#Day 1: Steer

[midnightmagicks]

FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge Day 1: Steer

Steer: guide the movement or course of (someone or something).

He loved his children. So truly and deeply did he adore these bundles of joy. But, sometimes, handling them on his own could be a bit much. And right now, he was moments away from losing his mind.

Normally, he’d call on his husband to give him a breather, even if it was only a few moments. Unfortunately, today was a training day for his dearest and he had been away all day. So, here Zansei stood, crying baby in his arms and angry child tugging at his robes and yelling.

He had tried everything he could think of. Toys, games, songs, outside time, you name it. Nothing had worked. Everything he did only seemed to irritate the 5 year old more. Which in turn, made the baby cry more. It was normally so easy to steer her attention away to something else, but she was adamant about being angry today. “<Hoshiko, love, please. I cannot help you if you don’t use your words. You have to tell me what–>” Zansei’s patient pleading was cut off by the young girl wailing loudly, throwing herself onto the floor into yet another tantrum. Which, unfortunately, caused Haruki to wail just as loud. Honestly, Zansei had to resist the urge to sit down and cry with the two of them. He rarely had trouble calming them down but he didn’t have the help he needed today. Or so he thought.

A knock at his door made him pause. He wasn’t given time to answer before the guest simply let themselves in, loudly dropping a few bags in the doorway. The noise made Hoshiko stop her tantrum, and look towards the door. She shot off the floor and charged into their legs excitedly, immediately forgetting she was angry. “Oba-san!!” Zansei blinked, staring into the face of his twin sister, Akiko. She grinned down at her niece, patting her head before looking at Zansei with a smug look. “<By the sound of it you need an expert's help.>” Any other time, he would have rolled his eyes at her and scoffed. But right now? Oh he needed this. Silently, uncharacteristically even for him, he walked over and handed the shorter woman Haruki. Her eyes widened as she noticed the exhausted look in her twin brother’s eyes. “<Oh you really need help, huh.>” Zansei nodded like a zombie, putting a hand on her shoulder before walking around her and slipping his shoes on. He spoke deadpan, not even looking over his shoulder.

“<I’m going for a walk. Do whatever you can. Good luck.>

[starres-stuff]

Day 1-Steer FFXIV Writes 2024

Steer: a piece of advice or information concerning the development of a situation

The whole way home Vi had fumed, there were even points where it sounded like she was stomping her feet and others where rocks could be heard bouncing off every surface, one clipping her right in the arm which resulted in her yelping so loud that flocks of birds scattered thinking they were in danger. 

What had started the mood was Xixa making a snide remark as they locked up the Bakery for the night. “Maybe tomorrow you'll remember that we start baking at five in the morning and be here on time so I don't have to do it all alone?” Just thinking about it again made Vi grit her teeth. It was her bakery after all and she could start when she wanted! She was well aware that the Viera was trying to steer her down the path of responsibility and she was grateful that the woman came to help her bake, but Vi paid her to work for her, which was a handsome sum. 

Thankfully once she made it home her husbands’ managed to whisk away Xixa's burst, replacing it with good food, lovely conversation, and an early bedtime, which was often one of her favorite things when work had been trying; though sleep would not be on the dossier for hours to come yet. Eventually, they would wear each other out and sleep would become a must. This particular night before Vi drifted off to sleep she set the alarm on her Chronometer for four and a half bells believing the noise alone would get her out of bed and at the bakery on time. 

It was such a sound plan to the Elezen that she fell asleep rather easily on this specific night, and she slept through it without a single awakening, a true rarity for her, and just as was expected the alarm on her Chronometer sounded at four and a half bell. It was terrible to wake up that early, though she did have a few protests in her mind about pulling back the warm blankets and getting out of the comfortable bed where one of her husbands was still sleeping, and for a long moment, she stared at his face, a small smile appearing on her own at how adorable he looked. Vi hated leaving him this early in the morning but eventually, she forced herself to move, her feet just about to touch the floor when she felt strong arms go around her waist. 

“Not yet” a sleepy voice murmured, still rich with the accent of the Corethas Highlands but tempered by Gridania undertones from the time he had spent living there. “Too early.” 

Vi felt her heart sink, this was what she was weak to. Both of her husbands had this sway with her and she found herself looking back over her shoulder hoping that this one would fall back to sleep. Alas, she would find a pair of mismatched eyes, one as bright as the sun and the other as bright as the moon, gazing back at her with an impish grin on her face. The impish grin he wore told her he was wide awake and likely woke up with her alarm. 

“You are such a brat, Clement.” she couldn’t help but laugh at the second tug that came at her waist. 

“Come back to bed, it is too early for work.” He protested, his arms growing tighter around her “I haven’t even had a proper chance to bid you a good morning yet.” Those stunning eyes of his took on the look of what Xixa called ‘puppy dog eyes’ and Vi felt her resolve melt away a little bit more. 

“I have to go beloved” She shook her head and tried to pull away from his arms, but he tightened them again this time succeeding in moving her backward when he tugged at her waist. 

“No, you don’t it is too early” He protested again, placing a few kisses on her back rising upwards to leave further kisses on her shoulder, her neck, and then finally her lips. 

At this point, Vi had lost the ‘get out of bed early’ battle, and all the work she had put into being to the bakery on time to help Xixa with the list they had made before closing was lost to Clement’s eyes and his kisses. The next thing she knew her normal eight bells alarm went off, and Clement gave her a wink. 

“It is time to get up beloved, you will be late for work.” This was one of those mornings that Vi punched him in the shoulder and rightfully so. 

[notyourmusebby]

c2 activities out of context:

[rimeiii]

I hate beating up a dead horse (and in fear of incurring the wrath of the fandom once more) but the way WHB handles content warnings is just...

Where are the detailed content warnings? Not just for the angels, but for everything? Because honestly, I think the game would've garnered less backlash for having them - a "this game is made for mature audiences, viewer discretion is advised" screen before logging in would be the bare minimum honestly.

Say what you want about the angel cards including dub/non-con content and the cards themselves veering towards that sort of territory but at least give a fucking warning about it? I've always criticized the devs for not having 18+ rating all across the board when clearly mature games like Limbus Company get the 18+ rating. If WHB is NSFW because of the sex and kinky stuff, Limbus is NSFW because of the immense amount of gore and dark content.

"But they have content warnings-" ONLY FOR SEX. AND PAIRED WITH 16+.

It would be perfectly reasonable to assume that, for people who played this game without following any of the pre-release contents, with this combination THERE WON'T BE ANY DETAILED DUB/NON-CON.

This is in Indonesia's Google Play Store, and if it's different in other regions, then it also begs the question - why the FUCK is it not just rated 18+ across the board?!

Limbus Company, the closest comparison I can think of being with their devs (Project Moon) also being a Korean indie company that created a gacha with mature content that has a staff team the size of a high school class (in fact I wager Limbus has less staff working on the game because around half of their staff works almost exclusively at their merch café), only had warnings for extreme violence and strong language, but at least they had the decency to put more warnings in their earliest trailers and the game website - and it's always common courtesy in the fandom to warn potential players with one particular image I'll show down below, containing a list of the game's content warnings.

Oh, and they're rated 18+ across the board, including a Mature Content Description on Steam.

And sure, you can make the argument of "well you know what you're getting into upon looking at the card art", but therein lies the issue of not warning at the very start of the game - nobody knew for sure what triggers would be in the game upon startup.

Whatever way you slice it, dub/non-con is a genuine trigger for other people despite it also being a kink (I personally don't get it and it's a no-no for me even in fiction, but you do you). Adding clear content warnings would literally harm no one and helps people avoid things they know they don't want to consume. Yes, despite the in-game context clues providing hints, a clear indicator is still preferable.

Take, for example, the Lobelia summer skin controversy in Granblue Fantasy. People already know Lobelia as the twisted Evoker who not only murdered his own parents but recorded their dying screams of pain in his conch shells, doing the same thing to his countless victims afterwards. All of this is mentioned during the Fate Episodes to recruit him. You want to know the problem with his summer skin, Danger Beckons by the Shore, though?

There's a home screen voiceline where he offers one of his conch shells for the player to listen to, wherein you will hear the pained and tortured screams of one of his victims as she's attacked and later on eaten alive by a shark. Keep in mind, this sort of voiceline wasn't even in his base art, and while his Fate Episodes had tortured screams it wasn't even half as bad as this particular voiceline.

It's even given a content warning in the wiki.

For a rather significant amount of players who bought the skin, the inclusion of this voiceline despite the subtle warning in the skin blurb (which, fyi, is only accessible AFTER you bought the skin) hampers their enjoyment of the skin when they put it on their home screens then tap Lobelia - which many people who get character skins do. Mostly because there wasn't any clear indicator of the scream and a lot of people never appreciated the sudden jumpscare scream. The fact that Lobelia is a psychopath and doing this shit is in character for him should also be able to stand together with the fact that including a scream out of nowhere is pretty scummy and not a good time. Especially for non-JP speaking players, who essentially got jumpscared by a scream out of nowhere, as they never understood the fact that Lobelia was offering one of his conch shells.

Back to the rating issue, though. Why not rate WHB as 18+ if you're going to include content that could very much be considered controversial, like non-con? Like, say, Limbus Company (which I hate bringing up again bc fuck kjh)? Which not only has the warnings in the app store but plastered in the earliest trailers (still viewable on Steam and Project Moon's YouTube channel but not on the Google Play Store) and the official game website?

And sure. Some of these trigger warnings sound silly (reference to traffic accidents is more or less Charon driving Mephi like a maniac iirc based on the content we already have in the game). But I did genuinely appreciate the warning because let's talk about the first three Cantos after the prologue, hmm?

Canto 1 already includes cannibalism, war, torture, and body modifications, among other things! Canto 2 has references to alcohol and gambling, as well as mentions of homicide - despite being a lighter Canto overall! And in Canto 3, we experienced discriminatory violence, more body modifications, enforced ideologies and/or actions, and religious torture and violence among other things!

I can stomach gore easier compared to non-con and even I appreciate the warning, particularly with regards to Canto 3. Kromer's fascination with everything pure (i.e. no body modifications), all stemming from seeing...something...in the basement of Sinclair's old mansion, the cult behaviour that led to mass murder and torture by the faction she leads (up to and including brainwashing as detailed by Kleinhammer Heathcliff's Identity story) Kromer's obssession with Sinclair and him standing beside her as an ally...it's all genuinely so unnerving, and are story beats the game handles really well despite how disturbing it all really is when you stop and think about it.

"But you should've known considering the game's aesthetics-"

Maybe, especially considering one of Gregor's launch cards is literally this, and most if not all Uptie II arts are gory at the very least.

However, again, I have to underline the importance of content warnings - this time with an irl example.

I have a friend who was interested in Limbus Company. I've talked extensively about Gregor and how much I love him, and it started because I have a drawing I made of him in the back of my phone case and Liu Gregor's Uptie II art as my phone background at the time. They said they were interested, then I had to explain the sorts of contents she would encounter in my native language, Indonesian.

"Blood and gore, violence, a lot of mental health issues - Gregor has PTSD and his chapter depicted it pretty well, human experimentation, homicide, so Nagel und Hammer is basically the Inquisition and kills people to 'purify' them, oh yeah cannibalism is also a thing-"

"Stop, stop, I'm not playing if that's the content I'm going to see. I don't think I can handle it."

This same friend was also interested in playing If On a Winter's Night, Four Travelers - a free point-and-click adventure game that deals with themes like depression, homophobia, racism, and suicide. She was willing to try that game out because it wasn't as gory as Limbus Company. For context, the Mature Content Description for this game on Steam:

In both cases, I had to personally explain the content warnings in Indonesian since my friend isn't the most fluent in English and she has a far lower limit for dark content compared to me, but I did send that image of content warnings for Limbus Company and urged people to read the Mature Content Descriptions on Steam for anyone who wanted to try any of the two games and is fluent in English. Why?

Because it's basic human decency to try and keep people informed of any potential triggers and content they might not be comfortable seeing.

Either way, main takeaway from this issue:

Dub/non-con might be your kink, but it might not be for others - it might be uncomfortable or downright triggering as all hell for others, in fact. So, clear content warnings (in particular for any and all triggering content) harm nobody, especially as it helps people avoid story beats where their turn-offs and, more importantly, their triggers.

[thorsenmark]

Honda CR-V (2015) by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: I got the idea for this image from this Flickr image (www.flickr.com/photos/kagirohi/11854685244/in/gallery-147...). I'd been looking here and there for times I might capture a similar type image with the inside of a car. I hoped to be able to catch something where the light was coming in from the other side as it crossed the dashboard of a car. So there I was enjoying a ride along the Trans-Canada Highway 1 when I got out for a view of mountains. After getting back in the car, I finally noticed the inside dashboard view and capture this image.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Gotham's Sunshine Child part 1

No one knew when exactly Danny Fenton had arrived in Gotham. One day, he was just there—a quiet, gangly sixteen-year-old with a ratty backpack, a stitched-up hoodie, and a smile that could melt the icicles off Victor Fries’ heart. The city hadn’t noticed him at first, too preoccupied with surviving itself. But Danny? Danny noticed everything.

And when Gotham finally turned its eyes toward him, it fell in love.

It started with a mugger.

That particular evening, a man with shaky hands and a knife cornered Danny in an alley just off Crime Alley. Standard Gotham fare. But instead of fighting back or running away, Danny had blinked at the mugger, reached into his pocket, and handed over the cash.

"Here. It's not much," he had said, voice warm. "But there's a soup kitchen two blocks from here. Tell Lisa I sent you. She makes killer lentil stew."

The mugger, stunned into silence, had only managed a confused nod before running off.

Three days later, the same man showed up again—cleaned up, holding a broom, working at a local deli. He later admitted to the cops (and a very baffled Red Hood) that “the kid” had told him he could do better. And he believed him.

It didn’t stop there.

A homeless vet who used to sleep under the old train tracks suddenly had a place to stay and a job fixing bikes. When questioned, he simply said, “That kid gave me his sleeping bag and a flier for a mechanic shop hiring. Then he dragged me there himself.”

Danny did that sort of thing all the time.

The Bat-Family was at a loss.

“He’s not a meta,” Tim had insisted after three all-nighters of research and very little caffeine. “Or, well—maybe he is

but that’s not the point. He’s just… a kid.”

“Who’s doing more good than half our rogues’ gallery does damage,” Barbara added.

“He’s too soft for Gotham,” Jason had snapped once, furious after finding Danny curled up on a park bench in December because he’d given away his coat. Again. “This city chews up people like him.”

But oddly enough, Gotham didn't chew him up.

Instead, Gotham protected him.

Word spread fast. You don’t mess with the Sunshine Kid. Thieves wouldn’t rob him. Dealers would steer clear of his usual paths. Kids in gangs would warn others: Don’t touch the kid in the patched-up hoodie. Even the alley cats followed him around like a pack of miniature bodyguards.

One night, Scarecrow tried to gas a block Danny happened to be on.

The gas didn’t work.

Danny had walked right through it, calm and kind, helping others out of the fog with a hand over their mouths and gentle instructions. The toxin, later analysis showed, had no effect on him.

"I don’t scare easy," Danny had told Nightwing afterward with a shrug.

Which made sense, in retrospect—after all, what was fear to a boy who had already died once?

[mrspiastri]

✩ bundle of joy 🍼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, pregnancy, giving birth

wc: 3.7k words

an: i got carried away… can you guys tell… 😊

Ever since they found out they were expecting, Lando and Y/N were over the moon. Sure, getting pregnant during his last season in Formula 1 hadn’t been optimal, but he was glad he’d only be missing the first few weeks of her pregnancy.

He kept tabs on her at all times when he travelled, FaceTiming her at least twice a day, asking if she could show him the bump, even after she reminded him that she’d only start showing prominently after the first trimester.

“Are you sure she’s in there? I can’t even tell that you’re pregnant.” Lando commented as Y/N positioned the camera so he could analyse her tummy.

“I’m quite sure. Also, why are you calling the baby a ‘she’? He could be a boy too,” she said.

“Yeah, but I think it’s a girl,” he stated as he munched on an apple.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Father’s intuition, my love.”

He’d been the most supportive partner throughout the pregnancy and even initially refused to let Y/N come to his final race in Abu Dhabi but relented after their doctor assured him she and the baby would be alright.

As soon as he got out of the car, he went straight to her, giving her as bone-crushing a hug as possible without pressing down on her stomach. His fans immediately noticed how careful he was being around her, and on Christmas the couple announced they would be expecting their baby in August of the following year.

As expected, everyone was overjoyed, with fans and friends alike congratulating the couple, leading to an outpouring of love and support. Carlos sent them a care basket, and Max sent them a box of baby clothes with the MV33 motif on them.

Max F and Pietra came over immediately after they announced the news, with the two men almost in tears as they hugged, although they’d never admit it.

🪻🪻🪻

Post-retirement, Lando had found a new hobby: being Y/N’s butler. He made sure to wait on her hand and foot. She can’t remember the last time she walked to the fridge and got herself her own bottle of water or managed to microwave her own leftovers without him ushering her back to the couch.

One plus side was she never had to worry about any of the housework, but she was growing tired of constantly having him follow her around everywhere she went.

Lando’s overprotectiveness only got worse as the weeks went by.

It started with small things. He hovered every time she walked up or down the stairs, practically blocking her with both arms like human guard rails. Then he banned her from standing on any surface higher than a rug. One day, she tried to reach the top shelf for a cereal box, and he appeared out of nowhere like he’d been summoned.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, horrified, taking the box from her hands and setting it gently on the counter like it was fragile cargo.

“Reaching for breakfast?” She deadpanned.

“From a chair, Y/N. A chair.” He said it like she’d tried to climb onto the roof.

“I’m pregnant, not reckless.”

“You’re both,” he muttered under his breath, pressing a kiss to her temple before gently steering her back to the kitchen table. “You sit. I’ll get you a proper breakfast.”

“Proper” turned out to be scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fruit he’d cut into perfect little cubes. She had to admit it was sweet. A little annoying. But mostly sweet.

By the time her second trimester rolled around, the bump was officially visible, which only made things worse.

He refused to let her carry groceries. Or laundry. Or even her own purse half the time.

“Lando, it’s a tote bag.”

“It has weight. You don’t need the strain.”

“It’s literally lip balm and a phone charger.”

“Strain”, he repeated, sliding the strap off her shoulder. “Reckless”, he added with a playful glare.

She’d started calling him “Coach Norris” because he’d also given himself a new job: personal fitness monitor. He had an app that tracked her water intake, a second app with yoga videos for pregnant women, and a third app he claimed he wasn’t using but definitely was, just to monitor what she was eating.

“Are those pickles?” he asked one night as she pulled a jar from the fridge.

“Yes.”

“Are they pregnancy-safe pickles?”

“Are you hearing yourself?”

He walked over and inspected the label anyway.

Still, despite the hovering, the doting, and the hovering while doting, she knew it all came from a place of love. He was excited. Nervous. And completely in awe of what was happening.

They’d decided early on not to find out the baby’s gender. Lando had gone along with it, even if he still stubbornly referred to the baby as “she” most days.

“I’m telling you, she’s going to come out with your eyes and my curls.”

“You’ll be surprised when he comes out looking exactly like me.”

“Either way, we’re winning,” he said, resting his head on her belly like it was his favourite pillow.

Choosing baby names had taken weeks. They’d written a long list on a whiteboard in the kitchen. Some were sweet, some ridiculous, and a few were just jokes left over from when Carlos came to visit and wrote “Carlos Jr. Jr.” in bold capital letters across the top.

They started keeping a shared note on their phones too, titled Baby Names We (Sort of) Agree On. It started off filled with jokey entries—Lando added “Turbo” and “Seb” just to annoy her—but over time, it became a genuine list of names that felt like theirs. Classic ones, sweet ones, and a few international names to reflect all the places they’d been together.

“I really like ‘Sophia’,” she said one evening, tracing her finger over her bump.

Lando nodded, thoughtful. “Sophia’s nice. Strong, but kind. We could call her Sophie for short.”

Eventually, they narrowed it down to four: two girl names and two boy names. Lando insisted they’d know the right one when they met their baby.

🪻🪻🪻

The baby shower came in June, hosted by Rebecca and Carlos in their sun-drenched backyard. Everything was soft and golden, with wildflowers in mason jars, neutral-coloured decorations, and string lights hung across the trees. The theme was Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and someone had even rented a vintage-style photo booth that Lando and Max monopolised for most of the afternoon.

Lando had insisted on contributing to the party planning—though that mostly meant him panicking about the balloon arch and triple-checking the dessert table.

“Are those cupcakes shaped like onesies?” He whispered, staring in awe.

Y/N nodded, amused. “Yes. Try not to eat them before the guests arrive.”

“Too late,” Oscar mumbled, his mouth already full.

Their loved ones showed up in droves— their parents, siblings, Daniel and Charles, Oscar and Max F, the McLaren crew, and even some of Lando’s old engineers. Everyone signed a guestbook with wishes for the baby, and by the end of the day it was filled with messy handwriting and inside jokes.

During the shower, their friends wrote notes of advice on little cards—some serious, most of them not. Carlos wrote, “Get sleep now. You won’t see it again.” Max wrote, “Teach them to drive early. Like, karting at 4.” Pietra wrote, “Let them be weird. Weird kids are cool adults.”

There were presents, of course—tiny socks and animal-shaped onesies and a miniature McLaren jacket from Andrea that made Y/N emotional for a solid ten minutes.

Y/N sat on a wicker chair surrounded by baby gifts while Lando perched next to her, one arm slung protectively over the back of her seat. Every time she opened something tiny—a onesie, a pair of booties, a soft knitted hat—his face lit up like it was Christmas.

He kept whispering, “Can you believe this is real?” and pressing kisses to her shoulder when no one was looking.

Even Oscar gave a particularly emotional toast halfway through the party, ending it with how their baby was about to be the most loved kid on the planet.

Lando blinked a few times and cleared his throat afterwards, which everyone pretended not to notice.

By the third trimester, Lando had become what Y/N lovingly called “her shadow”. He followed her from room to room, handed her water before she even realised she was thirsty, and insisted on doing literally everything.

“Put that down,” he said one afternoon as she reached for the laundry basket.
“It’s just towels, Lando.”
“Towels that weigh too much,” he argued. “I’ve got it. Sit down. Hydrate. Breathe.”

She rolled her eyes but gave in, secretly loving how he fussed over her.

At night, he talked to the baby. Sometimes just mumbling nonsense. Other times whispering things he hadn’t told anyone else.

“Hi, little one,” he murmured against her belly one evening. “We’re so ready for you. But maybe don’t come too early, yeah? We’re still figuring out how to swaddle.”

Y/N smiled sleepily, running a hand through his curls. “You’re going to be so annoying when they’re a teenager.”

“I know,” he said proudly.

He installed extra railings in the shower. He banned her from lifting grocery bags, laundry baskets, and at one point, even her own handbag. She’d caught him watching videos on how to swaddle a baby using a towel and then testing it out on one of the throw pillows.

“Lando,” she called from the living room one afternoon. “Why is the throw pillow wearing a diaper?”

“Practice.”

He took to sleeping with a hand on her belly every night, just in case the baby kicked or she needed anything. Sometimes she’d wake up to him whispering to the bump.

“What are you doing?” She mumbled one night around 3 a.m.

“Reading her a bedtime story. She likes The Little Prince.”

“You’re unbelievable,” she said sleepily, curling into him.

“Yeah, unbelievably good at this dad thing,” he whispered back.

🪻🪻🪻

By the time August rolled in, Y/N had fully accepted her role as the Queen of Cushions. Lando refused to let her sit anywhere unless he personally arranged three pillows behind her back, two under her knees, and a blanket on standby in case she got cold.

She was more than ready for the baby to arrive. Her ankles were swollen. Her back ached. She hadn’t seen her toes in weeks.

Lando, however, was still acting like she might fall apart at any second.

“Don’t forget to text me when you wake up,” he told her one morning as he laced up his sneakers.

“I’m already awake, Lando. I’ve been up since 5 a.m. because your kid likes to use my bladder as a trampoline.”

“Still. Just in case. Text me.”

She shook her head, but her heart swelled every time.

Then one night, exactly a day after her due date, it happened. A sharp cramp. Another. And then something that definitely wasn’t just Braxton Hicks.

Lando took a breath, grabbed the hospital bag that had been packed and repacked six times, and helped her into the car.

“You ready?” he asked as he buckled her in.

She met his eyes and squeezed his hand. “I don’t think anyone’s ever really ready for this.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Then let’s go be not ready together.”

The hospital room smelt like disinfectant and bad coffee, and the lights were criminally bright for someone about to push a small human out of her body. Y/N shifted uncomfortably on the bed, side-eyeing the monitor that beeped with a little too much enthusiasm.

“This incessant beeping is going to kill me,” she muttered.

Lando stood beside her like he was about to assist in a rocket launch. His hoodie was half-zipped, hair a mess, and his socks were inside out—he hadn’t noticed yet. He’d been pacing, fluffing her pillows, re-checking the hospital bag he’d already checked seven times, and offering her water like a nervous flight attendant.

“Do you want ice chips? More pillows? A foot massage? I can find a doula—do we need a doula?”

“You are the doula,” she said, wincing through a contraction.

“Oh God. We’re doomed.”

By the time the nurse came in to check her dilation, Lando was vibrating with nervous energy. When she announced Y/N was only four centimetres, he slumped dramatically into the chair.

“Four? That’s it? She’s been in labour for years!”

The nurse patted him on the shoulder. “It’s called early labour for a reason, Dad.”

He nodded, like he totally understood, then whispered to Y/N, “I thought babies were faster than this.”

An hour or so later, the contractions were really getting to Y/N, and she tried distracting herself from the pain, at least till she could get an epidural.

“Babe, do you think the baby wants peanut M&Ms or the regular ones?”

“Lando, I’m 6 centimetres dilated over here!”

“Ah, you’re right! Regular it is.”

“Lando!”

Y/N had gone into labour approximately 7 hours ago and was already completely over it. The nurses quickly arrived and administered the drug, and she was now slumped against the hospital bed— slightly relieved, but still very much in labour.

The epidural's kicking in had helped massively, but she was still very uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than to get their baby out of her as soon as possible.

By early morning, she was finally at ten centimetres. The room shifted. More nurses came in. The doctor returned, gloves on, voice calm but firm. Lando moved to her side, gripping her hand like a lifeline.

“Alright, Y/N,” the doctor said, “It’s time to push.”

The next hour blurred. Her body was in motion before her mind could keep up. Pushing, resting, breathing, pushing again. She couldn’t tell if it was minutes or days. Lando was right there the whole time, cheering her on, whispering, “You’ve got this, almost there, so close,” over and over like a prayer.

She nodded, too exhausted to speak. The pain was blinding now, pushing everything else to the edges. She was trembling with effort, tears leaking silently down the sides of her face.

Lando wiped them away. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen anyone be this strong.”

And then—

“There’s the head,” someone said.

Y/N gasped, tears stinging her eyes. Her fingers tightened around Lando’s. She pushed one last time, heart pounding, and suddenly—

The room erupted with the soft cries of an indignant newborn.

A baby. Their baby.

The sound sliced through the air, thin and perfect and real.

Y/N collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing. Lando was frozen, eyes wide, mouth open, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

The nurse gently laid her on Y/N’s chest, and the room fell quiet apart from the baby’s cries and Lando’s completely overwhelmed, awe-struck, maybe-about-to-cry breathing.

“She’s here,” Y/N whispered, staring at the little face scrunched up in protest. “We made her.”

“She’s perfect,” Lando said, brushing his fingers over her tiny hand, tears pooling in his eyes. “And loud. She gets that from you.”

The nurse smiled. “Name?”

They exchanged a look. The same look they’d been sharing for weeks.

“Sophia Norris”, Y/N said softly.

Lando repeated it with reverence. “Sophia Cisca Norris”.

Shortly after, the grandparents burst in like a pit crew. Y/N’s mum brought sweets. Lando’s dad brought three types of sandwiches, and his mum cried immediately. Her cries increased in intensity when she heard her granddaughter’s middle name.

The room had quieted, save for the soft coos of baby Sophia tucked against Lando’s bare chest. He sat in the corner chair, cradling her tiny body in his arms, his thumb brushing over her soft head in quiet awe. His eyes were glassy, lost in the rhythm of her breathing, the weight of fatherhood sinking into his bones.

Y/N lay back on the hospital bed, exhausted but glowing, watching them with a kind of love that hurt to fathom.

Her dad stepped beside her, his voice low, familiar. “You did good, sweetheart.”

She blinked up at him, tired tears prickling again. He reached out, smoothing her hair like he had when she was little.

“You’re a mother now,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. “But you’ll always be my girl.”

She let out a soft laugh, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Across the room, Lando rocked gently, whispering to his daughter like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Two fathers. Two daughters. One just beginning, one watching the start of it all.

It was quiet, simple, sacred—a full circle drawn in warm arms and steady hands.

Soon after all the excitement, and with the grandparents going to their house to tidy up for baby Sophia, back in the quiet of the hospital room, the world finally stilled.

Lando wrapped his arms around both of them, resting his head gently against Y/N’s, as she held their daughter in her arms.

“You realise I’m never letting either of you out of my sight again,” he said.

Y/N sighed, her voice soft and tired. “That’s fine. Just don’t run during diaper changes.”

“No promises,” he grinned.

And just like that, their world had changed, and neither of them would have it any other way.

🪻🪻🪻

The sky was soft and grey as they stepped out of the hospital, the kind of cool, peaceful afternoon that made everything feel a little more surreal. Y/N moved slowly, bundled in a cosy cardigan, her steps small and cautious as she walked beside Lando—who, despite being equally exhausted, looked like he was on the verge of both panic and awe.

Cradled carefully in his arms, nestled in the softest cream blanket known to man, was their daughter. Sophia. Or Sophie, as they'd already started calling her every few minutes.

“Okay. We’ve got her. I’ve got her. I am holding my actual daughter. This is fine,” Lando whispered mostly to himself as he walked toward the car with the baby carrier in hand. He looked like a man carrying the crown jewels, walking at half speed, avoiding every pebble like it might trip him and shatter his world.

Y/N smiled as she trailed behind him, watching her husband move with exaggerated caution, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

“You doing alright there?” she asked.

“I am. I think. I mean… do I look like I’m about to faint?”

“Yes”, she said sweetly, “but it’s very endearing.”

When they reached the car, Lando placed the carrier gently on the ground and crouched beside it, staring at the car seat like it had personally challenged him to a duel.

“We practised this,” he muttered, more to himself than to Y/N. “I’ve got this. Buckles, straps, clicks. No problem.”

He slowly unbuckled Sophie from the carrier and scooped her into his arms, holding her against his chest for a brief moment longer than necessary. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her tiny mouth forming the softest pout, her fingers twitching against his hoodie.

And just like that, his face started to crumble.

Y/N, hovering nearby, immediately noticed. “Lando… are you crying?”

He sniffled aggressively. “No.”

“You are. Oh my God. Are you actually crying again?”

“Don’t—don’t mock me!” He choked out, even as a tear slid straight down his cheek. “She just—look at her! She’s so small and soft and warm, and she made that little snuffle noise—Did you hear it?!"

Y/N pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. “I did. It was very cute.”

“She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said, his voice catching as he tucked her into the car seat with trembling hands. “And she made a little squeak, and it felt like my heart exploded.”

He pulled back and wiped his cheeks, visibly overwhelmed. “I’m not okay.”

Y/N knelt beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’re very much not okay. But you’re also very cute. Keep going; I might cry too.”

“You’re not crying.”

“I’m trying not to laugh.”

Lando groaned, cheeks red, eyes still watery. “This is my most embarrassing moment, and we’re not even home yet.”

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s kind of hot, actually. The emotional dad thing? Very attractive.”

He glared at her half-heartedly. “Don’t weaponise my emotions against me.”

“I would never. But also… you cried over her sighing.”

“She sighed like a poet,” he whispered, placing a hand over his chest. “Like she’s already wiser than both of us.”

Y/N laughed, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Alright, Plato, let’s get this poet home.”

He finally managed to start the car, gripping the wheel like it was made of glass. Every bump in the road earned a panicked glance at the baby mirror, even though Sophie remained fast asleep, tucked up like a little loaf of heaven.

Halfway home, Lando reached over and grabbed Y/N’s hand without looking, still sniffling slightly.

“Hey,” he said softly. “We did it.”

“We did,” she smiled, gently squeezing his hand. “And you only cried four times.”

“Four and a half,” he corrected.

When they pulled into the driveway, Lando exhaled so dramatically it made Y/N laugh again. He rushed to the back seat, unbuckling Sophie with all the care in the world, then held her against him once more before they stepped inside.

In their bedroom, after the bags were dropped and the grandparents had been told (again) that they were home safe, Lando sat on the edge of the bed with Sophie curled up against his bare chest for skin-to-skin time.

Y/N stood nearby, watching the two of them like her heart might burst. Sophie was barely bigger than Lando’s forearm, her little head tucked beneath his chin, her hand twitching slightly in her sleep.

He didn’t say a word—just stared down at her with wide, teary eyes. His chest rose and fell slowly, syncing with hers like she’d always belonged there.

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger already,” Y/N murmured.

“I know,” Lando said, voice thick with emotion. “And I’m never getting out.”

Y/N crawled into bed beside them and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Good. I kind of like you both like this.”

He looked over at her, cheeks still damp, and smiled the kind of smile that only came once in a lifetime.

“We’re home,” he whispered.

And they were.

i was kicking my legs in the air as i wrote this. also im working on a few reqs sent to me, i have about three oscar ones. thanks for being so patient 🫶🏻

[thepencilnerd]

if you don’t take requests please ignore me! but Dr Robby and another HCP (maybe nurse) being on call overnight bc of snow or something and sharing a squished little twin xl bed in the on call room 🙂‍↕️

**bonus points if someone comes to wake one of them up and sees them all cutie snuggled up

this idea has my <3, i hope you enjoy anon ^-^

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader genre: literally just pure fluff notes: private but not secret established relationship, close-quarters intimacy, the interns make a cameo, abbot, mel, & langdon are your x Robby's #1 fans, Robby being a soft boy who anticipates your needs

It was the worst winter storm Pennsylvania had seen in years—whiteout conditions, icy roads, and windchills low enough to freeze the Allegheny. The hospital had issued a mass alert just after midnight, encouraging all staff to remain onsite rather than risk the commute home.

By the time it had snowed eight inches overnight, with half the staff stuck in their neighborhoods or crawling along the freeway, you and Robby had offered to pull back-to-back coverage. By moon fall, the ER had calmed down just enough for you to take a deep breath—and then you remembered the on-call room.

The room was barely more than a glorified broom closet with a twin-sized bunk bed that sagged slightly in the middle. It had a small bathroom attached, but calling it a shower was generous—it was more like one of those overhead chemical rinse stations from a high school science lab. The water ran out too quickly, never got hotter than lukewarm, and sputtered like it resented being asked to work overtime.

Still, you were exhausted and freezing, barely holding yourself upright after fifteen straight hours on your feet. Robby had noticed the way you leaned against the wall between cases, the slight tremble in your fingers as you sipped water, and the dark shadows blooming beneath your eyes.

"You should crash in the on-call room for a bit," he said softly, brushing his hand down your arm in that way he always did when he was trying to coax you into taking care of yourself. It was one of his tells—the way his fingers would trail lightly over your sleeve, slow and grounding. Just enough pressure to let you know he was there. He’d done it on your worst days, in trauma bays and stairwells and break rooms, and every time, it had a way of quieting the static in your chest.

"I’m okay," you lied through heavy eyes, stubborn and determined to monitor your cases. "There’s still a couple charts I need to—"

"They’ll still be here when you come back," he interrupted gently. "You’re running on fumes."

You hesitated, and that was all he needed. He reached up, gently tucking a damp, frizzy strand of hair behind your ear—his fingers brushing your temple with a tenderness that made your breath catch. That was the final nudge, the one that broke through your inflexibility and reminded you he always saw you, even when you tried to act fine.

"I’ll come with you," he added, voice casual but warm. "We’re stuck here ‘til the snow clears anyway. Plus Dana offered to hold down the fort."

That got you.

You didn’t say yes so much as let out a long sigh and nod, heavy with defeat and gratitude. Robby didn’t gloat—just gave your shoulder a warm squeeze and offered his hand.

"Come on," he said, voice soft. "Before we have to admit you."

You rolled your eyes, but when he stepped in beside you and gently slipped your arm around his waist, letting you lean into him as you walked the corridor together, you didn’t pull away. You were too tired to pretend you weren’t clinging to him a little. He didn’t comment on it. Just adjusted his pace to match yours and kept you steady, steering you carefully around gurneys and corners like you were the most precious thing in the building.

The room wasn’t much, but with Robby beside you, it didn’t matter. You’d shared a quick shower—taking turns under the weak stream of water, half-laughing at how absurdly cold and uneven it was, bumping elbows as you tried not to slip on the slick tile. The water had been lukewarm at best, sputtering like it didn’t want to be there either, but Robby’s hands had been warm as he helped rinse shampoo from your hair, his fingers gentle and slow like he had all the time in the world. You’d stood forehead to forehead for a few moments after, breathing in the steam and each other.

When you dried off and dressed in spare sweats and thermals, he tugged your sleeve and gave you that look—the one that said he wasn’t asking, just quietly waiting for you to rest. He got into bed first, shifting to the far side and patting the space beside him in quiet invitation. You didn't hesitate before crawling in after him, into the warmth of his waiting arms. The scent of cedar soap clung faintly to the collar of his shirt as you settled into the space he made for you—safe, soft, familiar. He pulled you close, like he’d been holding that shape for you all day.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder as he settled behind you, arm draped low across your waist, thumb tracing slow circles against the soft cotton of your borrowed shirt. You sighed, muscles finally starting to unclench, exhaustion winning the fight against stubbornness. His touch was light, reassuring, like he was reminding you he was there without needing to say a word.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice rasped from hours of use but still the gentlest thing in the room.

You reached down to brush your fingers against his, lacing them quietly together.

“Thank you,” you murmured, eyes already slipping closed.

By morning, you were tucked under one thin hospital-issued blanket, facing each other on the narrow twin bed, your foreheads nearly touching. Robby’s arms were wrapped around you like a cocoon, holding you to his chest as though to shield you from the last bit of cold left in the world. One of your legs was slotted between his, your hands tangled together between your bodies like an anchor. You were nestled in close, limbs entwined in that soft, sleepy way that only came from long hours, cold nights, and knowing each other like the moon knows the night sky—something instinctive and effortlessly familiar, like you'd been made to find each other. 

Which is precisely the scene your dear colleagues walked in on when they cracked open the door to find the unofficial king and queen of the ER.

Abbot blinked. Then smiled like he’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie. "Told you."

Langdon didn’t say a word—just pulled out his phone and snapped a picture with the biggest grin plastered on his face, immediately sending the photo to the group chat. 

"Is that... Dr. Robby?" came Whitaker’s voice from behind them, whispering.

Santos grinned. "That’s gonna break headlines."

Javadi peeked in around the corner, wide-eyed. "They’re actually snuggling. Like real-life snuggling."

Mel, ever neutral, simply nodded. "Their body language indicates long-term emotional attachment." However, even she couldn't hide the glee in her voice.

Moments later, a domino of phones vibrated.

Collins: Excuse me why are they adorable

Dana: I can retire in peace.

McKay: I called it. I knew it and I hate how much I love that I was right.

Mohan: Guess who owes me $5

Mateo: I don't remember signing a contract 

Back on the bed, Robby stirred slightly, his grip tightening as if on instinct. He inhaled softly, nose brushing your hairline, and smiled—a small, contented thing. Like your scent alone had reached some deep, quiet place in him and told him everything was okay.

"Give them ten more minutes," Abbot whispered, gently closing the door with a soft click. "They’ve earned it."

[jeonstudios]

anatomy of a vampire | 01

a young man returns to a small town he hasn't seen in years, and a house he hasn't lived in since before the last president was born, only to find that a stray cat has given birth to kittens in his closet.

pairing: vampire!jk x nerdy f veterinarian!reader (with a special interest in the science and biology aspect of the supernatural lol)

genre: sorta scifi-ish, fluff, minor angst, some smut later on

word count: 4.7k

warnings: none in this part (maybe anatomy talk/vet talk?), but there's gonna be like... inspection kink-stuff later on 🤪 more detailed warnings to come <3

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 1/? 

<previous | next>

© anatomy of a vampire is copyright jeonstudios. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

You’re halfway through your lunch when Namjoon pokes his head into the break room, a stethoscope around his neck and thick-rimmed glasses low on his nose.

“Reception just got a call about a home visit.”

“Today?” you ask, your mouth full of chicken sandwich as you glance at your wristwatch. You and Namjoon are way too close for you to care about being ladylike.

“Mhm.”

You pause. Not many clinics in your small town offer home visits, and even fewer do it on short notice. For your clinic, it’s usually about an old dog being put to rest at home—incredibly sad, but not an emergency. 

“Is it urgent?”

“Not on the minute, but needs done today.”

You glance at the patient chart on the table in front of you. “I think this’ll be quick. I’ll go after this one.”

“You sure?” Namjoon asks. “Technically, it’s my turn.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. You should see Oakley when he comes; he’s not very fond of me.”

Oakley, a returning patient with chronic stomach issues, has managed to spray paint you a yellowy brown on three different occasions. From both ends. It’s like he aims.

Namjoon snorts. He hasn’t been hit once.

Checking your watch again, you push the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing it while you grab the chart. Namjoon is already on his way to greet another patient and their owner, and you take a second to swallow and wipe any crumbs off your scrubs before you follow his lead, heading into the waiting area.

“Millie?” you call, smiling when a young woman rises from a chair, her red dachshund's nose practically glued to the clinic floor.

It’s two-thirty when you pull out of the clinic parking lot, the clinic’s old station wagon rattling faintly as you steer onto the main road. The address in the confirmation email is farther out than you expected but still technically within the town limits, and you watch the short apartment buildings give way to larger, more spaced-out houses as you drive.

You don’t often find yourself in this part of town these days, although you’re very familiar with at least one house here. Many Halloweens were spent here back in the day, kids dressed up as various creatures daring each other to fight through the overgrown lawn and peek inside the dark windows. Countless stories were told about the abandoned house, each one slightly more insane than the last. Of course, you were like… eight, and a large, seemingly empty white house with a big, black gable was doomed to be haunted.

Still, you’re very surprised when you stop at the red pin on your phone’s screen, and it’s outside that very house. Momo, who works the reception, must’ve forgotten to fill out the pet owner’s name on the confirmation form she sent you, so all you have is this address and a brief line of patient info.

Even though the sky is gray—fittingly enough threatening September rain—it’s not as scary as you remember. Probably because it’s not a dark Halloween night, and you’re not a kid anymore. It also doesn’t actually seem to be abandoned. To be fair, it was never really run-down aside from the lawn, but now there’s a big black SUV parked outside. 

Getting out of the car, you grab the rectangular veterinary kit bag, accidentally shutting the trunk a little too hard. The sound echoes down the quiet street, letting anyone who wasn’t already aware know of your arrival. A chilly breeze has you pulling your softshell jacket tighter over your light blue scrubs as you lock the car. When you turn back to the house, you pause to take it in once more. It’s a pretty house—two-story, painted white probably a long time ago but still holding up surprisingly well. Black shutters frame the dark windows, and the tall, black gabled roof reaches impressively toward the gray sky. The lawn has either been trimmed within the last few years, or your childhood imagination really exaggerated it because you can clearly recall it looking more like a thicket with tall grass than just… an overgrown lawn. You distinctly remember more... shrubs.

Climbing the shallow steps, you stop in front of the black-painted door and raise your hand to knock. As you wait, you tilt your head back, once again letting your gaze linger on the house. Who exactly are you here to meet? Maybe it’s some introverted old woman who rarely leaves her house? Or a grumpy old man? But then again, the SUV looked awfully modern. Maybe the ancient resident has a grandchild visiting?

A short moment later, the door opens with a slight creak.

It’s not an old lady; it’s a young man. A tall young man—probably the most attractive one you’ve ever seen—looking down at you. He’s broad-shouldered and lean, visibly fit even despite the thick, black hoodie and baggy jeans he wears. You try not to stare at the shadow created in the fabric between his pecs, or the way the oversized hoodie still somehow manages to cling to the top of his bicep as he keeps one hand on the door handle. His black, relatively straight hair doesn’t look styled, just like it naturally falls into its part, the sides of it a little shorter than the top. Everything about him screams effortless, like he just wakes up looking like that.

One thing’s for sure: he wasn’t who you expected to open the door.

“Uh, hi,” you introduce yourself, telling him your name, “Did you… call for a vet?”

For some reason, he looks almost as surprised as you. “Hey. I did, yeah. I’m Jeongguk.”

Though he smiles politely, he doesn’t offer his hand for you to shake. It’s not something you dwell on. Quite a few of the pet owners you meet prefer not to shake hands.

“Come in.”

You nod and step inside, having to almost squeeze past him in the narrow hallway as he shuts the door behind you. Like always when you enter a strange man’s home alone, you say a little prayer in your head. If it came to it, you’ve got a bunch of pointy things in your bag, but you’d still prefer it if he wasn’t crazy to begin with.

As you move past him, you’re almost surprised that you don’t… smell him. Men—at least in this town—are very fond of their colognes and sprays, but you don’t catch even the slightest whiff of him. You wouldn’t say that you particularly enjoy the strong… scents, but the total lack of one from a hunk like this is almost disappointing.

When you go to slip your shoes off, he stops you. 

“Keep them on,” he says, voice kept low due to the distance. Or rather, the lack thereof. “It’s… not very clean.” 

There’s something in the casual smile he gives you besides an attractiveness you’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s a tad of… sheepishness? It doesn’t matter; your skin still heats under his gaze

“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to remain unbothered and professional while waiting for him to take the lead. Luckily, you don’t think he notices.

Even with the heads-up, you’re not sure what surprises you more as you follow him into the house—the layers and layers of dust, or the Edwardian, neoclassical interior design. The faded, beige walls are paneled, and as he leads you toward a staircase, you catch a glimpse of what appears to be the living room through an open archway. In it, you spot a pale green velvet sofa and two upholstered armchairs, fitting right in. There’s also a rectangular fireplace, a gold-framed mirror above it, and what catches your interest the most: a chandelier. Its size is impressive, and so is the fact that it looks like it was made for real, live candles. The same goes for the brass wall sconces placed on either side of the fireplace. You’ve only ever seen those in movies.

“They’re up here,” he says, and you nod, reaching for the wooden railing as you follow him up the stairs.

The steps creak loudly beneath your weight—another reminder of just how old this house probably is. At the landing, he turns, leading you to a bedroom. It’s surprisingly small for a house this size, but it’s cozy and warm in a way you weren’t expecting. You guess the clouds outside have eased up a little because the smallest ray of sunlight filters through the practically sheer beige curtains and highlights the dust particles floating in the air.

The four-poster bed is made from dark wood, its canopy rails bare and the headboard curled softly. Like most things, the white sheets appear pretty much untouched, and the only real signs of life are the footsteps disturbing the dust on the floor. You've followed a path all the way from the door, and when you look closer, you see paw prints venturing outside it.

Noticing your lingering gaze, Jeongguk scratches the back of his neck.

“I haven’t been here in a while.”

You figured. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since… the late 1800s. Although it’s certainly a stylistic choice—and one you wouldn’t have expected from someone so young and otherwise modern-looking—it has its charm. Even if you’re not sure there’s even electricity or running water.

“I arrived earlier today and found them here,” Jeongguk continues, approaching a standalone wooden wardrobe placed against the wall. One door is already slightly ajar, but when he carefully opens it wider, you see them. The cat with kittens. “I read that you’re not supposed to move them.”

The mother cat, who looks to be all black, has made a little nest on top of a crisp white shirt that’s fallen from its hanger above.

“Oh,” you breathe, crouching slowly to get a better look. “They’re brand new.”

“Yeah. And I think one is smaller than the others.”

Your eyes travel over the small beings, each with varying patches of white to go with the black. None of them, from what you can tell, have even opened their eyes yet. The mother cat stops licking one of the kittens to give you a warning hiss. You listen, rising to your feet and turning away, a plan already in mind.

“Okay, I brought some food that might help lure her out,” you say, setting the bag down on the floor and crouching to reach into it. “This stuff’s usually pretty irresistible…”

But when you look back at the man—a jar gripped in your hand—he’s already holding the mother cat. Just straight around her middle, as if he’s never held a cat before. She doesn’t seem to mind very much, just hangs there, looking around.

Jeongguk looks at you, a little surprised too.

“Oh, okay. She seems to like you better,” you smile. You can’t help but think that he looks… sweet. A big, clearly very muscular and attractive man who’s liked by animals? It’s definitely both a green flag and a personal weakness for you.

The food goes back into the bag, and you reach for the equipment you’ll need instead. With a stethoscope around your neck, a small kitchen scale, and a thermometer, you kneel in front of the wardrobe. In the meantime, Jeongguk sits down on the bed, the cat perched on his lap. He keeps his large hands around her, gently keeping her in place in case she changes her mind.

Very gently, you reach for the smallest kitten first. It squirms in your hands, mouth open and paws sticking out in a silent protest. 

“Sex is notoriously tricky to tell on kittens, especially this small, so I’m not even gonna try,” you say with a smile, giving the kitten a general once-over before focusing on its face. It’s a sweet little thing, crying a little as you inspect it. This one is mostly black but with two white front paws.

“Well, I’d definitely say they’re only a day or two old. This one has a suckle reflex but hasn’t opened its eyes yet. That usually happens between day five and fourteen. The umbilical stump is still attached too, and that usually falls off around day two to four.”

“So that’s… good?” Jeongguk asks, and when you look at him, the mother cat is bumping her head against his abdomen. He peers down at her on his lap, extending his veiny hand in a wordless offer. She accepts it, rubbing her head against his palm and letting him pet her.

“Yeah. That’s normal.”

You return your focus to the little being in your hands, carefully looking into its mouth again to check its gums and palate. 

“Pink gums and no cleft. That’s good, too.”

With one hand, you grab the stethoscope from your neck, putting the earpieces in place. Getting a clear heart or lung reading on kittens this tiny isn’t easy. Their heart rate is fast, making it easy to miss abnormalities, and their small, wriggling bodies make it hard to even position the chestpiece properly in the first place.

Focusing, you hold the kitten still, placing the stethoscope on the left side of its chest just behind the elbow. Then you listen closely, trying to ignore the soft purring from the adult cat.

It sounds… good. Alright, at least. Shifting the stethoscope slightly, you first listen to one lung and then the other. You don’t notice anything abnormal there, either.

“Heart and lungs sound okay,” you declare, slipping the stethoscope back around your neck.

“What’s next?”

“Temperature,” you answer, reaching for the digital thermometer.

“What should their temperature be?”

“Somewhere between thirty-six and thirty-six point five degrees Celsius.”

“Isn’t that a little low? I mean, compared to a human?”

“Adult cats are more similar to humans, but kittens generally run a little colder,” you explain, focusing on getting the reading right. “They don’t have the ability to regulate their body temperature properly for the first couple of weeks.”

The thermometer beeps.

“Thirty-six point two,” you mumble. “So that’s within the range. A little low, but not necessarily dangerous.”

With one hand, you reach for the kitchen scale, setting it on the floor in front of you. It powers on, and once it’s ready, you place the kitten on it, keeping your hand floating above in case the little animal tries to wiggle off the tray.

The number settles, and you read it out loud. “Eighty-one grams.”

“Too small?” Jeongguk wonders.

“On the lower side, but not dangerously so. At least not yet.”

You take the kitten and carefully place it back in the makeshift nest for the moment. Before reaching for another kitten to examine in the same way, you grab a small notebook in your bag, quickly jotting down the numbers so you don’t forget them.

Jeongguk looks on as you inspect the rest of the four kittens, occasionally asking another question. It’s not unusual for pet owners to ask questions, but considering these aren’t even his cats—and from what you gathered, he only found them today—it makes your chest warm. Not everyone would go to such lengths for stray cats. It also doesn’t help your growing soft spot that you get to talk about animals and their anatomy to someone who seems to want to listen. After all, you’re a bit of a nerd, and this is your number one fascination.

One by one, the kittens get their clean bill of health and are placed back on the shirt, and then you shift your focus to their mother. She’s standing on Jeongguk’s lap, still headbutting his chest. While she’s preoccupied, you quietly reach into your bag for the microchip scanner, but the moment you try to get close, she notices and hisses. 

“Give it a try, please?” You hold the scanner out to Jeongguk, keeping as much distance as you can. “Press this button and move the scanner over her, focusing on her neck and back.”

Jeongguk takes the scanner from your outreached hand, doing as you instructed and pressing the button. It beeps, and he begins to move it over her.

“Like this?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed almost angrily as he focuses.

You nod encouragingly. “Yeah.”

“Is it to see if she has an owner?”

“Yes. But sometimes, even if they are microchipped, there's not a registered owner. But we can hope.”

He continues to search for a chip, but when nothing happens, he looks at you with those dark eyes, silently asking what to do.

“Try her belly and even her legs. Sometimes, they migrate.”

Adjusting his grip on the scanner, he moves it lower.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he says a moment later, handing the scanner back to you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking it to put it back in the bag. Although disappointed, you’re not surprised. “Would you mind helping me check her out? She seems to really like you. A whole lot better than she likes me, at least.”

He matches the soft smile you give him. “Sure.”

“Okay, well, she seems to be in okay condition, but I need to rule out any birth-related injuries. 

“What do I do?” he asks, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, the cat still happy to receive his attention. 

“Just… hold her like that… Yes, exactly. And with your other hand, move her tail away for me?”

A little awkwardly, he follows your instructions again, and while you don’t think the cat particularly enjoys it, she doesn’t fight it. You move closer, trying to get a better look while doing your best not to stare at his veiny hands instead. In any other setting, they’d be way too much of a distraction, but knowing that this cat depends on you to evaluate her health, you divert your gaze.

“Alright… I don’t see anything... unusual, no swelling, no blood, no discharge. If she were injured, you’d usually spot it, but she’s not thrilled with me, so I won’t push it,” you chuckle, leaning back.

Having animals dislike you is unfortunately part of the job. Sometimes, it hurts your heart a little, but when you remember that it’s easy for an animal to associate the scrubs or equipment with something unpleasant and maybe even painful, it makes more sense. Briefly, you wonder if this cat has ever been to a vet or if her dislike for you stems from something else. It’s definitely normal for new mothers to have a bit of an attitude, but you’d think that would include every human in the room. Or maybe she doesn’t dislike you in particular; maybe she just really likes Jeongguk. Which... you know, fair.

Almost as if sensing that the examination is over, the black cat jumps down from Jeongguk’s lap, leaping past you to get to her babies. 

“Alright,” you say, wiping your hands on your pants before you stand up. “It’s important not to disturb them too much, but they’ll still need some supervision—especially the small one—just to make sure they continue to eat and grow. And they’ll need a better place to nest, somewhere a little warmer, softer, and less… dusty. No offense.”

Jeongguk chuckles, standing up as well and brushing some cat hairs from his hoodie. “None taken.”

“So, if you want me to, I can take them with me. We have a foster program and a few great volunteers.”

Jeongguk looks down at you, his brows furrowed in confusion this time. “I thought they were too small to be moved?”

“Yeah,” you nod, bending down to quickly gather the rest of the used equipment and put it back in the bag. “Ideally, they wouldn’t need to be. But I understand if you can’t or don't want to look after a stray cat and her kittens.”

“No, it’s… uh… It’s fine,” he says, appearing to land in a decision and sticking by it, his eyes traveling to the little bodies nestled into the white shirt. “It’s not that hard, right? Just keep an eye on them? If you think I can do it, of course. I already have a litter box.”

You blink, a little surprised. “You just happened to have a litter box?”

“No, I asked some neighbors after I called you. I figured you'd have some tips about the other stuff. Like food and such.”

Your smile grows as you watch him. He is… oddly endearing. “Yeah. Of course,” you say, your voice softening. The fewer cats and kitten taking up the very limited space at the volunteers', the better. “Okay.”

You begin drafting an email to send to him. It includes everything you've talked about plus cat food recommendations for the mother cat and a link to a cat bed that’s cheap but comfortable enough for a nursing litter. While you write, you talk him through everything again, like what to watch for, when to weigh them, and what to do if anything seems off.

He asks a few questions, making it very clear—if it wasn’t already—that he doesn’t really have any experience with animals. While he’s never appeared scared or nervous during your visit, you can tell that he’s not quite sure what to do. He moves slowly, almost a little awkwardly around the cats, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to scare them.

“You really like animals,” he points out, watching you tuck your notebook back into the bag.

You glance up at him. His tone isn’t mocking but more... curious. Still, you nod, a little self-conscious of how nerdy you can be.

“Yeah, animals are incredible. Not only because they’re such good companions—some of them at least—but, they’re so fascinating? How they function and how they’ve evolved.”

But there’s something else in his curious gaze that you finally pick up on, and it dawns on you.

“You think I’m a freak too, don’t you?” you say with a smile, pulling the stethoscope you’d forgotten to pack from around your neck and tucking it into the bag as well.

“No, no,” he shakes his head.

You lift an eyebrow. “But you know about it? My paper?”

His eyes are so dark. “Yeah…”

You look away, trying not to let it affect your professionalism. Speaking about it brings up memories you’d rather not be reminded of. “I thought you said you hadn’t been here in forever?”

It’s weird, right? If he doesn’t live here and hasn’t been around in a long time, how would he know the gossip?

“Town called a few years ago. About the electrical wiring needing to be upgraded. So I came here to fix it.”

Oh. That makes sense, you guess. A few years ago was when it first happened. That’s probably also why the yard looked different from what you remembered.

“And you heard about it?”

He smiles apologetically. “Yeah. It’s a small town, I guess.”

“It’s not like I think Ariel is real. Or that dragons roam the sky or that Dracula lives in a dark castle somewhere, wearing a black cape over a white, frilly shirt,” you defend, slinging the bag over your shoulder. “I just wrote about how much we don’t actually know about the living organisms around us and how some of the 'supernatural' traits aren't really that crazy, anatomically speaking.”

“No, I get that,” he assures, sounding like he genuinely didn’t mean to upset you. “I found it very interesting.”

“So is that why you looked so surprised to see me? Because you recognized me?”

“No. Or… well, yeah. I spoke to the receptionist, and she told me a man’s name—Namjoon, I think—would come.”

“Oh.”

“But I did also vaguely recognize you, I think. From the image.”

Lifting your wrist, you glance at the watch. “I should start to head back. Lock the clinic up.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jeongguk says, and when you meet his dark eyes again, he looks genuine. “I don’t think you’re a freak, I promise.”

“It’s alright,” you say, offering him a quick smile. “I’m not supposed to be out this long anyway. I have to get back and finish up the bill. I’ll email it to you along with the advice, is that okay?”

He nods, clearly accepting that he did in fact upset you to some degree. “Okay. Thank you for the help.”

You smile again, relaxing your shoulders and taking a deep breath. Maybe you should cut him some slack. Technically, he wasn’t even the one to bring your paper up; that was all you. And besides very, very handsome, you haven’t once thought of him as anything other than sweet.

"No problem."

The drive back to the clinic is quiet. You don’t even turn the prehistoric radio on. It doesn’t matter because your thoughts are loud enough anyway, circling back to one thing. One thing and one person.

The paper you wrote in vet school was a mistake. Not that it was bad per se—it was a perfectly science-based paper, focused on the more unusual biological traits found in the animal kingdom. 

Unfortunately, you made the grave mistake of connecting some of those traits to various mythical creatures and their ‘unbelievable’ biology. Some of your peers—predominantly men—found it absolutely ridiculous and teased you for it. The more you tried to defend yourself, the funnier they thought it was.

You’d think it at least would’ve stayed within whatever small circle vet med is, but when your small town happens to be known specifically for the vet med program, a surprisingly large chunk of the population has some connection to it. You’re lucky that not many wish to stay in town after graduating, or you would’ve been last on the list to get a job. You still remember your current boss’s inspecting eyes as she interviewed you, trying to make sure you weren’t actually batshit crazy. That was maybe five or so years ago, and you haven’t really had to think about the paper in probably at least a year. 

Until today. Again, it wasn’t Jeongguk’s fault, you don’t think he even meant for it to be brought up. It still caught you off guard, though, because even if you don’t know him, he didn’t give off the same vibe as the people who laughed at you. And now, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his build, and how the oversized clothes hung off his strong, muscular body. Or his large, veiny hands as he gently pet the mother cat. His dark eyes, sharp jaw, and strong eyebrows. Even his nose—with its straight bridge and softly rounded tip, creating such a striking, masculine profile—had a way of completely mesmerizing you.

Not only is he probably the most attractive man you’ve seen in a long time—maybe ever, but he seemed… warm. You wouldn’t expect a man like him to care for a stray cat and her newborn kittens, much less call a vet out to help, but he did.

Back at the clinic, you take a seat in front of the desktop computer, typing your notes into the chart and updating the bill. Besides the obviously tragic parts of dealing with sick and injured animals, the worst part is probably billing the owners. You need money to live just like everyone else, but you’ll always feel wrong charging worried owners to care for their family members. Even now, as you’re adding the services to… Jeon Jeongguk’s bill, you think about how the cats don’t even belong to him.

The cursor hovers over his name. Who is he? How did he come to be the owner of that house, and why own it if he’s not living there or at least visiting regularly? Why bother even fixing the electrical wiring if it’s just gonna stay empty? And just how long had it been empty?

The questions whirl in your head. Though it’s not really any of your business why he returned, maybe you could’ve at least asked him where he’s from? It would’ve been acceptable small talk, right? Could you also have asked why he felt the need to take care of the cats, even when you offered to take them off his hands, or would that have been rude? 

Realizing that you’re not getting anywhere, you bill him for a standard home visit of half an hour—even though you stayed closer to one—and for the gas just so you don’t lose money on the visit. You don’t add the same day fee or charge him for the used materials.

<previous | next>

author's note: i hope you liked it and are excited for the rest because i think it's gonna be good!!! i also had some moodboard pics of the house made so let me know if you'd like to see them <3

[asxgard]

Semper Fi | [1/8]

Dr. Jack Abbot x f!doctor!reader

| Next

Summary: You’re the ray of sunshine to Jack’s rain cloud. What do they say about opposites attracting?

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: dipping my toes into writing for jack. i kinda love him and his dynamic with this reader, so that’s why there’s a question mark referencing the number of parts this will have. will likely be writing more for them.

(Semper Fi from the Latin “Semper Fidelis” meaning always faithful, which is the motto for the U.S. Marine Corps, but I also feel like it perfectly encapsulates his character)

starts roughly two years before The Pitt, making Ellis a PGY2 and Shen a PGY3 (also Langdon & Collins a PGY2, Mohan a PGY1/intern, and McKay & Mel would still be in med school, MS4). I also refer to the year by R#, meaning Resident Year#.

Word Count: 1.6k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: age gap (it feeds me/reader is late 20s, Jack is late 40s), foul language, people being bad at dealing with their feelings (…Jack), trauma, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, sunshine/grumpy dynamic, angst, mild gore relating to patients, death mentions, mild suicide ideation/jokes

not beta read

You rolled in from out of town like a spring day, warm and sweet. Jack Abbot really had no idea what to think of you at the start, assessing you silently — it had to be youthful optimism. It had to be. You were likely closer to half his age and only had a few years as an attending under your belt, with a persona that oozed family medicine or pediatrics.

How the hell did you end up in emergency medicine? He knew that whatever hospital you had come from, the Pitt would beat the cheery right out of you.

Just one shift and all your sweet smiles and doe eyes would sour.

It rattled him that you did not. Not even after your first week. Not even when your gloves and gown were soaked in the blood of a car crash victim, or when the trauma room was loud with a little girl screaming, or when you told the parents of a ten year-old-boy that he was dying. You walked out of Trauma-1 with a long sigh and then continued on about your day — like exiting back into the main area had reset something inside you.

Give it a few years, he thought bitterly.

Hearing your laugh echo through the halls of the ED sent alarm bells ringing throughout his system — how the hell were you laughing? What were you even laughing at?

Aside from the handful of conversations you had had together regarding patient care, you had not said much to him. Perhaps one of the nurses had advised you to steer clear of him, worried his no-nonsense, rigid exterior would rub off on you. It was clear as day to see most of the staff enjoyed having you on nights with them.

You moved with purpose throughout the ED, checking on several of your patients before moving to the charge desk to do charting, or scribble notes. He had to hand it to you, you were efficient, despite your soft edges.

The charge nurse on nights, Bridget, was talking to you quietly when he walked by, glancing up at the board. The lull was rare, like the quiet before the storm, and he found it interesting that you took time to enjoy it. He was brutal efficiency, checking crash carts and restocking, never letting himself grow idle.

He looked back at you, “Gonna chit-chat all day?”

Your eyes found his and you only blinked, unfazed by his tone. “Everything alright, Dr. Abbot?”

He frowned before gesturing to the board, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always like that.” Said Bridget, with a simple shrug.

You only smiled at him before turning your attention back to Bridget. You picked up a tablet, focused more on that than on Bridget, but you nodded along as she told you about her son’s most recent football game, still clearly engaged.

He minded his tone when he directed you to the ambulance bay to help with a GSW victim being wheeled in. You assessed the man quickly, moving alongside the gurney into Trauma 1. You made quick work of it, paging surgery and ordering a handful of tests, before putting your hands to work.

Jack nearly sighed in relief, knowing he would not have to hand hold — the last thing he needed was an attending who he needed to keep an eye on. He knew he would do it anyway — perhaps it was the military in him, constantly taking in input of his surroundings, never allowing himself to miss anything.

How you guided Dr. Shen with an echocardiogram to show pericardial effusion and allowed him to drain the fluid. Or how you handed tough cases to Dr. Ellis to help her learn while you stood ever vigilant by her side. Or when you sat with the intern, Sullivan, through losing his first patient. He didn’t hear the advice you offered, but he noticed that Sullivan got back to work shortly thereafter, looking less miserable.

He realized that he still didn’t fully believe that you were a perfect fit for the ED, but you were a sound teacher.

—

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, or the Pitt as you had come to learn, was a welcomed change in your life. You had completed your residency and two years as an attending at New York-Presbyterian. You hadn’t fully intended to leave New York entirely, you just needed to get out of there — there was hardly any thought as to where you would end up.

Administration had needed you mostly on nights, which had not been your preference, but you didn’t argue. You took in your new workplace quickly, engaging with your new co-workers and trying to put your best foot forward whenever you clocked in.

While the Pitt was no less chaotic than the ED in New York, there was a particular restlessness you had begun to notice as the weeks ticked on. A never ending stream of patients, short-staffing and bad coffee seemed to weigh heavily on the ED, like it could never quite catch its breath.

The chief attending on your shifts, Dr. Abbot, took some adjusting to. He was nothing like the asshole at your last ED, but he usually had an stony, unreadable look on his face. You had never seen him crack a smile, and his gaze was more intimidating than you had expected. He had a habit of staring — not inappropriately, just assessing, just watching. Constantly observing the ED, patients, the board, you. It was not unkind, per se, but his eyes frequently held a heaviness that most backed away from — but instead of intimidating you, something instead took root in your gut.

You never took his demeanor to heart — he had been in the ED a long time, and with his calculated and calm practiced ease in which he operated, you suspected military training. The way he held himself, the way he moved, the way he demanded attention as soon as he stepped into a room did little to deter that thought.

The annoying little flutter made itself known every time you met his gaze in the weeks that followed, or when his hand met yours over a patient. It was frankly elementary, a stupid work crush — he was so much older, and he was your chief attending. Hardly appropriate. You still barely knew him, so it was easy enough to shove the feeling aside and work.

After one of the longer shifts where you had stayed an extra hour due to a hard to stabilize trauma, you wandered up to the roof. You had just intended to catch some air before returning to your apartment.

Just have a moment of solace to clear your clouded mind.

You were surprised to find you were not alone, looking across the roof to see Dr. Abbot. He was beyond the safety railing, overlooking the city, and a worry invaded your insides. Like in most things, he was just quietly looking over the city with a detached look in his eyes — not quite serious, but not entirely healthy.

You supposed this was how he dealt with a particularly gruesome shift. The topic of your own mortality was never a light one, but you could see how one might find comfort in the reminder of it. You liked to look at the sky, be reminded that life continues on, the world keeps spinning.

“So, you come here often?” You asked, startling him.

He turned to look at you, his eyes hard, “Do you?”

You shrugged with a smile, “I like to watch the sunrise.”

Abbot’s narrowed eyes held on you for several moments, before he turned back to the city, “Just spent the last hour and a half coding that kid…”

“I was there,” you said, stepping closer to the bars while still giving him ample space. “We did everything we could.”

His eyes were on you again. Sharp. Intimidating. “How do you do that?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, “What?”

He sighed, putting his hands back into his pockets like he was removing as much of himself as he could. “I don’t even know why I do this anymore. This job.”

“Because it matters.” You told him, looking over to the sun rising on the horizon. “Because we’re good at it. Because they need us. Because we need it.” You shrugged lightly even though he wasn’t looking at you. “The little things keep me going, mostly.”

Silence encased you. Most of your mentors had called that nativity.

“You know, a little girl tried to give me her stuffed bear today.” You said, glancing at him. “Her mother was coding and she wanted to give the bear to me, for luck.”

A simple smile came over your features. The mother and daughter in question had been hit by a drunk driver earlier in your shift — the mother had come in critical, while the daughter had come out of it with only a few minor scrapes and bruises.

“And those little moments? They’re enough.”

You breathed in all the horrors you had seen before exhaling them, giving them to the wind. Your mind would always be haunted by the things you saw, but you did always try to focus on the good, on the things you could control.

You both stood there together for several minutes. His outlook was not likely to change, not over some pretty words when he had spent his entire career pushing it down, and you weren’t looking to change it. But the quiet now resting between you? It was warm. It was something that was seen, like a shred of light trickling through the darkness.

He came back from the edge and moved under the railing. You moved off the roof together, a quiet understanding finally settling between you.

[ Next ]

Solely inspired by this post/picture that I saw last week

I have a similar idea planned for Robby as well whoops

(still figuring jack out so please forgive this && this will not be as frequent/consistent as some of my other stuff while i learn to write for him lol)

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Pt. 1

You couldn't help but anxiously fiddle with the hem of your dress as you sat beside Simon, one of his hands resting on your thigh, while the other gripped the steering wheel. "It's going to be fine, sweetheart. They're going to love you." Unsure, you glanced up at him, a frown on your pretty face. "Are you sure? Maybe they'll just see me as an inconvenience that will keep you from them in the future. Or maybe they'll-" Simon interrupted you as he tightly squeezed the fat of your thigh, a possessive growl leaving his throat. "They'd never. Trust me." With a sigh, you nodded. And he was right.

From the moment you two walked into the same dingy pub where you first met, the others treated you as if they'd known you for years, and you were a part of the friend group. The entire evening, you laughed and drank, Simon's hand constantly on you. At least until he left to go take a piss and smoke a cigarette.

The moment you were alone with the three men, the Scottish one leaned across the table, a gigantic grin on his face. "So? How did ya two meet?" The older one quickly pulled the Scottish one back, a scowl on his face, as he regarded his team member, but there was a certain hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

You chuckled, thinking back to the day.

Excitement cursed through you as you stepped out of the cab, your phone in your hand as you watched your best friend type. But the moment she sent her message, the excitement dissipated. "I'm so sorry, but I can't make it! I'll make it up to you though!"

You rolled your eyes, glancing at the sign of the pub you were standing in front of. She couldn't have let you know before you made your way there, could she? Inside you, two demons started to fight. One yelling at you to go back home and gulp down an entire ice cream pint. The other one calmly stating that you were already here and should at least get a little bit wasted. Before you knew it, the calm demon had won and you walked into the pub, quickly finding a place at the bar. But you noticed him immediately. Sitting in a dark corner, his face almost completely hidden. And very obviously staring at you. It didn't matter when during the evening you turned around, his eyes were always on you. At first, it creeped you out, but before long, you felt warmth spread through you. You almost felt protected, his obvious attention keeping all the usual creepers at bay. So, you decided you at least wanted his number.

But when you paid for your tab, hoping to be able to join him at his table, you watched as he stood up and walked outside. As quickly as you could, without tripping over the air, you rushed after him, finding him outside, leaning against a wall. After taking a deep breath, you started to walk over to him, but he immediately pushed off the wall and started to walk away. Were you really this repulsing?

Before doubts could start to fill you, you called out to him. "Uhm, I'm sorry, Sir?" He stopped and slowly turned around to face you. With a small and hopeful smile, you crossed the distance. The closer you got to him, the more you could really see him. While the lower half of his face was hidden behind a black surgical mask, you could see the top of his cheeks. And they were red, practically glowing with heat. Adorable.

"I'm sorry, I hope this isn't too direct, but I wanted to ask if I could have your number? You're really handsome and seem like a nice man. Of course, it's okay if not, I don't want to pressure you or anything. I-" You stopped, your eyes wide as you watched his entire body trembling slightly. Like a robot, he slowly stretched out his hand to you. Your eyes focused on it and you watched for a few beats as the trembling only got worse. Then, you quickly pulled out your phone and handed it to him.

Once again moving like a robot, the man slowly plugged in his number, his hands trembling bad enough, that you thought he would drop your phone at some point. When he handed your phone back, you looked down and saw that he had also put in his name. But it was a mix of upper and lower cases, making you chuckle. You grinned up at him and pocketed your phone. “Thank you…well…have a good night.”

You turned around and walked a couple of steps before his shaking hand on your elbow stopped you. “U-Uh…uhm…eat? Uh now?” His voice was shaking even more than his hands and he kept stumbling over his words, but when he got the question out, you couldn’t help but nod with a smile.

“And yeah, that’s it.” The Scottish and the pretty one immediately burst into laughter, slapping their thighs and each other, while the older one just smirked, slowly shaking his head. You looked at them, confused. “What…?”

“What did I miss?” Simon slid into his chair beside you, his arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders. His friends immediately started to tease him, recounting points from what you had just told them. Immediately, the blush was back on his face, and you couldn’t help but chuckle along. At least until his hand came to rest on your thigh, and squeezed tightly. Oh, you were in for a night.

A/N: Here we go! Part two and the real story all wrapped up in one! Hope you like it! Edit: Re-upload because I forgot to add tags... :)

@skeletonsucker

[obeymeluv]

In Your Defense [PT 1 - Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw]

You decide to work at Sam's for Valentine's Day and your crush just happens to hear a customer hitting on you. If they get arrested, can you be their alibi? AKA: This person has a death wish and you find out your crush might be jealous?

Note: Each one is random and some will be longer than others. If I made everyone the same length this thing would be MASSIVE and I would probably die.

Not proofread because of the length. Trying to get everyone done today. It's my last day off for a few.

Whatever part Ortho is in will be platonic, obvs.

Happy V-day!

Riddle likes to think he's made great strides not being angry but hearing some utterly disgusting joke about 'how much do you cost?' sends him like nothing else ever has. This guy is tall and so unimpressive, so plain, so average that Riddle can't really recall him at all. Maybe that's just the absolute fury blurring his vision. He knows he's not breathing but his chest isn't burning near as much as his face; the heat is spreading quick and he can feel it in his cheeks and neck. Temples pounding, his vaguely aware of the growl bubbling in his chest as it threatens to slip past his clenched teeth.

Ace calls it his teapot snarl.

Before Riddle knows it, he's flown off the handle and he's going off on a rant. The whole shop is quiet, people physically backing away as he just methodically unravels everything about this cretin from outfit, posture, presence, delivery, unoriginality--everything. Honestly, he doesn't even remember everything he said. The redhead doesn't even tune back into the sound of his own voice until he ends the onslaught with, "You've just paid twenty thaumarks to embarrass yourself but that pales in comparison to the fact that you thought you had a chance with them. You should be ashamed!"

The man slinks away, sad little bag dragging off the counter.

Whispers and giggles diffuse throughout the shop. He ignores the looks that come his way, using the time to come back to himself. Riddle fixes his cute casual clothes, content with the fact you picked them out together. He catches sight of the matching rose clips on your outfit and in you hair and smiles softly. "A strawberry cookie and a cake pop, please." he clears his throat, fishing his wallet out of his pocket.

Sam had an assortment of sweets and he was going to capitalize on strawberry's popularity while he could. He saw you root through the display case, carefully considering the designs even though they were all supposed to taste the same (allegedly).

"Sure thing. Your total is 12 thaumarks. Thanks for stopping by Sam's Mystery Shop! Happy Valentine's Day!"

He hands you the thaumarks as you take the time to slide the I LOVE YOU cookie in his bag.

----

Deuce is an honors student! He is a good boy that's going to make his mother proud!

HE IS SO GOING TO PUNCH THIS MOTHERFUCKER IN THIS FACE!

His shoulders tense, fist clenching at his side. "Why, you think they're cheap? Something to be bought? What an insult!" his head snaps up as he stares down the slightly taller boy. Deuce's teal eyes turn a dark turquoise; the giddy glint of seeing you and chocolate eggs in one place turns to something sharp and steely. He hands the chocolate eggs to Ace, turning right back around to stare the creep down. Old habits die hard; he's grinding a fist into his hand.

"Aren't you the guy always complaining about limited time sales being unfair? Not my problem you missed the window." the guy scoffs, leaning back against the cashier counter. "Anyways," the guy tilts his head back and starts talking to you.

You look uncomfortable and angry that you can't handle this yourself. Professionalism and all.

"You may have caught the window but I'm about to show you the door." Deuce draws up on him with a quickness people have never seen. Not many people know about all the fights he used to get into. Gripping the guy's hair almost to the point of pulling it out, steering him like a panicked bull, Deuce all but chucks him out the front door of the shop. He turns around to walk back inside and buy his chocolate eggs but that spine-tingling feeling of someone fixing to take a cheap shot makes him pivot and nail the guy with a solid kick to the chest. The guy falls back on his butt, breath hitching.

Deuce scoffs and wipes his shoes on the step before going into the shop. The door is almost closed behind him when he hears a strained grunt. He's been in enough fights to know the guy is off the ground and making one last attempt to catch him from the back. More than done with this and just wanting his damn eggs and to say hi to you in all your festive lace, he shoulder checks the door like he's trying to shove Jack out of the lunch line (which he would NEVER, EVER DO).

The guy falls with a satisfying thud and Deuce tries his best to relax his face as he resumes his place in line. It's red from aggravation and the fact he's fishing for his thaumarks because he's forgotten what pocket he put it in. "Sorry about that," he tries to uncrumple the thaumarks a little before handing them to you. "And the face. My face. Not your face! Your face is fine! Like, you're not ugly! I just, uh--"

"Take the change, Deuce-y!" Ace is standing behind him, guiding his nervous body like a puppet. He makes Deuce grab the change and turns him around, shoving him away from the counter before he can make it any worse. "Now help me move this guy's body! He's out cold!"

---

Ace can only laugh when he hears that line. First of all, it's weak. Secondly, the dude must not have any faith in his game if the delivery depends on you being captive behind the counter. During work hours. With an obligation to be forward facing and listening to whatever he says.

"Why? You worried about your budget, buddy?" Ace laughs, hands laced together behind his head.

The guy snaps up, stick-straight. "N-No! I was just--" his face is blooming pink.

"People aren't products, bro. There's no discounts." Ace shakes his head.

"W-What I meant was, I want to take you on a date!" the guy turns back to you and flashes a big smile. All of Ace's pouty mutters fall on deaf ears. Not because he's being quiet, but because the guy is straight up ignoring him. He's not sure where the idea comes from--he'll blame it on an itchy hand--but he sneaks a couple of small candies in the guy's pocket. Sam's familiar top hat bobs into view, snaking around the shelves.

"DON'T FORGET TO PAY FOR THE STUFF IN YOUR POCKETS!" Ace felt confident in his sleight of hand tricks. It wouldn't be the first time he tricked NRC students. It's actually really easy to do. That works in his favor because if everyone can't get their story straight or agree on what they saw, he's a free man.

Sam materializes at the edge of the aisles and seems to stare into the boy's soul. "Young man, please step aside."

Ace looks like the cat that ate the canary as he moseys up to the counter and slaps the box of cherry cordials down. He buys a cherry sucker at the last second, not seeing it at first. "Thanks, Sweets!" Ace winks at you as he strolls out with the bag.

Sam nearly scares him out of his skin, leaning against the wood just outside the door. Ace finally feels the tug of shadows on his feet. "Speaking of sweets," Ace flinches and hides his ear with his blazer, groaning as Sam hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him into his chest sternly. "I understand your frustration, Little Imp. Young love is adorable in all it's wiles! But mark my words, Little Imp: if you lie about wrongdoings in my shop again, you will not come back. Clear?"

"Yes sir." Ace gulps.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Little Imp."

---

Trey isn't really surprised to hear what he just did. 'Boys will be boys', as the saying goes. Frankly, he's disappointed. He's heard smarter things come out of his little brother and sister.

He adjusts his glasses, mentally trying to relax the knot between his eyebrows.

Should he say something? Of course he wants to. It's you! He's been on the other side of the counter plenty of times and has had vivid daydreams of sticking a customer in a stand mixer. But, then again, he has a reputation to uphold and anything he does could reflect back on Riddle.

And send Riddle into a fit, giving him something else to handle.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized he'd have the element of surprise. People--especially men--don't cook enough to know how much arm strength it takes to lift twenty pound bags of flour on the regular. Or the stamina it takes to walk said bags from Sam's shop to Heartslabyul. Even the small five-pound bag of sugar in his basket would suffice as a weapon; the sugar was packed enough to hit like a brick if he lobbed it.

Trey's running the options through his head, almost settling on just saying 'how much for you to stop?' when he sees the end of a sucker rolling between the guy's teeth. Too easy, Trey pushes his glasses up on his nose, hand hiding his smile and the quiet incantation for "Paint the Roses".

All of a sudden the guy is gagging and running for the door. You and everyone else are wondering what the hell just happened. He doesn't come back in. One brave soul suggested he had a really bad gag reflex and the sucker did him in. Only Trey knows it was a mix of sour milk and the pungent soy sauce tart nightmare he tricked Riddle into making once.

"Just this, please. Oh! And what Sam had on hold for me." Trey hands you the sugar, relishing in the brush of your hands.

"Candied violets and a bag of sugar. Twenty thaumarks, please."

"Thanks." Trey smiles at you, laying the sugar flat so his delicate, delectable candied violets don't get crushed.

"Thank you." you smile brightly, handing him the change.

----

Cater wants to gag. Normally Valentine's confessions are cute and IN THE RIGHT SETTING pickup lines are amazing. This? This is a tragedy. Mostly because there is ZERO chemistry and you look #uncomfortable.

He's big on consent since he's always looking for collabs and people to pose with on Magicam so maybe that's why this scene bothers him. Aside from the fact that you're out of this guy's league, obviously. Like, it's really an insult to your time.

'How much do you cost?' Really? You're #priceless.

His brows furrow, lips thinning as he wonders what to do. He plays with the idea of Split Card and creating a small crowd of copies to boo and jeer the guy but the store would be even more packed than it already is. Cater's green eyes twinkle as it hits him. Turning his phone longways, he zooms in on the guy and tells him to keep going because he's live on Magicam. "Don't worry! I've already got all the V-day tags on there! Everyone will see it!"

He's friends with practically everyone at NRC so this guy will be seen by everyone.

Something sick and unfriendly and satisfied swirls in him as the guy's face pales in real time. If he zooms in a little, he can get the beads of sweat in there. "I'll, uh--another time, okay?" the guy darts off and abandons his handful of candy at the register.

"Haul coming later! 'K, bye!" Cater sends a peace sign to the camera, smiling at his own face. He swipes the little chocolates into his basket nonchalantly. He's not even the biggest sweets person but those are his now!

"Gonna have a spicy Valentine's Day, huh?" you ring up the cups of spicy ramen.

"You know it!" he laughs.

"I get it. You have to balance out how sweet you are." you smirk up at him. "Twenty-four thaumarks, please."

#in love. #kiddingnotkidding. #sendhelp. #downbad.

----

Leona doesn't even know why he bothered to show up to Sam's. He could just send Ruggie to get whatever he wanted. The variety of jerky was somewhat tempting but he could just as easily take the bus and get a proper meal off campus. And yet, he stood there with a gloved hand in his pocket, tail swishing back and forth in mild agitation. His green eyes sweep over the winding line until they land on you at the front.

His cheeks warm a little and he scoffs at himself, pretending to pick through the hanging strips of sunflower seeds as the line moves. Every step gets him closer to this soft, powdery scent with just a hint of sweetness. He starts to blame it on all the chocolate and candy and sugary shit exploding out of every possible spot in the store but there's this unmistakable undertone of skin.

Your skin.

He's only caught the scent a million times while hiding from people in the Botanical Gardens. Or when he's forced to attend class, catching a hint of you in the halls.

Leona's not sure why he cares anything about you because you're not magical. You're not interesting.

You shouldn't be, but you are.

You're literally the only person he's ever met from another world. You have no context for the Sunset Savanna or the hierarchy of it. To you, everyone is impressive. He can be something to you.

Why does that matter? He doesn't even know. That's what he tells himself, anyways. You say you have no magic but Leona thinks you can read minds. The look you always give him isn't a pitying one, but a curious one that seeks to dissect him and force him to face everything he keeps shoved deep down inside himself.

Part of him is waiting for the day you pull the right thread and he comes undone in the way he knows he need but can't find the strength for. Somewhere in that knotted mess is his true feelings for you. The stuff he can't admit.

You stand admirably on your own two feet, roughing it out like Ruggie, but you're so far from the intimidating women of the Sunset Savanna. You're approachable and soft; you're built like prey but you have the quick thinking of a predator.

Something in your demeanor changes--your hands pause and flutter nervously--and he's on alert. He's careful to relax his grip lest he crush the box of protein bars for Jack. His ears sling forward and his eyes narrow as he catches that half-baked flirting attempt. Leona doesn't even bother to hide the sneer twisting his face.

Just the thought of you with that hopeful schmuck is nauseating.

Suddenly the scent of all the males around you is overwhelming. Disgusting.

"If you have to ask about the price, you can't afford it. Haven't ya ever heard that before?" Leona 'hmphs' triumphantly, one hand on his hip as he bends down slightly to stare the chump in the face. "Askin' about the price is tacky."

"Wh-what was my total again?"

All Leona had to do was stare at the back of the human's neck. Humans, much like prey animals, grew really squirmy when a predator stared at them too long. Or encroached on their space, much like he was doing. It was for the hell of it at this point.

Leona made a mental note of the guy's face as he scampered off like a terrified cub and looked forward to the day he could send a stray spelldrive disk in his direction.

"Hey Herbivore," Leona plunked the basket down unceremoniously.

"Hey Leona," you looked down at the random stuff in his basket, trying not to smile at what just happened. Something warm and--dare he say it?--proud welled up in his chest when he realized you were happy about him scaring the guy off.

The heart-shaped stickers he kept finding on everything when he got back to Savanaclaw helped, too.

----

Ruggie lived for the holiday specials at Sam's. He was a bit put out that he wasn't picked to staff the Valentine's shift but the in-store discounts were a small consolation. It'd be better if he could stack them with an employee discount but he'd take what he could get! His mouth started watering as soon as he entered, sniffing out deliciously fluffy donuts.

Hopefully people would be distracted with the lollypops and chocolates and leave his donuts alone!

He choked down the occasional nervous whine when people gravitated too close to the donut display, distracting himself with the decor and wondering what would be most profitable to flip. His eyes began to wander to the people in front of him; Ruggie tsk'd at how casual and unguarded they were. Ripe for the picking, he looked at their wallets and fistfuls of thaumarks just out in the open.

If he wasn't worried about being banned from Sam's and losing some gigs he'd--

"How much do you cost?"

EXCUSE ME?! Ruggie freezes, eyes going wide and ears twitching when he hears that. The dude said that and LIVED?

Oh, right. You're not a Savanna girl. The girls back home would beat him up and make him pay them to stop. Or just smack the shit out of him hard enough to put him in a coma. Maybe break his jaw so he can't drop anymore awful lines.

Women are to be respected! Not treated like something you can purchase!

Given that you weren't a Savanna girl and were bound by the rules of 'I'm currently on the clock', Ruggie took things into his own hands. You could just treat him later!

"Laugh with Me!" Ruggie hisses, backing into the closest display. It was a little bump to him but far more to the guy up front. He waved his arm around, skimming the bags of gummy candies while the guy at the register knocked down a whole tower of balloons on a stick. Bending over just enough to line the guy's head up with the counter, Ruggie lunges forward.

WOMP!

Oh it was so satisfying. The guy is hopelessly, helplessly stunned. He gathers his bearings and Ruggie slides his foot out; the guy loses his footing and slams into the counter again.

Only two times before he gives up? Kind of weak-willed, Ruggie thinks with a little smirk as he side-steps the disoriented guy and waits patiently to check out. Sam tends to him while you get the donuts he's been craving.

They'll taste even better because they smell like you. Happy Valentine's Day to him!

-----

Jack is usually very stoic but a lot of people mistake his stoic observation for irritation. He would blame it on his intimidating physique but he's not sorry and takes great pride in his appearance. He's a beastman--a Howl!--he's supposed to be intimidating! Intimidating appearance aside, Jack is also a very helpful soul.

A good boy, if you will.

The only reason he's in Sam's is on Ruggie's behalf. He was tasked with picking up a few things and was more than happy to help out his senior. They were from the same dorm, after all! Practically a pack! You have to help your pack!

He's not really bothered by the amount of people, more focused on keeping his tail out of people's way and making sure he doesn't knock anything over. All at once, the atmosphere changes a little. There's a hint of sour in the air and a noticeable hike in someone's pulse.

It's your pulse. You look...distressed? Why are you distressed? Where is the threat?

Whatever it was, he missed it and he's cursing himself.

His ears swing forward as he catches bits and pieces of conversations. Some people are complaining the guy is taking too long, other people are laughing at his crappy pickup line. Some people are wondering if it's going to work.

This was a weak display if he ever saw one. The guy didn't even look confident in himself! All of your body language has now firmed up into rejection but the guy's not getting the hint. He's trying the 'oh, c'mon!' thing his siblings do when they want to play.

You don't know it, but you've been feeding Jack when he trots by in wolf form. He likes to finish off his morning jogs in wolf form to really stretch his joints and obliques. It was supposed to be a one-off thing, him following the tantalizing aroma of food to your door. Your cooking is fantastic and while you don't know that you're a pack mate, you're a pack mate!

You're just a pack mate who feeds him and gives him occasional pets. And these to die for scratches that he'd kill to feel with his real skin instead of fur. Any touch would be fine, really. Not that you'd ever know.

Jack doesn't even know he's growling until people start moving out of his way. The growl crescendos as he walks towards the guy. Tail bristling, Jack opens his mouth to show off sharp canines. "Get lost! They're not interested in you! They're just trying to work!"

As expected, the guy tucks tail and runs. Jack snorts, licking his lips that have suddenly become dry. His ears don't know what to do, caught between catching all the murmurs behind him and wanting to press down in embarrassment.

It's quiet but he hears it. "Thank you, Jack."

"Don't mention it," he crosses his arms, looking everywhere but you as you scan his items. He was avoiding looking at you directly but he notices you slip a few extra beef sticks into his bag. He blushes.

Yeah, don't mention that either.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

[dedeinthewild]

lando norris x reader, no labels

-“Oh my god. You did cut it.”

summary : the fluff isn't here anymore, no more unruly curls on the back of his neck. She has a mission, and while Lando keeps falling for her, so do his fans.

Home tasted like the sausage rolls eaten on the grandstand chairs at Silverstone, and the clouds looming over the track, forcing them into cozy hoodies in a vain attempt to warm up a bit. It knew about stepping onto the track with no real goal—just to let her have some fun, to bring her along while he did a few laps ahead of the upcoming British Grand Prix, after a few weeks spent apart because of their schedules.

Some said she was the female version of him. The clothes, probably once hanging in Lando’s wardrobe; the way she adjusted her hair—not the pilot’s curls, but her own, soft and feathery; the way she burst out laughing at something silly and couldn't stop clutching her stomach for a while. It might’ve been annoying, how alike they were—if it hadn’t been so spot-on. And over time, they’d become a duo people loved: Lando always wanting her around whenever they were filming something for Quadrant, bringing her from behind the camera—with her sweet smile—into the spotlight, something she still wasn’t quite used to.

That time, the Brit had convinced her to go for a spin on the track with him, in the two-seater that the team had prepped just for the occasion—almost identical to the car he raced in during the season. And so she ended up stuck in one of the circuit’s garages.

She was wearing one of Lando’s old race suits, patched up along the ribs and probably stitched by his grandmother, while the helmet in her hands had been handed to her by his dad, who’d spent the past few days rummaging through the attic of their countryside house looking for one that would fit her. He’d found one Lando had used at the start of his career, his name stitched in white along the jawline, standing out against the blue shell.

Home knew about that, too. The bright lights in the garage, team members explaining what would happen and handing her forms to sign, insisting on taking some pictures, while she braided her hair at the nape of her neck and tucked it into the old suit.

“Sure you’re ready for this?” the Brit asked, running his fingers over the fabric she was wearing, like he was reliving old memories in that suit—chasing a dream that now sat squarely in his hands.

“What, sitting still and trusting you with my life? Seems overdue,” she smiled, watching as he avoided her gaze, lost in the scent of rain and the familiarity of the moment.

“I’ve driven you before,” he looked up at her, one of his signature smirks on his face as he grabbed the helmets, handing her the older one. The mechanics were already prepping the harnesses to help them into the car.

“You’re literally paid to drive,” she teased, as he slipped the helmet onto her head, waiting for her curious eyes to peek out from the visor, his large hands on either side.

They’d done hot laps together before, and far riskier things on regular roads—but this was the first time he’d take someone like her in the car that carried him across the world, that in many ways made him the Lando Norris. And he knew she hadn’t quite processed yet that she was about to ride in a Formula 1 car, but he could see in her eyes—and in her slightly trembling hands—that she was nearly as excited as he was.

Lando got in first, mechanics making sure he was strapped in tight and clicking the steering wheel into place, then Adam offered a hand to the girl. She paused in front of the driver, not missing their little tradition they did every time he drove. A small fist bump—his rougher, worn hand meeting her smaller, softer one. So familiar.

“If you need anything, I’m right behind you,” she joked, before climbing into the cockpit behind him. A team member gave her a last-minute rundown of the buttons in front of her and the lap Lando would take, while another tightened her belts.

“You good?” the driver asked once he got the green light to exit the garage, pressing the radio button with his thumb. The engine already roared as photographers snapped a few shots—not that she noticed, too caught up in the scent of the garage and the feeling of being inside that car.

“For now, yeah,” her smile could be heard in her voice.

“Right. Got it. So no screaming when I hit 300, yeah?”

“If I scream, it’s because you’re doing that little laugh after every apex. You sound like a cartoon villain every time we’re in a car together,” she answered, her voice slightly muffled by the radio. Engineers on the pit wall laughed, knowing exactly how true that was, as Lando finally aligned with the pit lane exit.

“How is it that I’ve been in your car on actual roads, and I still feel less safe right now?” she asked, grinning as he started to accelerate toward the first corner, hands firm on the wheel as he did his thing.

“Because on the road, I’m chill.”

The first lap was a thrill—just a taste of what he could really do. She started picking up on his moves before he even turned the wheel or feathered the brakes to perfect a line. Lando wasn’t one for radio chatter—unless he was winning or fighting for crucial points—but when it came to talking to her, he was all ears. She let out a few “woah”s here and there, especially in the high-speed corners, and when she took her eyes off the road ahead to look around, realizing how different the view was from the driver’s seat compared to what you saw on TV.

“Still alive?” Lando was clearly having the time of his life, knowing that—even if she’d scold him later—she loved seeing him like this.

“And thriving,” she replied, lost in the feel of the suit against her skin, the gloves too big on her hands, their helmets cutting through the cold Silverstone air that was slowly beginning to clear.

“Welcome to my office.”

“You’re so smug. I can hear you smirking,” she laughed into the radio, eyes focused ahead, the green helmet of the driver slightly blocking her view.

“Maybe I am.” That little smirk was always on his face, and the fact that she knew it was there made him smile even more.

“Do your engineers know you do this little smirk thing while pulling Gs?”

“Laughs, smirks—what are you up to?” Lando asked as he entered Copse. “But I’m glad you noticed.”

The nerves of the first few laps had given way to the kind of adrenaline the driver thrived on—and now, it was running through her veins too. The engineers were grinning back in the garage, quickly learning to love her energy almost as much as Lando did. Adam Norris sat nearby, more and more surprised by how different his son was when she was around.

“Okay, this might be the coolest thing I’ve ever done. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“I’m telling everyone. Immediately.” He teased, flooring it down the straight.

“Why do you look so pleased with yourself right now?”

Hearing her on the radio transported him to a place where he could imagine her voice during every race—after a perfect pit stop, a flawed strategy, urging him on or grounding him after a mistake.

“It’s a talent,” Lando laughed.

Corner after corner, straight after straight, those two didn’t seem inclined to stop. The Brit gestured with his head at the seating he’d had installed to create his own little fan section, and explained how to use Silverstone’s curbs to beat the competition. As they passed the pit wall, engineers spoke into the radio, while mechanics sat on the concrete beside the track, watching them fly by, knowing full well what those two were feeling in their seats.

After a few more laps than planned, Lando finally pulled into the pit lane, stopping the car in front of the garage. He unbuckled himself and jumped out first, telling the crew he’d handle the rest. He knelt to meet her at eye level, lifting his visor to look directly into her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and that smile beneath her helmet couldn’t be hidden. He gave a gentle pat right where his name was embroidered on her headgear.

Then he helped her out of the car, standing in front of her once they were both on the ground, unfastening the strap under her chin with those large hands of his and lifting off the helmet more gently than he’d braked all afternoon.

She sat down on one of the stools in the garage, next to Adam, who handed them both steaming cups of hot chocolate while the team packed up the car and chatted with the two of them.

But when Lando took off his own helmet, she gasped.

Not because the balaclava had left marks on his cheeks that made his light eyes pop, or because that smirk of his made him look even more impossibly handsome than usual. But because something was missing.

“Wait a second. Hold on. Did you—did you cut your hair?”

Lando raised his eyebrows, watching her look him over like a detective who knew she had the right suspect.

“…What?” he asked, confused. “Wait, wait. Are you telling me you saw me yesterday and didn’t even notice?”

“The curls. The mullet. My entire personality. Gone. And you didn’t say a thing.” She lifted her chin, mock offended like it truly wounded her.

“Oh my god. You did cut it.”

The driver looked over at his dad, crossing his arms.

“She finally sees me. After twenty-four hours of being... normal-haired.”

“I swear you had it yesterday! Didn’t you?!” She was laughing now—the kind of laugh he loved, the one that scrunched up her eyes and puffed her cheeks before she doubled over, clutching her stomach.

“Did I though?”

“Yes! I would’ve noticed if it was gone! I love that stupid thing, I talk about it all the time—how did I not—this is a conspiracy.”

Lando and that girl brought who they were with them wherever they went—a burst of fresh air that not everyone had noticed yet.

“You didn’t say a single thing. Not even a raised eyebrow.” He laughed now too, the fake-offended act falling away as he stepped closer to her, still holding his helmet in one hand.

“I’m grieving, Norris. Let me process.”

“You’re the one who didn’t even notice.” He ruffled her hair, grinning.

“Don’t you throw that back at me.”

She loved the British guy’s haircut.

The way his curls poked out from under the balaclava when he was getting ready for the podium, how they brushed against the collars of white shirts at events, or how they simply added coolness to him, making everyone talk about that irreverent mullet.

And Lando was amused by the fact that she had known him for years—before the haircut—but was now turning it into a national debate.

And Max liked that. A lot.

So, a few weeks later, when the British Grand Prix rolled around on the Queen of Motorsport’s summer calendar, he took advantage of the fanbase she had built up—thanks to a few smiles and her talent as a photographer—and the new content coming to the Quadrant channel to start a petition to bring the mullet back.

She had arrived at the circuit with Max and Pietra, while the driver headed to the paddock early that morning for briefings. She got ready to carry around one of the team’s cameras to film what the other British guy had asked her to do. Removing her paddock pass from around her neck and hooking it to a belt loop on her jeans to blend in better with the fans she’d be talking to, she headed into the fan zone and up into the stands to chat, flashing a friendly, disarming smile to everyone she met.

Pietra joined her after a while to help with filming, and the two of them ended up looking like just a normal pair of friends trying to capture memories and hang out with fellow fans—carefully hiding their true mission and the Quadrant stickers on the mic and camera.

Their first “victim” was a little boy on his dad’s shoulders, holding a red toy car and wearing a Ferrari cap, humming a song while waiting for the feeder series driver interviews to start in the fan zone.

And there they were, enjoying the rare good weather at Silverstone, moving from stand to stand, looking for people to interview for the video and soaking in the atmosphere outside the paddock and garages.

"Hey there, can I ask you a fun question? Who’s this guy?" she asked, pushing her sunglasses up to keep her hair off her face.

“He drives the orange car. Number four,” the boy answered, tilting his head slightly as if wondering how she didn’t know, trying to give her as much info as possible without revealing who he was rooting for.

“You nailed it! And… did he look cooler with the curls?” Pietra laughed, knowing full well that as soon as the first interview started, her friend couldn’t resist bringing up the mullet.

“I liked the curls. He looked faster.” The little boy looked almost scared of betraying his favorite team by suggesting that McLaren’s curly-haired driver might have been quicker, and his terrified expression made the two girls smile.

“You might be my favorite person today.”

“You too, you have a Lightning McQueen tee,” he smiled, pointing to her shirt with the famous Pixar car on the front and back, making her melt under the sun.

They strolled around some more, looking for people to talk to, enjoying the rare English sunshine, while rivers of fans showed support for all the teams and drivers, each living and breathing their shared passion.

“All right, you three look suspiciously like you know too much about motorsport,” the girl said, spotting a trio of girls sitting on the grass, hands in their hair, a blanket laid out beneath them with flags and signs scattered everywhere.

“That’s... probably accurate,” laughed the first girl, sitting up cross-legged and inviting her to join them.

“Dangerous territory. Who’s your current F1 favourite?”

“Charles for chaos. Oscar for calm. Lando for… the vibes,” said the second girl, resting her chin on her knees, dressed in an unmistakably McLaren orange shirt.

“Specific. I like it.”

“He’s actually a crazy good racer once you get past the memes,” the trio explained.

“Also the only driver who can turn a haircut into a cultural movement,” added the last girl, leaning on the first while stringing colorful beads onto a fishing line with a sweet smile.

She, in turn, pretended to be confused and not understand what they were talking about, while Pietra was clearly having the time of her life, still not quite believing Max had come up with this idea—and that her friend had actually agreed to go through with it.

“You know exactly what we’re talking about. We want the mullet back,” said the second girl, dead serious.

“Your words, not mine,” Lando’s friend laughed.

Pietra and the girl took a little break, lying back on the grass and chatting for a while, accepting a few friendship bracelets from the trio they’d just interviewed, while nearby Max Verstappen fans were shouting as the drivers cycled around the track waving to the crowd.

They eventually returned to the fan zone, passing through the parking lot and park surrounding the circuit, chatting with other fans—some with families, others with friends.

“All right, I’m going to guess your favorite driver just based on vibes… is it Lando?”

“Yeah. He’s fast. And funny,” replied a teenage boy leaning against a lamppost, adjusting his blonde fringe and revealing striking blue eyes he had probably inherited from his mom standing beside him.

“Solid combo. What’s your favorite track?”

“Spa. But also Silverstone. I like the corners.”

“Maggotts and Becketts?” she asked, smiling.

“Oh, the snake! I love how fast they go through there.”

The boy’s little brother held a gorgeous poster asking Lewis Hamilton to sign his mini helmet, and she found it so heartwarming to see. After all, she still hadn’t quite gotten used to being by Lando’s side with an all-access pass to the garage whenever she wanted.

“You’ve got a proper fan here,” she told their mom.

“They know more than I did at their age,” the woman replied, making the girl raise her eyebrows and imagine just how fashionable this mom must’ve been back in the day.

“Did you like when Lando had long hair?” she asked the younger brother, leaning on another post and holding out the mic.

“He looked like one of those racers from movies. Unstoppable.”

She nodded, feeling satisfied.

As she wandered through the crowds, she heard it all—Ferrari couples complaining about poor results, young fans cheering for their favorite drivers, people snapping photos to hold onto the memory of that day.

“You’ve seen it all, huh?” she laughed, chatting with two elderly gentlemen in vintage merch from the early 2000s, still just as passionate about the sport as when they first watched it together.

“Still love the sport. The strategy, the chaos, the tire gambling.”

Then two girls, with their boyfriends in tow, came up to her, eyes wide in recognition, ditching the food stand line they were in—clearly sacrificing any chance of lunch before nightfall just to talk to her.

“No freaking way. Is that her? Like—her her?!” “the power she holds.”

“You’re talking like I’m Beyoncé,” she laughed, turning to hug them, listening as they introduced themselves, wondering what exactly made her so beloved by Lando’s fans—and others—when she was just a regular person who hated the spotlight.

“You’re basically his left arm. I don’t know why you’re even pretending to be undercover,” one of them said, as the guys chuckled behind her.

“You’re literally half the reason I watch Quadrant. Like, he’s funny, sure—but you’re the one who roasts him right,” added the other.

“They say if you’re not at every race, he drives weird. They literally have spreadsheets,” said one of the guys, shaking her hand, a Mercedes cap shielding him from the sun as he gazed out at Silverstone.

“You have spreadsheets?” she asked, shocked, while Pietra nearly cried with laughter—realizing Max’s plan had backfired and there would be more footage to delete than keep. Even the entrance of the GB3 drivers on stage didn’t distract anyone from her.

“Oh my god, you’re even prettier in person. Lando’s taste is insane,” more fans chimed in, making her raise an eyebrow and rethink every life choice, unsure whether to be flattered or terrified by how many people recognized her despite her best efforts.

One of the last fans she met was wearing an epic T-shirt with Lando’s mullet-face and the words “let him cook” in bold. She complimented him on the choice and asked if she could have one. She was in her element—even if she hated the attention—because she was surrounded by people just as passionate as she was, at one of the most iconic tracks on the F1 calendar, stepping out of her comfort zone and showing how fun and friendly she could be.

“You’re like if serotonin had a voice.”

“What’s the most dramatic moment you’ve had at a race weekend?” a girl asked, as she tucked her hands into her jeans pockets, chatting like it was nothing—trying to forget just how many people now recognized her.

“Once I told Lando he couldn’t have ice cream before quali, and he glared at me like I’d cancelled Christmas,” she smiled, thinking of the one thing she could safely share with fans without starting a media storm.

“Remind me never to argue strategy with you,” a guy laughed, fist-bumping her, well aware of how much she knew about the sport.

“You know, I always thought he was the motorsport nerd. But you’re the one who told him to brake earlier into Turn 9 last year, right?” asked the same girl, recalling the hot lap she and Lando had done in a McLaren road car in Miami the year before.

“Gotta keep the man alive somehow.”

“It’s like being the guardian of a very chaotic, very fast golden retriever,” she grinned, and soon after, she and Pietra headed back to the paddock, laughing about every line fans had said to her, as the Portuguese girl looked at her friend’s shocked, pale face—now split by the most beautiful smile.

Max and Lando were sitting in the McLaren motorhome, two bottles of sparkling water and some snacks in front of them. The driver wore a black sweater, arms crossed, watching his friend like he was analyzing whatever plan was brewing in his head.

“What’s with the smirk? Did you win a staring contest with your cat or something?”

“No, I just had a brilliant idea.”

“Last time you said that, I ended up duct-taped to a sim seat,” Lando replied, skeptically watching the people passing by outside, occasionally waving at familiar faces and checking his phone for messages.

“You know how people still won’t shut up about your mullet?”

“It’s been months. I cut it. I moved on. Even she did. Society should too,” he laughed.

“What if she—” Max gestured, pouring them both some water as music played from the speakers behind them, “—went undercover and asked fans about you… and the mullet?”

“Everyone would think she’s gone rogue. Or she’d end up in a meme compilation.”

Max nodded, confirming that was exactly the point—watching as Lando’s expression softened the moment she was mentioned.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“She’s got the charm. She’ll survive.”

And just then, walking down the path Lando had been watching, the girl and Pietra appeared, the Portuguese girl still laughing, her friend walking like a runway model while clearly still processing what had just happened, hands in her pockets, sunglasses in her hair.

“I need to lie down,” she said as they joined the guys, dragging over two chairs to the table.

“Your people are feral,” she said, dumping all the signs, bracelets, and the T-shirt she’d asked for onto the table as she collapsed into the chair. Lando laughed, reading the slogans.

“Yeah but… you had fun, didn’t you?”

“I got offered snacks. And stickers.”

“…do you think I should grow it back for Monza?” he asked, giving her that look—the one all the girls had mentioned, the one that made her smile every time. The slight head tilt, direct eye contact, then that big hand ruffling her hair.

“Make it count,” she sighed, reaching over to put one of the bracelets on his wrist. “They really do love you, you know.”

“Only if I’ve got you out there making me look cool.”

“You don’t need me for that,” she laughed as he playfully nudged her shoulder.

“You know, the mullet kind of made you look like trouble.”

“Maybe. But you never stayed away.”

“I physically needed to mess it up. This fade just doesn’t cut it.”

this is long... but that doesn't mean I like it, so please give me your feedbacks about it! School's been draining me again but I need to write, and ideas keep coming to knock at my door

[yazmarina]

walk me through it

for the love circuit series

—you're used to being flirted with in front of the camera. but something about franco is really doing you in.

franco colapinto (f1) x fem!reporter reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex (no condom, yes birth control), guided masturbation, lewd photography, lots of flirting, franco is shameless (naturally), some Spanish sentences and phrases

a/n: will resume hit play for a bit after this one! enjoy franco girlies mwa

Your job was simple enough. Well, for today, at least.

Stand in the media pen, gather statements, and piece together a couple of stories later that evening for publishing first thing tomorrow morning. All in a day's work, like all the other days before.

You've grown immune to the charms of rich, adrenaline-seeking men. Didn't take you too long, the illusion breaking as soon as any one of them opened their mouths. Some you tolerate more than others, but some you'd rather steer clear of completely.

This isn't to say that you've brushed all of them off. You might have agreed to a date here and there but nothing ever stuck, the nature of your jobs a bit too similar and all too different at the same time. You've given up on the prospect that you'll somehow end up with one of the many Formula 1 drivers you've interviewed and spoken to. And you've spoken to a lot. You've had this gig since you were shipped off fresh from uni and one too many 'What happened there?'s and 'Tell me about qualifying's can put a damper on the romantic side of things.

But someone new's in town. Well, er, new in the paddock. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't even a little bit excited.

He's charming, that much you can already tell. He walks into the media pen like he's done it thousands of times before and you have to actively suppress a smile as he walks over. Confidence is always a plus. For the interview, of course.

"Hola, Franco. Antes que nada, enhorabuena," you greet warmly, extending your arm over the barrier to place the microphone nearer to him. Hi, Franco. First of all, congratulations.

Franc's eyebrows shoot up, a wolfish grin settling on his face. "Oh. I thought this was an English interview?"

You smile back. "It is, but I know my way around Spanish, as well."

"Ah," Franco nods. "Gracias, _______."

"You know my name?" You ask, momentarily forgetting that you're being taped and recorded. You clear your throat, ignoring the quiet snicker from your cameraman.

"Yeah, I've seen you around and watched some of your other interviews," Franco confirms, a hand settling on his hip as he leans against the barrier, closer to you.

You can smell his perfume from where you stand.

"Thank you, I've heard and seen a lot about you as well," you respond, trying to return to your original train of thought.

"Which is why I want to ask you how it feels on your first day as a Formula 1 driver," you quickly follow. "Have you done anything special to prepare for this weekend? Other than the obvious, of course."

Another easy smile spreads across Franco's lips. "I've definitely added to my training and done some new things to prepare. I haven't done a full F1 weekend before so everything will be new."

"We definitely don't have reporters like you in the lower Formulas," he adds.

You feel a violent blush rip up through your neck all the way to your cheeks. As if the Monza heat wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm glad you could meet me here," you manage to get out.

The thing is, Franco isn't even the most attractive driver you've met. He's definitely up there, but not the most.

That's a discussion you have with yourself semi-weekly: ranking the drivers in terms of attractiveness, factoring in personalities and general attitudes towards the people around them, specifically the media.

Look, people love to shit on the media and press, calling journalism all sorts of derogatory words, but you're just here to do your job, like anyone else. And it gets pretty fucking hard when your boss is ringing your phone every five minutes demanding four stories by tomorrow and drivers are sassing you out as if you asked them if they've murdered their whole family.

So, naturally, the way they treat you determines a big chunk of how you think your day is going to pan out.

And right now, Franco seems to be lifting your spirits just fine.

"What are your goals for this weekend? Are points on the horizon for you at your first F1 race?" You continue, trying not to stare at the way Franco starts to rub at the back of his neck, bashful all of a sudden.

"We'll try," Franco begins. He plants both his hands on the barrier and leans even closer. You have to physically take a step back.

You gulp. Franco smiles.

"Anything is possible this weekend."

-

"You broke the internet last night."

You scoff, sending your cameraman a vicious side-eye. It's crowded in the paddock today, everyone wanting to get a glimpse of the new rookie, it seems. Such is the eagerness for this young driver that even that 30-second clip of your interview with him blew right up in your face. Your inboxes at capacity, your own voice speaking back to you with every other swipe on your TikTok.

It's not all bad, though. A tweet with one of your Instagram photos attached to it captioned 'TE ENTIENDO MUCHO FRANCO ES MUY LINDA PERIODISTA' did weasel out a chuckle from you.

Your cameraman shrugs, gesturing with a jerk of his head in front of you.

"There he is. I'm sure he knows all about it."

You look over to where he's pointing and lo and behold, Franco is right there, chatting with a few Williams team members, his race suit hanging undone around his waist. He turns to you even before you can fully register that it's him you're looking at.

But your training kicks in even faster. A megawatt smile appears on your lips and you wave enthusiastically at Franco.

"Hi."

"_______," Franco says, face lighting up at the sight of you. Your name seems to fall even more effortlessly off his lips.

You reach over and pull him into a half-hug with one arm, but both his arms wind around you and you have no choice but to squeeze back.

"You saw?" Franco asks, a gleam in his eye as he pulls away. His hand remains casually on the small of your back.

"Saw what?" You know what it is he's asking but you'd like to hear it from him.

"We went viral, no?" Franco says with a laugh, reaching further around you and squeezing your waist. You lean into his touch, heart jumping as his fingers graze just underneath your cropped top.

"That's all because of you," you reason, pointing an accusatory finger at Franco. "I bet you say that to all the other reporters."

The Williams team members standing nearby burst out laughing and even your cameraman affords a snicker. A deep blush spreads across Franco's face as he rubs your side reassuringly.

"No, no, I don't. Just you," Franco admits with another lighthearted laugh.

"Sure," you say with exaggerated skepticism. You pull away from his touch, catching his hand before he slips it fully off of you.

"I'll talk to you later," you say. And it's fully intentional, the words you choose to say. I'll talk to you later. Not 'I'll catch you later' or 'I'll see you later'.

I will talk to you later.

Franco understands, giving your hand a squeeze.

-

Later that day, you pray that no one catches you grinning behind your hand as Franco takes the chequered flag at qualifying.

P11.

Almost there.

-

"Hi. Come in."

Franco beams at you from across the threshold, stepping into your room with slow, measured steps.

"Great qualifying," you compliment, eyes traveling down Franco's body, noting the way his team kit hugs his frame just right, his hands shoved into his pockets, exposing just his arms, veins and all.

Your eyes snap back up to his face when you hear the door shut in place.

"Q2 on your debut. Not bad," you go on, taking a step back. Franco takes one toward you.

"You're just repeating what you said at the media pen earlier," Franco points out. He reaches out and gently circles an arm around your waist.

Always straight to the point.

Like this morning.

You tried not to make it so obvious when you ran into Franco earlier, but all you could think about was The Message.

You were doing your cursory social media checks a few minutes after you had woken up, still snug in your bed and unwilling to get up just yet. A message in your Instagram inbox caught your attention, sitting at the very top of your 'verified followers' tab.

Franco Colapinto: hola, hermosa 😉

It took a minute for your motor functions to return, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you pored over what to reply. You settled on a nonchalant greeting, asking if Franco needed anything.

You realized rather belatedly that this was looking a little familiar. You wished he wouldn't say the dreaded answer, the more-than-predictable response that every man liked to use.

Franco Colapinto: you, maybe?

You groaned into your pillow, not because you were repulsed by his answer, but because you liked it. If you were easy, then so was he.

You: i finish work at 9 pm tonight...? 👀

It's 9 PM now. Franco's in the room and your hand is running up his chest.

Easy.

"It's such an honor," Franco teases, backing you up further into the room. His hands feel heavy on your waist and your heart hammers against your chest.

"I get to work with people like you now," Franco continues, stopping right in front of the bed.

The kiss comes as a shock more so because of how good Franco kisses. One of his hands is now cradling the back of your head, keeping you in place while he licks into your mouth, groaning with every pucker of your lips.

You pull away for barely a second to get both of your tops off before you dive back in, seemingly too desperate and too starved for each other's mouths. Franco's hands are everywhere; they run down your arms, paw at your waist, tugging at the belt loops of your jeans.

You giggle as he pulls you even closer, your bare chests pressed against each other. Franco pulls back and peers down at you, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. You let it fall, already guiding one of his hands to your tits.

"Couldn't stop staring at them?" You ask, your voice rising with an innocent lilt.

Franco kneads at the mound beneath his hand, eliciting a moan from you. He grins.

"I wanted you to notice," Franco admits simply, kissing you again.

"Perv," you mumble against his lips. Franco laughs, already undoing his trousers.

You wiggle your own way out of your jeans, letting Franco get the shortest of glimpses at your baby pink underwear before you discard them off to the side.

"Mierda, you're so sexy," Franco compliments as you crawl backward onto the bed, laying back and letting your hair splay out beneath you.

Franco pounces on you like a man starved, bare atop your own naked body, his arms caging you in.

"Big moves from somebody so new," you whisper, carding your fingers through Franco's soft locks.

"I like to make a statement," Franco says with a shrug. He glances up momentarily, something piquing his interest off to the side.

"Is that your camera?"

You crane your neck to see where he's looking and sure enough, your personal DSLR is right there on the bedside drawer. You look back at Franco, an eyebrow raised.

"You wanna use it?" You ask, not expecting him to actually say yes. But a mischievous grin settles on Franco's face and you feel your heart skip several beats.

"Knock yourself out," you say.

Franco reaches for the camera and fiddles with it for a few seconds. His eyes scan over your body and you suddenly feel the urge to hide away with how hard he's looking.

"May I?" Franco asks, brandishing the camera. Your mouth falls open as you realize what he's asking.

"You can keep them for yourself. For your eyes only," Franco hurriedly adds, planting his knees firmly on either side of you.

You stare up at him, a million thoughts running through your mind.

"Just...touch yourself."

You gasp, stunned at his proposal. Franco watches through the LCD monitor, glancing up at you through his lashes. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth, and as if on instinct, your hand inches down slowly between your legs.

"You're in front of cameras all the time," Franco reminds with a smirk. "This should be easy for you."

You suppress a whimper at his words, your fingertips swiping through your slick folds. You're already soaked and you start to wonder if it started even before Franco got here.

The shutter clicks and the lens whirs, sharp against the soft breaths you're letting out. Franco is concentrated, snapping photo after photo as you rub yourself closer to release. But it's not enough. You need more.

"Franco...," you implore, peering up with bright, begging eyes.

"Slowly, mi amor," Franco coos. "Just where you like it. Right there."

Click.

"Harder now, but still slow. Yes? Feels good?"

You whine, eyes fluttering shut as your pleasure picks up again. Several clicks. You're panting now, the tendrils of release wrapping themselves around you.

"Faster, yes, like that," Franco eggs on. Your fingers speed up against your sensitive clit and a litany of Franco's name spills from your lips. Before you know it, he's putting the camera away. You reach for him, gripping the back of his neck as he smashes his lips into yours.

Franco bites down on your lip and you cry out, your orgasm washing over you like a tide. You arch against Franco, feeling his own stiffness heavy on your thigh.

You blink, Franco's face coming into focus, barely an inch from yours. He watches you closely, pupils blown wide and plump lips even redder. You hook your legs around his waist, letting him know that you're not done yet.

Franco is quick to pick up, smiling as lines himself up with you. The groan that escapes him is nothing short of delicious as he pushes himself in. You gasp along, the stretch a welcome sensation.

Franco wastes no time and pounds right into you, catching you by surprise. You let your head fall back against the mattress, a long, drawn-out whine erupting from deep within your chest as Franco licks a stripe up your neck.

Your whole body quakes with how hard he's thrusting into you but you're clearly enjoying it if your wanton moans are anything to go by. Franco meets your eyes and you pull him down, wanting nothing more than to drown in those lips of his.

It's feral and it's unrestrained, spurred on by the knowledge that this is more than unprofessional in your line of work. Not illegal by any means, but risky enough to warrant warnings from your coworkers. Never sleep with a driver unless you're committed.

Oh, well.

Franco groans loudly in your ear, movements losing their rhythm as he speeds up. You're clinging to him as if he'd disappear if you let go, your own belly tightening once more with that familiar feeling.

Franco. Franco. Franco.

He kisses you just as he finishes. Passionate, eager, heady. You feel him inside you, a different kind of elation filling you as you release all over him.

Franco pulls away to allow yourselves to breathe. He pulls out, rolling over to your side. You hug your folded knees to your chest, too lazy to get up and find something to deal with the mess.

"No hagas eso. Eso es demasiado doméstico," Franco jokes, moving closer and planting a kiss to your shoulder. Don't do that. That's too domestic.

"Relájate, estoy usando anticonceptiva," you reassure with a lighthearted roll of your eyes. Relax, I'm on birth control.

Franco hums, laying an arm over you. He pulls you close and you face him, reaching up to brush away some of his unruly hair.

He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Happy that you're a Formula 1 driver?" You ask, grinning.

Franco chuckles. "Very."

[calypso-rt]

5 LIL' THINGS

Rafe does as your bf...

-> Rafe x F!Reader

intro

There were a lot of things people said about Rafe Cameron.

Most of them weren’t nice.

Words like reckless, selfish, and volatile were tossed around with such regularity you’d think they were stitched into his DNA.

And maybe some of that was true. He could be a pain in the ass, even on a good day. But then there were the other things.

The things no one talked about.

Like how he’d tilt his head just slightly when he was pretending not to care but actually cared more than he’d ever admit. Or how he’d mutter something sarcastic to cover up the fact that his eyes softened whenever he looked at you. The kind of things that didn’t make headlines but stayed tucked away in stolen moments and quiet gestures.

Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t a perfect boyfriend. But if you paid attention, he was so much better than perfect.

He was Rafe.

And sometimes, that meant big, messy declarations of love. But most of the time? It was the little things. The ones that slipped through the cracks but left their mark anyway. The kind of things you couldn’t forget, even if you tried.

1 | Midnight Runs for Ice Cream

It started as an offhand comment. You were sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, mumbling something about how a bowl of chocolate ice cream would fix everything wrong with the world. You didn’t expect Rafe to hear it, let alone act on it.

But twenty minutes later, he was pulling up in his truck, headlights slicing through the darkness outside your window.

“Get in,” he called, leaning out of the driver’s side with his trademark smirk. His hair was messy like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his hoodie hung loosely on his frame, but there was something about the way he looked at you: like he’d move mountains just because you said you were craving dessert.

You didn’t need convincing.

In the car, it took all of five minutes for an argument to break out over toppings.

“Hot fudge is the only acceptable option,” you insisted, crossing your arms dramatically.

Rafe scoffed, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Please. Caramel’s where it’s at. You just don’t have taste.”

“Oh, I have taste,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes. “You’re the one with the palate of a toddler.”

He glanced over, his smirk widening. “Toddler, huh? That’s bold coming from someone who’s about to order sprinkles.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “And don’t even bother denying it. I already know exactly what you’re getting.”

The audacity.

“You don’t know me, Cameron.”

“Sure I do.” His voice was low, teasing. “Chocolate ice cream, hot fudge, and a mountain of sprinkles.”

And, annoyingly, he was right.

By the time you got back to your place, the ice cream was already melting, but neither of you cared. You leaned against the counter, savoring each bite like it was heaven in a cup. Meanwhile, Rafe stayed perched a few feet away, one hip propped against the edge, arms crossed casually.

He wasn’t eating anything. He never did. But his eyes lingered on you, soft and warm in a way that felt unguarded, like the weight of the world didn’t matter for a little while.

“Why are you staring?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I’m not,” he muttered, looking away, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin.

But he was.

And even though he’d deny it later, you knew that Rafe loved these moments.

Just you, the quiet, and the faint hum of the world outside.

2 | Personal Handyman

It was a lazy afternoon when you casually mentioned the faucet in the kitchen was leaking again. You didn’t think much of it. It was a small problem, something you’d fix when you got around to it. It wasn’t worth stressing over.

But apparently, Rafe thought otherwise.

You were in the living room when you heard the sound of his truck pulling up outside. A moment later, there was a knock at the door, followed by the familiar voice of Rafe Cameron calling your name, low and a little rough.

When you opened the door, he was standing there, toolbox in hand, looking like he’d just walked off a worksite.

“Uh… what are you doing here?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fixing your sink,” he said matter-of-factly, brushing past you and making his way to the kitchen without waiting for permission.

“Rafe, I didn’t-”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand. “You mentioned it. I’ll take care of it.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he just acted, like it was no big deal. But you knew better.

Rafe wasn’t exactly Handy Manny. But for some reason, when it came to you, he’d drop whatever he was doing and show up, ready to tackle whatever needed fixing.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as he knelt down by the sink, inspecting the faucet like he actually knew what he was doing. It was kind of endearing, watching him concentrate.

He grumbled to himself, clearly getting frustrated as he fumbled with the wrench. “This thing’s not going in right…”

You couldn’t resist. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

He shot you a glare over his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

It took him a bit longer than expected, a few more muttered curses under his breath, but eventually, the leak stopped. He leaned back, wiping his hands on a rag, a proud look on his face.

“Done,” he said, standing up and brushing the dust off his jeans.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, I didn’t think you were the handyman type.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, smirking, wiping his hands one last time. “But I’ll do it for you.”

It wasn’t the words that made your heart skip a beat, it was the sincerity behind them. Because Rafe wasn’t the kind of guy who did things for anyone else. But for you?

Anything.

3 | The Protector

The bonfire crackled, flames dancing in the cool evening air, throwing long shadows across the beach as the sound of waves crashed softly in the background.

Everyone was spread out in small groups, drinks in hand, laughing, talking, and basking in the glow of the fire. It was one of those nights where everyone felt a little too wild, a little too free, but you felt calm. Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Except... Rafe had been watching you.

Not in the creepy, overbearing way, but in the subtle, Rafe kind of way. He was always nearby, his eyes scanning the crowd, just making sure no one got too close. He made sure you had a drink in your hand, not too much, just enough so you didn’t have to worry about someone else trying to buy you one.

He had a sixth sense for noticing when someone came too close to your space, his jaw tightening just slightly as he made his way over to draw you into a conversation, his hand resting at the small of your back like a silent warning to anyone who might have been eyeing you.

“Got everything you need?” he’d ask, his voice low and steady, as he plopped down next to you.

You grinned, giving him an exaggerated wink. “Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for being my personal bodyguard tonight.”

His lips quirked up at the corner, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I’m always looking out for you." The words felt like more than just an empty promise. They were a truth, simple but intense in the way only Rafe could be.

As the night stretched on, the bonfire began to fade. The crackling wood sounded more like a whisper now, the heat slipping away into the cool night air. You were just about to get up to grab more firewood when you felt a familiar weight settle over your shoulders.

Rafe’s hoodie. You didn’t even have to ask.

You didn’t even notice he’d stood up, not until he returned, draping the fabric over you in one smooth motion. “Don’t want you getting cold,” he muttered, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a second too long, like he was debating whether he should say more. But then he was back to his spot, his eyes scanning the beach again, always on alert, always looking out for you.

"Thanks," you murmured, pulling the hoodie tighter around your frame, the faint scent of his cologne making you smile.

"Anytime," he replied, his voice low, but it was the kind of ‘anytime’ that meant forever.

And that’s exactly how it felt. Forever.

4 | Has Your Back

It was supposed to be a simple night out.

A few drinks, some laughs, the usual. Dinner at a local spot with Rafe and his friends, the kind of casual evening that would slip by unnoticed in the grand scheme of things. But then, Ruthie opened her mouth.

"Honestly," she started, swirling her drink around nonchalantly, "I don't get it. How'd someone like Rafe end up with you?"

The words stung, and you could feel your cheeks flush. Ruthie had that uncanny ability to hit below the belt without even trying. You shot her a sharp look, about to respond, but before you could, Rafe’s demeanor shifted.

One moment he was laughing, holding court with the guys, the next he was leaning in with an icy calmness that made the air around him tighten. His hand shot out, resting protectively on the back of your chair, his body angling just enough to block Ruthie’s view of you.

"Watch it, Ruth," he said, his voice low, but there was an edge to it. "You might wanna take that back before you piss me off."

You could feel his gaze, intense and unwavering, but there was something else behind it. A playful edge that suggested he wasn’t taking Ruthie’s words too seriously, just looking out for you. You swallowed the heat that had risen in your chest, deciding to hold your ground and respond on your own terms.

"I'm not some charity case, Ruth," you shot back, keeping your tone even but firm. "If you’ve got a problem, maybe we can talk about it later."

Rafe’s lips twitched into a barely there smile as he let you handle it. He wasn’t going to fight your battles for you, but the way he hovered, close enough to let everyone know he was ready if things escalated, was enough to settle the tension.

"And just so you know," Rafe added, looking directly at Ruthie with a mockingly sweet tone, "you can keep your thoughts to yourself. I like her just the way she is."

There was a beat of silence, and Ruthie’s eyes narrowed, but she backed off, giving you a pointed look before taking another sip of her drink.

The night resumed, but you could feel Rafe's hand on your back as he leaned into you, giving your shoulder a quick squeeze.

Later, as you and Rafe walked out of the restaurant, he nudged you with a softer grin. "You handled Ruthie pretty well," he said, his voice a little quieter than usual. "Impressive."

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by his sincerity. "You think so?"

Rafe nodded, his gaze softening. "Yeah. She can be a lot, but you didn't back down. I respect that."

You smiled, feeling a warmth you weren’t expecting. "Thanks, Rafe."

He pulled you a little closer, his arm around your shoulders. "Anytime. I’ve got your back." And in that moment, it was clear.

His admiration for you was genuine, and he'd always be there, quietly protective in his own way.

5 | More Than Words

After a long, draining day, you stumbled through the front door, exhaustion weighing heavily on you. The world felt too loud, too overwhelming, and you just wanted to escape for a while.

To your surprise, Rafe was already on the couch, his laptop resting in his lap as he looked up at you, eyes softening the second he saw how tired you were.

Without a word, he set the laptop aside, his usual cocky demeanor gone. He just knew.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

He didn’t need to.

Moving toward you, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto the couch, guiding you gently between his legs, holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. His hand softly brushed through your hair, the quiet comfort of his touch calming the chaos of your mind. He didn’t need to say anything; his presence was enough.

"Hey," his voice was quiet, soft against your ear. "I know today was tough."

You nodded, leaning your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just held you, grounding you with his steady presence. His fingers found yours, the simple act of holding your hand more meaningful than any words could be.

In the silence, you realized something: with all the messiness inside him, all the brokenness he carried, Rafe knew how to find peace in moments like this.

And in this small, quiet space, you found it too.

Wrapped in his arms, the weight of the world seemed a little less heavy.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.