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pitlanepeach · 5 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time skips, so much fluff, sexual content, mentions of pregnancy.

Notes — The first of two 2022 chapters. Prepare yourselves, maybe grab a drink and a snack. It’s a long one.

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

February 2022

Max and Pietra’s flat smelt of hairspray and lavender air freshener. One of Pietra’s playlists, hilariously named ‘Soft Amelia Approved’ was playing from her phone. Amelia sat in front of the vanity, gripping the edge of the stool. Her hair was half-styled, soft waves pinned back temporarily, and her dress, a sleek, ice-blue gown with structured shoulders, hung on the front of the wardrobe like a quiet threat.

Pietra stood behind her in leggings and a hoodie, carefully applying highlighter to Amelia’s cheekbones. “You’re doing very well,” she said gently. “You haven’t cried yet.”

Amelia glanced up in the mirror, blinking quickly. “I’m very uncomfortable right now.”

Pietra laughed, soft and fond. “Okay, that’s fine. Being uncomfortable is a normal human experience. But if it gets too much, just say so.” She told her.

“My face feels weird.”

“That’s because you’re used to only wearing moisturiser and mascara. I’ve given you a full face.”

Amelia grimaced. “Yes. I know. I can feel it. All of it. Every layer.”

“Mmhm.” Pietra stepped back and handed her the lip balm. “So, to distract you: I cannot believe that you got engaged and didn’t tell anyone for, like, weeks.”

Amelia dabbed the balm with a heavy hand. “Lando did. He was telling everyone, P. And your Max knew. Still can’t believe he didn’t even bother telling you. Men are so strange.” She sighed.

Pietra leaned against the vanity, arms crossed. “I am still a little bitter that you didn’t tell me yourself.”

“Sorry,” Amelia said simply.

“You let Lando tell the entire McLaren factory.”

“I know,” Amelia muttered. “But I told you eventually. It still counts.”

Pietra grinned. “The old lady at the Monaco patisserie knew before I did.”

Amelia made a face. “Thanks to Lando, that lady knew before our parents did. But it’s fine. She’s started giving me free madeleines.”

They shared a quiet laugh. The warmth in the room softened Amelia’s shoulders slightly. Pietra picked up one of the makeup brushes, but didn’t start working again — just watched her, brows lifted slightly.

“Am I really your only girl friend?”

Amelia didn’t look away. “You are.”

“That’s kind of sad.” Pietra frowned.

“It’s not.” Amelia denied. “Most people, girls especially, expect… social cues. Emotional reciprocity. I don’t have that in the way they want it. But you’ve never made me feel like I’m broken for it.”

Pietra blinked, suddenly glossy-eyed. “Okay, well. Now I’m the one who’s going to cry.”

“I love you,” Amelia said, in her typically direct way.

Pietra swallowed. “I love you too.” There was a beat before she cleared her throat. “So, are you ready for tonight? Lando’s briefed you, yes? It’s going to be a bit intense.” Pietra said, picking up her steamer and glancing at the gown.

Amelia stared at her reflection for a moment longer. “No. But I’ll do it anyway. It’ll make him happy to have me there with him.”

“Exactly. And when it’s over, you’ll come back here, and you’ll be able to scrub all of that makeup off of your face, eat pasta in your dressing gown, and watch Love Island with subtitles on.”

Amelia exhaled, steadier now. “Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course I will,” Pietra said, grabbing the dress and holding it out. “Now. Let’s get you dressed.”

—

Lando was pacing Max’s bedroom, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket for the tenth time. The bow tie was already starting to feel too tight, but he refused to mess with it and risk messing it up. He could hear Pietra bustling in the other room, her voice drifting faintly through the cracked door; sharp, encouraging, then quiet.

Then the door opened.

And he stopped breathing.

Amelia stepped out slowly, one hand smoothing down the front of her gown. It was the palest icy blue, the neckline clean and sharp, the silhouette structured and strong, like something from a fucking fairy tale. Her dark hair was tucked back loosely, a few curls brushing her jaw, and she was wearing more makeup than usual — shimmer at her cheeks and a soft shine on her mouth. Not too much. Just enough.

She froze when she saw him. “You’re staring at me.”

“You—” Lando blinked. “I’ve forgot how to say words.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Oh no. You’re supposed to present an award tonight. On stage. Maybe you should work on that.”

He stepped closer, slow and reverent, his eyes scanning her face, the line of her shoulders, the way the dress hugged her waist. He reached out, hands hovering for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch her. “You look like— I don’t even know. So beautiful, baby. We should just ditch the red carpet, yeah? Just drive a million miles and never have anyone other than me look at you ever again.”

She blinked at him. “That’s… either deeply romantic or mildly horrifying.”

“Both,” he whispered, finally letting his hands settle at her waist. “God, Amelia.”

Her eyes softened as she looked up at him, and when he kissed her, it was careful — like he didn’t want to smudge anything, like she was made of glass. “You’re going to outshine everyone there,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’ll be fine just standing in the corner,” she replied. “With my noise-cancelling earbuds and a glass of icy cold water. With a straw.”

Pietra poked her head around the corner. “If you two are done, the car’s downstairs. Max is talking to the driver.”

Lando reached for Amelia’s coat. “Come on then, future Mrs. Norris. Let’s go cause a scene.”

She slid her arm into his, leaned against him just a little. “Pietra promised me pasta and Love Island when we get back.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” he promised.

—

The red carpet was chaos.

Flashes strobed like lightning, the roar of photographers cutting through the February night. Celebrities in designer gowns and sleek tuxedos moved with a strange kind of practiced elegance — confident, gliding, like they belonged here.

Amelia did not feel like she belonged here.

She held Lando’s hand tightly, her free hand tucked into the folds of her dress. Her heart was hammering, her mouth set in that unreadable, slightly stern line.

Lando looked dazzling, sharp suit, mischievous grin, curls tamed only slightly. He was doing fine, charming the press line like it was just another race weekend.

“Amelia!” Someone called. “Can we get a shot of the ring?”

She flinched.

Lando glanced sideways at her instantly. He didn’t answer the shout, didn’t pull her closer, didn’t make a big deal, just gently rotated his body, stepping into the line of fire, cutting off the view of her hand as subtly as breathing.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Too loud,” she said quickly. “Too fast. I can’t filter any of it.”

He gave a single nod. “Okay. One minute more, and then we’re inside. I’ll get you a drink, and we can sit. You can take your earbuds out of your purse if you want. Or we leave. Say the word.”

She didn’t say anything, just pressed her hand harder into his.

A woman in a gown made entirely of sequins called out, “Amelia! Congratulations on the Championship!”

Amelia blinked, slow. “Thanks.”

Lando gave her the smallest nudge, his thumb brushing hers, like a reminder that she didn’t owe anyone more than that. And Amelia… surprisingly, said nothing else. Just nodded once.

A few more photos. A few more questions, mostly aimed at Lando, who held her hand through it all.

Inside the venue, the noise was muffled. Lights were softer. Music thudded beneath the floor.

Lando led her to a table, his hand still resting low on her back, letting her settle before crouching down next to her chair. “You want me to skip presenting?”

She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll be fine now. It was just the flashing. And the shouting. And that one guy who stepped on my toe.” She grimaced.

He grinned. “You look cute when you’re mad.”

She gave him a flat glare. “I wasn’t mad. It hurt. He was heavy, and visibly overweight. He couldn’t—.”

He kissed her ring. “Okay, shush. No talking about how people are overweight, okay? That’s an inside thought.”

She glowered. “He stepped on my foot.” She argued.

Lando laughed. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

—

Amelia had never been particularly interested in award shows. The noise, the rehearsed spontaneity, the endless clapping — it all felt overstimulating and fake. But she was here, in a dress that shimmered when the light caught it, seated at a quiet corner table near the back of the room, earbuds clenched in her fist.

Lando was on stage.

Her eyes didn’t leave him.

He was reading from the teleprompter now, doing his bit between the two pop stars flanking him. Charming, slightly awkward, but trying hard not to fidget. His hand reached up once to run through his curls, a nervous tic she’d seen in debriefs and race week interviews a hundred times. She smiled.

“Bit young to be up there, isn’t he?” Someone at the next table whispered, not cruelly, just curious.

Amelia pursed her lips.

And then he was talking about her.

It was just a passing comment, part of a joke about his tux not being his idea — “You can thank my fiancée for this,” he said, and the crowd laughed — but it turned Amelia’s breath into something tight in her throat.

The word “fiancée” coming from Lando still made her ears buzz.

He looked so natural up there. A little boyish, a little charming, but confident. He didn’t overplay it, didn’t try too hard. Just stood straight and smiled through the chaos.

And when the camera cut briefly to her in the crowd, she could see herself on the big screen overhead, staring up at him with a look she hadn’t even realised she wore, it felt like the whole world was seeing it, too.

How much she loved him.

How proud she was.

How, despite the chaos and the cameras and the sound and the flash, she would sit through it all again, just to see the way he lit up when he got to do something like this. Something that made his world feel as wide as it was.

When Lando stepped offstage, disappearing into the wings, Amelia let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

He was always saying she was the impressive one. That she was the smart one, the one who had it all figured out.

He underestimated his own brilliance.

—

It was well past midnight by the time they made it back to Max and Pietra’s flat, and the entire night had already started to feel like a distant fever dream.

Now, in the quiet warmth of the living room, things started to make sense again.

Lando was in grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Amelia had scrubbed off her makeup the second they walked through the door. She was wrapped in one of his hoodies, warm and perfumed with his aftershave, her hair damp from a quick shower. She was curled into the corner of the couch, her bare feet tucked under Lando’s thigh.

Pietra was spooning pasta straight from the pot. Max — her Max, the softer, goofier one, not Verstappen — was hunched next to her on the floor, picking the olives out of his bowl with surgical precision.

Love Island was playing on the TV, low volume with subtitles, just background noise really. None of them were truly paying attention, but every so often someone would react dramatically and the others would follow.

“I’m sorry,” Lando said, through a mouthful of fusilli, “but Ron is absolutely going to kiss that girl and then lie about it.”

“Ron would lie about breathing if he thought it’d give him more screen time,” Amelia muttered, eyes half-lidded, chin resting on Lando’s shoulder.

Pietra pointed her fork at the screen. “Justice for Ella. She’s the only one with a single working brain cell.”

Max nodded solemnly. “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”

Amelia laughed, soft and sleepy, the kind that buzzed against Lando’s collarbone. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head, like it was muscle memory.

“Is this what we do now?” She asked, tilting her face up to him. “Is this our life? Fancy award shows and then this?”

“Yup,” Lando said proudly, twirling his pasta. “This is the dream, babe.”

“It is kind of the dream,” Pietra agreed.

“It’s a lot more chaos than I’d have chosen,” Amelia murmured.

Max threw an olive at her. “You like our chaos.”

She caught it, flicked it back at him without looking, and it hit him square in the forehead.

Lando laughed, full and unrestrained. “God, I love you.”

The room went quiet for half a second. Then Pietra softly nudged Amelia’s foot with hers, grinning. “Disgusting.”

Amelia smiled. She let herself lean further into Lando, heart calm, mind settled.

—

The Red Bull Technology Campus was quiet in that specific, humming way it always was at odd hours — the whirr of servers, the low buzz of fluorescent lighting, the occasional muffled footstep on polished concrete. Amelia liked it like this. She could think.

She stood beside Adrian at one of the long tables in the design office, sleeves pushed up, fingertips hovering above the CFD printouts of the new RB18 side-pod concept. The paper still smelled faintly of toner.

“Other teams will be talking about this,” she said, tapping the edge of the schematic. “But it’s fully within regulation. Section 3.7.5 of the technical directive covers internal channeling—so long as it's not considered a movable aerodynamic device, which we’ve clearly proven it isn’t.”

Adrian gave one of his quiet smiles, more a twitch at the corner of his mouth than anything obvious. “You memorised the whole regulation manual over the winter break, didn’t you?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I colour-coded it.”

He chuckled, a warm, almost paternal sound. “I believe you.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, both of them studying the cooling profile of the undercut and how it flowed back to the floor. She knew what he was doing — this was the ritual, the unspoken challenge. The final review before a radical concept met the tarmac.

“You were on the red carpet last week,” Adrian said, casually.

That made her look up. “Briefly.”

“You looked very…” He trailed off, thinking. “Different.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “You’re used to seeing me with dark circles under my eyes and a wrench in my hand.”

Adrian smiled again. “You just looked very happy. That was good to see.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “I was,” she said eventually. “It was weird, and loud, and everyone wore too much fragrance. But I was happy to be there with Lando.”

He nodded, then gestured back to the design. “If this works in Barcelona the way we expect, that’ll give you something else to be happy about.”

She smiled. “It will work. Maybe… maybe there’s other components of the car I’m not so happy about, but…” She shrugged.

“If we put together your dream car, it would be a rocket-ship,” he said dryly.

She took a few steps back and run her finger over the edge of the side-pod blueprint. “They’ll be mad. Probably raise it with the FIA before testing even begins.” She guessed.

“Let them. While they’re complaining, we’ll be winning the championship.”

Sleek, aggressive, elegant. It was beautiful in the way only something painstaking and dangerous could be.

She smiled.

“Yeah,” she murmured. Back-to-back championships would be a nice way to end her time with Max. “We will be.”

—

The news had just gone live. Every F1 social channel was ablaze with McLaren’s orange-and-blue graphics: Lando Norris signs with McLaren through 2025.

Lando tossed his phone facedown on the kitchen counter and turned to look at Amelia, who stood barefoot in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching him with that unreadable, slightly fond expression she reserved for moments like this — big moments that she was already half-analysing in her head.

“Say it,” he said, walking toward her. “Come on. Just once.”

She blinked up at him. “Say what?”

“That you’re proud of me.” He gave her a mock-wounded look. “I extended my contract, Amelia. Three more years. I made a sensible, adult decision.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched. “You did it mostly because you like the papaya team kit and you’re emotionally attached to your engineering crew.”

Lando grinned, not denying it. “True. But also because I believe in them. In us.” He reached for her hands. “In you. As if I’d ever consider leaving a team that I know you’re going to be running soon.”

Amelia looked down at their hands, then back up at him. Her voice was soft. “I am proud of you.”

“There it is,” he breathed dramatically, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I win.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away. “You want your actual prize?”

He perked up. “You got me something?”

She reached behind the kitchen island and lifted a small, bright orange box with the McLaren logo embossed on it. Inside: a tiny teddy bear wearing an LN4 shirt.

He stared at it. “It’s so cute.”

“I know,” she said. “I also convinced my dad to make them stop serving fish at the MTC. Like, fully. So. You’re welcome.”

He laughed, full-bodied and unfiltered, and swept her into a hug. “I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

She pressed her cheek against his chest. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the soft hum of their kitchen, the headlines buzzing just outside the door. He was staying. She was planning. And for once, everything felt perfectly in sync.

—

Amelia stood alone at the back of the Red Bull garage as the final laps of the day ticked down. The sun was low over Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, casting long shadows across the pit lane. Her iPad was in her hand, filled with split times and engine mapping data, but her mind was somewhere else, half in the numbers, half in the ache behind her eyes.

The side-pod had worked. Their new cooling configuration, her brainchild, if she were being honest, had exceeded expectations. The media didn’t know what to do with it yet. There’d been mutterings in the paddock, whispers of legality and grey areas, but Adrian had just smiled that quiet, knowing smile and said, “Let them talk.”

And Max? Max had been quick. Too quick, maybe, for this early. But she saw it in the data. The balance was close. The new aero philosophy was holding its ground. They’d come into 2022 ready for war.

But he hadn’t been the quickest.

No, that title had gone to Lando.

Later, her fiancé found her outside the circuit, still in his hoodie and slides, sunglasses pushed up into his curls. “Date night?” he asked, bright-eyed.

She blinked. “I smell like engine oil.”

“You always smell like engine oil. It’s part of your charm.”

The restaurant was a tucked-away spot in the Gothic Quarter. Lando had found it on Instagram, bored in a briefing. Amelia ordered for both of them in quiet, fluent Spanish, and the hostess gave her a warm smile and a complimentary dessert. Lando leaned across the table, grinning like she’d just performed magic. “That was so hot.”

“Ordering risotto was hot?”

“The Spanish,” he said. “The confidence. The little voice you do when you’re being polite. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever head. I— Yeah, I’m totally turned on right now.”

She kicked him under the table.

After testing wrapped, they rented a villa in the hills for the weekend; a last breath before the storm of the season. Max and Celeste joined them on the second day. Celeste arrived in linen pants and oversized sunglasses, the very image of calm European glamour. She kissed Amelia twice on the cheek and said, “You look stunning.”

“Doesn’t she,” Lando agreed, pulling Amelia into his side.

But even in that villa, with its terracotta walls and olive trees outside the window, Amelia couldn’t fully power down. She sat by the pool in the afternoons, sketching cooling layouts on her iPad, earbuds in, humming low under her breath. Lando watched her sometimes, quiet and smiling, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Celeste brought her spritzes and Max offered occasional input on tire wear models. It was ridiculous and warm and kind of perfect.

—

March 2022

The jet hummed steadily as it travelled from Europe to the Middle East, the soft cabin lights dimmed to a comfortable glow. Amelia was sitting sideways in her seat, one leg curled under her, talking animatedly with her hands while Charles stared at her like he was being held hostage.

“—so if you start your aero development from a high rake philosophy, you have to reconfigure your floor stiffness. Otherwise you get this nasty longitudinal instability on corner entry, especially in medium-speed turns. You know what I mean?”

Charles blinked. “Non.”

Amelia frowned. “Really? But Ferrari ran similar philosophy in—”

“I mean, yes, I technically understand you,” Charles said, smiling tightly, “but also, no. No, Amelia. I am just a driver. Please, I am begging you. I do not need to know all of these facts.”

Across the cabin, Lando snorted into his hoodie sleeve. He was lounging two rows behind, legs kicked out, headphones slung around his neck. “You good over there, Charles?”

Charles threw a hand up dramatically. “I am exhausted just from listening to how her brain works. How does she exist this way?”

“I’m just explaining rear downforce consistency—”

“You said the words longitudinal instability! That is not a casual conversation phrase, Amelia!” He argued.

Lando grinned and leaned forward over the seat. “C’mere, baby. Why don’t you tell me how Oscar’s pre-season testing went?”

Like flipping a switch, Amelia’s head turned toward him, eyes bright. “Oh my God, he was so good. His tyre management’s already cleaner than half the grid—"

Charles let out a theatrical sigh of relief and collapsed into his seat. “Merci, Lando. Merci.”

Lando gave him a mock salute. “You're welcome, mate. I’ve had, like, three years to develop countermeasures.”

“Does she do this to you too?” He asked.

“She once explained crankshaft thermal expansion to me during sex.” He said. He was smirking.

“Mon Dieu.” Charles grimaced.

Amelia didn’t even register it, she was still talking. “—and once he gets used to the car rotation speed in low-speed corners, I think his timings will be so much better, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Lando said, grinning as he slid into the seat beside her. “Tell me more, baby.”

Charles gagged into his travel pillow.

—

The heat was unbearable. The Middle Eastern races were a sensory nightmare, and Bahrain was one of the worst. The air was thick and heavy, like breathing through cloth. The desert sun scorched everything it touched, the paddock buzzed with noise, radios crackled in her ears, lights glared, and distractions came from every direction—her brain was in overdrive.

Then Max and Checo both DNF’d, and the noise got louder.

She was running on fumes. The temperature never let up. The cars screamed nonstop, the floodlights were blinding, and the food—too rich, too intense—sat heavy in her stomach.

Saudi Arabia was hotter still. Max’s strategy meeting dragged on, tense and complicated with the car’s aggressive setup. The race itself was chaos—Max clawed his way forward, wheel-to-wheel until the very end. He won, just barely, Charles less than half a second behind.

It was a victory. But it didn’t feel like one.

Back in the hotel room that evening after the race in Saudi, she sank onto the bed, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. The hotel was pretty, all big rooms and expensive chandeliers, but all she felt was hollow and slightly claustrophobic.

Lando flopped down next to her. “Another one of those days, huh?” he asked softly, stretching out on the bed beside her.

“Yeah,” Amelia murmured, closing her eyes for a moment. The flickering of the overhead lights seemed too sharp against her eyelids. She’d never really understood how other people could tune out all the chaos. “It’s so hot. I can’t escape it.”

“I know,” Lando replied. “Wanna get room service and take a cool shower?”

She smiled at him, her eyes still shut, the AC bringing her some comfort. “I’d love that. I don’t want to leave this room.”

He chuckled, leaning over and brushing her hair away from her face. “Okay, baby.”

she curled against him, her fingers seeking the comfort of his touch. He didn’t say anything more. He just pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. The rhythm of his breathing slowed her own.

“Better now?” He asked, after a few moments of silence.

Amelia nodded, though she didn’t open her eyes. “Much.”

—

iMessage – 10:45PM

Mark Webber Big day tomorrow 👀

Amelia It’s official then?

Mark Webber Yep. Oscar is officially a joint Alpine/McLaren reserve. Zak just signed off.

Amelia Good. More doors.

Mark Webber You’re sowing your seeds, Miss Brown.

Amelia This’ll just make it easier when the time comes. If Alpine dig in their heels, Oscar will have already been in contract with McLaren for months.

Mark Webber Smart girl

Amelia I know.

Mark Webber I’m sick of Otmar already. Refusing to give us any straight answers.

Amelia Fernando said the same thing

Mark Webber Lando okay with all this?

Amelia Of course. He’s Lando. Jealous for five minutes, then proud.

Mark Webber You picked a good one.

Amelia I know.

Mark Webber I’ll keep you updated

—

April 2022

The little bakery tucked off Rue Grimaldi smelled like spun sugar and cinnamon.

Amelia was already halfway through her iced matcha, perched in the corner at their usual table, wearing a cotton sundress and sunglasses that kept sliding down her nose. Lando had gone inside to order, almond croissant for her, pain au chocolat for him, and a couple of extra pastries they definitely didn’t need but always ordered anyway.

He returned with a grin and two paper bags, sliding into the seat across from her. “I told them not to warm yours up,” he said, handing over her croissant. “Because you don’t like gooey.”

“I don’t,” Amelia confirmed flatly, unwrapping the pastry. “The texture gets weird.”

“Right,” Lando said, biting into his. “How do we feel about the accent wall in the streaming room being that navy blue colour I showed you?”

“I hate it,” she told him.

“You didn’t hate it yesterday.” He complained.

“Yesterday I hadn’t imagined how it would look under the LED strips.” She said, her lip curling.

Lando groaned. “Babe.”

“I’m right.”

“You’re opinionated.”

“I’m autistic.”

“Same thing.”

She giggled into her croissant.

He took a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice and leaned back in his chair, squinting up at the sun. “Okay, new idea. We get that matte grey from the hallway for the main walls. Then black soundproof panelling on the back wall.”

“No, you’re soundproofing the whole room,” she said without even looking up.

Lando frowned. “Is that really necessary?”

She finally looked at him, eyebrow raised. “I do not want to be listening to you playing on Valorant at two o’clock in the morning.”

“…Right. Whole room.” He nodded.

She nodded.

He shook his head, fighting a smile. “Remember, I’m back in London next weekend, Thursday to Tuesday. Quadrant’s shooting at Silverstone.”

“Sounds fun,” she said, brushing a flake of pastry off her skirt. “I’ll stay here. Oversee the decorating. Make sure the soundproofing goes in. And that the shelves are built level this time.”

“They were level.” He rolled his eyes.

“They absolutely weren’t. I checked with a spirit level.”

He threw his head back dramatically. “Baby, please don’t terrorise the decorators with your spirit level again. They’ll refuse to ever come back.”

“You live with someone who needs things not to be crooked.” She informed him, appearing slightly embarrassed.

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I live with someone who makes everything perfect.”

Amelia blinked. Softened. “You’re being sweet.”

“Only because I don’t want you to bully the decorators when I’m not here.”

She rolled her eyes, but let her thumb brush over his knuckles. The bakery buzzed around them — plates clinking, baristas calling out names, the Mediterranean sun painting the pavement golden.

—

Amelia had her yellow golfball in her hand, her eyes squarely set on the replays from free practice. There was always something to track, always something shifting.

Jos was standing outside the hospitality suite, arms folded, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Amelia approached quietly, iPad under one arm, her MV1 shirt crisp in the morning light.

“Jos,” she greeted. He nodded once in acknowledgment.

“They’re faster than expected,” he said without preamble. “Ferrari.”

“Yep,” Amelia replied. “Top-line speed’s excellent. Aero efficiency’s strong, and they’re managing their tires better than projected. But we’ve got updates coming.”

Jos glanced sideways at her. “Barcelona?”

She shook her head. “Imola.”

He grunted. “Cutting it close.”

“I like a challenge.”

He gave a huff of amusement. “I know.”

She tapped her tablet, showing him a sketch of the new floor and side-pod configuration. “This’ll help mitigate the porpoising and give us cleaner airflow into the diffuser. I ran the numbers with Adrian yesterday — it’s barely legal, aggressive, but… it’ll work.”

Jos studied her for a long moment. “And Max?”

“He’s got the pace. We’ll give him the car to match it.” She shrugged.

After she excused herself, Amelia wound her way through the back of the paddock, navigating behind the media pen and through the tight hospitality corridors until she found the Alpine motorhome. She stood outside for a moment, considering the entrance — and then slipped in without ceremony.

Oscar Piastri was leaning over a printed-out set of data. When he noticed her, he did a double-take. “Amelia?”

She smiled, subtle as she could possibly be. “Hello.”

He straightened quickly, a bit awkward in that endearing way of his. “Um—hi. What are you doing here?”

“Just… making the rounds,” she said. Then, a small nod. “Congratulations, by the way. On becoming McLaren-associated.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh—thanks! Yeah, it’s been a bit surreal. Double reserve, more chances to get out on track, I guess.”

“I’ve been following your sim data, your testing laps,” she added, like it was just a passing comment. “You’re adapting fast.”

He flushed slightly. “Trying my best.”

She gave a rare, tiny smile. “Keep doing that.”

Then she was gone again, leaving Oscar to stare after her with an astonished blink.

—

Amelia had just exited the Red Bull garage, iPad in one hand and stim toy in the other, when a trio of microphones were suddenly in her face.

“Amelia, can we get a comment on Red Bull’s lack of reliability in the early season?”

“Is it true you were seen going into Alpine’s motorhome yesterday? Are you considering switching teams?”

“Rumours are swirling about your next career move—care to confirm anything for us?”

She stiffened. Her sunglasses hid the instinctive panic, but her knuckles has gone white around her stim snake. They weren’t being aggressive exactly, but they were pushing in, leaning into her space, stacking questions rapid-fire without giving her a second to process.

“I’m not doing media today,” she said firmly, voice flat and clipped.

“Just one quote—”

“I said no!” She said, a little louder.

But they didn’t back off. One cameraman stepped closer to frame the shot, bumping into her arm slightly, and her breath gt stuck in her throat and her shoulders started to curl up toward her ears.

And then — “Ah, hey! Back off.” Charles was the first to appear, all soft curls and red team kit, stepping smoothly between Amelia and the cameras with that disarming Monegasque smile that somehow managed to be polite and threatening all at once. “She said no,” he repeated, and though his tone was light, his stance was not.

Behind him, Lando materialised from seemingly nowhere, slipping his hand around Amelia’s wrist and raising an unimpressed, slightly pissed-off eyebrows at the reporters. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

That earned a quick retreat of at least one mic.

“She is not public property,” Pierre added as he came to stand beside Charles, arms crossed, voice dry and unimpressed. “If you want a quote, you ask someone who wants to be asked.”

Mick trailed behind them with Zhou, both of whom offered quiet, present support, just bodies standing nearby, close enough to break the intensity of the circle that had formed around her. Mick gave her a small nod of reassurance.

The reporters, now very aware of the optics, half the grid forming a loose but definite protective arc around Amelia, finally relented and stepped back.

“Thanks,” Amelia murmured once they were gone.

Lando squeezed her wrist, eyes scanning her face. “You good, baby?”

“I’m fine,” she said, exhaling. “Just… wasn’t ready for all that.”

Charles tutted. “They are vultures. If they do anything like that in the future, just shout, yes? One of us will come.”

—

The morning sun filtered through the massive glass panels of the MTC, casting neat reflections across the polished floor. Amelia sat across from her father at one of the quieter corners of the cafeteria, legs folded underneath her in the booth seat, her coffee rapidly cooling next to a barely-touched muffin.

Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing and wearer of many hats, was reading the Financial Times off his tablet with the easy calm of a man who’d had two espresso shots already. He looked up suddenly, over the rim of his glasses, and said casually, “So. Are you going to tell me the deal with Oscar?”

Amelia blinked. "What deal?"

Zak gave her a look. “Amelia.”

She sighed, poked at the edge of her muffin. “He’s going to be a McLaren driver.”

Zak blinked owlishly at her. “Amelia…”

“I’m going to bring him here.” She told him.

He slowly set the tablet down. “Interesting. And when were you planning on mentioning to me—the team boss and CEO—that this was happening?”

She tilted her head, almost sheepishly, though mostly matter-of-fact. “I knew if I asked, you'd say yes. So I was just waiting for the right time.”

Zak just stared at her.

Amelia shrugged. “It’s Oscar. Once he gets through this season of Alpine purgatory, he’ll be ours. And when he’s in papaya… I’ll come back. Officially. I’ll build you a car that wins championships. I have the designs ready. I’ll be Oscar’s race engineer too.”

Zak was quiet for a long moment. He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her with the begrudging mix of fatherly exasperation and professional admiration he often wore when talking to her. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. “You are actively working for Max Verstappen. And you have a car designed for us?”

Amelia just nodded, sipping her lukewarm coffee.

He leaned back, exhaling in shock. “You’re supposed to ask me to give you a job, not tell me that you’re going to restructure my entire staff.”

She shrugged. “It’ll make you win. Isn’t that all that matters?”

He sighed. “And what about Lando? What does he think about all of this?”

“We talked about it, obviously. He doesn’t need me in his ear. He has me at home. That’s the difference.”

Zak smiled slowly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll talk to Andrea, honey, and you know it’d be incredible to have you working for McLaren officially, but…”

She cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s useless. I’ll be here, and so will Oscar, and that’s how it’s going to be.”

He barked a laugh, shook his head, and gestured for the waiter. “I’ll need another coffee. It sounds like you’re planning a coup.”

Amelia giggled.

—

Max Fewtrell’s streaming camera was pointed at his gaming setup; Lando and Max shoulder to shoulder in their matching headsets, controllers in hand, squinting at the screen in total concentration. The Twitch chat was flying by at light speed, full of emojis and chaos, most of it delighting in the rare duo-stream.

What made this stream a little different, though, what made it iconic, was the soft background chaos visible just beyond them. Behind the couch, nestled on a thick rug with pillows and snacks strewn everywhere, sat Amelia and Pietra cross-legged, utterly absorbed in a heated game of Monopoly. Amelia, in Lando’s oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, was sorting her money into piles with ruthless efficiency. Pietra had a mischievous glint in her eye, hand hovering over a stack of hotels.

“…I swear to god, if you put another hotel on Park Lane, I’m going to flip the board,” Amelia muttered, tone flat but somehow more threatening than if she’d yelled.

“Mi amor, it’s a legitimate investment strategy,” Pietra countered sweetly.

“Your strategy is financial terrorism.” Amelia grunted.

Max glanced at them over his shoulder, grinning. “They’ve been at that for two hours, chat.”

Lando didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah, she’s gonna break the board. It’s only a matter of time, guys. Don’t clip it. You’ll embarrass her.”

“Oh my god, you two,” Pietra said, glancing toward the camera, “This is a very serious game, much more serious than whatever you are playing!”

Max snorted. “Agree to disagree.”

From the floor, Amelia said without looking up, volume slowly raising, “Pietra, you’re on my hotel. No, don’t roll the dice, you’re on my hotel!”

Twitch chat exploded.

PIETRA MONOPOLY CHEATER CONFIRMED STOP THIS IS SENDING ME HELP Bro Lando rly said ‘She will break the board’ like he knows from experience lmaoooo

On the floor, Amelia made a crisp transaction. “That’s four thousand pounds. You can pay in instalments, but I will be charging interest.”

Pietra groaned. “You’re worse than the IMF.”

Lando was laughing now, head falling back, nearly dropping his controller. “Amelia, baby, I love you, but you’ve got the most brutal capitalism streak I’ve ever seen.”

“Only when fake money is involved,” she said coolly.

Max leaned into his mic and said to chat, deadpan, “In case anyone was wondering, yes, I am also surprised that this game is still somehow going.”

The stream lasted two hours.

It was clipped and shared all over social media, labeled things like “Max & Lando try to game while Amelia ruins friendships via Monopoly” and “Quadrant’s Chaos Double Date”. Fans latched onto every bit of domestic hilarity, from Lando stealing a bite of Amelia’s cookie mid-stream to Pietra declaring herself “a capitalist queen” while mortgaging Mayfair.

It was absurd. Intimate. Hilarious. And it felt like a glimpse into something real.

By the end of the night, Monopoly had ended in dramatic silence (Amelia had won, obviously), Max and Lando had finally clinched a sweaty victory on stream, and someone, probably Lando, had convinced them all to order spring rolls at 1 a.m.

—

landonorris just posted . . .

landonorris W few weeks

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ameliabrown fluffy hair i love that picture of you ❤️ by landonorris

landonorris love u baby

maxfewtrell Mate your barnet is a STATE

ameliabrown Shut up, Fewtrell 🔪

mclaren The cutest couple in the paddock🤩

user39 the pool pic. the amelia wrapped in a duvet pic. THE MATCHING BRACELETS?

user33 the amelia pic got me too..... she's so fucking cute and he's obviously SO IN LOVE

user18 everytime they post abt eachother im reminded how crazy it is that they're both 5 years younger than me and have established careers and are literally engaged i cant do this

—

Max sat in the cockpit of the RB18, gloves off, sweat clinging to his forehead despite the cool. Amelia stood beside him, one hand braced against the halo, the other flicking through telemetry sheets on her iPad.

“Can you tweak the steering calibration?” he asked, nodding toward the wheel. “Turn-in still feels a touch tight into Acque Minerali.”

Amelia nodded, thumbing in a few quick notes. “We’ll open the ratio a little between 60 and 120 degrees. Keep the weight where you like it, but you should get a bit more rotation without overworking your wrists.”

Max smiled faintly. “You’re so smart.”

She glanced at him, dry as ever. “I’m aware.”

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, settling deeper into the cockpit as mechanics moved around them.

There was a comfortable silence for a moment. Then, casually, as she tapped in a few last changes to the wheel settings, she said, “Lando and I are thinking about getting married. Maybe around Silverstone.”

Max blinked. “What?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “We haven’t picked a date. But we’ve been looking. The summer break is too packed with testing and prep for Spa, so… Silverstone makes the most sense.”

Max stared at her. “This year?”

She finally met his eyes. “Yeah.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling now. “That’s fast.”

“You don’t object though?”

“To the steering setup? No. Feels good.”

She huffed a laugh. “Max….”

“To the wedding,” Max added, voice softer. “Also no. I do think it’s fast—very fast—but then, that’s a pretty big part of our world, isn’t it?”

Her expression didn’t shift much, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude, maybe. “Thanks,” she said. “You’ll be invited.”

“Gee, thanks,” Max teased, sitting back and flicking a switch on the wheel. “If I’d known there was any concern over having a seat at the Norris wedding, I’d have written it into your contract.”

Amelia tilted her head. “I was always planning to invite you, obviously, but it’s not official until you get an invitation.”

Max tilted his head at her. “I bet you already have at least five invitation designs picked out.”

She pursed her lips and looked away.

Outside, the rain began to fall again, soft and steady on the roof of the garage. Max fiddled with the wheel as Amelia double-checked her notes.

“Silverstone, huh,” he said after a moment. She nodded. “You nervous?” He asked.

“No,” Amelia said honestly. “I want to be his next of kin as soon as possible. It makes sense.”

Max studied her, thoughtful. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

—

Amelia sat alone on the small balcony outside the team hospitality, her iPad balanced on her lap, untouched. The rain had cleared, but the air was still heavy with mist, soft droplets clinging to the railings. Below, the paddock was beginning to wind down, freight being packed, media finishing up their final takes, voices quieter than they’d been all weekend.

Max had won.

It felt triumphant. A clean weekend, pole to flag, fastest lap. It was the kind of result that justified everything; the long hours, the endless data, the sleepless debriefs. The RB18 had been flawless. The side-pod gamble was proving worth it.

But still… Amelia felt the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond just being tired. It was emotional fatigue. Mental strain. A thousand variables she’d juggled, most of which no one would ever see. She wasn’t unhappy, far from it, but there was a muteness to the pride.

She exhaled through her nose, fingers picking at the edge of her iPad case.

Max was in media. Lando had finished fifth, solid, reliable, but a far cry from what she knew he could be. She hadn’t seen him yet. Just a brief nod across the paddock, the flash of his helmet in parc fermé, a thumbs up from afar.

She wanted to hug him. To tell him that fifth was good, that fifth, with the shit-box of a car he had, was better than good.

And maybe, selfishly, she wanted him to tell her she’d done a good job too.

Behind her, someone called her name, softly, respectfully, but she move right away.

She was thinking about the championship. About Max’s lead. About Ferrari’s early season strength, and what it would take to keep beating them. About what was waiting in Miami.

And for a moment, just one, she let herself think about Silverstone; not the race, but the chapel just outside of Glastonbury, which she’d only seen one time, but knew it was where she could see herself getting married.

—

May 2022

The music was loud. The bass thumped through the floor, reverberated up through the soles of Amelia’s heels, but her earplugs softened the edges. The lights were neon and overwhelming — but the dress was soft against her skin, and Lando's hand was warm and solid on her hip.

She wasn’t drunk, not really. Just lightheaded from the adrenaline, the heat of the Miami night, the dizzy joy of watching Lando laugh and dance, glowing from a solid qualifying.

They were packed into the middle of the club — Lando, Daniel, Pierre, and a few others — a messy, writhing group of drivers letting off steam. Amelia was tucked under Lando’s arm, swaying with him to some Latin remix pulsing through the air.

“You okay?” He asked, ducking down so his voice hit her over the beat.

She nodded, smiling. “I’m good.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Stop,” she said — not irritated, just amused. He never stopped saying it.

He didn’t. He kissed her instead, hands firm on her hips, and she laughed into his mouth.

They danced for hours. Bodies slick with sweat, her hair pulled back off her neck, Lando’s shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his back. At one point, she swapped her heels for sneakers from the club's coat check. At another, he twirled her like they were at prom, and not in a nightclub.

By 2 a.m., they were both exhausted and dizzy like lovesick teenagers. Daniel shouted something about an afterparty, but Lando grabbed Amelia’s hand and shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “I’ve got other plans.”

—

They barely made it through the door.

Her back hit the wall, and Lando kissed her like he was starving. His hands were rough with need, but still gentle, one settling on her waist, the other cupping her jaw as he kissed her like she was something sacred.

Her dress slipped down her shoulders.

His shirt hit the floor.

It was just a little frantic. Warm. Familiar. Like gravity pulling them closer. He whispered her name when he pressed his forehead to hers.

She pulled him down to the bed.

And somewhere between the sound of the city outside and the rise of the Miami sun, they disappeared into each other completely.

—

It happened fast.

Amelia wasn’t on comms for Lando, but she always had one ear tuned to his channel. Her tablet buzzed in her lap, live data scrolling, her focus split between Max’s telemetry and the multiple feeds in front of her.

And then suddenly; a yellow flag was shown in sector two.

She heard it before she saw it: the sharp bark of Lando’s voice over the radio, crackling with frustration, pain, impact. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

Camera switch. Replay.

Gasly. A misjudged overtake. Lando clipped, turned, spun around. A flying wheel.

Virtual safety car.

Her breath stopped. For a second, maybe longer, the paddock felt silent. The world narrowed. Just white noise and static and the pounding of her pulse.

He was out of the car. Slowly. Helmet still on. He waved. She exhaled so sharply she felt dizzy.

Still. That wasn’t enough.

She excused herself from the Red Bull pit wall with a wordless nod and a clenched jaw, already walking, already texting someone from McLaren’s medical liaison team.

They didn’t let her into the medical unit for ten minutes. He was sitting on the bed, still in his race suit, fireproofs peeled down to his waist, a bruise already blooming across his shoulder, his curls damp with sweat and adrenaline.

He looked up and softened instantly. “Hey, baby.”

She didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room in three steps and wrapped herself around him. Tight. Too tight. Her arms around his neck, her face pressed into his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, hand rubbing her back.

“You could’ve not been,” she whispered. After a moment, she pulled back enough to look at him. Her fingers trembled as she reached up to touch his cheek. “We need to get married.”

Lando blinked, confused. “What?”

“Soon,” she said. “As soon as we can arrange it.” He studied her, reading the truth in her eyes — the vulnerability, the clarity. This wasn’t nerves or a whim. It was control. A way to make sense of a world where tomorrow was never promised.

His hand found hers. Squeezed. “Okay,” he said softly. “Then we will. As soon as you want.”

“Really?” She checked.

“I’d marry you tomorrow in a Tesco car park if that’s what you wanted.” He told her.

She gave a choked laugh. “Not Tesco.”

“Okay, fine. Waitrose.”

“Better.” She cracked a smile.

He leaned forward and kissed her, gently, slowly.

When they pulled apart, she glanced over her shoulder briefly before looking back at him and whispering, “The nurse doesn’t like me. She wouldn’t let me in here, even though I’m on your pre-approved list. I think we should have her fired.”

Lando’s lips twitched, but God, she was so deadly serious, so he managed a nod and suppressed the urge to burst out laughing at the pure indignation on her face. “Okay, baby. Whatever you want.”

—

Their Monaco apartment was chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same.

Swatches of fabric were spread across the coffee table. A mood board with handwritten notes and clippings from bridal magazines sat balanced on the arm of the sofa. There were open tabs on Amelia’s laptop — five venues, four florists, and a document titled 'Ceremony Logistics: Sound, Seating & Sensory'. A printed-out Google calendar stuck to the wall with blue tack had been torn down and replaced three times that morning already.

Amelia stood barefoot in the middle of it all, wearing a sports bra and pair of leggings, a highlighter in one hand and her phone cradled between shoulder and ear. “No, I don’t want peonies,” she was saying sharply. “They’re pretty, but they’re uncontrollable. And they smell too strong—no, I—no, listen, lilies are fine. But white ones. Nothing dyed!”

Lando was on the sofa, half-wrapped in a throw blanket, trying to keep his eyes open as he scrolled half-heartedly through a list of DJs on her iPad. He wasn’t sure if he had a fever or if the apartment had just decided to become a sauna, but his skin felt tight and his throat had been sore since yesterday.

He sneezed.

Amelia, mid-call, snapped her fingers toward him and mouthed, “Bless you.”

He gave a thumbs up.

She hung up a moment later and dropped onto the sofa beside him, crossing her legs under herself and immediately launching into the her next focus. “Okay, so my dress fitting is next week, and then the invitations go out by—”

“Babe,” Lando croaked, barely above a whisper.

She blinked, mid-sentence. “What?”

“I love you,” he said, eyes squinting in that way she’d come to recognize as his version of ‘please don’t be mad, but I’m dying.’ “But I think I might be losing the will to live.”

Amelia paused. Really looked at him.

His curls were flat. His eyes glassy. His skin was a little pale, flushed around the cheeks. His voice? Wrecked. She frowned. “You’re sick.”

“No,” he said too quickly. “Just a bit run down. Fine. I’m fine.”

“Lando.” She said, unimpressed by his attempt.

He coughed. A rasping one that came from deep in his chest.

She reached out and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “You have a fever.”

“I just love you so much it’s giving me a temperature,” he joked weakly.

She didn’t laugh. Just climbed into his lap gently, settled her forehead against his. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged, closing his eyes. “You’re happy. Planning. You’ve got your little colour-coded lists and your spreadsheets and your anti-guest-scent policy. I didn’t wanna ruin it.”

Her heart pinched. She brushed her fingers through his curls, voice softening. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re my favourite part.”

He smiled, tired and a little loopy. “Even when I sound like Kermit the Frog?”

“Especially then.”

She kissed his temple, pressed her cheek to his. “Alright. Wedding planning on pause.”

He hummed. “For how long?”

“Until you’re back to yourself,” she said. She tucked the blanket tighter around him and reached for the remote. “Tea?”

“Chamomile?”

“You want sleepy tea in the middle of the day?” She teased.

“I want my tonsils to evaporate.”

Amelia nodded solemnly. “Okay. I can do the tea.”

As she moved around the kitchen, humming under her breath, Lando watched her with drooping eyelids and the softest kind of smile. Even sick, even overwhelmed, he knew one thing with absolute clarity — he’d marry her a thousand times over.

—

Lando shuffled into the bathroom, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, nose red, throat raw. He was just looking for toothpaste. That was it. Just toothpaste.

What he found instead was the object sitting innocently on the counter: white plastic, digital screen, slim body. Rectangular. Familiar. Terrifying.

A pregnancy test.

He froze.

His brain clicked into overdrive.

‘No. No, we’ve been careful. Haven’t we? Wait, maybe not that one time in Miami, but that was— Oh my god. Oh my god. She's been more tired lately. And weird about food. And I’m sick — what if she’s sick too, but not with a cold?—‘

He blinked down at the object, heart thudding.

It lit up.

Lando screeched.

Without thinking, he jumped away from it like it was radioactive. His pulse was in his ears. His fevered brain was already building a nursery in his head. He was googling prenatal vitamins in his mind. He was buying a Volvo. He was calling Zak to ask for paternity leave and then apologise for knocking up his only daughter.

He was— He was—

The front door clicked open.

“Lando?” Amelia’s voice echoed through the apartment. “I got your antibiotics. And some cough syrup. They only had the cherry flavour, sorry.”

He burst out of the bathroom. “Stay away from me!” He pointed at her.

She blinked. Stopped. “What?”

“I don’t want the baby getting sick!” He said, suddenly extremely defensive, halfway between panicked and protective. “You shouldn’t be carrying heavy bags either! And you shouldn’t be walking around in this heat—wait, did you eat? You need to be eating properly, and we need to call a doctor—wait, did you see a doctor? How long have you known?”

Amelia stared at him, completely blank. “…What baby?”

Lando gestured wildly toward the bathroom. “The baby from the pregnancy test!”

Amelia squinted, took two slow steps toward the bathroom, peered in. And then started snorted. “Oh my god,” she said, “you mean the thermometer?” She asked. He blinked. She walked in, pulled the digital thermometer off the counter and held it up. “The thing I used this morning to check your temperature for the doctor?”

Lando looked from her to the object and back. “…Oh.”

She was wide-eyed, staring at him. “You freaked out over a thermometer.”

“I was mentally preparing to raise a child,” he mumbled, half-offended, half-relieved.

“A nonexistent child,” she said, handing him his antibiotics. “You should’ve seen your face. Funny.” She giggled a little.

He took the blister pack sheepishly. “I think I’m still feverish.”

Amelia made a face. “Sure, we’ll blame the fever.”

He tugged her gently into a hug. “So no baby?”

“No baby,” she confirmed.

He exhaled dramatically. “Well, now I feel kind of disappointed.”

“Lando.” She frowned at him.

“…Eventually,” he corrected, kissing her forehead. “Like, in five years. When you’ve had time to design a pram with a DRS button.”

She snorted. “Shut up. Take your medicine.”

He popped the pill, made a face. “Ew.”

“Use water, Lando!”

—

The bathroom tiles were cold under Amelia’s feet. She was sat on the closed toilet lid, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, phone clenched between her fingers.

She stared at the pregnancy test box on the counter. It sat there like a challenge. Or maybe a joke. A very unfunny one.

She hit the call button.

Pietra answered on the third ring, already squinting. “Did you eat lunch?”

Amelia didn’t answer that. Instead, she blurted, “I think I might be pregnant.”

There was a beat. Then Pietra leaned back in her chair, blinked once, twice. “Do you want me to freak out with you?”

Amelia exhaled. “I don’t think I am. I don’t know. I… I’m probably not. I’m just— spiralling. A bit.”

“Okay. Spiral gently,” Pietra said. “What made you think it?”

“Lando freaked out over the thermometer,” Amelia admitted. “Thought it was a test. Got all serious. Protective. Said he didn’t want to get the baby sick. There’s no baby. But then I started thinking—what if?”

Pietra was already opening FaceTime. Amelia accepted the call and was met with Pietra’s patient, knowing eyes. “Are you late?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But I thought my boobs felt weird. But I also had too much salt yesterday, so maybe that’s it? And I thought I was nauseous but it was just the smell of the weird cheese Jon had Lando put on his pizza last night.”

Pietra smiled gently. “So you’re inventing symptoms.”

“Yes,” Amelia mumbled. “I’m hyper-fixating. I know I am. But now I can’t stop.”

“Well,” Pietra said, “we’re going to need to see it through, then.”

“I already bought the test,” Amelia admitted. “It’s like… right there.”

Pietra nodded, her voice soft. “I’m right here. Take it.”

The test took five minutes to give a result after she’d peed on it. Amelia paced the bathroom the entire time, muttering about hormone levels and false negatives and how she hadn’t even finished building the new simulator yet, and how could she possibly begin Oscar’s championship preparation if she had a baby on her hip.

When the timer beeped, she turned the stick over.

Negative.

She exhaled, sharp and tight. And then, to her own surprise—tears pricked at her eyes.

Pietra saw it happen in real time, through the screen. “Oh, honey…”

“I’m not upset,” Amelia said quickly, swiping at her face. “I’m not—I didn’t want it to be positive. Not really. I’m not ready. We’re not ready. But… I don’t know. I’m crying. I think I’m relieved. But also—”

“You’re sad,” Pietra finished for her. “And that’s okay. You want it, Amelia. Of course you do. But it’s okay to not get everything you want right away.”

Amelia sat back down, sniffling. “I think… I want it someday. I didn’t even know that about myself. But now it’s there and I can’t un-know it.”

Pietra smiled gently, resting her chin on her hand. “That’s how it starts. One ‘what if’ and suddenly your heart is a bit bigger than it was yesterday.”

Amelia looked down at the negative test. “I’m glad it’s not now.”

“Then it’s the right result,” Pietra said.

They sat in silence for a while. Pietra waited until Amelia’s breathing calmed, until her shoulders dropped from around her ears. Then she grinned. “Want to watch something dumb and distract yourself?”

Amelia nodded. “Please. No babies. No weddings. No surprise pregnancies.”

“I’m putting on The Grand Tour.”

“Ugh, so much worse.”

Pietra laughed.

—

They finally had something to celebrate.

Amelia was sat on the pit wall steps, headset still around her neck, the red imprint from the ear-pads marking her cheeks. The Spanish sun was going soft with late afternoon light, golden and hazy. Her eyes followed Max through the crowd; he was somewhere between smug and exhausted, hugging the engineers one by one, helmet tucked under his arm.

He’d earned this one.

“Ferrari almost had us at the start of the season,” Amelia said quietly, almost to herself. “But I think we might have won out with these new upgrades.”

Adrian nodded. “We’re quicker over the distance. And Max—Max is relentless when he has a point to prove.”

She nodded. Smiled. “He is.”

The race had started out tense. Charles had pole. Max’s DRS had been temperamental all weekend, the kind of small gremlin that could derail a championship effort in the early stages. But Charles’ engine had given up on lap 27, and Max had kept pushing—team orders and all. The one-two with Checo sealed it. It wasn’t just a win.

It was a statement.

Max was, once again, the championship leader. Eleven points clear of Charles now.

Amelia stood slowly, body tired but blood still buzzing from the win. She glanced back once toward the Red Bull garage before walking out toward the paddock.

Max caught her eye through the crowd, grinned with that glinting, boyish confidence. She gave him a cheesy grin in return. She didn’t need to say anything.

He already knew.

—

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landonorris you are the most beautiful girl in the world i dont understand how ur mine

user62 does he have her post notifications on because brother is ALWAYS the first comment jfc

pietra.pilao BEAUTIFUL GIRL. I NEED YOUR WARDROBE ❤️ by ameliabrown

maxverstappen1 What a great memory!

ameliabrown Many gin tonics for the championship leader

user53 ok own up to it. who showed amelia the instagram filter button

—

June 2022

Baku was brutal.

Straight-line speed ruled the weekend, and the Red Bull's superior DRS efficiency gave Max the edge Amelia had quietly hoped for, though the porpoising issue across the grid was now impossible to ignore. Ferrari’s reliability crumbled in spectacular fashion, both Leclerc and Sainz retiring due to engine issues.

Amelia spent most of Sunday hunched over telemetry graphs and searching for tire degradation patterns in the data. Max drove flawlessly, no unnecessary inputs, no late braking where it wasn’t earned. Just clean, mechanical dominance. She loved it.

In the hotel room that night, Lando sat on the floor, surrounded by colour swatches and lighting samples for the wedding reception tent while Amelia talked about marzipan roses and 3D-printed miniature diffuser centrepieces. He didn’t understand a single one, but he was happy.

He also very gently asked if they could maybe not have a gearbox motif on the wedding cake.

She ignored him.

—

Canada was damp and delicate. The rain had come early in the weekend, turning FP1 into nothing more than a data scrub and giving Amelia a migraine from the constant argument over full wets or inters.

Ferrari’s pace returned, but their strategy floundered, because of course it did.

Lando’s McLaren struggled with top-end performance; not enough power on the straights, and not enough downforce through Turn 10 to make up for it. Amelia scribbled a few notes in her personal notebook, airflow direction at the rear wing junction was still too chaotic, and added them to her "Future Oscar Setup" binder.

Max won. Barely. Carlos had been on his tail for the last ten laps. But it was enough.

The wedding planner sent Amelia a text about flower availability mid-qualifying, and she replied with a 14-item bullet point list between timing sectors. Later that night, back in the hotel, she realised she'd colour-coded the seating chart using FIA compound codes (white = hard family, yellow = medium friends, red = soft VIPs), and Lando nearly died laughing.

“Why are you like this?” He said, still giggling as she shoved a pen behind her ear.

Amelia just shrugged, already halfway through redesigning the table centrepieces to match the McLaren heritage livery.

—

Amelia stirred her iced coffee once, twice. Didn’t drink it. Her hair was still slightly damp from the rain. Across from her, Mark Webber leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his head instead of his nose; that told her everything. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

“Alpine still thinks they have him locked in,” he said. His voice was low, even. “They’re pushing a narrative that doesn't match the contracts.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “And McLaren?”

“Waiting. Quietly. Playing the long game, just like you said.” He studied her face. “How long have you been planning this?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Since Abu Dhabi 2020.” Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I knew if Oscar was even half the driver I thought he was, it’d be worth it. And it turns out he’s more.”

Mark nodded once, slowly. “You always did have good taste in underdogs.”

“I’m marrying one,” she said dryly.

Mark laughed, the tension in his shoulders loosening for half a second. “Touche.”

There was a pause. Amelia finally sipped her coffee, it had gone warm.

“They’re going to fight us on this,” he said. “Hard.”

“I know,” Amelia replied. “But Oscar isn’t theirs. Not really. You and I both know it. They’ve kept him on ice too long. And if they push… I’ll make noise.”

Mark raised a brow. “Since when do you do noise?”

She gave him a look. “I do precision noise. Controlled chaos. Just enough to shake the right cages.”

Another beat.

“Zak knows?” Mark asked.

“I told him what was going to be happening,” she said. “But when the time comes, I’ll give him the whole picture. And he’ll want it too. Oscar. The car. The future. Me.”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “It’s a good thing Oscar’s worth it.”

“I know he is,” Amelia said. “And I’m going to be there when he proves it.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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ice-eise-babyy · 8 months ago

Text

Highlight | J.B.B

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Summary: A single comment takes a toll at your self-confidence, unintentionally pushing bucky away.

Warnings: really fluffy, slight angst (so slight you won't even feel it), implied smut, Sharon (unintentionally) being a bitch, cursing (real brief)

A/N: loosely inspired by a real life event. I do request so please go slide in my asks. that's it. Happy reading!!

Bucky loved you.

Every atom, essence, and fiber of you, he loved. There was nothing about you that could change his perception of you.

He had learned to memorize every inch of you with his eyes closed; Using only his tongue, fingers, and lips. Making a mental map of each dip and curve, every scar and mole, and all of your smile lines and wrinkles. Not only that but also your whole being. He knew you so well that he could tell what you wanted— what you needed before you could even say it. It was like a telepathic connection...

That's why it didn't take him long to figure out that something was wrong.

It was never your intention to make Bucky worry.

It all started with a small comment...

You had just finished showering in the gym shower after your training. Your body was wrapped in a towel that was way too short for your liking. displaying the stretch marks on your outer thighs, making you chew the insides of your cheeks.

And as if it wasn't enough to make you self-conscious, "Woah... That's some marks you've got there y/n..." It was Sharon as she entered the gym shower. Sounding perplexed and repulsed by the sight.

"Yeah.." you said, masking the rising insecurity with a faux chuckle before getting the hell out of there.

You ignored the twisted feeling in your stomach and the lingering embarrassment her words had caused. Brushing it off and pretending like you weren't affected by it. But soon it was eating you up like mites on wood. Nipping and nibbling at the last bits of self-assurance that you have.

It was affecting you so much that you hadn't even noticed that you were starting to distance yourself from Bucky...

Bucky, knowing you better than he knows himself, immediately noticed this. He didn't miss how you'd flinch at his touch. he caught how you'd recoil and pull away whenever he sought a hug or a kiss. It didn't go over his head when you started wearing more layers than just his shirt.

Of course, he was worried... But he pushed the worries away thinking that maybe you were just tired...

Weeks went by, yet you continued to distance yourself from him. He didn't want to think about it too much or ask you about it, afraid that it would only push you further.

So he convinced himself that you just wanted a bit of space. Especially now that you were getting some actual rest since you were jam-packed with missions and meetings the previous month.

It wasn't until last night...

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·˚ ⋆｡˚ ˚‧⁺

"Sure, thanks Steve..." You bid Steve goodbye as you got off the elevator, just now getting home from your first mission of the month.

You opened the door with ease, not wanting to make any noise as you entered your shared room with Bucky. Tiptoeing as you entered, concerned that you'd wake him up.

"Hey, doll..." Your whole body jolted as you heard him, his voice sounding hoarse with sleep.

You simply looked in his direction and gave him a lopsided smile,

Just a smile?

"Go to sleep..." You told him as you left him to shower...

He in fact did not go to sleep. He waited for you. Wanting to wrap his arms around you and kiss away your exhaustion from the mission.

"I told you to go to sleep, bucky." he looked in your direction, admiring how adorable you looked in his hoodie and some basic sweatpants.

"How can I?" He shrugged as if it was the most obvious question, "you're not here with me.." he added, extending his arms out for a hug.

You gulped, hesitating for a little while longer. Soon giving in as you saw the expecting look on his face. His slate blue eyes glimmered in the darkness as you walked over to him.

He sighed, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Burying his face in your clothed stomach as you stood there.

"I missed you," he nuzzled into you more, "so damn much." He said as he finally pulled away, looking up at you with those pretty blue eyes.

He wanted to stay like this with you. He needed to stay like this with you...

The pad of his fingers dug into your hips as his grip tightened, pulling you to his lap.

"I missed you too..." You said, your fingers playing with the hair on the back of his head...

It was like all your worries were thrown out the window as he held you by the neck and captured your lips with his. Kissing you with such need and longing. It was as if a huge wave of relief washed over you... Until his hands started exploring under your hoodie.

All your insecurities resurfaced as you recalled the marks that you were hiding under these layers of clothing. Sharon's words replaying in your head like a broken record.

No...

It was like your body was moving on its own accord. Your breathing lodged in your windpipe as you realized that you had unintentionally pushed him away... Your hands trembling as they hovered mid-air, a short distance away from his chest which you had just shoved away...

"I..." You started but it was like the words were caught in the back of your throat...

You felt guilt settling in the pit of your stomach as you saw the pain flickered amongst the flecks of navy in his eyes that Momentarily looked down before looking back at you, helping you off his lap.

One...

Breathe...

Two...

She's just tired...

Three...

Be understanding...

"It's... It's fine..." The reassurance tasted bittersweet on his lips, a tight-lipped smile decorating his features...

You felt like the knot of guilt in your stomach was about to snap as you didn't fail to notice how his smile didn't reach his eyes... Or how the inflection of his voice came across as insincere, strained, hurt...

He's hurt... Because of me...

He wasn't hurt, no.

Hurt was something a 3-year-old would say if he scraped his knee. Hurt was something a teenager felt when he got his heart broken from puppy love. Hurt is something minor. Something that can be easily cured with words...

This? This was neglect.

He felt neglected... He felt like you were drifting a bit too far...

Too far from him...

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·˚ ⋆｡˚ ˚‧⁺

He has never been the type to openly talk about what he felt... But this— this thing you were doing? It was just unbearable... In ways that no simple words formed by letters could describe. And what's worst about this was it was you.

So, he ultimately decided that he had enough of it...

You were comfortably reading a book on the couch. The cap of your purple highlighter in between your lips as you highlight lines from your book with it. The bright color perfectly emphasizing your favorite parts.

A few other teammates were also in the living room. Respectfully busying themselves with whatever task they had at hand when suddenly, a very upset-looking bucky came storming into the living room with a scowl on his face.

"Let's talk. Now. In private." He snatched the book from your hand and tossed it on the coffee table automatically catching your attention

Confusion etched your face as you looked up at him, your knuckles turning white as your grip tightened around the highlighter.

"What are you—!" Your question abruptly interrupted, the world turning upside down as he threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

The rest of the team looked at one another with puzzled looks, watching you writhe as he walked away with you on his shoulder like a bag of rice.

"Bucky!" You squealed, thrashing against the super soldier while you repeatedly told him to put you down. The purple ink from the highlighter in your hand staining his white tank top.

"Talk." Was all you heard as you landed on the bed with a guttural 'oof'

"Rude!" He gave you an unamused look, crossing his arms as his gaze followed you as you propped yourself. Sighing as he saw that familiar pout on your lips.

"I'm worried about you..." You felt a shiver run down your spine as he walked towards you.

"What do you mean...?" You facepalmed mentally as your words came out trembling.

You were sweating, not wanting to talk about any of this any further. You already knew where this was going...

And you didn't like it...

"You're just..." He paused, looking for the right words, "You're not being you... And you—" he cut himself off, noticing how you moved away when he sat beside you. "You keep doing that"

"That? What's 'that'?"

"You keep distancing yourself from me..." You felt the guilt claw up your neck as you heard the way his voice sounded so defeated.

You never intended to worry him, and you never would want to. But looking at the situation at hand made you realize how much you got drowned by your self-doubt that you had been depriving him of the truth...

You felt torn as you sat there staring into the hazy silver hue in his blue eyes, the distress and yearning flickering in them.

You wanted to tell him about everything. You wanted to tell him how Sharon's words made your confidence falter. You wanted to show him why...

But it scared you...

The mere thought of his repulsed expression made your heart sink to your toes.

"I don't know if I've done something wrong. If I've said something you didn't like. If I had been too much. If you need space—"

"No! It's not like that..." Your eyes widened as his rambling slowly sunk into your skull,

He's blaming himself...?

"I just... It's..." He held your hand, soothing you through your anxious state...

He hated seeing you like this, he hated how much you were holding back, he hated how you were hesitating... But he was patient with you like he always is. Because he knew firsthand how hard it is to open up.

"Please... Please tell me.." you let out a shaky breath. Your fingers fiddled with the highlighter as you closed your eyes for a moment to collect yourself.

The moment you opened your eyes and witnessed the unshed tears gloss over his pretty eyes was the exact moment you figured that you had lost at whatever this was...

Your hands fidgeted with the highlighter as you told him everything he needed to know— from the stretch marks that had you questioning your self-worth to Sharon’s comment that rang in your ears like a constant reminder. You just laid it all out there, hoping he’d understand how much it had gotten to you. Even though you knew it still wasn't enough of an excuse for how you've treated him...

The tears prickled your eyes as they pooled; you felt so small. So vulnerable around him... Just how you liked it.

"I'm so proud of you for telling me doll..." The pad of his thumb swiping away the single tear that rolled down your face...

"Can I see...?" You looked at him with wide eyes, why would he want to see such a sight?

"James..." His name slipped from your lips as a hesitant whisper, but your thoughts became a jumbled mess when he suddenly got off the bed and kneeled in front of you, looking up at you with those big blue eyes...

"Please...?" He pleaded, removing the highlighter before holding your hands in his.

Your man was literally on his knees for you, his eyes wide with hope and vulnerability, like he was silently begging for an answer. His voice was so full of genuine longing and yearning. How could you say no to that? At that moment, with your heart swelling, saying anything but yes felt impossible.

You meekly nodded and he looked like a kid on Christmas morning, beaming with a grin.

Goosebumps formed on your skin as you felt his hands twisting with the waistband of your pajama shorts. He looked up at you as though to ask for permission so you granted it with another nod. You lifted your hips for him to fully remove them.

Suddenly,you felt the insecurity clawing at your neck; feeling exposed and just... Bare as you sat there in just your tank top and underwear. Displaying parts of your body that only he had the privilege of seeing.

You pressed your knees together, knowing that the marks only get worse around the insides of your thighs...

Bucky didn't like this... But he had more than one way to keep those legs spread for him...

"So pretty..." he murmured, his voice soft and full of admiration as his hand gently held your calf as if you would wither under his touch if he wasn't careful enough. His other hand was doing the total opposite by holding your other leg in place and slightly spreading it. He leaned in, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses from your knee, his lips feather-light as they brushed against your skin. He moved up to the side of your thigh, each kiss seemed to carry a silent promise, a vow of how much he adored every inch of you. The warmth of his breath and the tenderness in his eyes made your heart stutter, filling you with a sense of love and security that felt overwhelming.

You let out a whine, desperate and needy when you felt him detach his lips from your skin. Already yearning for the sensation of his lips on you. "What are you doing?" Gazing at him curiously as he took the highlighter in his hand

He didn't answer.

He held your knee in one hand to avoid them from blocking his line of sight. His mind was in a whirlwind as he saw the marks.

They're beautiful

How dare you deprive him of this.

You gasped as you felt the cold ink of the highlighter on your skin. Bucky moved his hand gracefully as he left traces of bright purple along your stretch marks, tucking his lower lip between his teeth as he concentrated.

"What are you doing, James?" Another attempt for an answer as you watch his hand in between your legs only to be met with silence once again.

He pulled away once he finished, a satisfied look on his face. Looking at his work with such pride in himself. It was beautiful. You were beautiful. Nothing could ever compare to this, to you. No art made by Monet, Renoir, or even Van Gogh could ever come close to how ethereal you looked...

"This," he started, his fingers gently tracing the trails of purple ink on your skin, "This is to remind you that I will always love all of you"

You bit back a smile as you looked down at him; the lovesick look in his eyes told you that his words exude nothing but honesty. And it was as if everything was just now sinking into your mind. Crimson tinted your cheeks, heating up as you realized that you were half naked with a super soldier in between your thighs. Kneeling for you.

You let out a strangled moan as he pressed his lips on your skin once more. Trailing wet kisses to your inner thigh, inhaling as his nose poked your clothed core. You smelled so sweet...

"You think you're getting off the hook that easy?" You gulped so hard that he probably heard it, you couldn't help yourself. How could you when Bucky was looking up at you like someone who hasn't been fed for the past few months? The warmth of his blue eyes dissipated as it was replaced by something familiar but different... Something feral.

"Spread those pretty legs for me, doll. I'm going to fuck you until you're finally convinced that every part of you is perfect"

#i tried my best i guess #this was so fun writing #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky

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jherbogf · 3 months ago

Text

2 you

summary y/n has been in a complicated relationship with joe burrow for months. as he grows more distant and conflicted, she’s forced to confront her feelings and the uncertainty of their connection.

pairing joe burrow x fem!reader

words around 6.7k

read part II here! Xxx🤍🤍

inspired by 2 you, mariah the scientist

you had always been a woman of focus. your days were a blur of work. late nights and early mornings. it wasn’t glamorous, but you loved it. having your own money, your own freedom.

you could say one of your favorite things to do was going out with your girlfriends. sometimes, in the highest cincinnati spots. spots those who obviously were packed with players from the city’s most famous team: the cincinnati bengals.

in one of those night outs, your eyes crossed icy blue ones, which naturally, made your world turn differently.

joe burrow had that effect on people—his eyes, calm yet intense, always made you second guess your emotions. he wasn’t the kind of guy who wore his feelings on his sleeve. his smile, reserved for those who really knew him, often made you feel like you were still trying to figure him out. and for a while, you didn’t mind.

but over time, something shifted.

you first saw it after the bengals’ rough stretch of games. they were struggling: 0-4 at the start of the season. and it weighed heavily on joe. at first, you made excuses for him. “he’s under a lot of pressure” you told yourself. “he’s focused on the game”. but as the weeks went on, it wasn’t just the stress of the game; it was something else. he started becoming more distant, not in the physical sense, but emotionally.

you noticed it during one of your quiet dinners. you had tried to start a conversation, something that used to come so naturally. but now, his answers were short, distracted, as if his mind was somewhere else. “maybe he’s tired”, so you thought.

you noticed the tension grew in small moments, too. the texts that went unanswered for hours. the way he avoided eye contact when you asked about his day. you didn’t push him for answers, but you also couldn’t ignore it. and still, you told yourself: “it’s just the season, he’s got a lot on his plate. he’ll come around”.

but it wasn’t just the season. and you knew it, deep down.

one evening, after another loss, you waited for joe at his place, like you constantly did.

the door opened, and he didn’t even look at you. he simply passed by, heading straight to the couch, still in his post-game conference clothes. you stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the distance between you, the invisible wall that had been building over the past few weeks.

“how are you?” you asked, trying to be as careful as possible.

he didn’t answer at first, eyes glued to the TV as highlights from the game played. so you tried again, desperate for some closure. “joe?”

he looked up at you then. gaze distant, like he wasn’t really seeing you, like you weren’t even there. “i’m fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “i just want to forget about it.”

you couldn’t stop yourself. you were desperate for closure, for something. “this season’s been pretty tough. i’m sorry”.

“yeah,” he replied, tone flat. he glanced at you, for a split second. barely acknowledging you. barely acknowledging your countless tries to get him to just talk to you.

you understood him. how could you not? but it was like he didn’t see you. didn’t see you trying to just help.

it stung, more than you cared to admit. you had been there for him through the losses, his injuries, his recovery, the endless scrutiny. but now, you felt like you were being shut out.

you wondered if this what it always felt like, doubting your own self. you had to ask yourself whether you were being too much. if you were clinging to him, forcing something when he just wanted to be alone. but, were you? it for sure didn’t feel like you were. you couldn’t help but feel like you were always the one trying to break through, but he never let you in.

so, later that night, after the game was over and the house was silent, you laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. the uncertainty was eating away at you. “what is happening? you thought. joe had pulled back in a way that made you feel like you were chasing after something you could never quite reach.

and a few days later, as if on cue, it happened again.

you were sitting close to the sidelines at the bengals’ practice, waiting for joe to finish up. the tension in the air was thick—joe wasn’t just focused on the game, but on something else. as the team broke up, you waited for him in the same place, alongside mike gesicki’s and trey hendrickson’s wives, trying to catch his attention. he glanced at you, going back into the facility, probably to get washed up.

but you weren’t focusing on what he’d do after he went back there. you were focusing on how he didn’t smile. didn’t forge any reaction at you. just one glance. and you could feel your heart slowly cracking, day by day.

you let it go, trying to enjoy the girls’ company until the players were out again. it worked, for about the 45 minutes time in between being happy, talking to them, and then feeling ashamed, like you didn’t belong in joe’s side, approaching his car in the parking lot.

“how’s the wrist?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but still with an edge of concern in your voice.

he shrugged, serious, emotionless. “it’s fine. just sore. nothing I can’t handle.”

“three empty phrases.” you thought. it was the same answer he’d given you every time, and every time it hurt more. he was shutting you out—shutting you out, just like he had done with everything else in his life. so you sighed, helpless and tired.

“i don’t know what’s going on with you,” you said, voice a little sharper than you had intended, moved by your feelings. “but i’ve been trying to be here for you, joe. don’t you get that?”— his eyes snapped to yours, hard and unyielding. it was the most emotion he had given you in months.

“i don’t need you to ‘be here for me,’ y/n,” he replied, his tone cutting. “i’m not your charity case. you’ve got your life. i’ve got mine. that’s it. don’t mix it up.”

you froze. the words stung like a slap. you felt the air leave your lungs. you didn’t know what was worse—the fact that he was pushing you away, or that he didn’t see how much you cared. you took a step back, heart pounding.

“maybe I’ve been too much,” you said, more to yourself than him. your voice trembled, but you didn’t let him see the hurt. you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction. “maybe I’ve asked for too much. but don’t you dare act like I’m not trying.” you told him, firmer.

joe didn’t respond. his face softened for a moment, but the distance between you only grew.

you knew that you were at a breaking point.

you had tried for so long to make things work, to be there for him, but it wasn’t enough. not when he couldn’t open up, not when he kept you at arm’s length. and you knew.

it didn’t surprise you that a few days later, after another devastating loss, joe was quiet. you sat beside him on the couch, your heart heavy with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid.

you needed to talk. you couldn’t just keep pretending.

“joe, we need to talk,” you said, voice gentle but firm. you were rightly putting yourself first this time. listening to yourself.

he didn’t even look at you. “i don’t feel like talking right now,” he muttered.

and your heart sank. “it’s always like this”, you thought. you had always been the one to initiate, the one to ask the hard questions. But he never answered. he never listened. he never gave you the time. he never even asked.

“you can’t just keep shutting me out,” you said, either way. “i’m not asking for much. but I need more than this. I need more than your silence. I need more than pretending everything’s fine.”

you knew. you knew you deserved more. you knew.

joe’s eyes finally met yours then, and there was something… cold in them. “you’re too much, y/n. always asking questions, always demanding more. I don’t have time for this. I don’t need someone breathing down my neck all the time.”

you couldn’t react. you were looking at the ground, blinking, eyes wide, mouth shut. it hit you like a tidal wave. you could hear your heart clinking. but it didn’t break like you thought you would. it was like someone had hit their nail on it, just to hear if it would make a sound.

you sat there for a moment, stunned. thinking, remembering all the times he shut you out. all the times he told you he didn’t need your concern. all the times he didn’t give even an ounce of the love you gave him back to you.

so you stood up. and you walked away. you weren’t sure what you were doing anymore, but you knew one thing for certain—you couldn’t keep being the one who tried to fix what was broken. you couldn’t be the one covered in dirt, couldn’t be the one whose heart clenched when a kid cudi song played.

you weren’t sure where things had gone wrong, but you knew you couldn’t keep pouring yourself into a relationship that drained you. the grief you felt, after your shock passed, wasn’t for joe and “what could’ve been”, but for yourself. who almost lost your spark. who almost lost your own self, trying to fix him.

he was lost. he was unfocused. you were sure he hoped you wouldn’t notice, but you did. after all those times, you did. so you layed it in a grave. and you left.

left his apartment, physically, but his mess, emotionally. you didn’t know if he had called you, cause you weren’t really listening.

and as you drove away, you didn’t look back. focusing only on what was in front of you, reserved for you. not him.

#joe burrow #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow angst

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eclipixels · 2 months ago

Text

Jude

Character: Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Hyoma Chigiri, Rin Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Reo Mikage, Rensuke Kunigami, Kenyu Yukimiya, Sae Itoshi, Ryusei Shidou, Michael Kaiser

Content: Blue Lock boys react...to you liking Jude Bellingham

Yoichi Isagi

You’re cuddled up on the couch, phone in hand, when Isagi glances over your shoulder. He freezes when he sees the Jude Bellingham edit you just liked, saved, and reposted on tiktok.

"Wait… you reposted that?" he asks, tone dangerously neutral.

You nod absentmindedly, not noticing his sharp pout. "Yeah, the edit was sick and he looked fine as hell."

Isagi sits up, suddenly needing space between you two. "Oh, cool. No, no, it’s totally fine. It’s not like I play soccer too or anything," he says, crossing his arms.

You bite back a laugh at his sulking. "Ichi, are you jealous?"

"Me? Jealous?" He scoffs. "Of a guy who doesn’t even know you exist? No way." But he refuses to cuddle you for the next hour, stealing glances at his own edits on youtube shorts to reassure himself. The ones on youtube were all made by his teenage fanboys to Brazilian phonk music. Was it phonk or funk? You always forgot the difference.

Meguru Bachira

Bachira is perched beside you, humming softly, when he notices the repost. His eyes widened dramatically.

"Jude Bellingham?" He gasps. "You have a crush on Jude Bellingham?"

You blink at him. "I just liked the edit—"

Before you can explain, he dramatically flops onto the floor. "I thought I was your number one football star!" he wails, rolling away from you in fake agony.

"Meg—"

"No, don't touch me!" he sniffs. Then, he peeks up. "Unless you're gonna repost a cool edit of me instead."

You sigh. "Ugh, fine."

He beams, immediately climbing back onto the couch. "You better repost one that uses my best goals! Also, make sure it has some cool effects—oh! And make me look really fast! Chigiri called me slow yesterday for asking if mirrors work in the dark."

“Baby, mirrors reflect light. That’s literally their whole thing." You laugh at him.

“Yeah, yeah I got all that explained to me already.” Bachira pouted. This is what happens when a bunch of teens drop out in the middle of their high school career to play soccer.

Hyoma Chigiri

Chigiri raises an eyebrow when he sees the repost. "Jude Bellingham?" His voice is calm, but you can feel the judgment.

"Don’t start," you warn, knowing that tone.

He tilts his head, crimson hair falling over his shoulder. "I just didn’t realize you liked midfielders so much. I thought you were into forwards."

You roll your eyes. "Hyo, it's just an edit—"

He sighs dramatically, standing up. "No no, I get it."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" He flips his hair and walks off. Five minutes later, you hear him watching his own highlights on repeat.

“Speed.. I am speed.” You hear Lightning McQueen’s voice over a Beyonce song. What’s worse is you knew exactly which edit of himself your princess boyfriend was watching.

Rin Itoshi

Rin glares at your phone. "You reposted that?"

You barely glance up. "Yeah, so?"

"So?" His voice is dangerously low. "Why don’t you repost my edits?"

You freeze. "That's why you're mad?"

He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. "I outplay guys like him daily. And yet, here you are, simping over some random Premier League guy."

"He's not random—"

"Oh, so now you're defending him?" Rin huffs. "Unbelievable."

He goes completely silent, scrolling aggressively through his phone. Later, you find out he sent you every highlight reel of himself with the caption ‘Repost this instead.’

Seishiro Nagi

Nagi, half-asleep in your lap, peeks at your screen and immediately sighs. "Haaah? That guy again?"

You blink. "What do you mean ‘again’?"

"I see his edits everywhere." Nagi pouts. "And now my own girlfriend is thirsting over him?"

"I'm not thirsting—"

"Hmph." He dramatically rolls off your lap onto the bed, lying face down. "Wake me up when you start appreciating me properly."

"You want me to repost your videos?"

"...Maaaybe."

So you do, and he immediately perks up, pulling you back into a cuddle like nothing happened.

Reo Mikage

Reo sees the edit and gasps. "Babe. Seriously?"

You blink. "What?"

"What?" he repeats, hand to his chest like you’ve personally betrayed him. "I literally fund your entire soccer fan experience. Who pays for your ESPN subscription? Me. Who takes you to VIP matches? Me. Who is your actual soccer playing boyfriend? Me!"

You hold back a laugh. "Are you saying I should only repost you?"

"Exactly." He crosses his arms. "If you're gonna simp over a player, it better be your own rich, talented, and incredibly handsome boyfriend."

"I guess you do have a point.” You mumbled before spam reposting edits of him until he was satisfied.

Rensuke Kunigami

Kunigami glances at your phone and raises an eyebrow. "Really? Jude Bellingham?"

You shrug. "He's cool."

Kunigami scoffs. "I'm cool."

"You are," you agree easily, but he's already frowning.

"I just don’t get it," he mutters, crossing his arms. "I play just as physically as him. My goals are just as powerful. But no, he gets reposted."

"Rensuke," you groan. "You're seriously upset over this?"

"I'm not upset," he says, but the way he's aggressively scrolling through football clips of himself suggests otherwise.

Later that day, you find him in the gym, training even harder. You’re pretty sure he’s trying to outdo Bellingham now.

Kenyu Yukimiya

Yukimiya’s first instinct when he sees the repost? He slides into your DMs like he’s a stranger.

@kenyu_official: So, Bellingham, huh?

You squint at the notification, then glance over at your boyfriend, who’s currently sitting across from you on the bed, clearly sulking.

"You’re texting me from across the table?" you say, amused.

Yukimiya sips his water, tilting his head. "Well, since you seem to be in love with him now, I figured I should keep my distance."

You roll your eyes playfully. “Kenyu, seriously?”

He leans back in bed, dramatically running a hand through his hair.

"I just didn’t realize I had competition. Should I start playing midfield instead of forward?"

You stand up, walking around the table to sit beside him. “There’s no competition, Kenyu.” You press a kiss to his cheek. “I only have eyes for you.”

He sighs, finally smiling. "You better. I don't share."

Sae Itoshi

Sae barely reacts at first. His attention is focused elsewhere, absorbed in his own thoughts. The air around him feels calm, almost too calm, as he scrolls through his phone. Then, without looking up, he casually mutters.

"I’ve played against Bellingham before. He’s alright." His voice is indifferent, almost as if he's making a random observation rather than sharing a rare experience.

You snort, unable to hold it in. "Oh my god, you’re jealous."

"No," he replies immediately, not missing a beat, but his eyes flicker ever so slightly, betraying a hint of something deeper.

"Yes," you say, sure of yourself now, leaning back with a teasing grin. He exhales, looking at his phone with an almost exaggerated air of disinterest.

"Just saying," he begins, as though he’s offering some kind of wisdom, "You have a world-class footballer right here, and that’s who you repost?"

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. "You want me to repost you?"

He remains expressionless, his usual cool composure creeping back in.

You glance at his face for a moment. Then, after a beat of thought, you unlock your phone, and with a dramatic flourish, repost a bunch of his videos.

Ryusei Shidou

Shidou sees the repost and immediately grabs your phone.

"The hell is this?"

"An edit—hey, give that back!"

He scowls at the screen. "This is what you’re into?"

"He’s just a pretty good soccer player!"

"Yeah? Then I’m scoring a hat trick in the next game, and you’re gonna repost an edit of me," he declares. "With better music."

You roll your eyes. "Fine."

He grins. "Good. Now, gimme a kiss to prove I’m still your favorite."

Michael Kaiser

Kaiser isn’t worried.

At least, that’s what he tells himself, until he sees the edit in your reposts. His usual arrogance wavers for just a second.

"A Bundesliga player, huh?" he hums, recalling when Jude played for Borussia Dortmund at just seventeen years of age. He had to admit, it was really impressive.

You nod, scrolling through your phone. "Yeah, Bellingham is insane."

Kaiser leans in closer, whispering in your ear, "Not as insane as me, though."

Before you can reply, he grabs your phone, deletes the repost, and replaces it with an edit of himself.

You stare at your screen, bewildered. "Michael, did you just—"

He smirks, kissing your cheek. "You made a mistake. Don’t worry, I fixed it for you."

You roll your eyes. "You’re so dramatic."

"No, no," he says smoothly, wrapping an arm around your waist. "You’re just confused about who the superior player is."

You sigh. "Whatever you say, delulu man."

Kaiser grins. "And yet, here you are, still in love with me."

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yzzart · 1 year ago

Note

Love your Tom blyth fics an unhealthy amount!!! I’m picturing reader and Tom being all lovey dovey at the premiers but playing it off as really good bestfriends UNTIL she goes to kiss him on the cheek and in instinct he turns his head to kiss her on the lips so they just say fuck it and hard launch there and then x

"An unplanned situation."

pairing: tom blyth x actress!reader

summary: a small gesture, with a sweet intention, revealed a promising secret.

word count: 1.359!

notes: i started this request in the morning and only had the opportunity to finish it a few minutes ago, forgive me for that, anon! — i hope you like it and of course, feel free to share ideas with me!

"Y/N, look here!"

Another request, among others, screams and countless flashes, was directed to you; being, theoretically, almost impossible to identify who had demanded your image. — There were so many voices mixing, not to mention the music in the background, but, you tried your best to pay attention to most of the cameras.

However, it wasn't anything you weren't used to; something that has already been normalized in your life.— And during the premiere of The ballad of songbirds and snake it was no different, and it was splendid; simply perfect. — Not to mention, the feeling of gratitude that grew in your chest.

Cameras and cell phones captured your every movement, your poses and the way your perfectly chosen dress was valued and highlighted on your body. — And how it matched the color palette of the film. — Everything was being recorded, at the exact moment, posted and commented on all social networks.

You had the opportunity to meet, talk and take photos with some of the cast. — It was so pleasant, the company and unity that everyone developed during the filming of the film was inexplicable and so adorable; you were grateful to have worked with so many talented people. — There were some people who were absent, until now, in your eyes, but you would definitely meet them again on the carpet.

And, of course, your eyes roamed the decorated room, matching the elements of the film, and crowded in search of a specific person. — It wasn't exaggerated words to say that you were starting to feel uncomfortable because he was missed; and the cameras recorded it. — Silent questions, which would be written, formed in the minds of the presenters and photographers.

Your boyfriend had yet to appear on the red carpet; perhaps he is giving a quick and curious interview or greeting someone. — That's what was going on in your head.

You and Tom had a secret relationship, ever since you met behind the scenes, in front of the world and all the cameras that may exist in it; something that was so risky and at the same time adventurous. — And that, as incredible as it might seem, you knew how to disguise it in front of your fans; even though they gradually became suspicious with comments, interactions and behind-the-scenes photos.

They were either smart or you and Tom were too far over the line. — This question was not important or essential for the moment. — And you considered each other best friends for interviews or responses to comments; you tried your best.

And so, Rachel sent countless screenshots of tweets, which talked about or mentioned the relationship between you and Tom, to you. — It's impossible to deny how funny it was.

Persisting in continuing to look for him and for a few seconds, your eyes meet his blue and so charming irises. — Its shade of blue was a magnificent and beautiful combination; something you would never get tired of admiring. —And there was no other thing, or anyone, that could take his eyes off you.

As if the only thing that mattered at that moment was you. — And everything around him simply disappeared.

"There you are!" — Tom walked towards you, easily as there weren't so many people on the carpet, and an enthusiastic smile forming on his lips; also accompanied by cameras and intense flashes. — "And so beautiful!"

Holding a part of your long and dazzling dress so as not to hinder your steps, you met him, and without wasting any time, hugged him. — A common gesture, and not so different or strange, for the spectators; so, you thought. — Tom's arms went around your waist, holding your protectively for a little while, while your arms positioned themselves around his neck.

Tom's fragrance, which you liked so much, filled your nose; it felt so good, and you felt your eyes weaken, contaminated by it. — And the british man was aware of that.

"You look perfect, always." — The older man distanced himself, just a little, and brought his face closer to your ear, wanting only you to hear. — "The most beautiful woman that has ever crossed my eyes." — The lenses probably captured a reddish pigmentation on your cheeks and it was not part of your makeup.

You placed one of your hands on his chest, and looking directly into his eyes; that shone at you, and it wasn't just because of the influence of the lights in your direction. — Tom's gaze was sincere, and passionate, intensely fascinating you. — He conveyed what he felt most with just his eyes.

And that was one of the facts about him that you were passionate about and recognized very well.

"Oh, shut up!" — Raising your hand and resting it a little away from your mouth, you laughed a little embarrassed and looked back at the cameras; remembering that they remained there and you knew that later you would see your interaction with Tom on some social media.

Again, a thing and situation you were used to.

"Look at that camera!" — A voice mingled among others, which requested the same request, asking you to take some photos together; something that would feed news, fans and press.

At no point, minute or second, did you and Tom remain distant or apart from each other; always a few steps close, hugging each other for photos and certain looks, completely indiscreet. — Even during brief interviews, as Blyth mentioned you or your character's work, you were silently watching. — One of the interviewers even commented on how cute she thought it was.

Tom's hand was on your waist, holding and almost covering you, making a quick caress in a few seconds and one of your hands was still resting on his chest; and you continued, of course, to be the focus of the cameras.

Quickly, with the intention of changing your pose and trying something new and also to take advantage of the fact that Blyth's face was almost close to yours, you decide to place your pigmented lips on his cheeks. — Such a cute and friendly gesture, and so common. —But, automatically and hastily, Tom turned his face away at the same time, without having in mind what you were, in fact, planning. — God, it was a shock; an absurd and completely intense shock.

For the first time that night, in that place and on those cameras, your lips touched Tom's lips. — It was very quick, good and surprising; and that definitely left a cold, freezing air in your belly accompanied by a desperate feeling in your mind. — Rumor has it that smoke was coming out of his head. — It was a peck, a quick and simple kiss.

When you separated, hurriedly, your eyes met Tom's once again; who were a little wide-eyed, expressing surprise. — Looking for something to say or do, just like you. — And you watched his lips curve into an almost smile, as if he was trapping him.

Shouts of enthusiasm and some possible whistles echoed throughout the immense place, along with some looks and expressions of surprise at what had happened. — And some people were worried if they had recorded the exact moment, of course. — Your fans were probably commenting frantically about what happened.

You really didn't know what to do but at no point did you move away from your boyfriend — now, official to the public — and keep your hand on his chest; as if it were, in fact, planned.

"A nice way to reveal it, huh?" — Tom laughed, relaxed and without a feeling of discomfort or uneasiness, he still had his hand on your waist; and he still squeezed you, then leaving you with another caress. — "I think." — He didn't look at the cameras, his orbits focused only on you.

They have always focused on you, regardless of what is actually happening; and that will never change.

"A nice way to reveal." — You repeated your words, but, as an affirmation and certainty; maybe, seeing how relieved Tom was, and not showing some kind of distress, your chest calmed down and you felt safe.

And soon, you and Tom became one of the most talked about topics on social media.

#tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus #snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus imagine #the hunger games #the hunger games x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #ballad of songbirds and snakes

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randomsuggesteduseername · 6 months ago

Text

—RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW

❝ MASTERLIST ❞

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

wc: 4.7k

best friends to lovers, making out, slight smut,

prompts: “Kiss me to prove we’re not in love”

Your mouth might’ve ran faster than your brain could process it. At least that’s how it feels when you watch the blush spread over Steve’s cheeks, paired with a frown meant to help keep his composure. “You want me to kiss you?” His voice wavers slightly, checking in to see that his own brain didn’t produce that thought out of thin air. It’s been long since Steve’s felt this nervous and unsure of himself around you, usually he’s all flirty smiles and cheeky words, yet now he’s been reduced to a deafening silence.

“Yes, kiss me so we can prove once and for all that nothing is going on between us.” Arms crossed over your chest after placing the bowl of caramel popcorn down. The most indignant look on your face as you stare at him expectantly from your side of the couch. The blue-ish hue the tv casts onto Steve’s side profile highlights the way his eyes stay wide when the words slip out of your mouth. “We are not Harry and Sally.” You argue with a crooked brow which seems to earn an amused huff from him.

This all started when he brought a new tape home, the hottest release of the year ‘When Harry met Sally…’ At first glance, nothing but a simple rom-com, little did you know it would put you and your best friend in a position you’ve never thought you’d ever end up.

Steve’s been adamant about the movie the whole night, calling it a heartwarming love story, while you, thinking clearly, stood your ground and told him that it ruined the vision of friendship between men and women. Of course he didn’t get it, his love-deprived brain worked in ways you’ll never understand.

“Admit it…” His eyes swiped over your face quickly as his head leaned back against the couch and to the side to face you. That grin of his couldn’t be more cocky. “You’ve thought about me like that at least once.” Almost stating it rather than asking, you shove a foot into his hip, thanks to your laying down position along the length of the couch which kept him in your reach as he occupied the place left on the couch next to your feet. The ‘humf’ sound he makes instinctively at your shove has you rolling your eyes and looking back at the TV screen.

“Kill me if I ever do.” You deadpan, the look on your face is nothing less than serious. His accusation is absurd, how can he think that you’ve ever viewed him as anything other than your best friend? His hands raise in faux defeat with a slightly amused look on his face, his gaze pulling away from you, at least momentarily until you open your mouth to speak again. “You don’t believe me, do you? Oh my god, Harrington, you’re so arrogant!” Huffing, you get up from the couch, padding over the soft, fluffy carpet the Harringtons recently bought for their living room.

Despite the coffee table topped to the brim with snacks and drinks you feel the need for a glass of water instead of a sugary and fizzy beverage. “It’s not a good look on you at all.” You let him know as you tuck some hair behind your ear, pouring yourself a glass of water, hearing his voice ring out from the living room. “So you think I have good looks, huh?”

You’d roll your eyes again at him if you could, but something tells you you’ll end up with a headache if you keep doing that. Taking the glass back with you, you claim your spot onto the couch, this time your legs curling up next to you. The movie long forgotten as it keeps playing on the TV, now only serving illumination purposes, you’re stuck on the disagreement tonight’s movie started.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” You huff. He thinks it’s cute, he loves riling you up from time to time. “You’re crazy if you think I could ever be with you…” The words come out slightly harsher than intended, but he doesn’t seem to take it personal, only faking a gasp, his hand pressing over his heart to try to trick you into feeling guilty. You don’t, not even a little. “Oh honey, how can you be so mean to me?” He almost whines, pouty lips on display, his eyes almost glazing over with the puppy look he’s mastered at this point.

You know this is just ordinary messing around, he’s always poking and prodding you with his words, but something about his suggestion has shifted something inside you. Maybe it’s the thought that he thinks you’re in love with him which…quite frankly, is insane…right? Maybe it’s the way his rhetorics make you want to slap that grin off his face…or maybe, just maybe, instead of slapping you’d like to try a kiss first.

Instead of staring at his stupid brown eyes, you decide to busy yourself with the bowl of caramel popcorn, picking a handful. The taste melts on your tongue which brings you some sort of serenity for a few moments.

The idea which sparks into your head is not appropriate, far from it. What has got you thinking about kissing him again you think you’ll never know, but maybe that’s just the answer. A simple kiss to prove that whatever assumptions he has about your feelings are completely and utterly absurd.

So, you can blame him for pushing it, or you can blame yourself for being so stubborn about proving him wrong. Either way, it brings you back to his shocked face, the words already uttered and too late to be taken back without implying some sort of fear that his suggestion might be true after all. The long and awkward silence almost makes you jab him with a few teasing words, but the way he seems to be a bit shellshocked for the better part of a minute has you keeping it to yourself.

“Kiss you? As in, for real?” You smile, amused by his tone as you nod, the thought brings some butterflies into your stomach but you just assume it’s nerves from having to kiss your best friend. “I’m serious— right here, right now. To get that stupid idea out of your head.” You explain as if it’s the sanest and most logical explanation for this. “It’ll prove we’re not capable of being attracted to one another and that nothing will ever happen between us.”

Steve, after seemingly coming out of his momentarily catatonic state, has already masked his shocked expression and covered it up with that smile you know so well. Shifting to face you on the couch, one leg underneath himself, he seems to be contemplating this before he runs a hand through his hair. “Makes sense.” That’s the conclusion he seems to arrive at as he scoots closer to you on the couch.

The room is still mostly covered by darkness, which makes it harder to see his facial expressions and how his eyes dip to your lips briefly, as if already setting his target on them. His arm is laid over the back of the couch, coming to a stop in front of you once his knee bumps your ankles, making you change your position as you cross your legs and face him too. It doesn’t feel as intimate as the moments before a first kiss should feel, but once again, he’s your best friend…nothing more.

“Wait…” His voice comes out laced with concern, brows pulling together slightly. “Are you sure you won’t fall in love?” Steve asks and you can’t help but let out the breath you’ve been holding up until now, your hand smacking his bicep still settled on the back of the couch. “Oh I'll be fine, not so sure about you though.” Now it’s his time to roll his eyes though you notice the way his lips curl up and his bottom lip tucks between his teeth for a brief moment.

“Alright, Casanova, could you just get to it?” He nods and adjusts his position, not really sure how he needs to approach this. The hand settled in his lap skirts up over your arm, ultimately finding its place on your chin. The way he holds it so gingerly between his thumb and index makes you feel that there’s this sort of nervousness in him just the way it’s in you too. But this is just a kiss to prove him wrong, nothing else.

His eyes find yours and then he’s leaning in, waiting for your reaction, waiting to be shoved away or chided for actually trying to kiss you, but the closer he gets it dawns on him that you want— no, need this to prove him wrong. It bothers him slightly to know you’ll go as far as kissing him to prove that you’re not in love with him and never will be, but he can’t help the sudden thought which pops into his mind, uninvited.

Pulling back slightly to put some distance between your faces again, your eyes narrow curiously, a tinge of annoyance on your features too. “This won’t make it awkward between us, right?” His question makes you sigh, wondering if this whole thing is really a good idea or if it’s just going to make things worse. The last thing you need is to lose your best friend over some stupid rom-com.

“No, Steve, it won’t change anything between us because it doesn’t mean anything.” You assure him, finding it in you to be understanding of his worries. He nods, accepting that it’ll be done and you’ll never speak of it again.

He’s getting into position again, more shuffling and scruffing over the couch as you find a way to rest your legs against one another comfortably. Steve’s hand lifts to your chin again, keeping hold of it softly as he takes one last look at you, starting his approach again. You don’t feel the nerves anymore, truthfully you don’t feel anything, further proving your point that you don’t have any feelings towards him.

You let your eyes fall shut, expecting his kiss as you breach your hand on his knee, not feeling his breath hitch the slightest bit at your touch. It’s so brief that you almost miss it. A chaste peck which only meets your lips for a second. Your eyes open once his hand pulls away and clears his throat, not saying anything.

You should be happy that you felt absolutely nothing during the kiss, yet it still leaves you with a sort of empty, unsatisfied feeling in your chest. You dare to look at him again, a few beats passing before you notice the soft blush dusting his cheeks, though it might as well be the light from the TV.

“See? Nothing.” You press your hands to your thighs, subtly drying them against the material of your sweats as he seemingly agrees with you. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you gaze forwards before your mouth opens again. “You know, that wasn’t really a kiss. Like, a proper kiss.” You twitch your nose as you don’t dare look at him.

“Mhm, yeah…” His bottom lip is stuck between his teeth, the plush flesh catching your interest as it falls freely back into its place. “You’re totally right, we should probably try again.” The thinking process seems to be logical, as if the possibility of looking for another excuse to kiss each other is not even on the table right now. Just two friends making sure they’re not in love, right?

“Okay then, kiss me like you’d kiss Becky, Tina or Amy. Just pretend I’m one of them.” The words make him dizzy. How can he pretend to kiss you like you’re just some girl he wants to spend his night with? You’re so much more than that, though at the same time less. Your connection is too strong to one another, and as if reading his mind, you speak again. “Maybe not like that. But just kiss me like a girl you’re in love with.” His huff comes out with just the right amount of humour.

“I can do that…I think.” His tongue comes out to wet his lips, the way he’s looking at you feels a bit more intimate now. “Get to it then.” You try to joke as you take a deeper breath, his body already close to yours, making it easier for him to reach out.

The way his skin feels on yours when he cups the side of your face should be the first indicator that this kiss is going to be much different from the first. As if reading your thoughts, his thumb swipes over your cheekbone almost tenderly, eyes falling shut in time with one another, you’re left with the darkness of your eyelids, focusing solely on your other senses.

The musky smell of Steve’s slept in clothes and lingering wafts of toothpaste on his breath, the warm encompassing feeling of his palm on your cheek and the low hum of unintelligible voices since the movie is still playing. The tip of his sharp nose is now tracing over the contour of yours, whereas the first time it was merely just a clumsy bump. You refrain a shudder successfully and you let him go on, carrying a sort of curiosity about what King Steve does to these girls to have them in a chokehold.

And then it happens again, that chaste press of lips on lips, though you keep still and lightly press yourself closer. Just as fast as it comes it goes again, making you furrow your brows. “I th—“ The words get swallowed by him as Steve leans in again, more purposeful, carrying more intent.

Something trashes wildly in your stomach, dare you say butterflies as he parts his lips slightly, coaxing you into a slower open mouthed kiss. You don’t mind, letting him take the lead, following his pace, you’re pleasantly surprised when his tongue tries to enter the mix. You welcome it with your own, brushing wetly over one another while his lips seal over yours.

Without realising, you let your hands come up, one hooking against the back of his neck while the other pushes greedily into his hair. You’re not sure how long it goes on for, though you surely get lost in the way he’s treating you like you mean something more to him. The way his hands touch you, stroking your cheek and holding your hip, the position is still somewhat awkward and stiff, having to meet in the middle, but you don’t mind it that much.

Clearly he does, having to pull you closer, making you slip into his lap to get more comfortable. Settling on his thighs, your knees dig into the leather of his couch while his head tilts back to reach you better. You’re sure your lips will soon turn numb from his ministrations in which you both seem to get lost, clearly forgetting the whole reason you got into the argument in the first place.

Feeling him up, your hands drift over his shoulders and down to his chest, giving the briefest squeeze on it which has him taking a deeper breath in, making you smile against his lips. You’ve fallen into a rhythm, getting accustomed to one another, but everything freezes in place when you hear him.

Confusion etched into your features, your brows twitch together momentarily. “Did you…moan?” The question seems absurd since you’ve heard it clear as day, you couldn’t have missed the way it made your insides clench, your eyes searching his face as you watch the tips of his ears and his cheeks flush a deep red. “Well we’ve been shoving our tongues down each other’s throats, sorry for getting distracted.” He defends, trying to sound as if it’s your fault, looking away to hide the embarrassed look on his face.

Gazing down at him, you take a breath and shift, unintentionally brushing over his lap, his hands tighten on your hips if it’s any indicator to the torment he’s going through. Your lips out of reach, unsure if you’ll even kiss him again after his slip up, your body nothing but a teasing, heating pressure which would be embarrassing to let affect him. But oh how can he keep it together when you’re set on ruining him?

He thinks you know what you’re doing, not when you stare down at him for a brief moment, giving him the idea that you do want him, not when you shift over his lap, and not even when you breach your hands on his shoulders and push him to lay back again, but when your lips press against his for a third time which has his mind rebooting, trying to keep up with the pace you’re setting.

The idea that this was supposed to be just a kiss is now forgotten, the only thing that seems to matter now is kissing his best friend like she’s a girl he’s in love with. Surprisingly, he doesn’t even find it that hard to do, though he doesn’t have the faintest idea as to why.

You can’t help but grab hold of his locks again, so silky and soft through your fingers, giving them the slightest tug experimentally. This time when Steve feels it, he doesn’t moan, not even grunt, what he does though is shamelessly grind up against you. You’d stop the kiss to ask him if he’s hard, but it all feels so good, the way he’s encompassing you in his arms, how he shifts the slightest bit down towards your jaw, in search of sensitive skin. Nails digging lightly into the back of his neck, you gasp when his mouth leaves yours properly and latches onto your neck, lost in the bliss of it all, you grind down again which is enough to make Steve lose his mind.

“Fuck, don’t do that,” His breath sounds strained. “can’t take it—“ His murmur is a rumble against your skin, your whole body warming up at the idea that your best friend can’t contain himself after a simple kiss. Your thighs try to squeeze together at the sound of his voice, instead, squeezing his hips.

Heart drumming, you feel his lips finish up the work on your skin and it doesn’t hit you that it’ll leave a mark, you’re too preoccupied with the way his hands help you grind over his lap to notice. There’s a fire growing between both of you, low and slow, simmering dangerously close.

There’s sudden silence, the tape has no doubt ended, leaving you in a way too intimate silence, only filled by the grunts and gasps shared between you. You know it’s wrong, you shouldn’t be letting a simple kiss get the better of you but Steve doesn’t seem to be bothered at all, letting his needs guide him into stealing another greedy kiss.

Getting light headed, unsure if from his passionate kiss or the lack of oxygen, you’re forced to part, a thin string of spit splitting between the two of you as you look at one another, realising just how wrecked and ravished you both look.

His strands are sticking up at odd angles, his lips flushed a deeper red from all the kissing, just enough to match his cheeks. The collar of his shirt is stretched out a bit, showing a part of his collarbone from where you’d fisted his shirt. The way he’s looking up at you makes it seem like he’s begging for more, his body certainly is with the way he’s still pressing between your thighs, feeling that he’s fighting to contain himself for the sake of the dignity he has left.

Forcing down the lump in your throat with a harsh swallow, you force yourself to move off of him, sliding next to him onto the couch. Settling your hands in your lap, you toy with your fingers, gazing up at the ceiling as he does the same, waiting in silence until your breathing slows down and your mind is a bit more clear.

“You’re a nice kisser,” You mumble the compliment. Calling it nice would be a gross understatement but that’s all you can manage at the moment. Two, Three beats pass before he conjures up a response. “Thanks, you too…nice,”

“Great, um…I guess we proved my point.” Only now remembering what got you in this mess in the first place, you blink and look for your glass of water before you take a sip, the room temperature liquid feeling cold as you drink.

Stubborn.

That’s exactly what you are. It’s been three days since you and Steve broke the dam and started a metaphorical flood of thoughts and feelings. You haven’t seen him since, not that you’re looking forward to the awkward silence and new weird dynamic. Some part of you wishes you’d just accepted the defeat without having to prove anything, while the other can’t help but think back to that kiss, maybe the best one of your life.

It’s on Saturday night that Robin calls and invites you over for a movie night. Just the mere thought of it has your blood warming up, but you can’t let him keep you away from your shared friend group. You’ll just have to…ignore him.

Easier said than done.

You rode with Eddie, he never has a problem with picking you up, but he does give you a strange look when you hop in his van as if to say ‘Where’s Harrington?’ Since the two of you always come together, wherever you go, he’s there and vice versa.

With a hammering heart, you let yourself in as you always do and greet Robin with a smile, subtly looking over her shoulder as she speaks, trying to see if he’s already here. Snapping back to the conversation, you follow her to the couch as she rambles off about whatever tape she ‘borrowed’ from Family Video, though it always ends up thrown somewhere in her room, gathering dust.

Settling in the middle of the couch, You watch as Robin takes a seat next to you, telling Eddie to prepare the tape and bring the bowls of snacks over. Finally settling into the familiar energy, you laugh, entertaining Robin’s absurd thoughts and jokes, but soon enough it’s interrupted as the door opens and closes again, Eddie’s still occupying his usual armchair so it can’t by anyone else than him…

Clammy hands drying on your thighs, you look back as his voice comes out, greeting the three of you as he apologises for being late. You know him, and you’d be inclined to say that you do it best, but looking at him right now, you can’t seem to be able to read him anymore. All you can see is those big hands that grabbed and squeezed at you, those walnut strands which you tugged at, pulling the prettiest of sounds from him, and those eyes…oh how you’re lost in them until Robin boops the tip of your nose, flushing in embarrassment as you pretend they didn’t catch you staring with heart eyes at your best friend.

“Okay, come on, let's watch this already.” You huff, as if you’re impatient to see the movie, but in reality, you’re only thinking about the lights being dimmed so the blush on your cheeks won’t be on full display anymore. You’re cursed with having to squeeze into Robin’s two person couch with her and Steve, each of them pressing closely into your sides, Steve’s arm laying over the back of the couch.

The movie isn’t great, not even close to what Robin’s promised it to be. Proof of that is Eddie drooling on himself as he sleeps peacefully in the armchair, and Robin’s head pressing against your shoulder as she rests with soft snores coming out of her. You wonder how you’re still awake yourself, but the heat radiating off Steve’s body is enough to keep you alert for almost an hour.

“Should we turn this off?” He asks as he gazes at the screen with a sort of bored confusion on his face. You nod and watch him as he gets up, using the opportunity to let Robin lay comfortably on the couch as you slip away from the living room and find yourself walking away, moving towards the bathroom but before you can lock yourself there, you hear his voice.

“Can we talk?” His question seems to slip out like he doesn’t want to go through the conversation either, but it’s eating him up, having to keep his distance from you. Telling yourself it’ll be okay, you turn on your heel and nod, heading to Robin’s room as he follows closely.

Once the door is closed, leaving the two of you alone, you dare to lift your gaze, swallowing thickly while he seems to be looking for the right words. “Did I make things awkward between us? You know, like after we uh— made out?”

“No…no, it’s just, It’s fine…really.” You rush to assure him, he doesn’t believe it one bit, your voice wavers as he steps closer and tilts his head with a concerned furrow in his brows. “Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like that, you can barely look at me and you haven’t called to spend the night in like………forever.” He argues, knowing you always have sleepovers, especially now in the summer.

“Steve, it’s been four days…” You smile lightly as you correct him, seemingly overestimating for how long you’ve been apart, though for him it surely feels like a drawn out eternity meant to make him suffer in your absence. “Exactly!” He huffs as if you can’t seem to understand just how much he’s missed you.

He’s got you, it’s a curse that he knows you this well. Maybe you can’t lie your way out of this, not when he’s watching you like a hawk, trying to find the source of the problem as always. He hates to see you upset, even more so when he knows it might be his fault.

“C’mon, when did you stop telling me what’s bothering you?” The way his tone seems to be a bit hurt makes you look at him, now he’s much closer, his hand reaching for yours as he tugs you gently towards him. You’re not sure you can say anything that will justify your actions, so you don’t. Gazing down at the way his hand swallows yours up completely, your chest swarms with butterflies as he toys with your fingers gently. Want takes over your mind, clouding your judgement as you gaze up at him, opening your mouth to speak.

Knowing no words will ever compare to what you want to do, you push yourself up on your tiptoes and grab hold of his shoulder, leaning in to connect your lips again just like you did three nights ago. Despite the sudden movement, he doesn’t seem to be too shocked, quick with returning the kiss as his hands settle instinctively on your waist to make sure you stay close.

Giving his shoulder a squeeze, you cup the side of his face with your free hand and lean more into him. Letting him walk you back until you bump into the wall, you sigh into the kiss and pull his head down to reach him better. A fuzzy feeling takes over your brain as you let yourself enjoy the moment, feeling Steve’s wandering hands advance, you cling to him for support and arch, saying his name in a soft whisper.

Letting your hands slide up under his shirt, fingers tracing soft skin, gripping at his strong back as Steve occupies himself with pawing at your thighs and waist.

Your bodies pressing and tangling warmly, finally feeling the freedom to touch him like you’ve always known you wanted deep in your heart, humming softly as he lets a relaxed sigh slip from his lips. Minutes pass before a sudden thump, followed by a grumpy Robin cursing, travels through her small apartment.

You break apart with a groan and bite your lip, gazing at him as he seems to resent the interruption too. “We should get back out there before they realise we’re missing.” He knows you’re right, but the way you look like you hate the idea, carrying that soft pout on your lips which has his heart melting makes him dip his head to catch your lips in another kiss, this time softer. “Mhm, in a minute.”

And how can you turn him down when he’s so adamant about kissing you?

#steve harrington #stranger things #joe keery #steve harrington fanfic #fem reader #steve x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things season four #stranger things fic #⋆⑅˚₊ stevie

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thoughtfulfiction · 4 months ago

Text

Carpe Diem

Author’s Note: We all miss him. So I wrote the most romantic thing I’ve ever written.

A glass of chilled Savasana California Rosé sat in front of you, its diluted pink hue a stark contrast to the sweet yet crisp taste. With a fork in hand you begin to dig into the chicken parmesan with strozzapreti pasta, the chunky tomato sauce brings a rich and comforting smell that shifts your attention from the constant hum of the plane's engine. Eating dinner on a plane like this—silverware instead of plastic cutlery, wine served in real glass—felt oddly surreal. This whole trip did, like you’d stumbled into someone else’s life.

You hadn’t always pictured yourself in this life—a corner office in Berkeley, managing accounts worth millions and rubbing elbows with executives. The internship you’d applied for during your junior year of college was meant to be a stepping stone, a way to pad your resume and have something cool to look back on the future. You hadn’t expected it to become the foundation of a career at a place ranked 7th among the largest biomedical companies by revenue in the world. And here you were sipping rosé in first class on your way to a solo vacation in Greece. Somehow, it had all come together. Your first year making six figures was surreal enough, but now the freedom to spend it on something like this felt even more unbelievable.

The hotel room you would be calling home for the next few days was stretched out like it came straight out of a travel magazine. Everything about it screamed neutral paradise, highlighting the warmth of the space. Plush pillows stacked neatly atop the Temper-Pedic king sized bed that earned the hotel all five of its stars with just one glance. The open layout gave the impression of a private condo, complete with a sleek mini bar and an espresso machine that practically begged to be used. The view from the top floor was breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling glass windows that made way for the vibrant blue skies that allowed the sun to shine at it's greatest capacity, reflecting off the marble from the streets of southern Athens below. And the colors were so dynamic; olive groves, fields of breathtaking wildflowers and citrus trees brought the city to life. Everything reminded you of a landscape painting, it was all so perfect you almost had to pinch yourself to make sure you were really here.

But before your Athens takeover could really commence, you needed a nap. Or three.

Day one passed in a blissful haze of recovery. After a nap that could have doubled as a small coma, you walked by the hotel’s pool, taking in the sparkling water and the soft chatter of other guests lounging under striped umbrellas. Breakfast that morning was a feast fit for royalty, an omelet folded to perfection, fresh fruit that tasted like sunshine, and Moustokouloura, a pastry so rich and sweet it felt like dessert at dawn. The concierge insisted you try Greek coffee, and when the steaming cup arrived at your door, its strong, earthy aroma greeted you like a wake-up call from the gods. You took it to the patio, sipping as you let the city below slowly introduce itself. This is exactly where you're supposed to be. Athens was filled with color, sound, and possibility. This was freedom, pure and simple.

Feeling refreshed on your second morning after some extensive Tik Tok research about things to do in Athens, you walked around the streets of Plaka, by far the most recommended place on the site. And it didn't take long for you to understand why. The neighborhood was a collection of some of the most beautiful brick buildings, an array of restaurants with uniquely placed outdoor seating. The air carried the mingling scents of fresh pita, grilling souvlaki, and blooming jasmine. Laughter and snippets of conversation floated from café tables spilling onto the sidewalks, where diners lingered over plates of mezes and glasses of ouzo. You walked slowly, admiring every square inch of the place like you were going to commit every detail to memory, stumbling upon a store with random trinkets you figured you could take home to your friends and tell them what they were getting themselves into when you all would be in Greece together eventually. Now that you'd experienced this on your own, you couldn't wait to share this experience with them next time. The first person you spotted when you walked in was a tall man, well over six feet, broad shoulders with his back facing the door. He was sexy from the back which meant...no. You shook yourself out of the daydream about what this man could possibly look like because of course men in Greece looked better. That was some sort of law or something based on every movie you'd ever seen. The book shelf at the front of the store caught your eye first, a Greek guide book with common phrases for tourists to know, things that maybe Duolingo wouldn't think of so you grabbed it, scanning the pages for useful information. You tried to focus on the guidebook in your hands, but your nerves betrayed you. An older man’s gaze prickled at your skin, a quiet warning sounding in your mind. Maybe it was nothing, you told yourself. He could just be a curious local. But by the third lap around the shop and you could still feel his eyes in you, the goosebumps on your arms had turned into a full-blown alarm.

The man was closer now, his steps too deliberate to be a coincidence. By the time he spoke, his voice was low and overly familiar, the kind of tone that made your stomach twist. “Hi. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I just... couldn’t help noticing you.”

You swallowed thickly, hoping to keep the conversation short, sweet and with as little personal information exchanged as humanly possible. "Yes. Just visiting," you force out a smile.

"Ah I see, those are pretty," he gestures toward the necklaces in your hand, "pretty necklaces for a pretty lady. Does the pretty lady have a name?"

"Um," you wanted to take a step back, you wanted to walk away, but there was literally no way out of this situation because he was standing in between you and the exit. And for some reason you couldn't think of a fake name off the top of your head to give him. "It's—”

“Oh hey, babe. There you are,” a deep voice interrupted. Your head whipped around, and there he was—broad shoulders, a jawline sharp enough to rival a Greek statue. He had the kind of easy confidence that made your heart skip a beat. Mr. Broad Shoulders slid his arm around you, his touch casual but protective, the warmth of his hand anchoring you in place but doubling your pulse rate for a different reason. “Thought you wanted those charm bracelets, but you disappeared on me.”

“I got distracted.” Your gaze flickered upward, caught on the sun-kissed curl falling across his forehead. He smelled faintly of cinnamon, like he’d been leaning over a freshly lit candle moments before swooping in to save you.

The man takes a look at the two of you and apologizes, walking away without a second glance. You let out a sigh of relief, "thanks for the save, I really didn't know what to do and you just-I really appreciate it."

"No worries, I saw him following you around and thought it was weird. Glad I could help."

You look around to make sure the man from before, spotting him circling the back area with the pasties. "It's...very weird. He didn’t seem like he’d back down that easily."

“I’m Joe, by the way. Since I’m your boyfriend now, that seems like something you should know.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Yeah, probably. Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Y/N, your very grateful girlfriend.”

Joe leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant just for you. “He’s still watching us. Mind if I sell this a little more?” Without waiting for an answer, he adjusted his grip, his arm tightening around your shoulders like he’d been holding you this way forever. It was seamless, effortless, entirely too convincing. And it left you speechless. All you could do was nod, looking up at him, thinking about how this guy might be the most gorgeous person you've ever seen.

The two of you moved around the store aimlessly, the conversation flowing like you’d known each other for longer than half an hour. Joe explained he’d been in Greece for a few days, taking time to decompress after a grueling work season. “Sometimes, I just need to step away,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity that struck a chord.

“I get that,” you replied, sharing your own story of navigating your career and this newfound independence. You admitted, almost sheepishly, that sometimes your job didn’t feel like work because it aligned with your passions so perfectly. Joe nodded, his expression softening. “That’s how I feel,” he said. “I mean, this year it really magnified that for me. But sometimes when things don't go the way you hoped or planned, it makes the sacrifices worth more. Like not having as much free time when I'm working. Now, I have endless free time."

There was something magnetic about him—not just the broad shoulders and effortless charm, but the way he seemed so present. Every touch felt intentional, whether it was his hand on your back as you navigated tight spaces or his offer to buy the travel book you’d been thumbing through. You felt a strange sense of familiarity, like you’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t quite place it.

After carefully deliberating over the trinkets, you settled on matching necklaces for your friends. On your way to the register, a woman approached, her expression warm and animated.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she began, “but I just had to tell you—you two make the most stunning couple. The way you look at each other, it’s just... beautiful. Are you here on an anniversary trip?”

“One year,” Joe answered without hesitation, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he squeezed your hand.

“That’s incredible! Congratulations!” the woman gushed. “Athens is the perfect place to explore as a couple. Do you have plans yet?”

You chimed in, “Not really. We were just going to see where the day takes us.”

The woman nodded enthusiastically and rattled off recommendations, from must-visit landmarks to hidden culinary gems. You took notes on your phone, her suggestions igniting your excitement for the day ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe watched you with a kind of awe. The way your face lit up when you talked about exploring the city tugged at something deep inside him.

He’d spent the last four days locked away in his room, trying to process a season that had been equal parts triumph and heartbreak. It wasn’t just the physical toll of the game—it was the sting of being so close to the pinnacle and falling short. They had gone from 4-8 to 9-8 in what felt like the blink of an eye. The unmet expectations that he had for the team dulled his personal success a bit and he needed to escape after watching other teams prepare for their playoff runs while he cleaned out his locker. He just wanted to recharge and regroup…alone. And here you were, an unexpected spark in the midst of his self-imposed solitude.

When the woman finally bid you goodbye, you hesitated. Should you ask him to join you? The idea of spending the day with a stranger—no matter how kind and gorgeous—felt bold, maybe too bold. But being alone again felt... unbearable. You decided against asking because the thought of rejection was a step above unbearable, if at all possible.

“Well,” you began, your voice faltering slightly, “I guess this is it. I should probably head to my next stop now that I have a to-do list.” You forced a small laugh, keeping your gaze on the floor.

Joe nodded, his smile tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I hope you check off everything on your list.”

He watched you walk away, his chest tightening with each step. He wanted to stop you, to ask you to stay, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was stand there, frozen, as the door swung open.

You paused just before stepping outside. Something tugged at you—a feeling that walking away now would be a mistake.

Turning back, you smiled shyly. “I just realized... how am I supposed to experience Athens to its full potential without my boyfriend? On our anniversary trip, no less?”

Joe’s laugh was warm, easy. “No idea. Luckily, I think I know someone who can help.”

“You’re always so helpful. I feel like I won the dating lottery.”

“Can’t disagree,” he teased, his grin widening.

“Alright,” you said, nudging him playfully, “let’s get out of here before your head gets so big it doesn’t fit through the door.”

He walked out with you, allowing you to lead the way to your first stop.

Fairytale Athens looked like an intense mix between the Garden of Eden and Alice in Wonderland. "This is...wow," Joe quips, the vast array of flowers on the ceiling, the pink bar area and the flamingos. So many flamingos.

You could tell by his tight expression that this place isn't really his scene. "We're not here for two hours of afternoon tea or anything," you reassure him with a smile, "Dimitra said that we should grab drinks before walking around Acropolis and that..." you glance at the menu in front of you, "...strawberry ginger lemonade? That might be calling my name." He shakes his head and orders a mint and cucumber lemonade for himself, your lemonade and two waters as you walk around the princess castle, taking as many pictures as possible before Joe walked back over with all four drinks in hand before heading to the incredibly famous tourist attraction.

The package you paid for allowed you to skip the line and head through a side entrance, your tour guide walking you through the history of the ancient sights along with details about the architectural styles, construction techniques, and the symbolism of the monuments. The faint echo of the voices highlighted the rich history of the place you were standing in, the warm air a stark contrast to the cool lemonade in your hand. It seemed like Joe was hanging onto every word as he helped you up some steep ancient steps, his eyes lighting up as the guide drove you over to the museum, going into depth about the Gods.

"This exhibit is Gods, Worship and Magic, one of the most popular sites this year. You guys can walk around and read about the different deities featured." Artemis' exhibit, caught your eye first.

Glancing down at the steel plaque, "goddess of the hunt, devoted to nature. Were you ever a Percy Jackson fan growing up?"

"I was more of a SpongeBob guy. And Star Wars. Definitely had a dinosaur phase that lasted a lot longer than I care to share," he looks up, wondering why in the hell he just told you that. "Do—do you have any humiliating stories you'd like to share with the class?"

He nudged you as you walked alongside him, his hand so dangerously close to yours. You had the biggest urge to reach out and touch him. So you did. Reaching out maybe an inch, you interlocked your pinky with his, making his heart take a leap in his chest, swinging your hands happily towards the Eros exhibit. "The god of—”

"Love and desire," he finishes for you. Just because he wasn’t a Percy Jackson fanatic, doesn’t mean he didn’t pay close attention to the Greek mythology unit in school.

"Look at the hands," you said softly, leaning in closer. "It's like they're...perfectly fit for each other, you know?"

Joe's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He was standing so close now, the faint scent of mint and cucumber from his lemonade mingling with the earthy air of the exhibit. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice warm and low, "I know what you mean."

Your pinkies were still hooked, but now the little space between you felt electrified. You didn't dare turn to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might see—or what he might see in yours.

"I do have an embarrassing thing to share with the class," you turn to face him and admire the excited look on his face, like what you're about to say is the most important thing in the world. "When I was little I was obsessed with Mama Mia." He gives you a puzzled look. "It's a musical that they turned into a movie. Anyway...it's about a girl that's getting married in a small town in Greece and the views just..." you pause, smiling at the memory, "...changed my life. I've always wanted that magical movie moment feeling. The music, the views, the…”

"Romance?" he finishes softly, a knowing look in his eyes.

You exhale, your cheeks warming as you nod. "Yeah...the romance. It was nice too." You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. "Doesn’t really compare to the real thing, though," you add, barely above a whisper.

The weight of the moment lingers between you. His gaze searches yours, his expression softening like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Your heart stumbles, and suddenly you feel too seen. You clear your throat, breaking the spell. "I'm, uh, getting kind of hungry. We should grab lunch and head to the next spot."

Joe blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, like he wasn't ready for the shift. "Yeah, sure," he says, his voice gentler now. He watches you for a second longer than you'd expect, then nods. As you walk back to meet the tour guide, Joe finds himself wondering how you’ve managed to unravel him so quickly, leaving him wondering why he already feels so invested in figuring you out.

When you get into the Uber it's like a weight has been lifted off your chest. The museum, which was supposed to be a calm and educational experience was too stuffy and intimate by the end of the visit. In the car, you could have your own space, sitting as close to the door as you could to gather yourself and your thoughts. The driver was nice enough, he had chargers in the car and gave you water bottles, noting that the heat would steadily increase throughout the day. You noticed him stealing glances at Joe in the rearview mirror, his hands tightening on the wheel like he was holding back words. The silence stretched until finally—“I’m sorry, man. I just gotta say…” he finally utters out, "I've been a Bengals fan since I was 8. And I woke up at ungodly hours to watch you play every week. Huge, huge fan."

You laughed at yourself in your seat, the pieces of the puzzle being put together. All of your focus had been on the day, spending every waking minute together and you didn't even fully process why he looked so familiar because the odds of that just sounded too insane to be real. Joe managed a polite smile, his usual ease replaced with a flicker of discomfort. You glanced at him, watching his jaw tighten just slightly as he signed the hat, the faintest blush creeping up his neck. Did he worry you’d see him differently now?

The car stopped near a bustling square lined with food trucks and small cafes. The aroma of grilled meat and spices wafted through the air as you wandered, your eyes drawn to colorful menus. It didn’t take long for the debate to begin.

"Joseph, the mini burgers are definitely better than the souvlaki cones. Be serious."

"No they aren't!" He argues, "you just need to try another one, here."

The souvlaki cone was tender and smoky, the tzatziki tangy and cool against the heat of the pork. But the burger—crispy bacon, the creamy richness of the mayo—felt indulgent, almost sinful. You savored every bite, laughing at Joe’s mock-offended gasp when you declared it the winner. "I hear you and I respect your wrong opinion. But the burger is just better I'm sorry. Do you want another bite?"

He shakes his head slowly, admiring you while you did such a mundane task, silently cursing himself at the fact that he chartered a plane to leave early the next morning. The two of you needed more time together. One day just wasn't going to be enough and the more time he spent with you the more apparent that fact became.

And then you took him on a boat.

It rocked gently, but Joe’s hands gripped the edge of the seat like the waves were threatening to tip them over. His gaze darted toward the horizon, avoiding the churning water below. “You’re really not a boat guy, huh?” you teased, your voice softening when his fingers tightened further. "I'm so sorry I had no idea. But Joe? We're literally in Greece, it's like, treason not to get on a boat here."

"Exactly, so I'm abiding by the law. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it."

Your hand found his thigh in a quiet attempt to reassure him, and you felt the tension slowly drain from his muscles. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, but the way his leg leaned ever so slightly into your touch sent a warmth through you that lingered long after. Aegina’s coastline unfolded before you, the white-washed buildings glowing under the sun, expansive trees swaying in the breeze. Joe stepped out first, offering his hand. His grip was firm, steadying you until your feet found the solid ground. You smiled up at him, the unspoken connection between you stronger than ever.

Just as Dimitra had described to you before, the pottery studio was tucked in a quiet corner of the island. Inside, the walls were lined with vibrant pottery, each bowl and vase a testament to countless hands shaping their stories, their glazes gleaming softly in the sunlight as you and Joe grabbed seats toward the back of the room. The instructor's notes were simple, to mold an item of your choice to keep at the end of the session, giving everyone creative freedom to produce a piece of their heart's desire. The clay felt cool to the touch, it's sticky and wet texture balanced wonderfully with the earthy smell that made your experience all the more relaxing and fun. Joe on the other hand, was creating a bowl with a lopsided shape, "it's supposed to look like this," he said firmly, biting back a laugh as you tried (and failed) to keep a straight face.

"Abstract art is still art. I just thought maybe...a quarterback would be better with his hands," you teased.

"Oh yeah? Let's see your work, Picasso." He took a break from his work station to scoot closer to yours, "shit, that actually looks pretty good."

You clean your hands off and move over to his station when he sets his chair back down. "I worked at my uncle's ceramic shop when I was little. It was his passion project so we all had to pitch in as a family and take turns," you helped guide his hand along the bowl, allowing him to smooth over the ridges efficiently evening out some of the misshapen parts. "I'm not saying I’m an expert by any means but I can get you to a point where your bowl can sit up by itself." Your fingers brushed his as you guided his hand, the soft pressure of your touch steadying his movements. Together, the ridges of the bowl began to smooth, though neither of you seemed in a hurry to let go. By the end of the session both bowls were done to the best of your ability, sort of bowl shaped, sort of not and full of personality.

"You’re good at this," Joe says, watching as continued to shape your bowl.

"Good at pottery?" you ask, laughing.

"Good at making things feel...easier," he replies softly. The pottery, he thought to himself, sort of mirrored your time together-unpolished, imperfect, but full of potential and that was both exciting and daunting. After your hands were clean, he grabbed your phone and snapped a picture of the two of you showing off your bowls.

"I was scared when you mentioned doing this at first, but I actually really enjoyed that. This," he gestures to his masterpiece, "is going up somewhere, maybe next to the trophy case at my parent's house. Funny enough, they also live in Athens. Ohio, not Greece," he clarifies.

"You might've missed your true calling," you tell him with a laugh, "here you are wasting your talents on football when the art community needs you."

"Yeah...sure," he laughs, holding onto the bags with your now fully dry bowls in them. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'm ready to quit my day job. Quite frankly, I don't think the art world is ready for me yet. Although working that clay could have been really good wrist rehab."

There it was, that can of worms you'd been trying to navigate. You didn't want to push him to talk about the season or his job if he didn't want to. And now the door was open for you to ask. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to but...was it scary? You know, putting your entire life, all of your free time, your dedication to this one thing that you're obviously really good at. Putting in all that work and then one day it's all just...taken away from you?"

He stops walking for a bit and your breath hitches in your throat, fearing that you've pushed him too far. At the end of the day you were still a stranger to him and maybe that was too personal?

You could tell the question was kind of eating at him, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

"No it's fine. I just…yeah. I was terrified for a little bit. No one had been through this before—not at my position, not at this level. I had no blueprint, no one to turn to for advice. It felt like— walking on a tightrope in the dark, hoping I wouldn’t fall.

“The scariest part wasn’t the pain or the rehab," Joe admits. "It was not knowing if I’d still be...me when it was all over."

You tilt your head, searching his face. "You mean, the quarterback?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. Just...me. Without football, I really didn’t know who that was, how I was going to navigate fame and my private life and everything in between that comes with being me. Whatever that means. And I had an uncomfortably long amount of time to figure it out. Now that the wrist and my health is not an issue anymore and with everything that happened during the season I just felt drained afterwards. Exhausted honestly. And today's been exactly what I needed.”

"Today's been a breath a fresh air for me too. Obviously I didn't have 500 pounds of man laying on top of me but I get it on a smaller scale. Feeling like work is drowning you and nothing you do is good enough so you need to escape. This trip isn’t just a celebration," you confess. "It’s a reminder that I’m more than my deadlines and titles. My boss once called me at 11 p.m. on a Sunday, and I didn’t even blink before picking up. I guess I forgot what it felt like to just...be. I really needed a—”

"Reset," the two of you say at the same time, a comfortable silence washing over you as you continue to walk. "That’s kind of why I came here," you confess. "Not to figure out who I am, but...to remind myself I’m more than my job. More than what other people expect of me."

"Feels like everyone’s always watching, doesn’t it?" Joe says, his voice quieter. "Waiting for you to fail or...prove them right."

"Yeah. But I think we deserve more than that."

Joe sighs, nodding quietly, "We do," Joe says with a small smile. "And one day, when we get it, we’ll look back on this trip as the start of something different." He didn’t say everything he was thinking—some things needed more time to come to the surface.

"Sounds perfect, lead the way."

After you shared the world's greatest chicken gyro, you walked around Aegina a little more, realizing that you had no time to change before dinner and you'd been wearing the same clothes all day long. You walked into a small store, grabbing things off the shelf to try on. Joe was easy, settling for gray cargo pants and a blue striped knit top. Rummaging through clothes and anything that wasn't instant online shopping had become a bit of a chore and you were on a time crunch which made you feel even more rushed. You grabbed three or four dresses and had Joe sit outside the fitting room while you tried the stuff on, only stepping out to show him your favorite.

"What do you think about this?”

The baby blue square neck A-line dress hugged your body like it was created just for you to wear, it's length accentuating your curves in a way that almost had him physically picking his jaw up off the floor. He didn't think you could look any better before but you'd just shattered his expectations. "You look absolutely amazing," he says sincerely, his mouth feeling dry.

You glance at him, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. Compliments weren’t new, but the way he said it—like it was the only thing in the world that mattered—left you speechless. You managed a soft laugh, pretending to study your reflection. "Thanks." After heading back to the fitting room to change, you grabbed all of your items and headed to the front to pay with Joe standing behind you in line. The cashier rung up your items and was getting ready to bag it when Joe added his clothes to the mix.

"Joe what are you doing? You're not paying for my clothes."

He handed over his card without hesitation, ignoring your protests. "I’ve got this," he said, his voice casual but his eyes portraying something deeper, like this was the most natural thing in the world to him. "Boyfriends are supposed to buy things. I think it’s in the constitution.”

"It's definitely not. And seriously, you don't have to do this."

"I got it, don't worry babe." The word slipped out so effortlessly that for a second, you wondered if you’d misheard him. But the way his eyes flicked to yours, briefly widening, told you everything. He realized it too—and yet, he didn’t take it back.You thanked him the entire walk back to the boat, his soft laugh sending warm and fuzzy feelings in your chest.

You were starting to acknowledge the growing warmth between you two, the way Joe’s presence seemed to make every moment feel right. The idea of saying goodbye felt heavier than it should after just one day, but somehow, it seemed inevitable. The next spot was inside a resort, they allowed you to change your clothes and head upstairs to the rooftop bar to watch the sunset. The drinks and the view had nothing on you, he quickly realized, finding himself unable to tear his eyes away. Everything just made sense today, the museum walk, the easy conversation, the boat ride. He didn't want to leave before but now the mere thought of packing his suitcase tonight made him upset.

"What are you thinking about over there?" Your words snap him out of his thoughts.

"Nothing, just how much I'm going to miss it here. The peace, the incredible sunset..."

You. The word hung in the air for a while before he pushed it down and tried to move on.

"We should head over to there and get closer to the view, you can literally see the entire city from glass railing." You stood up first and grabbed his hand, practically dragging him over there. Luckily there wasn't anyone else in the area. "This is the most insane scenery. I don't get how anyone could get tired of seeing this everyday, I'd never be inside. I feel like we’ve been the physical representation of carpe diem."

He looks at you confused, "what does that even mean?"

"Carpe diem? It’s Latin for 'seize the day.' Basically saying not to focus too much on the future and live in the present to the fullest capacity.”

"I like that," he chuckles.

Long after the sun went down and most of your dishes were cleared from the table, the lingering sweetness of caramel on your lips was all you could think about, a fleeting pleasure that only made the impending goodbye sting even more.

"Joe I have to tell you something," he looks at you as you head over to stand in one of the private lounge areas, giving you his undivided attention. "I saw you this morning in the store. Your back was facing me but I don't know, you caught my eye. And I told myself I wouldn't say anything, I wouldn't go up to you and make small talk because I'm here on a solo vacation to be one with myself and-now I'm really glad that I know you."

A smile forms on the corner of his mouth, "I've been telling myself all day that this isn't real. That I could just let my guard down because in Greece, I don't have to be Joe Burrow. I can just be...Joe. You let me be exactly who I am, nothing more, nothing less. And honestly? This might've been the single greatest day of my life. I've had good ones, really good ones. But today is up there for sure." You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten until you could feel his arm against yours, his breath soft and warm on your cheek. His eyes dropped to your lips again, this time lingering a moment longer, as if the air between you had thickened. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath just a whisper away, as his hand hovered near your cheek. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a spark through you, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you in.

You couldn't allow yourself to go there. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not like this—but the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, made it hard to think clearly. As much as you wanted this, to feel him close, to taste the sweetness of that kiss, the weight of knowing how fleeting it all was crushed down on you. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you were afraid to want, a piece of yourself that you couldn’t let slip away so easily. If you already felt this strongly about him after a day, how were you going to make it through the rest of the vacation without him knowing how his lips tasted and how his strong hands pulled you in close, holding onto you like he'd rather lose everything than let you go. There was no way in the world you'd recover.

"We can't," you whisper, watching him drop his hand that had just been lightly caressing your cheek. "You're gonna leave tomorrow and I'm gonna be thinking about this kiss for a long time. And I can't," your voice trembles. "I don't want you to go, so I can't kiss you. I'm sorry."

"No don't—don't apologize. I get it." He still hadn't taken a step back, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check. "I can walk you back to your hotel? I haven't packed yet and I need to.”

"Sure, yeah that's fine."

The 15 minute walk felt like three seconds. You didn't want him to go. He no longer wanted to leave. "Y/N I—”

You wrapped him up in a bone crushing hug, silently begging him to stay, just for a few more days. His grip on you was just as strong, his heartbeat thumping rapidly against your body. There weren't enough words in the English, or Greek dictionary to describe how much you were going to miss him. To miss this day. "Bye Joe." That was it. That was all you could manage. The moment you let go of him felt like a piece of your heart stayed in his arms. There was no way to explain the ache in your chest as you watched him turn away, the pull to stay stronger than any rational thought.

Going to sleep that night sounded impossible. The day had started out so innocent and special and the adventure and emotional rollercoaster you'd been on during the day made it feel like you'd experienced a series of days all wrapped into one. You set your bags down on the ground when you got to your room, too tired to change out of your clothes and falling asleep on top of the covers as soon as you laid down.

The next morning you checked the time on your phone, it was 8am. Joe had told you yesterday he was leaving at 10. That meek little goodbye wasn't going to cut it. You didn't even have his number. After your teeth were brushed and your clothes were changed, you rushed out of your hotel and got in an Uber, on your way to Joe's resort. The 46 minute ride allowed you to come up with everything you wanted to say, how this was only meant to be for a day but maybe it could be more? Maybe you could come see him in Cincinnati or he could come to Berkeley or someway somehow you could figure out a way to make it work.

You thanked your driver, opting to speed walk into the lobby. The person at the front desk couldn't give you access to the room without a reason, even when you gave them the name Joe used for his reservation. Pulling out your phone, you showed her the picture of you and Joe that he took at the pottery place and she finally believed you.

"I'm sorry ma'am, he actually left this morning a bit earlier than planned. He checked out at 7am to get on the plane."

Your chest tightened as the words settled in—he was gone. Just like that, in the span of a few hours, everything had shifted. The chance to say what was left unsaid, the connection you had just begun to explore, all slipped away before you could even hold onto it.

It felt like a dark cloud loomed over you throughout the rest of the day. The sun, once so warm on your skin, now felt distant and cold. The flowers that had seemed so alive that morning now appeared dull, their colors muted, as though even nature understood the weight on your heart. While you ate lunch, you tried to people watch, although you quickly discovered that there were only couples surrounding you, sharing meals and laughing at each other's jokes which made you miss him even more. The only real bright spot of the day was your flower garden excursion, taking pictures of the newly bloomed bulbs and taking in their fresh scent. As the hours passed, you allowed yourself to breathe a little deeper, letting the moments of regret slip away as you focused on the simple joys of your surroundings. The beauty of the flowers, the calm of the gardens, it all reminded you that there was still peace to be found in this unexpected chapter of your life.

You were just beginning to let go of the weight on your chest, convincing yourself that maybe, just maybe, this was how things were meant to be. But as you laid your phone down beside you, the familiar ping of a message broke the stillness.

It was an DM request on Instagram. The message had two simple words.

Carpe diem.

For a second, your heart skipped, and you couldn’t help but smile. That phrase, so simple and yet so loaded with meaning, sent a wave of warmth through you. It was him. In a way, he had left his mark on you after all, even if he wasn’t here to say the words aloud. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end. And though you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring or if this connection would ever evolve beyond this brief encounter, in that moment, with his words glowing on your screen, you allowed yourself one final thought: Maybe this was only the beginning.

#Joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic

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starsintheskyandtheeye · 4 months ago

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Respect for the Dead

By Lois Lane and Clark Kent

1,436 words

By now most of the world has been shaken by the news.

Ghosts are real! And ghosts are in danger! The original publication written by Lois Lane can be found here but we are not here to follow that well trodden avenue of discussion.

Here at the Daily Planet we have elected to focus on speaking to the ghosts themselves, rather than debate their existence alongside our fellow papers. During the hunt for the new source of Kryptonite that sparked this discovery Lois Lane made contact with one Danny Phantom. Originally he chose to anonymous but since the outpouring of support from much of the world he has since chosen to come forward publicly.

Given that the ghostly teenager is operating as a hero similar to our own Superman much of his personal history could not be shared. What was safe to share however was very different from what this reporting team had been expecting.

We had gone in prepared to hear the story of what caused a ghost that looks like a schoolboy to lead a life of ghostly vigilantism.

What we got was sweetly sarcastic individual giving us amusing anecdotes of his start as a hero, descriptions of the stranger habits he's gained since his death, and many many tips on how to politely interact with a ghost. At our confusion (who knew there were so many different types of ghost!) Phantom went on to explain and correct several common misconceptions about ghosts. So without further ado; here are the highlights of that discussion.

We begin with what was given to us as the number one rule of human/ghost etiquette. Never ask the individual, be they glowing werewolf, ghostly lunch-lady, or undead rock star, about the circumstances of their death.

It seems simple does it not? A matter of everyday politeness, and yet that is the number one reason for communication breakdowns between ectoplasmic entities and still living humans. Fortunately for the health of the interview this reporting team did not make that mistake. Phantom did not explain the nature of the offense but did not need to. It was clear that the, until then, friendly conversation would have ended abruptly if we had gone any farther down that path.

What we were encouraged (and warned) to talk to a ghost about was their obsession. As Phantom explained, "It's what drives a ghost, why we are still here, or why we formed at all."

When asked about his own obsession Phantom laughed a bit and said, "I'm a bit young for a ghost, so I don't really have one yet, I bounce around a lot. My doctor, he's a yeti, says it's normal for me though! The options are all over the place though. I know one ghost that haunts the high school to prevent bullying, a really nice guy. Another just wants to have her music heard by the world. Unfortunately her music brainwashes people to love her so we aren't super close. Or another that is all about granting wishes, but not in a singing blue genie way, in a fairy tale way, it's a mess whenever she gets over here."

That seems to be a common theme in ghostly/human interaction. Ghosts largely mean no harm but the pursuit of their own obsessions can have devastating effects on any that stand between them and their goal. Something to keep in mind if you're ordering pizza when the Box Ghost is at large.

Hoping it wouldn't cross into the realm of ghostly faux pas we went on to ask how old Phantom is. Once again Phantom seemed somewhat awkward although no more than what seemed to be his baseline when talking to (self claimed) famous reporters, saying only, "Time works differently in the realms. It can be really weird sometimes, you'll be talking to someone that looks like a toddler only to learn that they were last in a human world during the 1400s or something."

As Phantom continued to share however, the everlasting aspect seemed to be the least interesting part of the Infinite Realms, or the Ghost Zone as the Doctors Fenton, previously mentioned as ghostly experts here, call the place where the vast majority of ghosts dwell.

Ghostly yetis practicing medicine, while certainly not the least of the inhabitants were just the start. Phantom went on to share with us a sampling of the being he has encountered in his travels, medieval women moonlighting as temperamental dragons, the very concept of time, a warden of any ghosts that cross his path, and of course the ubiquitous creepy toddler so often featured on the silver screen.

According to Phantom up until extremely recently (whether by ghostly or human terms we were unable to determine) the Infinite Realms was closed off from our own home except for the occasional haunting. Which was explained to us by the telling of what was, to Phantom, a very funny joke about pop culture influencing ghost culture as people died and brought it over with them. From this we can glean several things. That the realms of the living and the dead have never been so far apart as it would have seemed to the living. That the near future will hold many changes as major religions, governments, and the common people hear what the dead have to say as they weigh in on what respect for the dead really means. And that while many things do translate, ghostly humor is not one of them.

Although of course that may be that, despite his real age being possibly many times our own - combined, Phantom is still eternally a teenager. And a teenagers jokes are often incomprehensible to any who do not share that state.

When asked about the sudden ghostly interest in our own living Earth Phantom had this to say, "Lots of ghosts want to go to the lands of the living. Especially anyone that used to be alive themselves. And anyone that didn't is curious what the fuss is about. Earth is so different from the ghost zone but it's still where a lot of us came from. If someone gets a chance to hop through the portal they'll go, to see how things have changed, or to keep things from changing, or just to stretch their obsessions. Really it's a chance to go home, just for a little while," he said, reminding us that for all they look like aliens ghosts are just as human as you or I.

With a few caveats.

The portal Phantom spoke of is an invention by the Doctors Fenton, Ectobiologists. Up until recently Jack and Maddie Fenton had been the worlds foremost ghostly experts, building a portal to the "Ghost Zone" in order to study what up until recently had been considered to be a non-sentient classification of emotional ectoplasmic imprintation.

We spoke to the researchers after our interview with Phantom, at his request. Despite the recent evidence come to light the couple remain the foremost (living) human scientists in the field. When asked about the setback to their work they had this to say, "We were devastated of course. To learn that we won't be able to study spooks -" Jack Fenton broke off there, at an extremely well executed elbow jab from Maddie Fenton who then said. "We got an extreme tunnel vision, a hazard of obsessive science. We were told we were wrong about the existence of ghosts for so long that we forgot to check that we were correct about their nature. We look forward to pivoting to ghostly anthropology and human/ghost interaction technology."

Ultimately we did not learn any groundbreaking secrets, but then if a ghost willing to go on record ( a written record at least, our recorded transcript of the conversation was near unusable due to static) you sit down and listen. We can never anticipate what a reader will take from an article but if we could make a suggestion? In this reporting teams opinion, the balance of ghost and human realms is not unlike the inversion of a mirror. We are reflections of one another. Opposite, yes, and dangerous to one another for it, but ultimately we are all the same. After all what is a ghost but emotion and ectoplasm (according to current science)? And for all that we try to rise above it, what is a human but emotion and flesh?

Fin.

Coming Soon!

Keep an eye out for top ten tips on ghostly interaction and interviews with the Justice League on diplomatic efforts with GHOSTLY ROYALTY!!

#dpxdc #dc x dp #danny phantom #Superman #Lois Lane #Clark Kent #in universe article #just a bit of fluff #I was trying to get a lot of the fun stuff in there as subtext #I think I did okay #I was gonna write an article about the direct aftermath but this was more fun #no beta we die like danny #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt

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washoping · 6 months ago

Text

Welcome distraction

── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Emily Prentiss x reader

summary: Emily notices you're having a hard time working on your assignment, so she decides it's time for you to take a break.

tags: smut, teasing, praise kink, sex

f/f │ 2.9k words │ ao3

a/n: english isn't my first language so all typos and mistakes are mine!

── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The room was heavy with the weight of yet another long exhausting day of studying. The clock was ticking past eight already as you tried to use the last drops of your energy on the assignment you were working on. The laptop screen casted a cold blue glow over your desk that was embarrassingly messy compared to what it was usually like. The neatness you were accustomed to was replaced by notebooks, notes, pens and highlighters scattered all over, piled on top of each other, a half-drunk coffee mug being the cherry on top.

Your eyes felt tired. They were burning from hours of reading. The words on the screen had started blurring together what felt like ages ago but you had tried your best to just power through, telling yourself you’d be done soon. But every tick of the clock on the wall next to you felt like a reminder of just how much you still had left to do.

A quiet knock at the door broke through your concentration, making you look up from the screen your eyes had been glued to for hours. It took you few seconds to adjust. You saw Emily standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, taking you in with the warmest of eyes. The softness in her gaze when seeing you made you feel like she had been waiting for this moment, to force you away from your screen.

”Hey”, she said, her voice a gentle murmur. ”You’ve been at this for hours already. How much longer are you planning to go for?”

You exhaled, rubbing your eyes, feeling glad about your decision not to wear makeup today.

”I’m just trying to finish this section, but I still have a lot left. It feels never-ending.”

You thought about the amount of work there was left to do. It felt like you had been writing the same damn sentence again and again for the past few hours, making no progress, because you were exhausted. That was something you couldn’t tell Emily. Nor the fact that you could feel a headache forming in the distance as well.

Emily stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over the mess of notes, school supplies and the stained coffee mug on your desk. You half-expected for her to make a comment, to be disappointed in you and the fact that you hadn’t taken care of it. But instead, she didn’t really show any emotion. She just turned her gaze to you instead of the mess.

”Is the assignment due tonight?”

You shook your head, feeling your cheeks heating up a bit after hearing the commanding tone of Emily’s voice. You could guess what was coming. It was crazy what her voice alone could do to you. You felt nervous all of a sudden.

”Not technically”, you answered with your own voice trembling a bit. You escaped Emily’s eyes by turning your gaze back to the open document on your laptop’s screen.

You heard Emily chuckle softly and could imagine the slight smile forming on her face without even looking at her. She walked to you, her hands settling on your shoulders. You shivered and felt your breath hitching as her thumbs started working into the tense muscles on your shoulders and upper back. It was so easy to melt under her touch almost immediately. Your eyes closed, involuntarily. Emily’s hands made it easy for you to forget about the assignment. Like magic.

Slowly she moved even closer to you and it sent shivers down your spine. You bit your lip, trying to keep your composure.

”Then it can wait, honey”, she whispered, her breath warm against your ear. You couldn’t help but lean against her head a bit to recover from the shivers her whisper caused. ”You’ve been at this all day. The assignment will still be here tomorrow, I promise. But I need my baby right now.”

”Em”, you protested quickly, not knowing if you really even wanted to protest. Your voice sounded unconvincing, even to yourself. You let yourself lean back a bit further when Emily’s hands continued massaging your shoulders soothingly. ”I really should finish…”

Before you could go on for any longer, Emily stopped you.

”Babe, it’s 8 pm”, she said more firmly this time around and the authoritative tone in her voice sent the butterflies in your stomach flying. She was always hot, but this demanding bossy side of her made your brain mush. ”You’re done for the day if I say so.”

You opened your eyes to look at her, torn between your sense of responsibility and the pull of her insistent gaze. You were turned on. She was standing so close you could smell her perfume, feel her warmth. So alluring. For a moment there you forget about the screen in front of you.

”But I’ll feel better if I get a little bit more done today”, you still tried to insist, even though your tough demeanor act slipped away further and further with each press of Emily’s fingers on your skin.

And then she stopped completely.

She didn’t start arguing, didn’t say anything - instead she moved to sit beside you in the other chair in front of your desk, her chin propped in her hand as she started watching you. The determination in her eyes didn’t disappear, it just was quiet now. It still told you that she was willing to wait as long as it took. Emily wasn’t one to give up if she wanted something.

And she wanted you.

You looked at your screen, feeling her gaze glued to you while you did. It was nearly impossible to focus with her sitting so close, her presence so strong, her perfume filling your nostrils. You were screwed, but you couldn’t admit your loss in this game so easily.

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Emily’s hand caressing along her own cheek. Her fingertips tracing the curve of her neck, then dipping lower, coming to rest on top of her breast. The subtle movement was enough to pull you out of your so-called focus, your eyes flicking to her involuntarily as she gently massaged her own breast through her shirt. You couldn’t believe your eyes.

”Emily”, you murmured now wide-eyed, your voice half-pleading, half-warning.

”Yes?” she asked, sounding completely sweet and innocent while her fingers travelled from cupping her breast to her legs, stroking the top of her thighs back and forth. You couldn’t help but steal a look again, right when she moved her fingers closer to her… ”Something wrong?”

”I… I can’t focus when you’re doing that”, you admitted with an unsteady voice, nodding towards her, looking at her fingers now resting on the waistband of her trousers. You needed her to move them inside them, and her panties. To hear her gasp, moan, anything. You needed her so bad your pussy clenched.

Emily raised an eyebrow, her signature move when teasing you. A mischievous smile tugged at her lips.

”That’s too bad”, she said, not taking her eyes off you for a single second. Her other hand came to the collar of her shirt, stretching it just enough to reveal a hint of skin at her collarbone. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. She was fully aware of the effect she had on you and she wasn’t about to stop. You wiggled in your chair, feeling so turned on that it was starting to get a bit difficult to sit still.

You looked back at your screen again, determined to push through the last section no matter what. But you should’ve known it was impossible already. Emily shifted closer, her hand now brushing over your arm, gliding with that familiar gentle pressure that left your skin tingling for more.

”Em, please…” you whispered with your breath catching as she moved even closer, her lips nearly brushing against your cheek now. You expected a kiss. A peck on your cheek. Maybe her hands on your shoulders again? Anything, any contact.

But no. Instead of all that Emily slipped down from her chair, sinking gracefully down on her knees right in front of you. You felt her hands on your knees and your heart rate picked up when she gazed up at you with her big brown eyes from down there. You would’ve done anything for her.

”Emily…” you mumbled her name again. Your fingers came to grip the edge of your chair as her hands trailed upwards, a clear sign to her that you had finally given up. She took her sweet time, not hurrying one bit.

”Yes, baby?” she asked innocently with a smirk on her face, inching even closer to you, her hands gripping your thighs as her eyes remained locked on yours. She stroked your thighs, her hands slowly but surely making their way underneath your night shorts you wore around the house. Easy access. You bit your lip as you felt Emily’s fingers kneading the soft skin, making their way closer and closer to your heated center. You knew you were wet. Without a question. Emily felt the warmth radiating from you and flashed you a smile laced with satisfaction at seeing you giving in.

You opened your mouth to try another weak protest but right when you were about to say something Emily’s fingers touched you through your panties and instead of words, a moan escaped your mouth. With your eyes closed you slapped the lid off your laptop down, no longer giving a damn about the assignment.

”There you go, finally… that’s my girl”, you heard Emily saying, hearing the huge smile on her face from her voice. She won and she was so happy about it.

You moaned, trying to move your hips on the chair so that Emily’s fingers would touch you again. You needed the contact so bad, but clearly she wasn’t done with the teasing yet. She grabbed the waistband of your shorts, ushering you to lift your hips a little so she could pull them off, leaving you in your panties.

”Oh baby, you’re absolutely soaked”, she chuckled when she saw how your arousal had stained your white panties with a wet spot. She touched it with her thumb, pressing the fabric against you to saturate it even more with your wetness. You squirmed. Every tiniest thing she did turned you on more and more.

When you saw her pressing her lips against the wet fabric you had to bite your lip in order to stay quiet. She looked up at you while pressing a gentle kiss on your pussy through it.

”I can stop if you really want me to”, she still dared to tease you.

You felt helpless. You swallowed hard, barely able to hold back another gasp as Emily planted another kiss on your pussy through your panties.

”I… I don’t… please… don’t stop.”

Emily smiled, pressing one final little kiss on the damp fabric before pulling it aside with her fingers and coming in direct contact with your pussy to give it a single long lick. You sighed out loud. Finally.

”Now, just relax baby and let me take care of you”, she whispered as she she settled between your legs properly, her free hand coming up to your breast to grab it. Her fingers didn’t waste any time pinching your nipple in between them, giving it a little twist. You gasped and decided to quickly undress, throwing your shirt off to the floor next to your shorts.

Air escaped your lungs as you looked down at Emily between your legs. The way she was so lovingly looking at your exposed body made it impossible for you to stay still. Her adoring eyes roamed all over your body, appreciating every single part of it. Your hips bucked, needing contact.

Emily looked up and saw the way you begged for her with your eyes. She knew that look. Her hands wandered from your boobs to your lower stomach, gently massaging it, then moving to the insides of your thighs. Before you could say the now familiar word ’please' again, her mouth finally latched on your pussy. She moaned as she tasted you and god, it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard.

Your eyes closed and your hands flew to Emily’s hair, using your tight grip on it to keep her head exactly where you needed it to be. You caressed her scalp, the back of her neck, her hair. She gave you no mercy and worked around your clit like a game of hot and cold. Her lips came close to it and when your hips thrusted forward trying to guide her mouth to touch it, she pulled away. She wouldn’t stop teasing you.

You whimpered in frustration.

”Patience, my love”, she spoke. She knew you didn’t have it and it was especially torturous right now when she had been teasing you for a good while already.

She pressed her mouth against you again, careful not to touch your clit. Her chin rubbed against your wetness when you started to grind your pussy against her face. Her steadying hand came to your stomach, pressing down on it to make sure you would stay still and not slip further down the chair’s edge you were sitting on. When she made sure you wouldn’t fall she moved her hand to grab yours, intertwining your fingers quickly. You grabbed her hand back tightly - maybe a bit too tightly, but you couldn’t control yourself. Normally you would’ve had sheets to grab, but Emily’s hand was the victim now. You loved it when she held your hand during sex. It made the connection you felt to her even deeper.

”Oh god, just…” you spoke with a trembling voice.

”What, baby? Speak up. Tell me what you need”, she spoke as slowly as she could, making you feel her warm breath on you.

”I need you to… ah! To stop teasing me and just suck my… my clit already”, you whimpered breathily with your eyes closed, biting your lip afterwards. You were sure you would come like this too in no time, but you needed it. Emily laughed amusingly and the next thing you felt was her flicking your clit with her tongue and then sucking it, releasing it from between her lips followed with a wet sound.

You began panting, no longer in control of how your body behaved at all. You wriggled and moved your hips against Emily’s face. She moaned as she ate you out like her life depended on it and it just fired you up even more. Your free hand grabbed her hair again, pushing her closer to your pussy.

Incoherent moans and whimpers escaped your mouth as Emily picked up her already quick pace. She alternated between rapid flicks and bold strokes, which made your head spin. When you least expected it, she suddenly stuffed her tongue inside you as far as she just physically could, causing pressure against your asshole with her chin at the same time.

Your thighs clamped down as a result. Emily’s face was between them and for a second you were afraid you hurt her, but when you opened your eyes and saw from her eyes that she was clearly happy to be right there with your thighs pressed tightly around her head, your worries disappeared. Emily’s tongue flew back to your clit to play with it.

”I’m about to come”, you announced out of breath, your eyes glued to Emily’s.

”Come for me, baby. Feel good and come for me”, she murmured against you, her face buried in your pussy.

And you did as you were told. Panting Emily’s name out loud again and again, your eyes rolled back and your back arched as a strong orgasm hit you. You rode the wave, thrusting against Emily’s face that was now covered in your wetness.

”You look so, so pretty like this… My beautiful girl, I’ve got you”, she praised you when you were trying to come down from your high, your chest heaving up and down. She stroked the soft skin of your thighs, supporting you through the aftershocks and shivers of your orgasm. It was a powerful one, all thanks to Emily’s teasing.

”Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me”, you chanted repeatedly, your breath still coming in stutters. Emily got up from her knees to reach you, her hands caressing the skin of your arms in a comforting manner. They moved to grab your face between her hands and she crashed her lips against yours in a kiss that took your breath away. You tasted yourself on her lips as she kissed you, long and passionately.

”Wow”, you whispered, your forehead against Emily’s. She laughed, the sound warming your heart while you tried to slow down your breathing and heart rate. You wanted nothing more than to give the same back to Emily, so when you had calmed down from your orgasm, you kissed her again. You let your fingers slide down her body and when they touched the waistband of her trousers, she laughed again.

”Oh hey, hey… don’t you have an assignment to work on?” she asked with a huge smirk on her face, letting out a delicious moan as your fingers found their way inside her underwear. You smiled. Fuck the assignment.

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss smut #criminal minds fic #mine: writing

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hardlyinteresting · 6 months ago

Text

love's never lost when perspective is earned

Jake Seresin x Reader

“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.” Peter Pan, J.M Barrie

Peter by Taylor Swift S P E Y S I D E by Bon Iver Big Black Car by Gregory Alan Isakov Smother by Daughter

Warnings: The reader is referred to as she/her, with no physical description, Parentification of eldest siblings, bad first date experience, gets a little spicy towards the end (no smut), (please let me know if you'd like me to tag anything please)

This one shot was written for @arcane-vagabond Fairy Tale writing challenge with the inspiration of Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie, and the use of the word Scintilla.

Word Count: 6.7K Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

She remembers that summer wrapped in a golden glow. Back when hot, humid days were spent bathed in the sun’s vivid orange. Their fingers were sticky with jammy pie fillings, stolen from his mama’s kitchen. Cold water from the garden hose always tasted better after a day of chasing themselves around the properties.

What do you want to be when you grow up?” Jake had asked her as they lay in the grass behind his house.

“I haven't decided yet,” she told him matter of factly, “But, I’m gonna have a nice house, and I’m going to go far away from here”.

“I'm gonna be a pilot,” Jake said, “And I’ll fly wherever I want”.

She knew he was entirely serious, even as a little boy he’d never failed to accomplish what he put his mind to. The gentle waiver is his voice as his statement teetered around the edges of his true feelings and fears. “I wish I could fly away,” She told him, watching the clouds shift across the bright blue sky above them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take you with me,” Jake promised. And back then, a promise had felt like enough.

They were seven; her shins were always bruised from climbing trees and tackling the Seresin boy during their daily football scrambles; his cheeks were always sunburnt, and he lied every time his mother asked if he had put sunscreen on. In many ways, she thinks those two months running after Jake Seresin had been both the peak and the plateau of her childhood wonder.

September meant returning to school; finishing supper and homework before being allowed out to play, and with the autumnal turn crept in early sunsets and earlier curfews. In November, her stepdad moved in, and her mother told her to expect a little brother in the spring. The days of scraped knees and make-believe slipped away before the winter frost set in.

When he thinks about her now, he pictures her laughing like she did when they were ten years old. He misses the days when she had the freedom to forget herself.

At ten years old Jake Seresin couldn’t understand why his friend wasn’t as fun as she used to be. He watched from his kitchen window as she sat on the front porch with her little brother, settling next to her and feeding him from tiny jars of baby food. At a distance, it'd be easy to mistake her for any other girl playing make-believe with one of her dolls. But Jackson wasn't a doll, he was fussy and gassy, and he needed to be fed and put down for his naps before she had a moment of spare time to spend with her pal Jake.

Her little brother had been followed by a new baby girl two years later. Tire marks on the dirt driveway highlighted where her stepfather’s truck should have been most days. Jackson had finally gone down for a nap but Olivia had been teething and her wailing could be heard from a mile away.

“What do you want to do today?” Jake asked her as he made his way up her porch steps to sit next to her on the stoop. “I want to fly away,” she told him.

Without a second thought, he grabbed her hand as he took off running, down the stairs, across the lawn and into the field behind the house. The long grass tickled at their ribs as they ran as fast as possible, their arms outstretched on either side of them.

Circling, and jumping, hooting and hollering they made their way across the flat land with boisterous laughter bubbling from their lips. By the time they stumbled to a stop at the fence line their breath came to them in quiet gasps, their cheeks warmed by the exertion of their activity.

The sound of his pulse fell in time with her carefree giggles as she twirled around mimicking some kind of bird. Had it not been for the physical boundary of the wire fence he thinks they could have kept running forever, the promise of freedom they didn’t yet understand beneath their wings. In that moment he knew he’d chase that feeling for the rest of his life.

At sixteen she felt more like a substitute parent than she did a teenage girl. Her mind and her soul had aged beyond her years and stayed wrapped in a youthful vessel. School had become an escape from the responsibility she felt at home. While Olivia and Jackson clambered onto the school bus excited for first and second grade, she climbed into the passenger seat of Jake Seresin’s restored F-150. Each morning he'd pass her a wrapped sandwich made in his kitchen with his mother's fresh-baked bread. A replacement for the meal he knew she sacrificed to divide the last of the breakfast cereal between her siblings. He filled her with servings of farm butter and homemade jam, or ham and cheese. Their silent dialogue in brushing their knuckles during the exchange, as he always chose to ignore how she saved half for her lunch later in the day.

Pulling into the parking lot at school she had been keenly aware of the way the other girls looked at her as she walked hand in hand with Jake; the glares shot her way when he kissed her cheek as they parted ways to head to their classes.

Their jealousy rolled off them in waves, and she heard how they spoke about her in the locker room after gym class. Whispers about his gorgeous green eyes and boyish charm. What could the hottest guy in school possibly want from the strange girl in her secondhand clothes and studious persona? Surely he'd have more fun with a girl who wanted to party.

It was true. In the span of one summer, he'd grown 6 inches, towering over her now. His shoulders broadened. The lanky awkward limbed boy she'd known in her childhood grew stronger and more defined as he learned better how to pull his weight on his family’s farm. His masculine stature and maturity softened only by his flushed cheeks, and childlike grin.

And yes, he snuck beers from his father’s garage fridge and did handstands for ovations at parties hosted by the school football team. An absolute joy to be around. To know Jake Seresin was to love Jake Seresin, but didn't know him the way she did.

They didn't know he was terrified of thunderstorms until he was 12. They weren't there when he split his pants open trying to climb over a fence when they were 9. They had never had the privilege of listening to him read aloud from all his books about aircraft; his 11-year-old fingers tracing the letters as he sounded out the big words, the fear of being held back in 5th grade hanging over his head.

They had never held him as he tore into himself. The golden boy, raised in the shadow of an older brother who hadn’t lived long enough for him to remember; so deeply loved, but not enough to fill the ache in his parent’s hearts.

No one in those school halls would ever be able to tell the difference between his happiest days, and the smirk he plastered on always aiming to be better than what he believed himself to be.

He was so stubborn and far more clever than he ever let himself sound; she scolded him almost daily as he tried to shrug off his homework. “You'll need math and science if you ever want to fly a jet,” she would remind him, accepting the glass of sweet tea he offered her. Their textbooks and notes would lay spread across his kitchen table while Jackson and Olivia occupied themselves with blank paper and wax crayons, offering Jake scribbled drawings of airplanes, “wow! That's amazing, thank you,” he'd say every time.

She hadn't asked Jake to worm his way into her soul, and yet even now she knows some part of her soul belongs deeply to him. Their games of tag had slowly become time spent talking about their parents and watching the clouds; their hands intertwined between them as they listened to each other's dreams and desires for the future.

And on the nights when his life just didn’t seem to fit quite right, he’d tap on her window, willing her to join him in the bed of his truck a couple of miles from their homes; and she’d remind him who he was. The bright boy with a heart of gold, and a laugh that reminded her of everything good in the world. She’d rest her head on his chest, his fingertips tracing aimless shapes across her back, as she convinced him he was more than a collection of hand-me-down dreams.

His eighteenth birthday crept up to him before passing in a blur of candlelight and buttercream icing. His mother cried in the kitchen when she excused herself to ‘take care of the dishes’. His father clapped him on the shoulder. Their two sets of hazel-green eyes met as the older man offered a nod. The action itself did not speak to a relationship of closeness or specific affection, but still, it managed to convey a message of approval, apology, and love too difficult to speak.

She had knocked on the door shortly after dinner had been cleared from the table, the remaining half of his birthday cake being ushered into the refrigerator under a cling wrap film. Shivering in the night air, her hands clutched a package of brown paper with a shiny blue ribbon, his name scribbled in her careful writing. Quickly, he’d pulled her into the house greeting her with a kiss as deeply passionate as she deserved. “Happy birthday,” she’d whispered, pressing the gift she’d brought into his hands. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he’d told her. “I wanted to,” she insisted. With steady hands, he unwrapped the box. His question was silent, but the shocked expression on his face must’ve conveyed enough for her to be able to answer him anyway. “It’s the one from the antique store,” she grinned, “Mister Abbot let me pay for it in instalments”. He tipped the brass nautical compass into the palm of his hand, staid in his evaluation of both the physical and emotional weight of the gift. “This is too much,” he spoke after a moment.

Her eyes went wide, her smile dropping. “I love it,” he was immediate in his attempt at reassurance, “but, you’re saving for school. I don’t want you spending your money on me, darlin’”. He tried to pass the compass back to her, a woebegone ponderosity settling in his stomach at the very idea of rejecting any part of her. Insistent, yet patient, she curled her finger over his. The digits were so much smaller than his own, cracked and raw from washing dishes and cleaning tables at the local diner. The painful reminder of how hard she’d been working to climb her way out of her own life. “I want you to keep it. Selfishly,” she said, “I want you to always be able to find your way back to me”. How could he have argued with that?

Politely, she’d popped into the kitchen to see his mama, accepting a Tupperware of cake slices to take home for the kids to enjoy. His father met them at the door as Jake shrugged on his denim jacket. “Where are you kids off to?” he asked out of curiosity more than any concern. “Just going for a drive,” Jake told him, slipping his keys into his pocket. “Don’t let him get you into any trouble, ya hear?” he warned her with a teasing grin, the humour evident in his voice. “Yes sir,” she had agreed easily, knowing Mr Seresin’s penchant for faux sternness in the moments between his genuine stoicism. Seemly satisfied to see her smile grow, he had turned to Jake with an immediate pivot back to his natural sternness, “You make sure you get her home at a reasonable time. It’s a school night”. Jake’s compliance echoed her own, with no room for jest, “Yes sir”.

Parked in their usual spot, at the edge of a cleared field he wrapped layers of blankets around her shoulders, before settling down next to her. Their biggest dreams breathed between them and the night stars. “I love you,” he said. The statement was resolute, and immovable in its honesty. “I love you too, Jake,” she told him. Her words were spoken like a promise she desperately wanted to keep.

“When we graduate, I'll drive us across the country,” he tells her, “I'll buy us a house. You can go to school and I'll fly”.

“It’s a nice dream, baby,” she says.

Their drive home is silent.

She spent her nineteenth birthday sleeping in his childhood bedroom. He hadn't been home in months but the sheet still smelt like him. She scraped her knees climbing up the trellis to his window, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. She’d laughed to herself examining the superficial wounds, enjoying the familiar bite of nostalgia. Memories of her childhood long since passed left tears at the corners of her eyes. Near manic laughter faded into a melancholy exhaustion.

Her eyes focused on the small book collection Jake had managed over the years. They had all been perfectly aligned in their homes on his bookshelf; set in alphabetical order by author. His need for structure despite his free spirit had been amusing until it became mildly concerning. Routine, crafted to satisfy the need to stay completely distracted from an overwhelm of feelings he had always been sure he didn’t have the capacity to express. The hope in her heart had always been that he might learn to hone his particular brand of presentiment. He’d always been so rough-and-tumble, so hard to worry after; determined to never let the mask slip as he raced through life with a smile.

1400 miles away she ached to be beside him; so lonely in her knowledge of him. She worked to comfort herself by tracing the titles on the spines of the books he’d left behind. Over and over. Over and over. With blurring vision and an unfocused mind, she slipped into a well-deserved sleep. The sun streamed so gently through the window of Jake’s room. A touch of light tugging her from her slummer had been a welcome change from the jarring wake-up call she had at home. Two siblings who had yet to figure out how to make themselves breakfast without bickering or clattering plates. The smell of fresh coffee and pancake batter wafted up from downstairs.

The bedroom door squeaked as she opened it, and underfoot the floorboards in the old farmhouse creaked, each step down the staircase punctuated with the sonance of more than a hundred years of life. In the Seresin house, the noises reminded her of the generations who had come and gone, it was easy to imagine the lives that had been lived within the walls. Across the yard, the similar shifts and groans of her childhood home echoed like ghostly calls; the whispers warning of a life liable to be wasted if she stuck around.

“Good morning, Sweetheart,” Mrs Seresin smiled, setting an extra spot at the kitchen table. His mother had always been the kindest person she’d known. Despite the undisputable reality that her son’s girlfriend had all but broken into her home, she welcomed her with open arms, asking if she wanted blueberries in her pancakes.

The longer they went without mentioning the elephant in the room the easier it became for her to slouch a bit in her seat, appreciating each bite of the breakfast that had been offered to her. Nineteen years of being in rooms out of necessity rather than desire had made it difficult to trust other’s interest in her well-being.

Feeling her shoulders drop in relief left her feeling something like a stray cat brought in to shelter from the storm; glad to accept Mrs Seresin’s kindness, but uneasy all the same. She had grown used to being weary of tenderness and generosity; always waiting to hear the conditions of the beneficence.

Sipping her coffee, Mrs Seresin smiled over the lip of the mug. “If you want to stay a little longer, you could help me go through some of Jake’s old clothes. Some of them would probably fit Jackson now”. Her words reached like an olive branch across the table, and for a moment she understood that perhaps the older woman wasn’t just benevolent for the sake of it, not on this day at least. With her only living child out of the house she had been lonely in her need to mother someone, and glad just for the company as unorthodox as the circumstances may have been. She’d been glad to learn that some glint of selfishness lingered in everyone, and in a strange turn, it only made her trust the woman more.

She hadn't expected a pile of folded sweatshirts to make her cry, and yet in a blink of an eye, she found herself sobbing. A flicker of hurt rushed through her with the realization that some things will always matter more to her than they do to anyone else. Just another piece of clothing to Jake, another part of her task for the day to his mother. But she was holding the world in her hands.

She remembers that sweatshirt well, red and worn out by time, always just a bit too tight in the shoulders, the seams stretching at the sleeves. He was wearing it the night he picked her up from her first date.

Bobby Dunbar had been two years older than her, and had no idea of the meaning of the word ‘no'. She left him alone in the movie theatre after he'd tried to creep a hand up her skirt for the second time. With a quick call from the closest payphone, Jake was on his way to pick her up without questions.

Together, they drove out of town and past their homes the sun dipping down below the seemingly endless horizon. Overhead the stars had begun to make themselves appreciable against the backdrop of the darkening sky. Parked, they lay in the bed of the truck looking up at the sky ahead. He took care to trace the constellations for her, naming them as he went. In the meantime, her fingertips copied the shapes with invisible lines across his chest. The well-loved red sweatshirt was soft beneath her cheek.

He kissed her for the first time that night. Not her first kiss, but the first one that mattered. Jake always had this ability to make her world stop spinning, even if just for a moment. Sitting on the edge of his bed sobbing into the sweater she wanted nothing more than to be near him, to hear him tell her everything was going to work out for them in the end.

“I got my scholarship,” she told Mrs. Seresin, “I'll start in the fall, and I'll be able to live on campus”.

“That's amazing news sweetheart,” her affirmation, so much like her son’s.

“It's a lot farther for Jake to drive. I won't be here to check on Jackson and Olivia. My mo--”

“They'll be alright. It's high time you live your dream, honey”.

At nineteen years old, she struggled to understand that sometimes the beginning feels like the end. A pit growing in her stomach, she clutched the bags of hand-me-down clothes as she headed home. The sky above was dotted with the same stars Jake had taught her about years ago, she stood still for a moment trying to remember the feel of his lips, or the comfort of his hand in hers, but only felt the cool evening breeze.

Twenty-one felt like wearing a costume. Joining the Navy. Getting good grades. Helping on the farm whenever he had an ounce of free time. Being a good son, being a good boyfriend. He was playing dress-up in a life that wasn’t built for him, and yet he found himself so desperate to play the part.

The first few months away had been excruciating. Most nights he chugged Pepto-Bismol before going to bed, hoping that the tearing feeling in his chest was just heartburn, and not just his soul stretching across four states. It had been the longest they’d ever been separated; smashing the previous record of the one week he spent with his aunt and uncle when he was ten.

He won’t blame her for the divide that grew between them, but he knows that the ache in his chest cracked into a chasm sometime after she moved onto her college campus.

The commute to see her was longer, his back was stiff, and his eyes were tired after driving hours, and crisscrossing state lines. The time they spent together was almost exclusively spent sleeping or skipping around their desperate need to return to what they once were, all while refusing to give up their dreams.

Two years into her degree he was exhausted. On base, his bed was assembled for practicality, not for comfort. Hard, uneven mattress and nights spent cold beneath the covers without the warmth of her body tucked against him. His bunkmates all snored, and the hustle and bustle of those still working during his allotted sleeping hours kept his mind alert even as his body dosed. In her dorm room, her duvet was plush and cozy, her pillows smelt like her shampoo, and she snuggled as close to him as physically possible on the nights he managed to make it to her. But her roommate was nosy and made it almost impossible for him to love on his girlfriend. Unable to touch her as freely as he yearned to-- and even worse, unable to speak as freely as he needed to, his feelings threatened to choke him. Lost without the level of communication that had become their life preserver for years, he felt as though he was drowning.

At twenty one he asked his father for his grandmother’s engagement ring. A family heirloom he’d always known he’d propose with one day. He would make good on the promises he made. They would get married and he’d buy them a house-- he had already managed to save quite a bit. It was not a lack of love that broke them, but perhaps an excess of it. A shared desperation to do more, and be better; both of them hell-bent on clawing their way out of the ruts they’d found themselves stuck in. And with so much to prove it had been impossible to climb without letting go of each other.

He was down on one knee when his heart was ripped from his chest. For a moment he felt it was impossible to breathe. His mind was silent, too stunned to think and too confused to speak. She was still shaking her head when he finally found the strength to look up at her again. “No,” she said. “I thought--”

“I’m sorry-- I can’t. I won’t. It’s not fair,” she told him. Certainly not fair, he thought desperate to understand. But when had life ever been fair? “I can’t,” she repeated. He watched, hopeless, as she shrunk in on herself. The bright, brilliant girl he’d spent more than half his life loving shied away from him, hiding behind a shame he couldn’t find a source for.

As he slowly made his way back to his feet, with the ring box shoved back into his coat pocket, she spoke again. “I think it would be better if we spent some time apart”. That he had not been expecting, and the words nearly had him keeling over; a brutal blow that knocked the air from his lungs. He found himself helpless, unable to do anything but nod. All his fight sat on the tip of his tongue, pinched between his teeth, betrayed by his pain, and misunderstanding. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. For anything. For everything. But the words never came out. “I’m sorry,” she wept as she ushered him out of her dorm room.

With one hand, and no force he held the door frame for a moment, one last longing look at the girl he knew he’d love forever. “One day we’ll be enough for each other again”. He hoped that was true.

She carries a spark of regret in her chest, it grows when she thinks of him, and it shrinks when she remembers she freed him too. She thinks now that her denial of Jake Seresin may have been hasty. Fifteen years older, and with more perspective than she had at twenty-one, she thinks their lives could have been different if she had been brave enough to talk things out.

Her fear of stagnation had been her only motivation for so much of her life. His proposal had been on the surface a desperate attempt to cling to a bond they had begun to outgrow. And while his intentions at their core had been pure, getting married would not have saved their relationship. She had only begun to live for herself, and he still didn’t understand that his life was his own. Their marriage would have only served as a new way to masquerade and play pretend; years of running away from the fears that kept them both up at night. He would have grown to resent her inability to live without planning, and she would have hated his unintended absenteeism. Being married would not have kept his side of the bed warm, nor would it have given him any new ability to quell her anxieties.

She still thinks of him often. From her apartment on a clear day her view of the sky seems to span for miles and miles. She pictures him up there, carving through the clouds with the dedication and precision she’s always known he’d be capable of. She imagines him happy, living his dream. She hopes he’s proud of himself, and she prays that he knows that she’s proud of him too.

Sometimes, she lets herself wonder if he ever settled down; offered his grandmother’s ring and his heart on his sleeve to some other lucky girl. She’s tried to move on herself a few times, but never made it close to feeling like she was in love. The last guy had been a year ago now, he was nice enough, handsome, had a good job, and a good sense of humour. On paper he was flawless. He’d take her out for dinner, and walk her to her door. Sometimes he spent the night. He bought her flowers, and held her hand. But on one too many occasions she felt inexplicably lonely sitting next to him. He complained that she wasn’t any fun. She struggled to explain the sense of responsibility she’d never been able to shake. She asked him about his dreams. He never seemed to have any.

And so the hint of any spark that had been there fizzled away into nothing.

She tells herself she’s happier on her own and decides to keep moving forward, ignoring the cracking of her heart. She uncorks a bottle of wine, dancing alone in her kitchen, looking out at the vast evening sky and the setting sun. As much as she enjoys the view from her rental, she’s been in California long enough that it might be worth buying into the housing market. Nothing fancy, but something she can truly call her own. She’s been making good money for a while now, and her siblings have made it through college themselves. Jackson moved to New York with his sights set on being an architect. Olivia moved to Austin and became a nurse. Her mother hasn’t bothered to call in ages. Her shoulders relax without the added pressure of caring for others. For the first time in a very long time, her mind is quiet--it’s finally time to write the last chapters in her own story and stop running.

He keeps an old photograph of her in the inside of his flight suit, right over his heart. He’s living his dream, and he won’t allow himself to forget that she’s the reason why. Driving home from base at night he passes houses much larger than the bungalow he’s been renting. He wonders where she went after she graduated, and what kind of job she has now.

He chooses to picture her happy even at the expense of his feelings; a devoted husband coming to wrap his arms around her while she stirs a pot on the stove. A scintilla of guilt makes itself known as he grows somewhat jealous of this life he's envisioned for her. The truth is that he knows she was right for turning him down. They were too young, too naive, and too frightened. Breaking up with him may have been the first time he had seen her truly put herself first, and in hindsight, he’s glad she did. He knows he’d never have been able to live with himself if he had been what stood in the way of her making her dreams come true. It took him a while to understand the gift she had given him when she sent him away. The freedom to be the man he wanted to be, and not the man anyone else needed him to be.

He’d fucked it up more than once along the way. At work, he had become too brash, too cocky, too full of himself. He put his walls up and wore the self-assured mask he thought people wanted to see. Unwavering confidence, and determination. His return to Top Gun had been a wake-up call. He’d been forced to adapt, to let his guard down and learn how to let people in again. And for the first time since he was a teenager he appreciated the difference between being valued and being important. The realization had come with a sense of belonging and camaraderie that he hadn’t expected but couldn't afford to forget.

In his personal life, he had failed time and time again to form long-term bonds. One-night stands didn’t hurt, but the idea of waking up next to someone left him nauseous. But the truth is he yearns for that connection. He wants to be seen. He wants to be understood. He stopped going home to visit his parents two years ago, the weight of self-placed expectation chewed through him and left him hollow; guilt filled its place.

Last week he stood back straight, with his heart full of pride as he accepted his promotion. The new rank came with a new role, and a new more permanent position. He'd be stationed in San Diego for at least five more years. He called his mother. He booked a flight home for his next break. He started browsing real estate pages. It’s time to stop running.

She’s only made it to a couple of open houses so far but she hasn’t been able to find anything she likes yet. Most of the houses she’s seen are out of her price range. Others have been too modern, some too outdated.

She remembers the Seresin’s kitchen, the buttery yellow walls and linoleum tiles. Their house wasn’t flashy, nor had it been renovated anytime in 1980, but it was cozy. She can remember the smell of Mrs. Seresin’s baking. In her mind's eye, she recalls the feel of the cabinet doors that Mr. Seresin had built himself when they moved in, and his wife’s initials carved into the bottom corner of the cupboard over the sink. In every way possible they had made that ordinary farmhouse a home, and she wants the same for herself now. Like everything in her life, she decided her house has to be perfect. She’ll know it when she sees it.

The house is a two-story craftsman, built circa 1935. The siding is a garish kind of coral colour, faded by the sun, and the trims stand out in a soft vanilla colour, chipped at the edges. She’s driving home from work when she sees the sign for the open house standing proudly on the front lawn. Without a thought she pulls over, throwing the car into park. Inside, it smells like freshly baked cookies-- a real estate trick she’s learned over the last few weeks. It’s easy to imagine a house is your own when it smells so inviting. She's come to expect this, and won't let it blind her.

Her heels click across the hardwood floor, the sound echoing through the empty house. She moves past the stairs into the surprisingly spacious living room. A large window looks out onto the quiet cul-de-sac, and the room sits bathed in the soft glow of the street lights outside. She imagines the room furnished, with soft drapery, a plush sofa, tv hung above the fireplace, and she can imagine herself unwinding here. The dining room is a fair size, and the kitchen has a sliding door that opens up to the backyard. The cabinets are brand new, and the owners have spent time renovating while staying true to the charm of the house. On the countertop, she picks up the real estate agent’s pamphlets about the home, amenities and nearby schools are listed, and she wonders if she might have the chance to raise a family here.

Overhead the sound of steady footsteps, and a pair of heels make their way down the hall and then the stairs. “If you decide to put in an offer, do not hesitate to call, in this market the early bird gets the worm,” a woman speaks. “I appreciate it, thank you,” a man replies in a low southern drawl, “do you mind if I take a look at the backyard before I head out?” “Not at all! Take your time, I’ll be out front just getting my signs if you need anything else”.

He’s barely stepped into the kitchen when he hears his name. “Jake?” a familiar voice wonders, her arms coming immediately to wrap around him. She hits his chest with a thud, but it does move him an inch. Her name is sighed into her hairline as he holds her close. “You made it-- all the way to California,” He smiles, pulling back to get a good look at her. She’s as gorgeous as he remembers, if not more so. Her features have sharpened over time, and he thinks her hair might be darker now, but she’s glowing. Her grin is wide and her shoulders relaxed as she reaches to trace his name and rank on his uniform. “You’re flying, Jake,” she all but whispers. He nods, his eyes softening as his hand comes to rest over hers, his heart racing beneath her palm. “Turns out I’m pretty good at it,” he jokes, and is rewarded with his favourite laugh.

His free hand lowers to rest on her hip and she steps closer, familiarity allows them to skip out on formality. He’s missed this; a shared closeness loud enough for them to speak without saying anything. He knows her like he knows the back of his own hand, and even with years passed between them, he’s able to fill in the gaps. Her clothes are well made, and well fitted. Office wear. Her shoes leave her standing tall, reminding him of senior prom and the time they spent slow dancing. He knows what she’s overcome, and he’s never had any doubt about where she would end up. Clearly successful, and if the way her smile meets her eyes is any indicator, she’s happy too.

In all honesty, she’s not sure who leans in first, but she knows she’s kissing Jake Seresin for the first time in fifteen years. He kisses with hesitation at first but allows himself to give in to a passion grown with time. He’s more skilled than he was the first time they kissed, and she tries her best not to flush with jealousy. His cropped hair is soft where her hand reaches up to hold at the back of his head willing him closer.

One step at a time he backs her across the room until her back meets the wall. With fingers gripping the collar of his shirt she begs him to crowd her space. She swears he’s taller now. His shoulders are broader, his arms far more defined. He’s always been handsome but the boyish charm has been replaced by something far more deadly, and she’s convinced she’d die happy if it was him stealing her breath away.

She melts beneath him. His hand moves across her hip, down to feel the round of her ass, before his grip tightens at the flesh of her thigh, warm in her cute little dress slacks. Neither of them bothers to suppress the moans or sighs that leave them when begins to kiss down his neck. His knee slots between her legs, thudding when it makes contact with the wall, startling them both.

“Careful. You break it you buy it, Jake”.

“I think homeownership will be good for me,” he grins catching his breath.

“Not if I buy it first,” she quips, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she blinks up at him. He groans, his knees weak as her smile grows. “Let’s talk it out over dinner,” He manages his counteroffer.

***

Their house smells like chocolate chip cookies, made from the recipe Jake’s mother passed down. The window in the master bedroom offers a gorgeous view of the San Diego sky. On weekends, she wakes up to the smell of coffee brewing, and Jake sliding back into bed, his hands greedy as he pulls her from her sleep with warm kisses and the promise of breakfast if they manage to make it down the stairs.

The floorboard creaks when he comes home at night, the weight of his day shed at the door. He greets her as if he's been gone for months even when it’s only been a few hours. And he holds as if he’ll never see her again when he returns from a deployment.

The gentle breeze that blows through the open windows of their little home carries away their lingering anxieties, and they allow themselves to soften in each other’s presence.

They lay in the grass in their backyard, paint smeared across their clothes, brows sweaty from a hard day's work. The siding is now a fresh, pale green, the trims glow in a soft white. Above them, the stars shine. The same stars they watched as children, and loved as teens. He watches her, enamoured, as she points to the North Star tracing her way around the night sky, recalling the stories he told her about each constellation. He wonders how many lifetimes are painted in the sky above them, how many lovers have admired the stars as they have.

She pulls him from his thoughts, rolling to settle with her knees at either side of his hips, her left hand resting on his heart. He looks at her as if he’s in awe of her, his wedding band cold on her back as his hand slides underneath her shirt. Leaning down to kiss him she’s certain this is the life she’s always been running towards.

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin #FTWC #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun hangman

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lovetommyactually · 2 months ago

Text

Oops!

listen that leak prompt was way too good for me not to write something lmao

E Ι [Read below or on ao3]

The air between them felt charged, but not in the way it used to be. Now, it was awkward—hesitant.

Tommy shifted on his feet, arms crossed as if bracing himself for the conversation he hadn’t been prepared for. The call was over, the chaos had settled, and yet here they were, lingering in something neither of them knew how to navigate.

"H-hey, Ev—Buck!" Tommy corrected himself quickly, clearing his throat.

Buck, who had been dusting off his gloves, looked up, his blue eyes flickering with something lost.

"How are you doing?" Tommy asked, forcing a small smile. "You look good!"

Buck exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "H-hey…" He gulped. "Y-yeah, yeah, you—you look—great!" He winced immediately because great was an understatement. Tommy still looked effortlessly good, even in the middle of a long shift, exhaustion lingering in his eyes but not dulling them.

The silence stretched, and for a moment, Buck thought maybe Tommy would say something to make it easier. But Tommy just nodded, his lips pressed together in that way Buck recognized—like he was bracing himself.

So Buck spoke instead.

"Eddie left—to Texas!" Buck blurted out, the words landing awkwardly.

Tommy blinked, caught off guard. "Oh."

"He didn’t tell you?" Buck asked, his brows furrowing slightly.

"Uh—no… no, we—we didn’t talk," Tommy admitted, his voice quieter.

"Oh."

The weight of that single syllable hung between them.

There it was again—that awkward weight pressing down on them. Buck shifted uncomfortably.

Tommy offered a small, lopsided smile, like he was trying to smooth out the rough edges of the conversation.

Buck exhaled, shifting on his feet. "I, uh… I live in his house now. My house, I guess." He frowned. "Well, I took over his lease."

Tommy hummed in acknowledgment, nodding slowly. "That… makes sense."

Another pause. Another shift of weight.

"That’s… good," Tommy finally said with a smile, a smile buck missed so much.

"Yeah," Buck murmured. He wasn’t sure if it was.

Buck swallowed, glancing down at his boots before looking back up at Tommy. The way Tommy smiled—it was small, fleeting, but real—made something in Buck’s chest tighten.

"Well," Tommy said, exhaling softly. "I should—uh, I should get going."

Buck nodded, shifting again. "Yeah. Right."

Neither of them moved.

For a moment, it felt like something else could be said, like one of them might reach out and press pause on the inevitable parting. But the weight of too much unsaid settled between them, and Tommy finally took a step back.

"See you around, Buck," Tommy said, voice even, but there was something underneath it.

Buck forced a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Y-yeah… see you around."

Tommy nodded, lingering for a second too long before turning away.

Buck watched him walk off, jaw tight, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

He wasn’t sure why, but something about this goodbye felt different. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if it was really a goodbye at all.

"Tommy?"

Buck frowned when he opened the door and saw Tommy standing there—looking as perfect as ever, even in a bland black Henley that somehow always fit him too well. The dim porch light cast soft shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

"What? N-no—I mean, yeah, everything is fine, nothing’s wrong!" Tommy stammered, shifting on his feet. He let out a breathy, almost nervous chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Didn’t mean to freak you out or anything."

Buck exhaled, nodding. "Good."

Except it didn’t feel good. It felt weird. Off-kilter. Tommy showing up out of nowhere, standing in front of him like this—it threw Buck off balance in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Tommy’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just exhaled sharply and shook his head. "Sorry… sorry, this is dumb. I don’t know why I’m here. I should go."

He turned, already half-stepping back toward the porch stairs.

"What! No, wait!" The words left Buck’s mouth faster than he could think about them.

Tommy stopped. Looked back at him. His brows pinched slightly, like he was trying to figure Buck out.

Buck swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the cool night air prickled against his skin. "Uh—I mean, you’re here. Don’t just go… c-come inside."

Tommy hesitated.

He really hesitated. His fingers twitched at his sides, his weight shifting again. "Buck, I—"

Buck took a breath. "It’s just—" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You came all the way here. Don’t leave like this. Just—come in. Okay?"

Tommy studied him for a long moment, then nodded. A small, barely-there nod, but it was enough.

Buck stepped aside, opening the door wider.

For a second, Tommy still didn’t move. Then, finally, he walked past him, stepping into the house.

Silence settled between them as Buck shut the door behind them.

The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

The door clicked shut behind Tommy, sealing them inside together. The air in the house was warmer than outside, but it wasn’t just the heat—it was them, the weight of something unspoken pressing into the space between them.

Buck rubbed the back of his neck, his heartbeat thrumming louder than it should. “Uh—want a drink? Beer? Water?” He barely recognized his own voice.

Tommy stood near the entrance, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His eyes flickered around the room, but they always landed back on Buck.

The air between them was thick—too much, too close, too everything.

Tommy exhaled, finally dragging a hand through his hair, his gaze flickering to Buck before he spoke. "I couldn’t stop thinking about you."

Buck’s breath hitched.

Tommy let out a sharp, almost frustrated exhale, shaking his head. "Since I saw you today—hell, since the day I left, actually." His voice was rough around the edges, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but now that he had, he couldn’t stop.

"I told myself I shouldn’t come here, that I shouldn’t—shouldn’t make things more complicated. But then I kept thinking about it. About you. About everything I—"

He didn’t get to finish.

Buck surged forward, grabbed Tommy’s face, and kissed him.

A deep, feverish kiss, all impulse and heat, cutting off Tommy’s words like they didn’t matter—because right now, they didn’t.

Tommy inhaled sharply against Buck’s lips, his whole body going rigid for a split second—stunned—before instinct kicked in. His hands, hesitant at first, fisted into Buck’s shirt, pulling him in like the space between them was unbearable. The kiss was messy, desperate, too much and not enough all at once.

Buck could feel Tommy’s heartbeat against his own, feel the way he sighed into it—like he was sinking, like this was the only place he wanted to be.

When they finally pulled apart, gasping for breath, Tommy’s lips were red, kiss-swollen, his pupils blown wide.

"W-wha—" he tried to say, barely able to string words together—

But Buck didn’t let him.

He kissed him again.

Harder. Hungrier. Like he wasn’t ready to let him speak yet, like words would only ruin it.

Tommy inhaled sharply through his nose, startled for half a second before he gave in, gripping Buck’s waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he needed something to hold onto. The kiss was just as messy as the first—desperate, heady, too much and not enough all at once.

And then, between fevered gasps, Tommy broke away just enough to mumble, "I came here to talk."

Buck’s breath was ragged, his forehead brushing against Tommy’s as he barely pulled back. "Yeah, I know."

But before Tommy could say anything else, Buck caught his bottom lip again, kissing him deep, swallowing whatever words he had left. Tommy made a soft noise—half frustration, half surrender—and Buck felt his resolve slipping.

"Not this," Tommy murmured between kisses, but his hands never let go, gripping Buck tighter, like he was saying one thing and meaning another.

Buck hesitated for the first time—just for a second. Just long enough for Tommy’s words to sink in. Pulled back just enough to blink at him, breath shaky, lips red. "You sure?"

Tommy let out a breath, eyes dark, conflicted. "I—" He shook his head like he was trying to clear his thoughts, but then—then he was pushing Buck back, kissing him harder.

"Not this, Buck."

Buck let out a shaky laugh against Tommy’s lips, hands slipping to Tommy’s back, pulling him in tighter. "Well, if we’re doing this—you better call me Evan."

Tommy didn’t answer.

Didn’t speak at all.

Just kissed him.

Deeper. Rougher. Like he was trying to drown in it, in Buck, in something that had been building since the second they laid eyes on each other earlier that day. Their bodies pressed together, hands desperate, mouths parting only to crash back into each other. The moans slipped between them without either of them meaning to—needy, breathless, raw.

And then, suddenly—

Tommy hoisted him up.

Buck gasped against his lips, a startled, choked-off sound as Tommy’s hands gripped the backs of his thighs and lifted him like he weighed nothing.

His back hit the nearest wall with a soft thud, Tommy’s body pressed flush against him. Buck’s legs wrapped instinctively around Tommy’s waist, arms winding around his neck to steady himself.

Tommy’s grip was firm, solid, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—like holding Buck up was just natural.

Tommy’s strength had always been ridiculous, but feeling it like this again—feeling himself being handled so effortlessly—sent a shiver down Buck’s spine. God, he missed this so much.

"We shouldn’t do this, Evan," Tommy murmured, his lips ghosting over Buck’s jaw, his breath hot, uneven.

Buck gasped against Tommy’s lips, gripping his shoulders tighter. His back was pressed against the wall, their bodies flush, but he could already feel the strain in his legs from being held up like this.

"W-we should go to the bedroom," Buck managed to pant between kisses, his fingers tightening in Tommy’s hair. "No stairs here."

Tommy groaned softly, the sound vibrating between them, his breath heavy against Buck’s cheek. He didn’t answer right away—just pressed another lingering kiss to Buck’s lips, then another, like he wasn’t ready to stop.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to smirk against Buck’s skin. "Yeah?" His voice was rough, teasing, but there was a flicker of something else—something deeper.

Buck swallowed hard, his stomach flipping at the heat in Tommy’s gaze. "Y-yeah," he breathed. "Unless you wanna hold me up all night."

Tommy huffed out a laugh, adjusting his grip around Buck’s thighs like the weight didn’t even faze him. "Could."

Buck’s breath hitched at the sheer confidence in his tone. "Tommy—"

But before he could say anything else, Tommy hoisted him up more securely and started walking.

Buck clung to him, feeling every step, every shift of muscle beneath him, his pulse thrumming wildly.

God, he missed this.

In a minute, he was on his back.

The world around them blurred, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting flickering shadows across the sheets. Nothing else existed—just heat, just hands, just the weight of Tommy against him, between his legs, surrounding him.

Tommy hovered over him, lips brushing along Buck’s jaw, down his neck, his hands mapping familiar territory—like he was trying to relearn Buck’s body, remind himself how it felt, how it fit against his own. Buck arched into his touch, fingers gripping at Tommy’s shoulders, pulling him closer, needing more.

Their clothes disappeared between kisses, tossed aside without thought. Every inch of Buck’s skin burned under Tommy’s touch—his hands, his mouth, the teasing scrape of his teeth against Buck’s collarbone.

Tommy had wanted to talk. That’s why he came here. That’s why he stood on Buck’s doorstep, fumbled through his words, why he almost left before Buck stopped him.

But now—now he couldn’t seem to stop kissing him.

"I—" Tommy started, his voice uneven as his hands skimmed down Buck’s sides, nails dragging lightly, making Buck shiver. "Fuck, I was—was supposed to—" He broke off, groaning as Buck rolled his hips up, pushing against him in a way that made his entire train of thought derail.

Buck’s fingers tangled in Tommy’s hair, tugging lightly. "What? You were supposed to what, Tommy?" His voice was breathy, teasing, and it sent something sharp through Tommy’s stomach, something almost desperate.

"Talk," Tommy mumbled against Buck’s skin, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss just beneath his jaw. "I was supposed to talk."

Buck laughed softly, breath hitching when Tommy bit at his neck. "Yeah? And how’s that going?"

Tommy exhaled roughly, dragging his hips against Buck’s, swallowing both of their groans as the friction sent sparks through them.

Buck gasped, his head tilting back into the pillows, fingers flexing against Tommy’s back. "Shit—Tommy—"

They shouldn’t be doing this. Tommy knew that. But the way Buck moved beneath him, the way his hands clung to him like he was afraid Tommy would disappear—God, how was he supposed to stop?

Buck was flushed, breathless, looking up at him with blown pupils, his lips red and kiss-swollen.

"I wanted—" Tommy tried again, voice shaky, forehead pressing against Buck’s. "I needed to—"

"Tommy," Buck whispered, lifting his hips just enough to make Tommy feel him, and whatever words Tommy had left were completely, utterly gone.

Instead, he kissed him.

Slow at first, teasing, then deeper, rougher, hands mapping familiar territory, gripping Buck’s hips, holding him steady as they moved together, rolling, chasing something inevitable.

Tommy was breathing hard, Buck’s moans mixing with his own, their bodies pressing closer, tighter, their movements turning erratic.

And then, Tommy slid his hand between them, wrapping around both of them, stroking them together, his pace firm, deliberate.

Buck gasped—a full-body tremor—his nails scraping down Tommy’s back as his thighs tightened around him. "Fuck—fuck, Tommy—"

The rhythm between them became frantic, desperate. Buck was already teetering, on the edge of something blinding, something unstoppable.

"God—fuck—" Buck gasped, his fingers slipping against Tommy’s shoulders, his body tensing beneath him, trembling as he finally shattered, white-hot pleasure crashing over him.

That was all it took.

Tommy followed a second later, groaning deeply against Buck’s neck, his breath stuttering, his body locking up before shuddering violently through it. His hand slowed between them, drawing out every last wave, every last tremor, until Buck was boneless beneath him, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.

The room was silent except for their harsh breathing, the weight of what they’d just done pressing down on them.

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stayed there, his face still buried against Buck’s neck, like if he moved too fast, everything would shatter.

Buck let out a breathless, dazed laugh, one hand sliding up to card through Tommy’s hair.

"So…" Buck started, still slightly breathless, "Did you say everything you needed to say?"

Tommy groaned into his skin, his laugh muffled, rough.

"Shut up, Evan." Tommy exhaled against Buck’s collarbone. "We really should talk."

Buck, still floating somewhere between bliss and exhaustion, hummed lazily, dragging his fingers along Tommy’s spine.

"Mmm. We will…" he murmured, a smirk curling against Tommy’s skin. "Eventually."

#okay now i sleep #should i tag this as spoiler? ehehehe bye #bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #*

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