family, but if you were to estrange yourself further from them, go no-contact and acknowledge your friends as your family and only allow Duke in your life they would have no excuse to try and make you understand their side. To try and get you to forgive them.

Because if they right their wrongs, you’ll have to love them. Right?

NEXT PART well, I am using this chapter as a distraction, my grandpa is getting better already tho! And I'm allowed to visit soon, so he's out of any danger zones, if you have any feedback do tell me. I have too many ideas of how to transition to the full yandere part and my brain needs to slow down fr.

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[lurkingshan]

A Brief History of Queer Representation in Modern Kdrama

Earlier this week, totally unrelated to Heesu in Class 2, @twig-tea and I were making a list of kdramas with proper queer representation, because Twig loves to track queer things and I love to make highly specific lists. In light of all the discussion around Heesu and its appeal to a mainstream kdrama audience, we thought it would be helpful to share as context for what Heesu’s creators set out to do, how it compares to Love in the Big City and its goals, and why both shows are so significant for those who are not as familiar with this media landscape. We wrote the below together (strap in, folks, it's a long one).

As always, let us be clear what we are talking about with this list. We’re only looking at modern mainstream kdrama, so this list is not inclusive of Korean queer cinema or QL dramas, both of which have a rich history of their own. And when we say queer representation, we mean canonically queer characters that are acknowledged as such in the text of the show, if not by saying the words, at least by openly acknowledging same sex attraction. If there’s anything we know about queer people on the internet, it’s that our community can read gay subtext into anything, but that’s not what we’re doing here. For this list we are only interested in depictions of LGBTQ+ people that are clear and spelled out for anyone watching a show.  In addition, for the purposes of this list we are talking about intentional inclusion of queer characters with a proper role in the story, not nominal nods to queer people existing (like every Hong Seok Cheon cameo in a drama), comedic gender bending without real reckoning with sexuality (ala The King’s Affection), use of queer people as the butt of a joke (glaring at you Vincenzo), queerness in psychosexual dreams to titillate and generate buzz (hiiiii Friendly Rivalry), or subtextual gay tension between two same sex actors who happen to have chemistry (waves hello to The Devil Judge). The point of this exercise is to chart the evolution of significant queer representation in kdrama—both good and bad—not to document every gay character that ever appeared for two seconds on screen. That said, while Shan has watched several hundred kdramas and Twig has tried to watch everything gay on the planet, it’s possible we missed something that should be here, so let us know if you think we did (though please do mind the criteria and don’t send us an impassioned essay about why Beyond Evil should count). 

With that, let’s begin our walk through of the last two decades of queer characters in kdrama. 

Coffee Prince (2007) 

Among the most famous dramas on this list, Coffee Prince kicked off queer rep in modern kdrama with a classic gender bender in which Go Eun Chan, a girl, pretends to be a boy for Reasons. But what made it stand out is that her love interest falls for her while he still thinks she’s a man and has a whole sexual identity crisis and bisexual coming out process. Choi Han Gyul (and Gong Yoo), you will always be famous! This show was sincerely groundbreaking, not only for depicting a male romance lead struggling with his sexuality, but also including lots of gender fuckery for the female lead. It’s still one of the most significant queer kdramas ever made.

Life is Beautiful (2010) 

This show is notable for how high it set the bar and how nothing has reached it since. Yang Tae Sub is our central character in this 63-hour ensemble family drama, and his arcs struggling with the closet, falling in love, coming out, commitment, and marriage (yes: marriage! In 2010!), are surprisingly realistic and touching without being too cliche. Kyung Soo and Tae Sub start as a casual hookup, and they have to recalibrate as their feelings change (and yes, they kiss on screen and the show is clear that they have sex throughout the series). They fight, they make up, and as their relationship deepens they have other problems in their lives they support one another through—their gayness is not the only or even the most interesting thing about them. It’s also notable that both of these actors (Song Chang Eui and Lee Sang Woo) were established kdrama stars before taking these roles. 

Secret Garden (2010)

This het romance features a side character (played by our beloved Lee Jong Suk) who is a young musical prodigy pursued for his talents by the second lead, a senior musician. Over the course of the story we learn that he’s gay and harboring feelings for his would-be mentor. His plot is minor, but he ends the story happy and successful in his career, if not in a relationship. It’s small scale representation in the grand scheme of things, but one of only a handful of decent depictions of a gay person in kdrama at that point.

Reply 1997 (2012) 

This wildly popular drama (at the time, it was one of the highest rated cable dramas in history) that spawned two follow-up iterations features a gay character, Joon Hee, who is in love with his long time best friend, Yoon Jae, and confides his feelings to their other best friend, Shi Won. Of course, this show is ultimately Yoon Jae and Shi Won’s love story, so Joon Hee does not get his happy romance ending, but his friends and the show treat him with kindness and compassion, and his character was well received by audiences. 

Reply 1994 (2013)

Similar to its predecessor, this drama featured a side character with a gay subplot, but this time it was more about questioning his identity. Bingguere is a character whose arc is all about his confusion and indecision, and that extended to his sexuality when he struggled to understand his attraction to the male lead. Ultimately, he moves past those feelings and we learn his partner in the future is a woman, and the drama doesn’t really clarify where his sexuality landed. It’s kind of weak in terms of explicit queer rep, but showing a man grappling with his sexuality in a very popular family drama still feels significant.

Seonam Girls High School Investigations (2014) 

While most of their content is limited to two episodes of this 14-episode high school drama, Eun Bin and Soo Yeon have, to our knowledge, the first lesbian kiss on Korean television, which earns them a place on this list. They are an established couple struggling with how their relationship is a risk for them (because it can be and is used against them). Their relationship doesn’t survive to the end of the series, but they are treated with compassion and their humanity is underscored by the narrative. They also spark an important conversation among the main characters about whether they should be helped because they’re gay, which was a little better intentioned than it was executed, but the show had the spirit. 

Perseverance Goo Hae Ra (2015)

In a show about aspiring musicians forming a group to take a second shot at stardom, Jang Goon (portrayed by solo idol Park Kwang Seon) is one of the core group members with a heartwarming arc about acceptance. His story is about his father coming to terms with him being an idol and being gay. He has a one-sided confession scene that is decently done, and the scene where his father accepts him knowing the truth (after having been outed against his will) is genuinely moving. It was also touching to see the girl who originally crushed on him support him once she found out about his sexuality. 

Hogu’s Love (2015) 

This drama was considered progressive for its time, as its core plot is about Hogu, a man who decides to support his first love when he finds out she is pregnant with someone else’s child. In addition to that, side character Kang Chul has an arc where he experiences attraction to Hogu and tries to sort out his feelings, considering whether he identifies as gay before ultimately deciding he does not. It’s not the best rep we’ve ever seen, but it was part of an interesting attempt by a drama to explore complicated social and identity issues.

The Lover (2015)

Lee Jun Jae and Takuya (played by Lee Jae Joon who was also in the gay film Night Flight (2014) and Takuya of jpop group CROSS GENE) are roommates in this series about four couples in an apartment building. Their story starts as a comedy, in which Jun Jae and Takuya end up in ship moments that are played off by the narrative as jokes and misunderstandings, but then they catch feelings for real. We see one of the characters struggle with his queer awakening and there is a happy ending. Using the actors’ real names was a choice, and led to some seriously disruptive RPF shipping; but it was refreshing to have an active idol not only play gay but in a romance with a happy ending. 

Prison Playbook (2017)

Another ensemble show with a queer side character; Loony, one of the main character Je Hyuk’s cell mates, is notable for his queerness not being used as a joke and not being the core of the character’s arc. Instead, this character struggles with addiction and how that affects his relationship, which is only incidentally gay. His story is moving and well developed, especially considering the size of this cast, but it doesn’t get a ton of screen time.

Romance is a Bonus Book (2019)

The queer rep in this drama is minor but overall positive, as we learn that the male lead Eun Ho’s ex-girlfriend, who he is still friendly with, ended their relationship because she fell in love with a woman. The show presents her as a lovely person who helps the female lead several times and is happy in her lesbian relationship, and we even get to see her with her partner briefly. A small win for sapphic representation in a very popular Netflix drama.

Moment at Eighteen (2019)

Jung Oh Je (RIP Moonbin) is a side character friend of the main lead. His sexuality becomes part of the plot when he is confessed to by a friend of the female lead, and he admits that he has a crush on the second male lead (Ma Hwi Young). While the characters in the show are mixed in their response, it’s clear the story is on the side of treating Oh Je with compassion. 

Be Melodramatic (2019) 

This is an ensemble show centered on a group of friends who move in together to support a grieving young woman, Lee Eun Jung, and one of the housemates is her younger brother Lee Hyo Bong, a gay musician with a long-term partner. He is a side character and his most significant plot is about supporting his sister, with his sexuality and relationship part of his characterization rather than an active story thread. It’s a positive depiction and the way his sexuality is presented as just part of who he is felt significant at the time. 

Love with Flaws (2019) 

Joo Won Suk (RIP Cha in Ha) is one of the FL’s older brothers, and while not the focus of the drama he gets his own fully developed arc, including the mentorship of queer side character Choi Ho Dol. The queer rep in this show covers suicidality, the loneliness of the closet, bullying, solidarity, and fear of parental shame. That makes it sound depressing, but it’s a hopeful story about the character moving out of depression and into self-acceptance, has one of the best scenes depicting gay acceptance from a father in any show, and both Won Suk and Ho Dol have a happy ending (including for their romance). 

Itaewon Class (2020)

The first drama on this list to feature a transgender character, Itaewon Class is about a group of social misfits trying to launch a restaurant on a trendy street in Itaewon. Ma Hyun Yi, a transgender woman saving money for her gender affirming surgery, is among the gang. Her story is not a big focus for the drama, but she gets a nice arc about coming into herself and gaining recognition for her talents as a chef, and the other characters always respect her identity. It’s pretty solid representation for a side character.

Sweet Munchies (2020)

This drama tries to tackle the problems of homophobia and appropriating queerness but misses the mark on both. The queer character in this show, Kang Tae Wan, is here to function as a driving force and conscience for the main male lead and female lead; he’s essentially the second lead but never had a chance (though he didn’t know it, since the main lead is pretending to be gay for clout). Tae Wan is a good character, but the narrative doesn’t care much about him or about queer people in general, it’s focused on how heterosexuals experience queerness. Not exactly amazing queer representation, whatever its intentions.

Run On (2020) 

This drama features both a gay character and an asexual character, both of whom are written respectfully and get proper coming out scenes. There is also some messiness around one of the main characters appropriating queer identity as a way to avoid the pressures of her patriarchy, and the drama knows she’s wrong for that. This was one of the first instances of a kdrama acknowledging queer people as a regular part of the world around us and not singular oddities, and it was nice to see multiple facets of queer representation in one show.

Mr. Queen (2020)

This gender bender retains its place on the list because the main character (a man who awakens in the body of a Queen during the Joseon dynasty) openly struggles with his gender dysphoria as well as what it means that he’s attracted to a man, and these struggles are present for the bulk of the show. The character also has sex with both men and women while in that body. It’s one of the better representations of gender swap and feels queer, even when the relationship on screen has the guise of heterosexuality. 

Mine (2021)

In this drama about ambitious women married to powerful men who struggle to break free from their constraints, one of the main characters reunites with her first love—another woman. The drama follows Jung Seo Hyun as she struggles to acquire the power she needs to live as she wants, and she ultimately achieves her goal, reuniting with her lover at the story’s end. It’s the first kdrama with a lesbian character in a major role who gets her happy romance ending. 

Move to Heaven (2021)

Despite only being featured in episode 5, this was a good story that garnered a lot of attention in a popular Netflix drama, so for cultural impact reasons alone it belongs on this list. We start the episode with Jung Soo Hyun’s death, but this is a show about finding closure after death, so for once this death doesn’t feel like bury your gays. This is a compassionate tragedy in which we see how fear held Soo Hyun back from his relationship with Ian Park while he was alive, but his belongings at death indicate he was getting ready to face his fear and move to the US to marry Ian after all. Through the main characters of the show, Ian gets the closure of knowing Soo Hyun loved him. 

Nevertheless (2021) 

Yoon Sol and Seo Ji Wan have a typical plot for side characters (they’re in the female lead’s friend group) with a friends-to-lovers arc that depicts the fear and frustration when both friends are closeted and uncertain about risking the friendship but reach the point where they can’t pretend anymore. Since they’re both women, this felt pretty radical. They got a good romantic arc and a happy ending, if not a lot of screen time.

Under the Queen’s Umbrella (2022)

In this sageuk, the fourth prince is living a double life, hiding away makeup and women’s clothing that they wear in secret. The character is depicted as trans, but given the setting, explicit language and modern terminology (including altered pronouns) are not used in this side plot. When the prince’s mother finds out, she supports her child to have an artist paint a portrait of their true self, and ultimately, the prince leaves the royal family to go live a more authentic life in isolation in a bittersweet resolution. 

A Time Called You (2023)

The queer rep in this drama comes in the form of a brief backstory montage for two gay characters, one of whom (Yeon Jun) is in a coma. We learn that he ended up in this state after getting into a car accident while in the process of confessing to the guy he mutually liked (Tae Ha), who was killed in the accident. From there, Yeon Jun’s body is taken over by a heterosexual character (it’s a whole time loop thing). This entry is mostly notable for featuring a high profile cameo from Rowoon playing Tae Ha, and unfortunately, for being a fairly textbook example of the bury your gays trope. In 2023!

Wedding Impossible (2024) 

This disaster of a drama purported to finally feature a gay character in a prominent role that drove the narrative—in a story about Do Han pretending to marry his longtime friend to avoid being forced to marry another woman—but Do Han ended up a minor side character in his own story when the show chose to focus nearly all its attention on his brother’s het romance. Worse, the other characters treated him terribly and the story blamed every problem on his sexuality. This show was straight up homophobic and it was a significant regression for queer depictions in mainstream Korean media. 

Bitter Sweet Hell (2024)

image credit @respectthepetty

Choi Doi Hyun (played by Park Jae Chan of Semantic Error) is the closeted son of the main character, struggling with how hiding his secret affects his school life and his relationship with his family. His story ends happily with Jun Ho in the US, which felt like a win after the above history with kdrama, but because his secret being his queerness is hidden for most of the story, we don’t get to see it inform the narrative much except in retrospect. 

Squid Game 2 (2024)

The most recent entry on our list features Park Sung Hoon as Hyeon Ju, a transgender woman who enters the life or death game at the center of this drama to earn money to move to Thailand and get gender affirming surgery. While her inclusion wasn't entirely groundbreaking, Hyeon Ju was a well-developed character with a sympathetic backstory who quickly became a fan favorite, notable given Squid Game's popularity and broad international audience. 

Bringing Better Queer Stories to Mainstream Drama Audiences

With all that context established, we have been contemplating how queer creators in Korea can reach a wider audience with their stories and ensure queer representation in kdrama is both more common and more authentic. We look to Love in the Big City and Heesu in Class 2 as a start, as we would argue that both shows exist in the gray space between mainstream kdrama and kbl. They both leverage kdrama style and structure to tell queer stories that include, but are not limited to, gay romances. They both had unusual distribution and battled to even get released and in front of an audience, with LITBC rushing its episodes out amidst public protests and Heesu sitting on the shelf for two years before being quietly released on a streaming platform. And they both had goals to reach an audience beyond the usual BL viewers, albeit with wildly different tones and themes in their stories. The BL audience is too niche to effect the social change that queer creators are seeking, and the limited runtime, genre tropes, and laser-focus on romance means it is harder to make wider social and cultural points in a BL story (it doesn’t hit the same when gay characters are treated as human in a story that takes place in the no homophobia BL bubble). And as we’ve seen from this walk through the past, there are real limits to queer representation that is not created by queer people or informed by their lived experiences.

As you can see from reviewing this list, these two shows were the first kdramas in well over a decade (after the only other example, Life Is Beautiful) to center on a gay main character whose journey drove the story, and they were doing this in the context of a media landscape that rarely elevates queer people beyond minor side plots, still regularly fumbles on respectful representation, and in which representation seems to be getting worse. Love in the Big City set out to show a young queer man’s life in all its glorious messiness. Go Young was not an easy character, and the show did not hold back on his flaws or shy away from either the joy or the struggle he found in his sexuality. Heesu is about a younger character and so his struggles are centered around coming of age and first love, but it similarly depicts a beautifully flawed young gay man coming to terms with himself and asks the audience to empathize with and care about him as his loved ones in the story do. Where LITBC uses a unique storytelling structure to draw in the viewer and highlight what makes Young’s life feel different, Heesu roots itself in familiar drama beats and queer-coded side plots in the hopes that the audience will see and be comforted by the familiar in Heesu’s world. 

Both of these stories, in their own way, speak to a mainstream audience and ask for queer existence and queer humanity to be acknowledged. And this does not make them problematic as queer works, because they accomplish their goals of speaking to a wider audience while still being true to queer experiences. Given how scant decent queer representation has been in kdramas over the last twenty years (consider the size of the list above against the fact that there are well over 1500 modern kdramas, and so few of the above listed characters are mains or even significant sides in these dramas), more shows like LITBC and Heesu are needed to bridge this gap. We sincerely hope they find the support they need to get made.

[terraswallows]

Alright, here’s a delightfully not safe for work trans girl confession that I feel doesn’t get nearly enough attention.

Especially in media or even queer spaces: how drastically your… let’s call it "output," changes the further you go into your transition.

So, pre-transition? I was an absolute little deviant. I won’t sugarcoat it—I had golf ball-sized balls, was hung enough to make even the straight boys blush, and when it came to making a mess, I could rival the grand finale of a bad hentai. It was a whole experience, and honestly, I leaned into it for a while because I didn’t know what else I could be. I thought maybe if I just used what I had hard enough, loud enough, slutty enough—it’d drown out the quiet ache of dysphoria. Spoiler: it didn’t.

Then came HRT. And with it, a full shutdown of the “boy horny” I’d grown so used to. I didn’t want to touch it, didn’t care to. It wasn’t even guilt or shame—I just forgot it existed. Months passed, and I realized I hadn’t even tried to get off since No Nut November… which, funny enough, was also the start of my estrogen journey.

And oh stars, what a journey it’s been.

Fast forward six months and... well, it’s safe to say things have shrunk. My once obnoxiously eager bits have withered into something far less commanding. The balls? Tiny. The rest? Still there, still usable, but she’s quieter now. Softer. Gentler. Like she’s finally learning how to whisper instead of scream.

The turning point was the first time I got girl horny. You know what I mean—when your thighs start to squeeze involuntarily, your body hums, and the idea of soft hands and whispered kisses makes you melt like a candle left in the sun. I didn’t know what to do with it, honestly. So I caved and decided to… revisit some old habits.

And let me just say: the difference was hilarious.

Gone were the days of puddles and panting. What I got was a single, confused little spurt that barely cleared the tip. I could’ve spit farther. I blinked. Laughed. And then I realized—oh right, no testosterone, no constant tug-of-war with dysphoria, no desperate “prove you’re a man” nonsense. Just me. Soft, femme, happy.

The porn world can keep its gallons. I’ll take my gentle dribble and the way my body finally feels mine.

So here's the question I want to throw out to other sapphic/trans femmes and gals out there: What’s a not-so-talked-about NSFW thing you found out after transitioning? Something weird, funny, affirming, or just deeply personal?

We need more of these stories—messy, honest, soft, and unapologetically ours.

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: I mean sinister is his own warning but honestly it’s very tame – I love reader too much to do her dirty

Tags: Reader is oblivious—Mark is not, domesticity but make it dangerous, food = feelings = possession, reader feeds the wrong man

Word Count: 2,684

Synopsis: You were just being polite—feeding a hungry stranger who looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in days. It’s what any good southern girl would’ve done. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile much either, but bless his heart, he cleaned his plate like a man on death row and looked at you like you’d done southern sorcery. Only problem? Now he won’t leave.

a/n: to set the scene: Mark was passing over Georgia otw to a big city during the Invincible Wars but we all know – this man can eat 👀 so when he smells that southern cookin’ he’s just GOTTA make a pit stop (this might lowkey be my favorite?? VERY tempted to do another part for this)

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The backyard is alive with the sound of friends laughing, the sizzle of meats on the grill, and the light clink of glasses—just a typical Saturday night cookout in Georgia. The heat doesn’t mind, clinging to your skin, but it’s all good, ‘cause you’ve got the best BBQ in town and enough sweet tea to keep anyone happy.

You’re just about to check the ribs again when something cracks the air.

Not a flash of lightning. Not a plane. No, this is bigger—or at least, seems bigger. The kind of sound that makes the trees shudder and the dogs howl in panic.

You look up from the grill, squinting into the sky. Your friends barely notice, still wrapped up in their own conversations. Everyone's too deep into the party to hear it—except for you. And that sound? It’s bad. Too bad. But you brush it off as a fluke, not like you’ve ever been one to get skittish.

Then you hear it again—closer this time.

Boom.

The ground shakes underfoot.

A few heads turn. Someone laughs.

“You sure we’re not near a runway or somethin’?” a friend jokes.

You shake your head. The air smells wrong, though. Something metallic. Something deep in the earth. But the food’s almost done, and there’s a few folks eyeing that last batch of coleslaw, so you shrug it off.

That is, until the trees part like they’re being ripped down by some invisible hand.

A figure steps out of the smoke and into the clearing. You freeze for a second—tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in dirt and blood? Definitely not your usual neighbor popping by. But hey, this is Georgia, and folks sure have a habit of popping by when you least expect it.

He’s wearing a black and yellow suit, torn at the edges, face grimy and set like he’s walked through hell itself. His eyes are glowing, but you don’t notice that right away. Your brain does the mental gymnastics of “he looks like he’s been hunting” and “okay, maybe he’s lost” before you really stop and look.

The guy’s not normal. Not by a long shot.

But you? You? You just tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and call out.

“You lost, sugar? You look like you been runnin’ from somethin’.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even flinch when you address him, standing there in the middle of the yard like he’s deciding whether to blow everything up or just... stand there.

You walk over toward him, not too fast, but not slow either. You’ve got ribs to finish, and the night’s getting late. You’re not about to let some weird stranger ruin your good time.

“You hungry or what? You don’t look like you’re from around here, but the food’s hot. And I ain’t got time to be askin’ a million questions. So, either you’re gonna stand there starin’ or you’re gonna sit and eat.”

He watches you. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe for a long second, but when he shifts, you notice the hunger in his posture. It’s not a casual look. It’s the kind of stare that makes your pulse pick up, but you’re too wrapped up in hospitality to worry about it.

“I’ve got cornbread, sweet tea, and a whole lotta ribs. If you’re just gonna keep standin’ there, I’m gonna think you don’t know what you’re missin’.”

And without saying another word, you turn, walk back into the house, and leave the screen door open behind you.

The next thing you hear is his boots hitting the porch. Heavy, determined. He’s following you inside.

You don’t even turn around.

“C’mon, sugar. Don’t be shy.”

He sits at your kitchen table, too stiff, too tense to be comfortable. But you’ve got ribs on the counter, mashed potatoes on the stove, and a whole pot of collard greens simmering in the corner, so you just keep doing what you’re doing. Setting the table. Stirring the pot. Making sure everything’s just right.

“I don’t bite,” you offer casually as you set down a plate, the food still steaming. “Unless you ask nice.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the food. His eyes flicker between the plate and you like he can’t believe it’s real. But once that plate hits the table? It’s like something in him snaps.

He grabs the ribs. Bare hands. No knife, no fork. Just raw hunger.

And you? You just stand there, watching.

“You’ve been hunting for a while, haven’t you?” you ask, half-teasing. “You eat like you ain’t had a meal in months.”

He looks up then, eyes catching yours. There’s something darker in his gaze, something sharp.

“I’ve gone longer.”

“Yeah? Well, ain’t no need for you to be so grim. You’re eatin’ good now.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he devours the food. It’s almost impressive, the way he’s tearing through everything. It’s like he’s starved. Like he needed this meal more than anything.

You can’t quite explain why, but... you feel like maybe you’re the one in control here. Maybe it’s the southern charm, or maybe it’s just your damn good cooking. Either way, you’re gonna enjoy this strange little moment with the stranger at your table.

“You want more?” you ask casually, tipping your head to the stove.

He just looks at you again. This time, it’s less cold, more... curious.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I want more.”

You're putting the finishing touches on his second plate—extra mashed potatoes, a little more brisket, because Lord knows he tore through the first like he hadn’t seen a fork in years—when the screen door creaks open again behind you.

Maggie’s voice cuts through the low hum of cicadas and music drifting in from the backyard.

“Hey, [y/n]? We ran outta napkins—” She stops mid-step.

You turn, smiling, just as Tate bumps into Mag’s shoulder with a beer in hand.

“You got more inside? I spilled a little—”

He stops too.

Both of them are staring toward your kitchen table where your unexpected guest sits like a warning carved in stone. He’s hunched forward slightly, eyes too red, posture too still, like a bear that hasn't decided if you're a threat or a snack.

You just step over to his side with a hand gently landing on his shoulder. His body is tense—coiled tight like a spring—but you don’t think much of it.

“Now don’t y’all go starin’,” you say cheerfully, running your hand down the back of his suit, brushing off some soot. “This poor thing just came in outta the woods lookin’ half-dead. I reckon he’s been huntin’ all week and didn’t catch a thing. Probably embarrassed, bless his heart.”

Maggie’s mouth opens, but no words come out. She glances at Tate like are we not gonna talk about the blood on his sleeves?

“You feedin’ him... uh... now?” Tate asks slowly.

“Course I am,” you chirp, already sliding the second plate in front of Mark. “Look at him—he ain’t eaten in days. I can tell by the way he’s sittin’. All tight like a rabbit in a foxhole. You know how men get when they ain’t fed proper.”

Mark’s jaw flexes. His eyes flick up toward Maggie—then to Tate—slow, calculating. You’re standing right beside him, warm hand still on him like a tether.

You misread the look entirely.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, waving it off. “He’s just nervous. You drop a man into a house full of strangers and feed him a full plate, and o’course he’s gonna be a little guarded. That’s manners.”

Maggie swallows.

“...Right. Manners.”

Mark hasn’t said a word since they came in, but his hands have stopped flexing under the table. His gaze shifts back to you. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

You smile down at him, proud of yourself for making him feel welcome.

“You got a name, sugar?”

He watches you a beat too long before answering, voice low and rough. “Mark.”

You clap your hands softly, delighted.

“Well, Mark,” you say, grinning. “Hope you brought an appetite, ‘cause I don’t let folks leave my house hungry.”

His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes flickers.

“I won’t.”

—

You’re leaning against the counter again, glass in hand, still chatting with Maggie about the peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill when someone new wanders into the kitchen. Robbie. That friend of Tate’s who always thinks he’s funnier than he is. Got a little too much sun, a little too much beer, and not nearly enough sense.

He sees you, lights up like a porch bulb.

“Well damn, [y/n], you been hidin’ in here the whole time?”

You laugh, casual.

“Had to make sure my guest didn’t keel over from starvation. Boy looked like a scarecrow when he came outta them woods.”

Robbie gives Mark a once-over. Slows down at the red eyes. The blood-streaked arms. The unnatural stillness.

“He, uh… doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said, brushing past it. “Just needed a hot meal and a warm porch, that’s all.”

Mark doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Robbie sidles up next to you, close enough that you feel his elbow graze yours.

“Well if you get tired of playin’ nurse, I wouldn’t mind stealin’ you away for a dance. We still got music out back. You always were the best two-stepper on this side of town.”

You smile, polite and a little bashful.

“Ain’t danced in ages.”

Behind you, the chair legs scrape.

You glance over—Mark’s shifted. Just barely. His hands are resting on the table now, fingers spread like he’s grounding himself. Or like he’s seconds away from launching across the room.

Robbie doesn’t notice. But Maggie does. She suddenly finds a reason to check her phone.

You, bless your soul, remain utterly unaware.

“Robbie, don’t be silly,” you say with a playful swat to his arm. “You just want someone to show off to.”

Robbie grins.

Mark twitches.

Your guest’s gaze is locked on the spot where Robbie touched you. His lip curls—not quite a snarl, but close. His knuckles go white.

“So what if I do?” Robbie says, leaning a little closer. “You know I’ve had a soft spot for you since high school.”

Your laugh is soft. Good-natured.

“You and every other boy south of Atlanta, Robbie. Y’all get all misty-eyed soon as I break out the cornbread.”

You don’t notice the shift in air pressure, the subtle hum of tension winding tighter and tighter around the kitchen.

But Maggie does. Tate does. Even the damn flies do.

Robbie just keeps grinning.

“Well, maybe I need a reminder of what I’ve been missin’, huh?”

Then he reaches—lightly, playfully—to touch your waist.

That’s when Mark stands.

Fast. Quiet. Absolute.

Everyone freezes.

He’s not yelling. He’s not doing anything dramatic. He’s just standing there, still as death, eyes glowing brighter now, like coals stoked hot. He’s staring at Robbie with the kind of look you’d give a bug you’re deciding whether to step on or dissect.

Robbie’s hand drops instantly.

“Uh…” Suddenly Robbie’s as sober as a preacher.

You blink, glancing between the two of them, completely missing the tension about to snap the room in half.

“My,” you say lightly, stepping between them without a care in the world, hand brushing Mark’s arm. “Y’all seem wound up tighter than a racoon’s tail in a trap.”

Mark doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t breathe.

But he doesn’t move either.

“He’s just bein’ friendly,” you tell him sweetly, like you’re calming a jumpy horse. “Ain’t no harm in a little flirtin’. That’s just how folks around here are.”

You pat his chest—firm, warm.

“You don’t gotta puff up like a bear just ‘cause someone gets talkative.”

Mark finally blinks.

Barely.

But he sits.

Not because he’s calm.

Because you asked.

And Robbie? Robbie suddenly remembers a reason to be anywhere else.

It’s quiet in the kitchen now.

—

The last of the guests have trickled out, carrying pie in foil and beers in koozies, waving lazily and promising to see you at church next Sunday or at Maggie’s baby shower. The cicadas are humming louder now that the sun’s down, and the overhead light casts the room in that warm yellow glow that makes everything feel soft.

You're at the sink, sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in soap suds. The smell of hickory smoke still lingers in the air, wrapped around vanilla and leftover grease. Your back’s to him, humming low under your breath as you rinse off a casserole dish.

Mark hasn’t said a word since Robbie left.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table again, but not eating. Just watching. Still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance over your shoulder with a little smile.

“You doin’ okay over there, sugar? You look like you’re waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

He doesn’t respond at first. His eyes flick down to the plate in front of him—the third one you filled without thinking. Then back to you.

“You cook like this all the time?”

You laugh, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder as you scrub at a stubborn bit of baked-on cheese.

“’Course I do. You think folks show up here for my charm alone?”

You don’t see it—but he grins.

Sharp. Quiet. Possessive.

Then his chair scrapes back.

You glance up just in time to see him cross the room in three slow steps, stopping behind you. He doesn’t touch you yet, just stands there, close enough that you feel the warmth of him against your back.

The tension’s different now.

It’s not hunger.

It’s not restraint.

It’s decision.

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, curling around the shell of your ear.

You blink, hands stilling in the water.

“Huh?”

You turn—only for him to step in, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting to cup the side of your neck. Gentle. Too gentle for how wild he looks.

Eyes glowing.

Mouth parted.

Grin sharp.

“I didn’t want to have to go far for it.”

Your breath catches.

“For what?”

“All of it,” he says, thumb dragging slow along your jaw. “The food. The soft voice. The hands that don’t flinch. You.”

You blink up at him, laugh a little shaky now.

“You talkin’ like—”

“I’m telling you,” he cuts in, soft but final. “You belong to me now.”

The world tilts.

Your lips part, but he’s already there—close, not kissing yet, just brushing his forehead to yours, like he’s anchoring himself to something precious.

“You fed me,” he breathes. “You smiled at me. That’s it. That’s all it takes.”

Your heart is thudding now, ears ringing, hands still damp from the sinkwater.

“You sure that’s how it works?” you whisper, breathless, not pulling away.

He grins wider.

“It is now.”

And then he kisses you.

Like he’s starving all over again.

[glorioustidalwavedefendor]

The Donner Party got stuck in the mountains when it unexpectedly started snowing in September!

It didn't unexpectedly start to snow in September

It very expectedly started to snow at the end of october and they got stuck in early November

It was unexpected the same way as no one could have known that Trump would be this bad ...

They new in October that it would snow

October 1846: John Breen later recalled of this time, "The weather was already very cold and the heavy clouds hanging over the mountains to the west were strong indications of an approaching winter. Some wanted to stop and rest their cattle. Others, in fear of the snow, were in favor of pushing ahead as fast as possible."

Granted, they had bad intel:

About October 25, 1846: (...) Charles Stanton returns from Sutter's Fort; he brings (...) the news that the pass through the Sierras should be open for another month.

I assume because Sutter's Ford lied to them

I assume because they either didn't want to or didn't have the means to feed a full travell party, that was already more or less out of food, through winter

It started snowing on october 30th

October 30, 1846: (...) Snow falls during his burial in Truckee Canyon. About this date, Reed and McCutchen get horses and supplies from Sutter and head back into the mountains after their families. They meet deep snow and are unable to continue, so they cache the provisions and return to the fort to await another opportunity.

And they where stuck on Donner pass in November

Early November 1846: Patrick Breen wrote of this time, "We pushed on as fast as our failing cattle could haul our almost empty wagons. At last we reached the foot of the main ridge near Truckee [now Donner] Lake. It was sundown. The weather was clear, but a large circle around the moon indicated an approaching storm." The emigrants spend the night at the lake, 1,000 feet (300 m) below the summit; during the night, it begins snowing on the summit.

Early November 1846: In the morning, the emigrants try to make it over the pass, but the snow is already five feet (1.5 m) deep. Stanton and one of the two Indian guides do reach the summit, but turn back; the others are too exhausted to push on. Night finds the emigrants huddled against the mountain in a windy storm of snow and sleet. The next day, temporarily defeated, they return to the eastern end of the lake. They have traveled 2,500 miles (4,000 kilometers) and are only 150 miles (240 kilometers) from Sutter's Fort. The Donners, held up by the accident, are still behind. November 6, 1846: At Sutter's Fort, George McKinstry writes "All things remain quiet here. The weather is bad. I am fearful the snow is too deep for the last company of emigrants to cross the mountains." November 1846: The two sections of the Donner Party camp for the winter. Near the lake, the Breen family takes shelter in an abandoned cabin, against which Louis Keseberg builds a lean-to. About 200 yards (180 m) away William Eddy and William Foster build a cabin against a boulder for the Eddys, Fosters, Murphys, and Pikes. The Graves and Reed families occupy two sides of a double cabin about half a mile away from the other two. About six miles (9.7 km) back, on Alder Creek, the two Donner families set up a tent apiece; the single men accompanying them construct a brush shelter.

Something that the people at Sutter's Ford should have been able to predict

Because even today Snow at Donner in September is not unheard of

The years between 1991 and 2020 where MUCH warmer then the years around 1840s

And between 1991 and 2020 you still could expect some snow as early as September. And October and November where very firmly in "Here there be snow" terretory

SOURCE

So, telling people in the 1840s on october 25th that:

the pass through the Sierras should be open for another month.

aka that there would be no snow in !NOVEMBER!

Is Negligent homicide

Oh also

October 7, 1846: Louis Keseberg turns Mr. Hardkoop, an elderly Belgian traveling with him, out of his wagon to lighten the load. Everyone who can is walking. Hardkoop gives out, but nobody can take him in. He is last seen sitting by the road.

Ouch

Poor Mr. Hardkoop ...

So much for "in bad times people stick together" ...

That is only true if people have the means

Once water is up to your chin, no one will hold teh hand of someone who has to sit down ...

People talk about Elsa's "Let it Go" moment having killed the men of the Terror and the Erebus, but it goes farther than that. That same historically cold winter of 1846/1847 also caused so much snow that it led to an infamous American tragedy, as I learned when I read the nonfiction work The Indifferent Stars Above.

If Elsa killed the Terror and Erebus men, then she also doomed the Donner Party.

[homeofthelonelywriter]

gamer!Ghost x f!gamer!reader | Previous Part

This was a bad idea. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you stood in front of the train station and waited for any sign of Simon. Your train had arrived early, and you messaged him as soon as you realized that, but he had yet to show up. Part of you was starting to worry if he was pranking you. Maybe even filming you for a video. But when a motorbike came to a stop right in front of you, you knew that he wasn’t pranking you. You smiled as he got off and walked over to you with confidence. He stopped right in front of you, his hands settling on your hip as if it were the most natural thing to do.

“’ello, love.” You couldn’t help but grin up at him. “Hey, Si.” He still had his helmet on, but the visor was up, so you could see the crinkling skin around his eyes as he smiled. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?” Still grinning, you nodded, linking your fingers with his as he caught your hand to lead you back to his bike. There, he pulled an extra helmet out of thin air. “Ever had one on?” You quickly shook your head no, but Simon just smiled.

“Okay, look up for me.” As if to emphasize his point, he placed his pointer finger under your chin and tilted your head back. With ease, he slid the helmet over your head and got to work, closing the buckle and making sure everything fit well. You felt like one of those girls in the TikToks you saw sometimes, feeling yourself blush underneath the helmet.

Once Simon was happy with everything, he gently bonked his head against yours before closing your visor. He then showed you how to get on and how to act while riding. “Sorry, I wanted to pick you up with my truck, but getting it through traffic would’ve been a nightmare, and I didn’t want to leave you waiting any longer.” You smiled as he helped you swing your leg over the machine, before settling your arms around his waist. “All good, Si. Just glad you’re here.” He looked over his shoulder at you, and gently padded your hand, before starting the bike. The vibrations scared you for a second, but adrenaline quickly filled your veins, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “Hold on, yeah?” I nodded against his back, and then we took off.

Riding was…exhilarating. The wind in your hair, the blurring of cars and buildings around you. And Simon, right there, right underneath your hands. You couldn’t help but move them around from time to time, grabbing his muscular tits, drumming on the bike in front of him when you were at a red light, et cetera. Sometimes, you even felt Simon chuckle under your hands.

But all too soon, it was over, and you pulled into a driveway. Once the bike was off and Simon had kicked down the stand, he helped you off before following you. “How was it?” You chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief. “Amazing! It was so much fun, I want to do it again!” This got him laughing as he gently tilted your head up again, working on opening the strap, so he could get you free. While he was working, you couldn’t help but hold onto his hoodie, both fists curled up in the material. Simon quickly noticed, but didn’t say anything, instead, he stepped even closer.

Once the strap was open, he pulled your helmet off your head, and only then did you notice that it said your name in small letters on the back. “Is this…?” He glanced at it before shrugging. “Had to get you one. Couldn’t have given you one of the ones my mates use. They stink.” You chuckled and watched as he took his own helmet off, revealing half of his face. Finally, you could see him. And you just smiled at him, so long until he cleared his throat, the tips of his ears slightly red.

“Do I…do I have something on my face?” You chuckled and shook your head. “No…no, sorry. I just…hi.” His eyes betrayed the smile hidden underneath the mask as he looked at you. “Hi, love.” You continued to stare there, just staring and smiling at each other, until the bark of a dog pulled you out of the moment. Only then did you notice the cold wind and start to shiver. “Let’s get you inside, yeah?” You nodded and followed, but only after you had handed your backpack, which had everything you needed to stay with him for a few days, to Simon. “Not gonna let you carry stuff, lovie.” You would be lying if you said you didn’t swoon when he said that.

Next Part | Coming Friday the 2nd

A/N: This is a shorter one, sorry about that. I just got started with an immunosuppressive therapy today and also got two shots, so I'm feeling very sleepy, forgive me! I hope you still enjoy it! Also, let me know if you want to be on the perma taglist! Just say if you want all of COD or specific characters. Although I mostly post Ghost.

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[monicfever]

How you think the punisher and DD characters would be with their s/o asking to move in with them

asking to move in 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

MATT pauses for a moment, trying to process it fully, because his brain short-circuits a little at the idea of someone wanting to share that much of their life with him.

“you really want to?” like he’s trying not to sound too hopeful but failing. you can hear the smile in his voice before you see it on his face. he probably acts cool about it but is internally spiraling in nervousness.

immediately starts thinking about how to make the apartment more comfortable for you, even if it means giving up some of his own habits or routines. asks if you want a drawer… and then the next day clears out half his closet without saying anything. lets your things blend into his space like they’ve always belonged.

listens to your footsteps echo in the apartment and thinks it already feels more like home.

has a brief moment of worry about you finding out how bad his insomnia really is, or how often he gets hurt, but ultimately decides you're worth the risk. starts sleeping a little better just knowing you're there.

makes you coffee in the morning even when he’s half-dead from a night out as daredevil.

listens to the sound of your key turning in the lock like it’s his favuorite song. gets irrationally proud when you call it “home” for the first time

the first time you fall asleep on his chest on the couch, he doesn’t move for hours, even if he’s stiff and sore, because it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. lets you steal all the blankets because he runs warm anyway.

hears your heartbeat when you're unpacking and notices the slight tremor of nerves — whispers, “me too”.

finds one of your socks in his drawer weeks later and smiles like an idiot all over again.

if you're out late, he pretends he's not listening for you on the street but he's absolutely tracking your every step once you’re a block away.

lets you put up art on the walls, even if he can’t see it, just because he knows it makes you happy. touches the wall near where you hung a photo and quietly asks, “what’s this one of?” with a smile that says he’s already memorizing where everything is, even if he can’t see it.

gets really self-conscious about how sparse and impersonal his place is — starts asking things like, “do you want to paint? get some real curtains?”

the first time you leave clothes on the floor, he trips over them and mutters a sarcastic, “great, love this part.” but you can hear the affection behind it.

the first time he comes back injured after you’ve moved in, he panics — not because he’s hurt, but because he doesn’t want you to see him like that. lets you patch him up anyway, quiet and vulnerable, murmuring “i’m sorry” over and over.

learns how to move around the apartment a little differently now, more careful, more attuned to your presence — even asleep, he always knows where you are.

the first time you kiss him goodbye on your way out in the morning, he stands there for a full minute afterward, grounding himself.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

FRANK goes completely still. like statue-still. doesn’t say anything right away because he’s not sure he heard you right. finally mutters something like, “you sure?” but his voice is rough and low, like he’s fighting back something big.

part of him wants to say no — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s scared he’ll ruin it. the other part of him, the part that remembers what peace used to feel like, is already picturing what your toothbrush would look like next to his.

doesn’t know how to ask what kind of stuff you’d need space for, so he just clears out an entire drawer and half the closet and pretends it was always like that. fixes the creaky step by the door before you even move in.

sharpens every knife in the kitchen. installs better locks. reinforces the windows. doesn’t tell you. just does it. the first time you fall asleep in his bed after moving in, he stays awake all night listening to your breathing like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

lets you put your books and blankets and candles around, even if it feels like too much softness at first — it grows on him. catches himself smiling when he sees your coffee mug in the sink. still sleeps with one eye open but it’s less about paranoia now and more about making sure you’re okay.

the first time he has a nightmare after you move in, he almost leaves in the middle of the night, but you hold onto him and he stays.

says “this place is yours too” and means it, even if it terrifies him doesn’t call it home out loud, but he feels it in his chest every time he walks through the door and you’re there.

starts cooking more, not just heating up canned stuff — actual meals, because you’re there and you deserve better. doesn’t say much when you rearrange the furniture a little, sits in the new spot on the couch without complaint like it was always meant to be that way.

silently memorizes the sound of your footsteps, your breathing, the way you hum when you’re making tea — tiny details he tucks away.

buys an extra blanket for the bed but claims it was “just lying around” — it’s new, and soft, and clearly for you. one day you catch him fixing the busted sink cabinet, muttering to himself like “can’t have you hurtin’ your damn knee on this thing” and it’s the most tender thing in the world.

gets weirdly possessive over your safety now that you're sharing a space — triple-checks locks, glances out the window every time he hears something.

he doesn’t say “i love you” easily — if at all — but you hear it in the way he says “you good?” every night before bed.

thinks about his old life sometimes, but now when he does, there’s less pain in the remembering and more hope in the now.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

FOGGY says “really??” with wide eyes and a grin before you even finish the sentence. immediately starts talking about how you can redecorate — “i was gonna get new pillows anyway. those old ones are criminal, and not in a cool-lawyer way.”

gets way too excited about sharing a grocery list, like “now we can buy milk together like adults!”

plays it cool but absolutely calls matt the second you leave the room like “guess who’s shacking up with someone way out of his league?”

genuinely proud when you bring over a toothbrush, like it’s a milestone. insists on cooking dinner the first night you officially move in. burns something. orders takeout. swears it was the plan all along

excited to show you every little part of the apartment like “and this — is the cabinet where i keep old soy sauce packets, but we can throw them out now.”

buys a “his & theirs” or “ours” type of mug even though you didn't ask for one. starts referring to things as “ours” before you do — our couch, our kitchen, our mess, our bed.

gives you a key and then immediately worries he made it too big a deal, so he plays it off like “no pressure, just... y'know. if you wanna come and go like a cool roommate who kisses me sometimes”

absolutely cries the first time you call it “home,” but tries to hide it by pretending there’s something in his eye. kisses your forehead while mumbling “can’t believe you’re stuck with me now” and means it.

starts labeling leftovers in the fridge with cute notes like ‘for you (but i’ll fight you for it).’

if you move even one thing slightly, he notices immediately but rolls with it — “did you move the couch a little? i love it. feng shui, baby.”

offers to build ikea furniture with you and somehow turns it into a romantic bonding experience instead of a war. brings home takeout with your favourite sides just because it’s thursday. starts referring to weekends as ‘us days.’

you catch him watching you with this stupidly soft look when you’re folding laundry or doing something completely ordinary. 100% keeps a mental inventory of your snacks and restocks them without being asked.

your first mini-argument about something dumb (like which way the toilet paper goes) ends with him making a dramatic legal defense for his side — complete with opening statements.

finds excuses to say “our place” as often as possible — “our place could use a plant, don’t you think? we’re plant people now.”

if you leave town even for a day, he immediately texts “this apartment is haunted by your absence” and sends sad selfies with your pillow.

you once casually mention you like soft lighting and the next day there are like three new lamps and he’s pretending it was totally normal behavior.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

KAREN goes quiet for a second, her heart stutters at the idea of being chosen like this. looks at you with this wide, soft gaze and says “are you sure?” but you can already see the yes blooming behind her eyes.

she smiles right away but her eyes flicker, like she’s flipping through every time she’s let someone in and gotten hurt. she says yes gently, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud it’ll scare the moment away.

later that night, when she’s alone, she stares at the corner of her apartment and starts mentally rearranging furniture just to make room for you.

the first night you bring a few things over, she’s buzzing with nervous energy — lighting candles, fluffing pillows, asking “do you want this side of the bed or that one?” three times.

she overthinks everything — are you comfortable? is it too soon? does it smell weird in here? what if you hate how she folds towels?

she insists on doing a “tour” even though it’s a small apartment — shows you the squeaky kitchen drawer, the window that fogs up in the morning, her favourite mug. the first time you brush teeth side by side, she watches your reflection in the mirror and feels this quiet little thrill in her chest.

she’s careful about letting you into her routines, but once you’re in, you’re in — she brings you coffee with exactly the right amount of sugar and leaves notes on the mirror in the morning.

gets a little nervous about being “too much”—too messy, too intense, too late-night-working— but when you reassure her, she melts.

lights candles at night to make it cozy, and always puts on soft music while you’re both unwinding. loves grocery shopping with you. makes it a whole date. argues playfully over which pasta is best.

if you have a rough day, she’ll cook something simple and grounding, even if she’s tired, and sit cross-legged on the floor with you to eat.

tells foggy immediately and with so much joy in her voice that he tears up a little.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

ELEKTRA laughs at first — not unkindly, but like you’ve caught her off guard, like you just suggested something absurd. “you want to live with me?” she says, smiling with a raised brow, but there's a flicker of something behind it — fear, maybe. or wonder.

“you’re either very brave… or very stupid.” but her voice is gentler than her words. doesn’t say yes right away. needs time to sit with it. she’s not used to people wanting to stay, let alone being allowed to stay.

the first time she sees you carrying a bag into her place, her heart jumps like a startled bird — but she keeps her face calm, cool, unreadable acts like it’s not a big deal. like your toothbrush beside hers is just “convenient.” like your jacket on her chair doesn’t make her chest ache in a good way.

rearranges nothing. if you want space, you have to carve it out yourself — but once you do, she never touches it. it’s yours.

the first time you bring her coffee in the morning, she stares at it like it’s a weapon she doesn’t know how to disarm.

tries to hide her affection in sarcasm — “what, planning to redecorate now?” — but her fingers brush against yours a little too long when you hand her something.

she lets you see her vulnerabilities in small fleeting moments. when she comes back after a mission, her expression softens when she sees you sitting on the couch waiting for her, and she doesn’t hide the relief that hits her. when you catch her staring at you across the room, she looks away quickly, but the warmth in her eyes is undeniable — like she’s finally allowed herself to belong somewhere.

if you ever say “i love you,” she’ll freeze for a moment, then give you that sharp, half-smile that means she’s feeling things she can’t put into words. she never says it back in those moments — not because she doesn’t feel it, but because she’s not sure how to show it without breaking.

the quiet is important to her. too much noise and she’ll retreat — go for a walk, meditate, or just sit in silence until she can breathe again. intimacy is still new to her. she doesn’t always know how to be tender when things are calm. she’s used to chaos, violence.

in the evenings, after a long day, she’s still a little restless. she’ll either pace around or dive into her training — anything to keep the adrenaline in check — but she never minds when you join her, even if it’s just sitting in the same room, offering quiet support.

she’s always late to bed, lingering in the quiet of the night with thoughts that won’t settle, but you’ve learned to meet her halfway. you stay up just a little longer, keeping her company, offering the presence she craves but never asks for.

she doesn’t ask you to stay. she dares you to. and when you do, she looks at you like you’re the first person in the world who’s ever passed her test.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

DEX, at first, would freeze. completely caught off guard. it’s not something he’s ever really considered. he’s used to being alone, isolated, and the idea of someone sharing his space would set off alarms in his head. part of him is thrilled by the idea, but another part feels like he's being asked to open a door he’s been desperately trying to keep closed.

he’d try to play it cool, maybe give a half-hearted smile, and act like it’s not a big deal, but you’d see the tension in his posture, the slight shift in his eyes, betraying his nerves. he wouldn’t be used to sharing space, and while he’d agree (hesitantly), he’d quickly start obsessing over everything — every little thing you might change or touch.

moving in with him would require adjustments for you. his place is sparse, cold, slightly clinical — some things are arranged in odd, very specific ways. any changes you make, even small ones, would throw him off, and he is not going to be the type to adapt.

he tries so hard to be easy to live with. washes dishes right after eating. folds your laundry just the way you like. buys the same brand of everything you use because he doesn’t want to mess it up. but when things go out of rhythm — when you go out of rhythm — his chest tightens. the world tilts. and he doesn’t know how to ask, “did i do something wrong?” so he just hovers, waiting for the routine to return

he'd ask for boundaries almost immediately, perhaps too early, like he’s putting walls up before they’ve even begun to come down.

he never outright says “i need you to stay on schedule,” but you can feel it. the way his body goes tight when you skip breakfast, the way his voice flattens when you cancel plans last minute. like you’ve disrupted something crucial to his sense of control. when you do stay consistent — when you fall into routine naturally — he relaxes. he’s all quiet humming, fingers brushing yours while passing a mug, lingering in the doorway just to watch you exist.

there’s an underlying unease to everything he does: the way he watches you unpack, the way he hovers when you move something slightly out of place, like he’s hyper-aware of every decision being made. he’d definitely have moments of intensity when you both adjust to this new dynamic. any accidental miscommunication or small thing would make him tense up, on edge because it feels like he’s walking on thin ice.

he’d have a very hard time with the idea of you being “permanent,” and may subconsciously sabotage the idea out of fear of getting too close. he might withdraw without explanation, acting distant to see if you’ll leave, just to test how much you’re willing to stay. eventually, he’d start letting down the walls in small ways: leaving his phone unlocked for you to use if you need it, letting you use his bathroom products, giving you a drawer for your things.

he notices every single thing you do. how you fold your socks. what side of the bed you take. the sound of your toothbrush against the sink. it becomes part of his routine. part of the structure he builds around himself to stay okay. he starts checking if the stove is off twice instead of three times because your voice in the kitchen grounds him faster than his rituals ever could.

incredibly routine-oriented. if you mess with the order of things — dishes, towels, what shelf the mugs go on — he doesn’t say anything at first, but you’ll catch him quietly moving them back later. doesn’t like a lot of clutter. your stuff slowly migrating into his space freaks him out at first. not because he doesn’t want you there, but because change makes him feel like he’s losing control.

he has comfort habits; like lining up his keys just so, or triple-checking the locks. if you ask he’ll downplay it, but if you don’t ask and just let him do it, he relaxes around you faster.

he doesn’t just notice your routine — he memorizes it. down to the minute. how long your showers take, what time you usually eat, which sock you put on first. if anything changes, even slightly, he feels it in his body like a system glitch.

he builds his entire day around you without realizing it. he starts syncing his schedule to yours — when you wake up, when you brush your teeth, when you leave for work. if you're five minutes late one morning, he gets stuck staring at the door like it personally betrayed him. your habits become sacred. you like honey in your tea? he’ll keep three kinds in the cupboard just in case one runs out. you hum while folding laundry? he starts doing it too. not on purpose, it just imprints.

he keeps a mental archive of everything that soothes you. what music you put on when you’re sad. how you like your blankets folded. the exact temperature you set the thermostat to. and then starts applying it before you ask, like clockwork. if you ask how he knew you needed something, he just says, “i pay attention,” but he won’t tell you that he’s been tracking it for weeks.

if you act off routine — oversleep, cry out of nowhere, forget to eat — he goes into full quiet panic mode. he won’t bombard you with questions, but he’ll hover close, every muscle in his body tense, waiting for the threat he thinks he missed.

he starts sleeping better with you there. deeper. more still. but only if you’re facing him. if you turn away he wakes up every time. when you fall asleep on the couch, he sits nearby on the floor, just watching you breathe. hand resting on the edge of the cushion like he’s guarding you. like if he lets go, something bad will happen.

he'll try not to be clingy but the fact is, the closer you get, the more obsessive his behavior can become. you’ll notice him lingering in rooms just to be near you, watching your every move, constantly ensuring that you’re comfortable and safe. If something’s off he can go into a spiral. that gnawing fear of losing you.

and when you look at him with soft eyes and say, “i love being here with you,” his throat goes tight. “yeah?” like it’s fragile. like it might vanish.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

BILLY’S first reaction is a practiced, easy smile. cool, smooth. "you really want to?" he sounds confident — playful, even — but his heart stutters like it just got clipped by a bullet. there’s a flicker behind his eyes. one second of real vulnerability before it’s buried under charisma.

he says yes. of course he does. but internally? he’s spiraling. he’s spent his whole life building walls lined with silk and marble, and now you’re asking to step inside.

he makes it look effortless. he wants this to feel like it was always going to happen. “it’s your place too now, sweetheart.” he says with that soft, smirking charm — but deep down, he’s bracing for you to change your mind.

the penthouse is pristine. expensive. cold. and when you move in, he watches your stuff disrupt that carefully polished perfection—and he loves it more than he knows how to say. a mug you leave on the counter? he stares at it for a second longer than he should. your shoes by the door? he steps around them like they’re sacred.

he keeps acting cool — laughs when you accidentally drop a sock in the hallway, rolls his eyes when you leave a light on — but every time you do something domestic, his chest gets tighter in a way he’ll never admit out loud.

starts getting scared of loving it too much. of waking up next to you and thinking, this could be forever, and then remembering that forever’s never been kind to him.

he’s obsessive about protecting you now. starts double-checking locks, adding security, keeping a closer eye on who’s around you. he won’t call it paranoia, but you know what it is. his trauma simmers underneath it all. on nights he can’t sleep, he’ll go out onto the balcony, staring at the skyline like it owes him answers. when you come out and wrap your arms around him, he just leans into you silently. he’s still afraid you’ll leave. that you’ll see the cracks under the surface — the mess he hides under suits and soft lighting — and walk away.

so he starts giving you pieces of himself, slowly. a key. his favourite hoodie. his real laugh, unpolished and unguarded

“honey, im home.” in that frustratingly charming voice when he’s trying to be annoying.

mornings are quiet. not cold, just muted. he’s already been awake for a while, sipping espresso by the window in a robe that’s way too expensive, staring out like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only he can see. but the second he hears you stir, he softens. brings you coffee without asking, knows exactly how you take it. kisses the top of your head like he’s done it forever. never says good morning like a normal person. always some variation of “hey, gorgeous.” or “you sleep okay, baby?” — and it sounds like velvet every time.

he watches you move around the kitchen like it’s art. like it calms something in him. you’re the only chaos he allows inside his perfect little world.

when he’s had a bad day, he won’t say anything. just drops onto the couch beside you and pulls you onto him like you’re an anchor. you let him sit in the silence until he’s ready to breathe again.

he can’t cook. not well. but he insists on making you dinner at least once a week — usually ends with a half-burned something and him going, “okay, maybe i’m more of a reservation guy.”

he gets weirdly attached to your routines. like, if you skip a skincare step one night, he notices. “no moisturizer?” he asks, faux-casual, but he’s already reaching for the bottle.

he never says it directly, but being with you day to day makes him feel human. like maybe he’s more than the wreckage he came from. and when you say “i love living with you,” his whole body stills. like it’s too much. like it hurts. then he touches your face, gently, reverently, and says, “you have no idea how much that means to me.”

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

DINAH blinks. once. twice. like she didn’t hear you right the first time. “you serious?” half-laughing, half-deflecting, because that’s easier than letting her heart show on her face.

the truth is: she’s wanted you there. for a while. but she didn’t think she was allowed to want that kind of softness. she probably tries to play it off like it’s no big deal. “sure. yeah. we can try it.” but you can see the way her shoulders drop just a little. like a weight she didn’t know she was carrying slipped off.

she spends the next week obsessing over logistics. where your stuff will go. whether her place is “too small.” acts like she’s just being practical, but really, she’s panicking under the surface. she doesn’t share space easily. she’s used to her solitude. used to walking around guarded even in her own home. so with you she tries. she wants to let you in, even if her hands shake while doing it.

clears a drawer, then a second one. gives you the better side of the closet. buys you your own toothbrush holder without saying a word. still doesn’t let you see her cry. not yet. not even when you set a mug down beside her while she’s working late and kiss the top of her head.

every time she comes home and hears you moving around in the apartment, she exhales without realizing it. like her body’s been holding tension all day and finally gets to release it. she’s not great at domesticity, but she tries. starts making dinner with you, folds your laundry and pretends she’s not secretly proud of it all.

when you fall asleep on the couch, she puts a blanket over you and sits beside you in the dark, sipping wine and watching whatever you left on the tv. doesn’t even care what it is. she just wants to be near you.

still keeps parts of herself locked up tight, files and folders and grief she never talks about. but every now and then, she lets you see the cracks “i’m not .. easy to live with,” she says one night, eyes on the floor.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

WESLEY doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stutter. just tilts his head slightly like he’s calculating what this means, how it fits into the long-term picture he already started building with you months ago. “you want to?” he says it low, like he’s double-checking, not because he’s surprised, because he wants to be sure.

you nod, and he’s quiet for a second too long. then he smiles, small and private, like something just slotted perfectly into place. “okay.” simple. certain. like he’s already rearranging his entire life in his head and doesn’t see a single downside.

he’d already been making room for you before you asked. subtle shifts. an extra set of your preferred wine glasses. drawer space you hadn’t noticed yet. everything is done intentionally. he doesn’t rush anything, but by the time you bring over your first overnight bag, there’s already a place for every item.

he doesn’t just make room for your things — he blends them into the space like they’ve always belonged. a book you left out gets bookmarked and stacked next to his. your jacket ends up hanging beside his tailored coat. if you move something, even if it’s out of place, he leaves it there. memorizes the change. adjusts.

he notices everything. the way your keys sound when you drop them on the counter, your mood when you walk in, what kind of music means you had a long day. you come home once and he’s already poured your favourite drink, sat it on the table, like he’s been waiting for that exact version of you.

he doesn’t show affection with grand gestures, he shows it in consistency. in remembering. in placing himself exactly where you need him to be without being asked.

at night, he watches you read, or wash your face, or fold laundry like it’s a scene he wants to etch into stone. like it’s the first thing that’s ever felt like peace.

he keeps your schedule memorized. he knows when you’re home, when you’re late, when you’re off. if something’s wrong he’s already halfway to fixing it before you even mention it.

he lets you talk through your day at dinner while he listens, always with quiet focus. occasionally he’ll offer insight or dry commentary, but mostly he’s content to just hear you speak.

he doesn’t nag about tidiness, he just fixes things without a word. your charger’s always plugged in. the pantry stays stocked with what you love. if you leave something out — like a sweater on the back of a chair — he’ll leave it there until you wear it again. he’s waiting to see if that was part of your pattern.

when you’re sick, he takes time off without being asked. “don’t argue,” he’ll say, slipping a blanket over your legs. “you’d do the same.” when he’s sick, he pretends he’s fine. but the minute you touch his forehead and tell him to sit down, he obeys without a word. only for you.

he buys expensive soap you mentioned liking once. replaces your pillow when you say your neck’s been sore. upgrades the apartment’s security without telling you. at night, he reads next to you, one hand resting on your thigh.

when you call it “home,” he just gives you this look — soft, quiet, intense. like he’s storing the word away somewhere deep

★ a / n : i didn’t add muse to this one bc im sick asf and tired but if somebody wants me to add him just leave a comment and i can come up with smth no biggie

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[mixingandmelting]

Hey so how do you think the bat boys would deal with a s/o where they list off a ton of insane injuries that they didn’t go to the hospital for treatment for, you can’t even tell they been through that stuff and it kind of makes you wonder how s/o is still alive after all that? S/o is just casually listing them like you would a grocery list (Jason interesting cuz He did die and was brought back. Dick got shot in head and made an amazing recovering).

A/N: per protocol, a psa/disclaimer - there’s nothing graphic or explicit in what’s written below (it’s literally the name of the injury that’s all) but please do not be like the boys or reader. Seek medical consult, makes the life a whole lot better and easier 😔

Dick:

He would be a hypocrite if he were to call you out right there and then. But his “eldest siblings” bell keeps blaring in his head the more he listens to your list of injuries. 

“So, let me get this straight.” He rubs his temples with two fingers, a familiar migraine faintly throbbing in his head. “You thought it would be fine to NOT go to the hospital and get checked up after falling from a roof despite knowing you had a concussion.” 

“Well, if you put it that way, it doesn’t sound all that great-“ You clear your throat, your eyes shifting away from him when he gives you a pointed look. “Okay, so that might’ve not been the smartest idea. But it was what, the third one I had? I already had a clue what to do so…” 

He’s going to have an aneurysm. Hands down for sure when you simply shrug as if you hadn’t just told him a list of insane injuries he had no idea about. 

Breath, Dick. Breath. It’s you he’s dealing with. His one and only who happens to be prone to getting injured in the worst ways-

Sensing her dad’s distraught, Dick lets Haley jump into his lap before he plops his face in her tummy. 

“Oh, Haley. What are we going to do? Your other parent is a trouble-magnet and hates hospitals. At this point, I’ll become a widower in my mid-thirties.” 

“Hey!” You shout, jabbing a finger at him. “I’m not like you, jumping into toxic gas without protection- widower? Why would you be a widower?” 

It takes a while to finally get him to stop mother-henning you after he follows you around in both civilian and vigilantes to every place you go. But after the bathroom incident, he relents once you agree to have him on speed dial and emergency contact. 

Jason:

“Relatable.” 

Relatable his ass. Sure, he can relate considering all the things he’s been through (prime example: him dying and reviving). But here’s the difference: it’s you. Period. He wants you to be safe, unharmed, and happy. Like, is it really too much to ask? 

Hell, he probably would’ve never thought you’d gone through all that had you not said anything. But,now, everything changed and he didn’t think a day would come for him to, ironically, be the one to tell someone to go to the hospital. 

“Right? Thank you, at least someone gets it!” You don’t notice the blank stare he has, the mug he takes a drink out of obscuring his face. “I swear, people freak out when it’s not that bad.” 

…He needs a beer. And send an apology note to Dick and Alfred. 

“Oh yeah, nagging? Definitely isn’t going to do anything. Just makes you want to do the opposite.” 

“Exactly. I mean I get it, especially if it’s getting both my shoulder and knee dislocated at the same time.” The grip on his mug tightens, a crack starting at the handle. “But, I’m not going to go if someone won’t stop going on and on with ‘oh, you should get that checked, or ‘why didn’t you get seen by a doctor’, you know?” 

Oh, don’t you worry. He knows, alright.

“So, your ankle. I’m guessing you didn’t get that checked.” 

The one and only good thing about your current injury was that you couldn’t dart away like usual. With having sat next to you this whole time as a plus, he’s quick to pull and, mindfully, hold you in the princess hold. 

One thing leads to the next and the two of you are at the manor with Alfred taking a look at your injury. At least you weren’t mad anymore, watching him endure the harassment of bringing over his S/O home. 

Tim:

“You had an injury on your neck but you left A.M.A*!” 

“At least I went to the hospital! Unlike someone here who didn’t after breaking three ribs!”

“Okay, no. You were forced to get admitted, first off. Second, you’re still missing a spleen-?!” 

The two of you have been going back and forth with each other ever since you dropped on him the list (why is it a list??? Why do you have a list???) of insane injuries you never went to the hospital for. 

At first, all he did was, calmly (calmly being the keyword), inform you why going to the hospital would be a good idea in case of future events. And you said sure. When you need to, that is. 

He catches it and calls you out on your poor attempt to BS. You then called him out for his BS. There was a moment of truce that lasted for a minute when Alfred got mentioned. You both shook hands over not to delve into it as you both held affection for the butler and fatherly figure. 

“I was trained to recognize this stuff even before my Robin years! I’m certified for first-aid treatment!” 

“Oh wow, that’s amazing Tim! But who was the one that gave you CPR when you nearly drowned?!” 

He loudly groans, dragging both hands down his face. 

“Then, that’s a bigger incentive for you to get checked up at the hospital, then!” He makes vague hand motions in the air as he starts to pace around. “You get hurt whenever I’m not there and can’t protect you!” 

“… What?” 

In the end, you comfort Tim though it takes a while to talk him out of about a 24/7 personalized bodysuit. You did end up agreeing with the emergency pager to make him feel a bit better, designed as a fashionable wrist watch. 

Duke: 

He closes his mouth. Opens it. Closes it again. Opens it. 

“So… How exactly are you alive again?” 

He simply raises an eyebrow in response to the unimpressed expression you give him. 

“It’s not all that bad-“ 

“Not that bad?” He snorts. “Not that bad? I’m not that bad!”

He jumps up and points both hands towards himself before pointing them towards you. 

“Here I am, dealing with villains left and right which makes sense as to why I get hurt. But, what was it you just said? A stab wound with a knife?” 

“Actually, it was a spoon.” 

“A spoon-???” His voice pitches an octave, cracking in the end. 

For someone so normal, he couldn’t help but wonder how you knew so well on what to do when someone gets injured in the most bizarre ways. Not at all expecting there to be personal lore on how you gained that knowledge. 

In one part, it saddens him at the fact he’s once again the one with common sense. The other? 

He grimaces. 

It…actually checks out. Because it’s a rule written by the universe that vigilantes are not allowed to fall in love with someone normal. And though you are normal for the most part, this? This definitely checks the box on meeting the requirement. 

“Why did you get stabbed with a spoon in the first place?” 

Oh no. You’re awkwardly laughing. 

Some time passes and he’s shopping with his mom for office supplies. As she looks over the Manila envelopes, he notices a particular large roll of bubble wrap. So, when he’s asked as to why he’s buying three rolls of it, he gives the classic excuse of needing it for a science experiment. Which, in part, is true considering he’s planning to see if you being wrapped in it will prevent you from getting injured like in the ads. 

Damian:

“What are your parents' occupations again?” 

You give Damian a flat stare. 

It does little to deter him, persuaded that you’re either lying to him or you’ve lived a similar life as him with training in the most extreme conditions and didn’t tell him. 

There’s no other options or explanations to how you could possibly get those injuries, nonetheless a list of them. And he doesn’t know what he’s frustrated more about: the nonchalance of you stating them like reading off items on a grocery list or he wasn’t there and prevented them from happening. 

Not going to the hospital for your injuries, he can somewhat understand. With how terrible Gotham’s healthcare system is and the number of patients that get admitted from criminal activities every day, it’s considered a good day when patients are seen after eight hours of waiting in the ER. 

Lucky you, you happen to be loved by someone who can medically assess whenever. The Batcave has the latest, cutting-edge technology on medical equipment while he, himself, has the medical expertise that’s potentially on par with that of his father’s and Alfred. He’s sure he can provide you treatment better than any hospital in the city. 

“Damian, I’m fine.” You huff, rolling your eyes.  “Besides, it’s nothing compared to last time.”

Does he want to know what happened during this so-called “last time”?

“I think you need to get your brain checked if you’re considering forced-bed rest as ‘nothing’”. He shoves another peeled apple slice just in time when you’re about to talk back. 

That pattern continues for the rest of the day with him nagging you like a tiger parent while feeding you food (he ignores the bit about him sneaking into your room is an invasion of private property). Eventually, later that week, the two of you squabble again after you catch him following you around almost everyday while he argues how you can’t be left unsupervised.

[whoreash]

“slut!” ──★ ˙🍓 ̟

it was disgusting, absolutely, disgusting how rin itoshi felt about you.

all warm and fuzzy and peaceful; ugh, it filled him with pure dread, thinking back to it. so tender and vulnerable under your gaze, mind flustered and woozy from your continuous giggles and twiddling fingers and anxious glances— as if you were scared of him.

really, he’s more scared of you. like a spider, caught between a screaming child— with no escape and a simple groan of weary resignation to utter death. however, unlike the spiders, he wasn’t going to give up. not without a fight against your stupid flushed cheeks that made rin’s stomach flutter. he needed to throw up, of course.

it was so much worse because you were such good friends— childhood friends, at that. so it wasn’t as simple as just ignoring you, his mother wouldn’t allow that. rin would rather die than go against his mother.

“do i have something on my face?” okay, so yes, his only way to fight was a “try not to blink” game with an, oblivious, you— except it was, really, just him staring at you, menacingly. and, yes, it was at a social gathering, in public, with other people all around you. all to intimidate you, obviously.

“what— no.” unbelievable, he thought. you weren’t even going to try and hide your defeat. how could he expect anything more from someone so lukewarm.

“why are you looking at me like that, then?” you ask, head tilting to the side in genuine confusion, a drink in your hand that was long forgotten when you started your conversation with rin.

“we’re fighting.”

“we are?”

“yes.”

used to his antics, you simply nod, taking a sip of your glass of wine— eyes never leaving his. oh, so now you’re joining in? this was totally unfair, rin thought, you had a clear advantage with that gaze of yours. making him sick to his stomach, but unable to look anywhere else. at this point, he’s losing.

“why are we fighting, may i ask?”

“need to prove something.”

“to who?”

“myself.”

so, you stand there. under his watchful gaze, that’s only, really, focusing on your face. it was odd how, completely, unawkward you were, letting him analyse you. catching his gaze, you notice a pattern in his looks; going from your hair, trailing down to your left eye, then the other one, landing on your lips and nose and cheeks— and every small characteristic on your face. you, only, just realised how close he was— your neck having to crane up to look at him, which immediately creates a flush onto your ears.

with that, your looker nods to himself, slowly moving his gaze to the food on the bar. and, that was it.

but, as rin walked to the food, everyone else noticed the blush adorning his cheeks. this was bad.

[manmuncher777]

Could you write something about roomates gojo and geto x reader??

Of course I can girl!!! Thank you for the request my love, I hope you enjoy <3

Two years ago, the idea of living with two boys would’ve made you laugh—no way would that ever work.

But Satoru and Suguru aren’t just anyone.

They’re your best friends.

Always have been. Always will b

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you crawl onto the couch between them without a second thought, stealing the throw blanket from Suguru’s lap and draping it over yourself.

When Satoru laughs and tugs you sideways into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Suguru doesn’t even blink when your thigh brushes against his under the blanket.

It’s easy.

It’s always been easy with them.

Suguru’s the steady one—the one who cooks most nights, always remembering exactly how you like your noodles, the one who makes sure you’ve had enough water after a night out.

And Satoru’s… well, he’s chaos. Loud, brilliant, exhausting. He keeps you laughing even when you want to scream, always two steps behind you with some ridiculous new scheme or prank.

You don’t know when easy started to feel like something else.

Something thicker. Heavier. A current buzzing under your skin whenever they touched you.

Maybe it was the way Suguru started letting his hand linger on the small of your back a little longer when he squeezed past you in the kitchen.

Maybe it was the way Satoru stopped teasing you about your tiny shorts in the morning—and started leaning back, lazily admiring you instead, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Maybe it was the nights you woke up half-sprawled over Suguru’s chest, Satoru’s arm thrown over your waist, like you were something they both shared.

Maybe it’s been building for a long time.

Tonight feels no different, at first.

You’re all piled on the couch, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background.

Satoru’s feet are hooked under yours, and Suguru’s hand is resting—innocently, you tell yourself—on the bare skin of your knee, thumb stroking slow, absentminded circles.

You don’t even realize you’re staring at them until Suguru catches your gaze and tilts his head slightly, a lazy smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

The pet name punches a hole straight through your chest.

You feel your face flush, heart thudding awkwardly, but you force a smile and shake your head, sinking lower into the cushions.

Satoru chuckles from your other side, leaning closer until his breath ghosts over your ear.

“You’re such a bad liar,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing.

The warmth of them, the weight of their attention—it’s too much.

It makes your skin feel hot and too tight, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from doing something stupid.

Something reckless.

You can feel it, thick and electric in the air between the three of you.

A question no one’s brave enough to ask yet.

Not yet.

But the lines you thought were so clear are starting to blur—and you’re not sure you want to put them back.

It was Suguru’s idea.

(Of course it was.)

Just a lazy Friday night, nothing planned, nothing to do but laze around the apartment—and maybe get a little high.

Satoru had lit up the joint with a dramatic flourish, passing it between the three of you with easy laughter.

At first, it was harmless.

Suguru sprawled lazily on one side of the couch, his hoodie slipping off one broad shoulder.

Satoru lounged across from him, legs spread wide, that stupid, infuriatingly pretty grin tugging at his mouth every time he made you giggle.

You were curled between them again, as always—close enough to feel the heat radiating from their bodies, to smell the faint musk of their cologne and smoke clinging to their clothes.

And then you started to feel it.

The familiar, slow-burning heat pooling low in your stomach.

The way your skin felt too sensitive, every brush of the blanket or accidental graze of a knee making your heart flutter.

The way your thighs kept squeezing together, desperate for even the tiniest bit of friction.

You tried to hide it.

You really did.

But Suguru’s sharp eyes caught the way you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, and Satoru’s grin widened when you ducked your head to hide your flushed cheeks.

“Hey,” Satoru drawled, voice sticky-sweet with amusement. “What’s the matter, baby? You getting shy on us?”

You shook your head quickly, too quickly, and Suguru chuckled low under his breath, deep and rumbling.

You felt it like a vibration under your skin.

“You’re blushing,” Suguru said, voice deceptively soft. “How cute.”

You whimpered—a tiny, humiliating sound—and immediately covered your face with your hands.

That only made them laugh harder.

“Aww, look at her,” Satoru cooed, reaching over to pry your hands away. His long fingers curled gently around your wrists, holding them captive.

“So sensitive. Bet you’re all worked up already, huh?”

You wanted to tell him to shut up.

You wanted to shove him away and pretend none of this was happening.

But you were too high.

Too warm.

Too needy.

And when Suguru’s hand slid casually up your thigh—slow, deliberate, teasing little circles just above your knee—you whimpered again, a soft, needy sound you couldn’t hold back.

“Ohhh, she is,” Satoru teased, laughter laced with something darker now.

“Fuck, that’s adorable. You get horny when you’re high, baby?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing you could disappear into the couch.

But Suguru’s hand kept moving higher, slow and easy, until his fingers were ghosting just under the hem of your shorts.

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything—but the only thing that came out was a soft, broken moan.

Both boys went very still.

The air in the room thickened, heavy with something dangerous.

Satoru leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper against your ear.

“Hey, sweetheart…”

His breath was hot on your skin.

“If you want us to play with you…”

His fingers brushed your jaw, tipping your face toward his.

“All you have to do is ask.”

Suguru’s hand pressed a little higher, thumb stroking the inside of your trembling thigh.

You could barely breathe.

You were trapped between them, pinned by their heavy, heated gazes, by the slow, deliberate way they touched you like they already owned you.

And god help you—

You didn’t want to say no.

“God, she’s shaking,” Suguru murmured, thumb teasing slow, lazy circles into the inside of your thigh.

His voice was pure amusement, laced with that dark heat he always wore so well.

“You that desperate for us already, baby?”

You whimpered, trying to clamp your thighs shut—but his hand was right there, sliding even higher, and Satoru only laughed when he saw your weak attempt at resistance.

“Thought you were tougher than that,” Satoru teased, his fingers feathering along the side of your neck, feather-light and maddening.

“You’re always mouthing off, always giving us that little attitude… and look at you now. Melting. Just ‘cause we’re being a little nice to you.”

Suguru’s fingers brushed against the damp crotch of your shorts and he hummed, like he’d just found something interesting.

“Fuck. You’re soaking through already.”

You made a tiny, desperate noise—half humiliated, half aching—and Satoru cooed at you mockingly.

“Aww, sweet girl,” he said, tapping your cheek playfully. “You want us that bad, huh? Just from a little touching?”

You buried your face against Satoru’s chest, burning with embarrassment, but he only laughed again, curling an arm around your shoulders to hold you there.

“You’re adorable when you’re like this,” he murmured against your temple.

“So sweet. So easy to break down.”

Suguru slid his hand higher, hooking a finger under the elastic of your shorts—so close to slipping inside, but not quite.

You whimpered against Satoru’s chest, hips bucking helplessly.

“Ohhh, look at her,” Suguru said, voice thick with laughter.

“She’s humping my hand now.”

You let out a high, broken little moan—and that’s when both of them stopped teasing for just a beat.

The air crackled between you, heavy and sharp with want.

Satoru pulled back slightly, cupping your chin to tilt your face up to his.

His blue eyes were blown wide with lust, but there was still that teasing, cruel little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You wanna say it, baby?” he asked, voice low and sing-song.

“You wanna tell us what a dirty little slut you are for your best friends?”

Your hips jerked helplessly—and you sobbed a soft, desperate, broken sound.

They both groaned at that, low and guttural.

“Oh, fuck,” Suguru murmured, finally slipping his fingers under your panties to stroke you properly.

“So fucking wet for us.”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Satoru leaned down to kiss a tear off your flushed cheek.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, mock-sympathetic.

“Too needy to handle a little teasing, huh?”

You could barely breathe.

You needed it—you needed them—you needed everything they were offering, and you needed it now.

Your hands clutched helplessly at Satoru’s hoodie, your body arching into Suguru’s touch without even thinking.

“Please,” you gasped, voice wrecked and high.

“Please, I need—”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence before Satoru crushed his mouth to yours, devouring you hungrily, teeth dragging along your bottom lip.

Suguru pushed your shorts down, baring you completely, and the low, hungry growl he let out when he saw you made your head spin.

“You’re ours tonight,” he rasped, sliding two fingers into you in one slow, delicious push.

“Fucking ours.”

Satoru’s hands were everywhere, teasing, pulling, and owning every inch of you, while Suguru’s fingers dug deep inside you, curling with slow precision, each thrust hitting deeper than the last.

“Look at her,” Satoru chuckled, the sound dark, smug. He didn’t care that you were a mess, hips bucking helplessly, gasping for more. No—he was too focused on the way your body responded to him, to both of them.

Suguru’s fingers moved with a controlled rhythm, drawing out desperate, gasping breaths from you.

“She’s so fucking pretty like this,” Suguru murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper as he leaned over to press his lips against your ear. “So wet. So ready to just let us have you.”

Satoru was at your chest now, sliding the straps of your top down with slow, teasing movements, his hands gliding over your skin like a predator savoring every inch of you. His eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something darker behind them—a hunger that matched the growing tension in your body.

“Fuck, look at her. She’s practically begging for us,” Satoru teased, rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, making you gasp and squirm beneath him. “Tell me, baby—do you need me to fuck you, or is Suguru making you feel good enough?”

Your body trembled at the question, and Suguru’s fingers stilled for just a moment, savoring the way your walls clenched around him, desperate for more. He let out a low laugh, taking his time to pull out, only to slide back in again with an agonizing slowness.

“She’s dripping, Satoru,” Suguru groaned, grinning at the sight of your flushed, overwhelmed face. “Look at how fucking hard she’s trying to hold it together.”

Satoru chuckled darkly, bringing his face close to yours, lips brushing against your cheek as he muttered, “You’re so adorable when you’re fighting it. Look at you—so fucking close already, just from us touching you.”

Suguru’s thumb circled your clit slowly, just enough to make you squirm, but never enough to push you over the edge. He wanted you to beg. Wanted to see you fall apart for them.

You whimpered, fighting for air, desperate for release, but the way they were playing with you was making everything so much worse. So much better.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Satoru smirked, pushing himself up to tower over you. His cock twitched in his pants as he watched you squirm beneath Suguru’s touch. “You can’t stand it, can you? Want us so bad, but you can’t get what you want.”

Suguru leaned over, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that was full of teasing sweetness, just enough to make your head spin, just enough to make you beg for more. He pulled away too soon, smirking at the way you panted, desperate for the release they were withholding.

“Say it,” Suguru murmured, pushing his fingers deeper, angling them just right. “Say you need us.”

Satoru leaned back, watching the scene with dark eyes, enjoying the way you squirmed and moaned beneath them. He was taking in every inch of your body, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“She needs us, Suguru,” he said, voice heavy with satisfaction. “She’s been craving this all night.”

Suguru pulled his fingers out slowly, teasing you by brushing his palm over your wetness. You whimpered, shuddering at the sudden emptiness.

“She’s ready,” he muttered, voice husky. “Ready for both of us.”

Satoru’s grin stretched wider, like a wolf circling its prey. “Yeah, she is. She’s been begging for it in her own way.”

Suguru let out a low, guttural laugh, his hand circling your clit again, slower this time, but with a certain purpose. “We’ll give it to her, but not yet. We’re not done enjoying the show.”

Satoru’s hand snaked down your side, gripping your waist as he lowered himself to meet your gaze again. “How does it feel, sweetheart?” he whispered, his voice syrupy sweet with mocking affection. “Being so fucking needy for us, huh? You like the way we’re making you beg?”

You let out a soft, broken moan, your entire body trembling with anticipation, your walls clenching around nothing as you fought to keep it together. You couldn’t take it anymore. Please.

Suguru’s fingers worked faster, pressing harder against you, and Satoru’s hands moved to cup your face gently, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you’re like this,” he purred, kissing your forehead softly, contrasting the roughness of his words with his tenderness. “So fucking sweet. Letting us take control. Letting us play with you.”

You gasped, finally breaking, and they both knew it—both of them knew you were moments away from falling apart. And when you did, it would be all for them.

“You want it, don’t you?” Suguru asked, his voice low and sultry as his thumb flicked your clit once again, making you arch off the bed. “You want to cum for us, baby?”

“Say it,” Satoru urged, his voice practically a growl now. “Say it, and we’ll give it to you.”

And with that, everything inside you snapped. Your orgasm came crashing down on you, powerful and overwhelming, as you let out a strangled scream. The boys didn’t stop—if anything, they picked up the pace, pushing you through the waves of pleasure, making sure you came hard.

“Good girl,” Satoru muttered, watching you writhe beneath them, helpless in their control. “Such a good girl for us.”

Suguru pressed his lips against yours, swallowing your moans as he kissed you deeply, knowing that he’d just destroyed you and left you wanting more.

You’re barely coherent at this point, mind fogged from the weed, from the heavy petting, from their low voices and careful touches that have you crumbling. Your thighs clench together helplessly as Suguru’s fingers graze higher under the hem of your shorts, and Satoru’s hand cups the side of your neck, thumbing lazily at your fluttering pulse.

“She’s so desperate, huh?” Gojo says to Suguru, almost ignoring you entirely. “You’d think we never touch her.”

Suguru chuckles low and deep, sending shivers down your spine. His hand squeezes your thigh, spreading you open just a little bit more. “Can you blame her?” he says, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “We’ve been so mean tonight… teasing her like this.”

You whimper, hips shifting forward slightly like you’re chasing more, but it just earns you another amused laugh from them both. Satoru leans down to murmur right against your ear, voice a devastating purr.

“Poor baby. You need us that bad?”

You nod frantically, shame lost in the haze of need and want and their overwhelming closeness. Gojo hums and brushes his nose against your temple in mock sympathy.

“So greedy,” Suguru teases, letting his fingers trail just beneath the waistband of your panties now, feather-light, not nearly enough. “Maybe we should teach her some patience, Toru.”

Satoru grins, slow and sharp. “Or maybe we should give her exactly what she’s begging for. She’s being so cute about it.” His free hand slides over your stomach, thumb brushing lazily under the hem of your shirt. “Wouldn’t wanna be mean to our favorite girl.”

Your breath stutters when Suguru hooks his fingers under your panties and slides them down, slow and deliberate. Meanwhile, Satoru coaxes your shirt off, leaving you bare and shivering under their dark, hungry eyes.

They don’t rush. They savor.

Suguru kneels between your legs on the couch, kissing slow, wet paths up your inner thighs, while Satoru tips your chin up, capturing your mouth in a lazy, open-mouthed kiss, letting you taste how much they’re savoring your desperation.

When Suguru finally pushes two thick fingers into you, you keen into Satoru’s mouth, shuddering at how deep he curls them. Suguru just hums approvingly against your thigh.

“God, she’s so wet already,” Suguru says over his shoulder to Satoru, smirking. “Think she’ll break if we both have her?”

Satoru’s eyes light up with a dangerous glint.

“Only one way to find out, right?”

Your head spins at the implication, at the way they’re so casual about ruining you.

Within moments, they’ve manhandled you into position — Suguru behind you, pulling you into his lap with one hand at your hip, the other guiding himself against your entrance, while Satoru kneels in front of you, cupping your face in both hands with a grin that’s half-mocking, half-worshipful.

“Look at you,” Satoru murmurs, thumb stroking over your swollen bottom lip. “So fucking pretty like this.”

And then Suguru sinks into you from behind — slow, relentless — while Satoru watches every twitch of your face, every gasp, every needy whimper

“C’mon, angel,” Satoru coaxes, voice thick with arousal. “You can take us both, right? Our sweet girl.”

Your hips buck back into Suguru involuntarily, making him groan low and rough in your ear. He’s so deep you feel like you’re gonna lose your mind already — and then Satoru is fisting himself in front of you, eyes dark and hooded.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he demands, a teasing grin pulling at the corner of his lips. “Since you’re already being so good for us.”

You don’t even hesitate, whimpering around his cock as he pushes past your lips, letting you sink down onto him.

And just like that — Suguru grinding into you from behind, Satoru groaning low as you hollow your cheeks around him — they sandwich you perfectly between them, grinning at each other over your flushed, overwhelmed form like you’re their favorite little toy.

“Fuck, this is the best idea we’ve ever had,” Satoru groans, his hand tightening in your hair.

“She was made for us,” Suguru mutters against your shoulder, voice thick with lust. “Look at her… fuck, just look.”

Their hands are everywhere — gripping your hips, stroking your jaw, smoothing up your sides. They keep whispering to each other about you, like you’re not even there — admiring you, taunting you, worshipping you all at once.

And you can’t do anything but take it — the two of them working you apart and putting you back together at the same time.

They share a look above you — smug, wicked — before Suguru snaps his hips forward, grinding impossibly deeper inside you, and Satoru lets out a shaky breath as your mouth tightens around him.

“Fuck, she’s perfect,” Suguru grits out against the back of your neck, his hand winding into your hair to yank your head back, exposing your throat to his mouth, teeth scraping against your flushed skin. “Look at her, Toru. Fucking made for us.”

Satoru’s fingers tighten on your jaw, pulling you off his cock just enough for you to gasp a desperate breath before he thrusts back in, slow and deliberate, the tip hitting the back of your throat and making you choke just a little — just enough for him to groan, his hips stuttering forward.

“You love this, huh, angel?” Satoru rasps, voice wrecked, breath ragged. “Our messy little fucktoy.”

You can’t even answer — just a helpless noise as Suguru drives into you, every thick inch stretching you wide open, filling you so good you feel like you’re losing your mind. Your nails dig into Satoru’s thighs for balance, but he just laughs low, grabbing your hair and guiding your pace over his cock.

“That’s it,” he breathes, hips rolling lazily forward. “Be good for us.”

Suguru shifts his angle slightly, and when he grinds his hips against your ass again, you see stars — the fat head of his cock dragging perfectly against that spot inside you that has your legs trembling.

“Feel that?” Suguru growls against your ear, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper. “Feel how easy you give it up for us?”

You moan around Satoru’s cock, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth, eyes rolling back as your whole body shakes with pleasure. You’re so full you can barely process it — both of them using you like they’ve always meant to.

“Think she’s gonna cum just from getting stuffed full,” Satoru snickers, pulling out of your mouth just to watch you pant and sob for more, your lips swollen and messy. “You gonna cum, baby? Gonna soak Geto’s cock just from getting fucked like our dirty little roommate?”

“She’s close,” Suguru grunts, slamming into you harder now, his hand slipping between your thighs to rub furious little circles against your clit, sending sparks shooting through your veins. “Feel her fucking squeezing me.”

You’re babbling now — nonsense pleas, whimpering for them, chasing your orgasm blindly. You can’t hold it back — can’t even think — before it’s crashing down on you, your whole body seizing up as you cum with a choked sob, soaking Suguru’s cock, your thighs twitching.

“Fuck, fuck — good girl, that’s it, give it to us,” Suguru snarls, barely holding himself back, fucking you through it with merciless, punishing thrusts.

Satoru is pumping his cock lazily in front of your face, watching you fall apart with a dark, satisfied grin.

“Open up for me again, baby,” he purrs, and when you look up at him with glassy, fucked-out eyes, mouth dropping open obediently, he groans low and desperate.

“Fuck— look at you. Fucking ruined.”

You take him back into your mouth, moaning weakly as he thrusts shallowly over your tongue, chasing his own high while Suguru pounds into you with bruising force, his breath hot against your ear.

“Where you want it, princess?” Suguru pants, one hand squeezing your hips so tight you’re sure it’ll leave bruises. “Want me to cum inside you? Fill you up like a good little cumdump?”

You nod frantically around Satoru’s cock, sobbing with need, and it’s the last straw for both of them.

Suguru groans brokenly as he spills deep inside you, hips grinding hard against your ass, cock pulsing as he empties himself into your already messy pussy. The sensation of being so full, so claimed, has you moaning even louder, your body shaking violently.

Satoru pulls out of your mouth at the last second, jerking himself frantically before painting your fucked-out face with thick ropes of cum, groaning your name as his release coats your lips, your cheeks, even dripping down onto your tits.

They’re both panting, staring down at you like you’re the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen — flushed, ruined, marked by both of them.

Suguru pulls out with a filthy wet sound, cum dribbling down your thighs, and Satoru immediately leans down, licking a stray drip from the corner of your mouth before pressing a filthy, claiming kiss against your swollen lips.

“God, you’re dangerous,” Satoru murmurs, grinning breathlessly.

Suguru laughs low, gathering you carefully into his arms like you’re something precious, despite how thoroughly they just used you.

“And you’re ours now, baby,” he says, kissing the side of your head. “Hope you know that.”

[homemadesterekpie]

Stiles starting to worry about just how angry Derek seems to be all the time because that can’t be good for you in general.

he starts looking for a solution to help Derek out and decides that the only way to do so is to let Derek fuck him whenever he wants to. That way he would have an outlet to let out steam AND Stiles would be getting fucked it’s a win win situation. Stiles is a bit of a dumbass when it comes to Derek and his fat crush on him so sue him okay.

so when Stiles notices Derek is wound up and angry by the end of the next pack meeting, he decides to stay around. He ignores Erica’s lifted eyebrow and Isaac’s eye roll as they leave. He doesn’t ignore Boyd’s pointed stare though, there’s a warning in it. It means don’t push it, don’t push him. Stiles just nods, looking away. Because he gets it and he won’t, much anyway. He’ll push Derek just not in the way that will make him more angry or at least he hopes so.

Derek could totally get even more angry and put him back in his place real fast which would be embarrassing and frankly would break Stiles’ heart a little but he tries not to let his nerves get the better of him and approaches his Alpha, slowly.

Derek is at the large window, looking outside with his fists clenched tight. Stiles goes to stand beside him, not too close but close enough, for now anyway. He hears Derek sigh in annoyance and Stiles closes his eyes for a second to strengthen his resolve because obviously Derek will make this harder than it should be.

Stiles decides to just go with it and he tells his Alpha to simmer down, he knows he’s angry but that he can make it okay. His words come out unsure and he tries not to cringe at himself. He knew he probably needed confidence for this but all he feels is nervous and needy. Maybe this was a bad idea actually.

But Derek lets out a small ugly chuckle and asks how. How can Stiles possibly make it okay and it oddly sounds like a challenge to Stiles.

So he swallows his nerves and turns to Derek and reaches out with trembling fingers to touch Derek’s closed fist, keeping his eyes down.

When Derek doesn’t move away, Stiles whispers that sometimes physical exertion helps with working through angry feelings. He steals a glance up to Derek from under his lashes to check on him but Derek’s face is unreadable. He’s tense but he’s still not pushing Stiles away.

He needs to make himself more clear. With his other hand he reaches out slowly to lay it low on his Alpha’s stomach, just above his belt. He waits for a few seconds and when again, Derek doesn’t stop him, he slowly lowers his hand to his crotch not pressing or anything just laying it there making itself known.

Stiles’ breathing is coming hard because this is it isn’t it? this right here is what makes or breaks it. Derek either accepts it, accepts him or he rejects him, breaking Stiles’ heart in the process. Eyes stinging, Stiles lets out a small whispered plea. Please. Please, Derek let me.

He’s shaking all over when the Alpha finally moves, dislodging Stiles’ hands on him and making Stiles shrink into himself. He can feel his heart breaking because yeah he should have known Derek would reject him, what was he thinking? He’s just a kid, he’s a dumb human with absolutely nothing special about him why did he even think Derek would ever go for him.

He’s taken out of his spiralling thoughts when fingers grab his chin and make him look up. Derek doesn’t look angry at all anymore but Stiles can’t keep his eyes on Derek’s, it’s too much. He tries to pull away but the fingers at his chin tighten, keeping him in place.

He suddenly, stupidly feels like crying. He’s humiliated and Derek won’t let him leave to go hide somewhere to cry in peace.

But then Derek says his name softly, grinding all of Stiles’ thoughts to a halt. He looks at Derek’s face, giving the Alpha all of his attention.

Seeming satisfied, Derek ask him if he’s sure.

Emotion surging in his chest, Stiles tells him he’s a thousand percent sure.

After that, without letting go of his chin Derek takes one of Stiles’ hands and brings it back to his crotch. There’s hardness under his fingers and Stiles lets out a breathy little moan.

With eyes flashing red, Derek pulls Stiles’ face towards his while leaning in. They meet halfway and finally they’re kissing. Stiles moans into it, dick already hardening and heart pounding in his chest.

The next moments are a blur of pleasure and excitement. Stiles doesn’t have much experience, to be honest, this is pretty much his first time but he hopes he makes up for it with his eagerness.

Derek lifts him up into his arms to carry him to his bed and Stiles’ belly flutters with countless butterflies. He kisses Derek with everything he has, hands buried in his soft dark hair.

He lets Derek undress him and Derek rewards him by kissing every patch of naked skin he reveals. He helps Derek take off his henley, to undo his belt.

Stiles has to push at Derek shoulders a few times for Derek to let his lips go so he can tell him there’s a bottle of lube in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

Derek kisses him on the nose before retrieving it.

He opens Stiles up diligently, watching Stiles intently. He takes in every one of Stiles’ little reactions. He lets Stiles grab at him desperately, breathe and moan into his mouth all he wants.

Only when Stiles is taking four fingers, panting and begging on them does Derek finally pull them out and shift himself in between Stiles’ spread thighs. He doesn’t even bother taking off his jeans or briefs, just pushing the fabric down just enough for this. He hooks one of Stiles’ legs over an arm and the other he settle it around his waist before lowering himself so they can kiss again.

Stiles is so stretched, there’s little to no pain when Derek breaches him. There’s plenty of pleasure though and Stiles moans, digging his nails into the skin of Derek’s biceps desperately.

He lets Stiles adjust when he’s finally balls deep, but Stiles wants him to move already so he pulls Derek’s face to his and begs Derek to fuck him before kissing him.

Derek does fuck him. Setting a strong hard pace, the sounds of their skin slapping together and the bed creaking filling the space around them.

They’re both lost to pleasure. Stiles moaning and grunting on Derek’s hard thrusts and Derek’s growls growing in intensity as both of their pleasure builds and builds.

Stiles is almost on the edge when Derek shifts and lets go of his leg to instead plant both his arms on both sides of Stiles’ head but not before taking a pillow and lifting Stiles’ hips to settle the pillow under them and Stiles lets out a shaky curse.

When he starts thrusting again, he’s so so deep into him, Stiles wails. Before he knows it, he’s on the edge and he’s calling Derek name over and over before coming hard, spurt after spurt of his come shooting up his stomach and chest as Derek fucks him hard through it until the Alpha’s thrusts falters, going erratic and wild before stopping altogether deep into Stiles as he comes hard with a loud growl.

They both shake with aftershocks for a few seconds before Derek settles his weight on Stiles, not caring of the mess, both of them breathing hard. Stiles entangles his fingers in Derek hair. Derek nuzzles his skin.

It’s only when both of their breathing have calmed and they’re both dozing that Derek says that Stiles was right. The anger is gone. His tone is teasing and Stiles giggles, rolling his eyes a little.

Later, Derek fucks him again. This time soft and slow with Stiles on his belly and something breaks in him and he tells Derek that he loves him, that he loves him so much. To that Derek just lets out a rumbling sound and nuzzles Stiles’ cheek softly. But when Stiles say it again once they’re done and sated, Derek says it back making Stiles the happiest he’s ever been.

[geddyqueer]

tidbit tuesday

this is from the sequel to no crying in baseball, "the best laid plans". if this premise seems slightly familiar to you it is because i am repurposing the plot of an older ficlet for the drama. tagging @rcmclachlan @setmeatopthepyre @screamlet @postmodernau @beanarie @newtkelly and anyone else who's working on something. you're it!

Tommy's alone in the hangar; everyone else is either doing maintenance checks in the lot or out on the picnic bench on the west side of the building. He likes the east side better, though: more private, and with the one long magnolia tree branch hanging awkwardly over the chain-link fence, it feels almost like a garden back there. If he still smoked he'd be carrying a pack of Marlboros with him. He gave that up, though, around the time that Howie carried him out of the exploding mall almost twenty years ago.

Evan has been living with him for three weeks. None of the fears that had bubbled up the first time the question was posed have come to fruition. He only had one panic attack, early on, and dealt with it himself in the laundry room while Evan was busying himself reorganizing the hangers in Tommy's—in their—closet. Then he felt bad, and realized his mistake, and had hung his head and nudged himself into Evan's arms and opened up the line of communication.

All that being said, his only real alone time these days comes in these stolen moments outside Harbor's east door.

He's got his flight suit unzipped, the top rolled down around his t-shirt, sleeves tied across his waist. It's hot today and bizarrely the air feels humid to the point of being wet. It's reminiscent of Georgia, where he only lived for basic training, and it's so unlike Los Angeles that it really sticks in his brain for a second. He pauses, eight or so feet from the door. The floor feels almost… spongy. Probably not good, he thinks, and he's making a mental note to tell Melton about it when the baby box alarm goes off.

The baby box at Harbor sits directly next to the east side door. It's cozy, if a little sparse inside. It has a special alarm tone, one that he's never heard before, because nobody's ever used this before. Tommy clears the space between him and the box in nearly a single stride, and he gets the box open, and he pulls out a tiny little thing, wearing a yellow onesie, wrapped in a Winnie the Pooh towel. The baby looks up at him and opens their mouth, once, twice.

"Okay," Tommy says, looking down at the bundle in his hands. "Okay. What?"

"Was that an alarm?" Richardson calls from the open hangar door.

"Baby box," Tommy calls back. The baby starts to cry. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, that was loud, wasn't it," he says to the baby, as he starts walking back across the hangar.

He doesn't get very far. The floor that was spongy not three minutes earlier is now sinking, tipping down at an angle that shouldn't be possible since it's made of concrete, and so is the rest of the floor, and the west wall is caving in, and that's all he manages to register before the earth disappears underneath him and he's falling, falling, falling.