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em1i2a3 · 4 hours ago

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A House In Nebraska

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x (Ex?)Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After considering it for a long time, you have decided that it is time to leave the Thunderbolts and pursue a normal life after being passed from team to team for years. When you make the announcement it is met with a mix of emotions, but nobody is taking it harder than Bob.

Warnings: Angst and more Angst (with an ending that everyone will like hopefully), Hurt/Comfort (technically), Bob is going through it kinda, Unspoken Feelings Between Reader and Bob.

Author’s Note: I’ve been wanting to write this scenario for a while and I was finally able to get an ending that I truly loved and adored, and I am so glad that I was able to finish this and get this out to you guys, and I hope you guys enjoy it <3

Word Count: 8,336

”I’m leaving…”

The words felt foreign as they left your mouth. Soft. Like they didn’t quite belong to you. Like someone else had said them first, quietly, in some dream you didn’t remember waking from. They drifted into the room like smoke–barely there, but impossible to ignore. They were the kind of words that rearranged the air, and twisted it up into something totally different and new.

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Everyone was tucked into their usual spots around the low table in the compound’s common room–takeout containers open, steam curling toward the ceiling, the hum of the base’s heating vents filling the quiet between bites. You had ordered everything–from the popular Chinese takeout place down the road that somehow knew everyone’s preferences better than they knew each other’s. Spicy drunken noodles for Yelena. Chicken, Duck and Pork with extra rice for Alexei. Garlic dumplings with extra garlic and extra chili oil sauce for Bucky. Sweet-and-sour chicken for Walker. Tom Yum Soup and Spring Rolls for Ava. And Bob’s quiet favourite–plain lo mein with shredded pork, no veggies, extra sauce–which was nestled in front of him barely touched.

He had known something was off the moment you said dinner was on you. Everyone did actually. They had racked their brains trying to think if they somehow missed a birthday, or if a holiday passed and somehow they didn’t realize it, but after hours of thinking they had said to themselves that it was just a regular Thursday…Which raised their suspicions and their worries. But nobody could’ve ever expected this.

You were sitting between Bob and Yelena, your knees pulled up under you on the worn-down couch, your tray balanced on your lap. Bob’s thigh was pressed lightly against yours, as it always was–casual, comforting, and familiar, something he always did because it was second nature for him to be close to you. But the second your words hit the air, it was as if that contact felt electric, like a shock went through his body. You could feel him go stiff, and you didn’t even have to turn your head to know he was looking at you.

So was Yelena.

Both their heads had twisted toward you almost simultaneously, disbelief etched into the sharp lines of their profiles. It wasn’t often that they mirrored one another. But tonight, confusion and a quiet thread of betrayal lit up both their expressions like a crack of lightning.

You didn’t dare to look at either of them. You didn’t want to. You didn’t trust yourself not to fall apart. Not when you had already made the impossible decision.

So you kept your eyes on your food instead, though your appetites had vanished hours ago when you made the choice to tell the team tonight about what your plans were.

The silence that overtook the room was instant, not even the low tapping of chopsticks could be heard. Nobody moved, and no one dared to speak.

Except Bucky. Or rather–not Bucky. He was the only one who didn’t react. He stayed perfectly still at the far end of the couch, arms braced on his knees, jaw flexed like he was trying not to wince at how tense the room was at the moment. He blinked slowly, lifted his beer and took a long sip.

He was playing his part well, because he was the only one who knew–the only one you had told. You didn’t want the others trying to stop you. You didn’t want soft glances or hands on your arm or late-night conversations asking if this was about a mission, a memory or a nightmare you couldn’t shake. You didn’t want to be the problem they tried to fix.

You were done being that.

And the only person who you knew would understand where you were coming from was Bucky.

When you had told him, he had looked at you like you were speaking a different language. You had cornered him in the weapons bay a week ago, in the quiet lull between missions. He was restocking tranquilizers, and you just stood there until he looked up.

”I’m leaving,” You had said then. His brow furrowed at the announcement.

”Is everything alright?” You hadn’t hesitated to respond.

”Everything’s fine…I’ve never felt more sure about a decision actually.” That was when he stilled.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t scold you for even thinking about it. He just watched you like he knew how much it cost you to finally say it out loud. He let you speak for what felt like the first time in months. You told him about the way the noise was finally too much. The walls. The walls in your mind and the ones around this compound. You told him about waking up every morning with a part of yourself missing, hollowed out by years of being someone else’s weapon.

Bucky had listened in silence. Because he understood.

He knew what it was like to be built for the battlefield. To want to come home and realize you didn’t even know what home meant.

By the end, he nodded. Not in resignation–but in understanding. He didn’t try to convince you to stay. He promised to keep your secret.

And now, watching him at the edge of the couch–quiet, still, unreadable–you were genuinely impressed. He was playing the part like a professional. Eyes neutral. Shoulders stiff. Not a single twitch of his mouth betrayed what he knew. What only he knew.

Before anyone could speak–before the team could do what you were dreading—you jumped in again.

“I told Val a few days ago,” you said, your voice calm but low. “She’s aware of it. And… She’s actually helping me relocate.” A sharp scoff broke the tension like a blade.

“Bullshit,” Walker muttered, dropping his chopsticks onto his plate with a dull clatter, “Is hell frozen over or something? She would never do that.” You gave him a long look, steady but not unkind.

“I thought the same thing too. Trust me. But Mel followed up with a bunch of housing options…And that’s when I realized she actually meant it. She’s…Allowing me to go.” There was a pause–one of those unnatural ones where it felt like the whole room was holding its breath.

And in that silence, you noticed it.

Bob was rubbing his knees. His hands were pressing down on the fabric of his black sweatpants, fists tightening over and over like he didn’t know what to do with them. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t moved. But something was coming undone beneath the surface, and it was almost unbearable to watch.

Your jaw clenched as you leaned the slightest bit toward him, fingers moving gently to rest over his wrist. You didn’t grip, you just placed your hand there–soft, grounding. It was something small, but he flinched like the contact had burned him. Ava’s voice broke through next, sharp and direct.

“Why the hell are you leaving?” She asked, eyes locked on yours. Her tone was level, but there was something trembling behind it. Something brittle. “You’re one of us. This team–we’ve been through hell together. Why now?” You didn’t answer right away.

You breathed in through your nose. Let it fill your lungs like it might soften the blow. Then you met her gaze.

“I was born into an environment where I was trained to fight. Kill. Infiltrate. Deceive,” you said, each word measured, not cold–but tired. “I never saw the sun until I was sixteen. I was kept in rooms without windows. I was…Catalogued. Modified. Passed around like I was inhuman.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve never had a home. Never had a normal day. Never been able to choose anything for myself. I’ve spent my whole life being used–over and over again–and all I want now…Is to live in peace, and to have a normal life. I don’t want to travel and go after people anymore…I don’t want to harm people and fight them to the death. I want to wake up in a house I could call mine, and exist without being needed.” You looked around the table, eyes landing on each of them in turn, “I’m not built for this life anymore…And I know you might hate me for it and think I’m selfish…But my task here is done…” You added.

There was a long pause, thick enough to choke you–and maybe that’s what you wanted.

And then–

“…S-So you can’t live a no–normal life with us?” Bob’s voice was barely a whisper. Barely even a sound. But it shattered something deep in your chest.

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

His face was twisted into something small. Vulnerable. His eyes, wide and watery. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t furious. He was just…Breaking.

“Bob…” You said gently, your voice catching. “You know it’s not like that.”

But he was already pulling his arm away from your touch.

“Sure se–seems like it,” He said, and his voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Then he stood abruptly–too fast, too sharp–and walked out of the room.

His food remained untouched.

The only trace he had even been there was the imprint left in the cushion beside you. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, and your lungs were compressing and begging for air.

Yelena let out a slow, frustrated sigh, shifting in her spot, her knuckles turning white around her chopsticks, jaw set tight, clenching so hard it seemed like her teeth made a sharp grinding noise.

“When are you going?” She asked, not looking at you, not daring to even make eye contact. You licked your lips, feeling your throat tighten from the dryness that you were suddenly aware of in the air.

”Next Wednesday.” Yelena let out a low, bitter laugh. One that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well,” She muttered, getting up from her spot slowly, “I hope it’s peaceful for you.” And without another word she walked away too. The remaining warmth of the room had left with her, and in its place was an empty, brittle kind of quiet that came after an argument no one wanted to admit had just happened.

“Wow,” Walker muttered, low and sardonic, shoving a piece of checking into his mouth without looking at anyone, “You really know how to thin out a crowd.” Bucky shot him a sharp look. A warning.

”Walker.” But he turned towards him, fork pausing halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing with that familiar glint of provocation.

”What?” He snapped, “Are we seriously supposed to be okay with this? Just sit here and clap for her while she walks out? We all have fucking baggage here. We all bleed for this team. You were the one that was brainwashed for seventy years, Bucky. If anyone deserves a normal life, it’s you.” His jaw tightened at the comment.

”This is where I want to be, John,” He said firmly, “She doesn’t want to be here anymore…She’s burned out and exhausted. She’s done. Do you understand? Or do I need to get out the whiteboard and draw it out for you like you’re a fucking child?” That shut Walker up for a beat.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the metallic tang of blood blooming faintly on your tongue. Your stomach turned with the weight of being discussed like you weren’t even there, like you were some walking existential crisis just dropped into the center of dinner.

“Can we not act like I’m not sitting right here?” You asked, voice tight and edged.

Walker looked like he wanted to say something back, but Alexei shifted heavily in his chair, making the wood groan under his weight. He leaned forward on his elbows–his plate long forgotten in his lap–and looked at you with something gentle in his eyes.

”I support…Whatever you do,” He started slowly, his accent heavy but words carefully chosen, “You must do what you feel. Think for yourself. Not for team. Not for mission. That is not weakness. That is freedom.” His massive hand reached over and patted your shoulder—solid and warm, like he was trying to anchor you to something. His expression was soft in a way that felt rare. Earnest.

Your eyes stung.

”Thank you Alexei.” You said quietly, throat already tightening from the tears that were threatening to escape. Alexei just nodded and leaned back again, folding his arms over his chest as if he’d said all he needed to.

Walker blew out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded vaguely like “Still think it’s bullshit”, but he didn’t continue to push the subject–he knew it was no use.

As you stared down at your hands–at the faint tremble in your fingers, at the spot where Bob had sat, now empty–you realized something painful and true.

You weren’t just leaving a team…You were breaking a family.

And even though it was the right decision for yourself…That didn’t make it hurt any less.

———————————

You were in your bedroom, surrounded by half-filled boxes–some sealed, some still yawning open with uncertainty. The floor was a mess of folded sweaters, books, tangled cords, and scraps of your life that had clung to the corners of the compound without you realizing it. A permanent layer of dust had formed beneath the bed, now exposed, and a lone sock had somehow ended up behind your nightstand. The hum of the ventilation system buzzed quietly above you, low and steady, the only constant sound in an otherwise hollow space.

There were labels on each box–Clothes, Gear, Kitchen Stuff, Important Docs, To Val–but one sat alone at the edge of your bed.

A box labeled simply: Bob.

Polaroids, mostly. Ones you’d snapped at odd hours, between missions, at safe houses and gas stations and rooftops during sunset. There was one of him half-asleep with his hoodie pulled over his face, slumped sideways on a bench in Prague. One where he was squinting into the camera because you’d caught him mid-chew during a ramen run in Oslo. A few blurry ones he’d taken of you without asking, and you hadn’t even realized until weeks later when you found them in the stack.

You added one last thing–a keychain.

It was dumb. A glittery, over-the-top crescent moon trinket you’d won from a claw machine on a mission in Atlantic City. Bob had said it looked like something a seven-year-old would clip to their backpack. And then later, quietly, he’d asked if you could win him one too.

He’d kept it on him for months before it broke. You’d found the spare in your drawer last week, still sealed in its plastic, and tucked it into the tissue beside the photos.

The ache in your chest hadn’t stopped since that night in the common room. Not once. It hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had grown sharper with every day Bob avoided you. Every time he turned down a hallway the moment he saw you coming. Every time he shut the door a little too fast behind him. You’d tried–three separate times–to catch him when he was alone. To talk. To explain. But each time he shut you down with silence. His eyes flickered, his hands clenched, and he walked away.

He didn’t hate you.

You knew that much.

But something in him had closed off. Locked down. Like if he said a single word, the rest of it–all that golden, aching softness–would pour out and ruin everything.

Yelena, on the other hand, had surprised you.

She gave you a chance.

A few nights after the dinner fallout, she found you in the training bay–sitting against the wall with your knees drawn up, water bottle dripping condensation between your palms. She didn’t ask questions at first. Just sat beside you in silence. For nearly ten minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then she muttered, “I’m here if you want to talk.”

And this time…You did.

You told her everything. Not all at once, not easily, but enough. Enough for her to understand that you weren’t running from the team–you were running toward something you had never been allowed to have. Peace. Quiet. Your own name, your own morning, your own walls that didn’t have reinforced steel embedded in them.

Yelena didn’t say anything when you finished. Not at first.

She just sat beside you, her shoulder barely brushing yours, her eyes fixed on the far wall of the training bay like maybe she was trying to memorize every crack in the concrete. Her jaw was tense. You could hear the way she was breathing through her nose–slow, controlled. Not angry. Just…Processing.

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t the suffocating kind. It was careful. Heavy with meaning. Like the two of you were both sitting in the aftermath of something important.

You didn’t expect her to speak. You didn’t need her to.

Because she stayed.

She didn’t storm off or call you a coward. She didn’t try to talk you out of it. She didn’t even ask you to stay for her. She just sat there with you in the grief of it. Like someone holding vigil beside a wound that couldn’t be stitched.

When she finally did speak, her voice was low. Rough.

“Felt like we were finally building something here,” She murmured. “Like maybe… we were gonna be okay.”

Your throat tightened. “We are gonna be okay.”

She turned to look at you. Not cold. Not bitter. Just…Wounded.

“It won’t be the same.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t lie. You didn’t try to sugarcoat it or cushion the fall with reassurances you couldn’t promise.

Instead, you nodded.

“I know,” You said softly. “It really won’t.”

Yelena blinked slowly, like that answer hurt more than anything you could have said. But there was a kind of respect in it, too. The way she held your gaze. The way she didn’t look away.

You offered her the only thing you could.

“I’ll FaceTime you. Anytime you want. Doesn’t matter what hour it is. If I’m free, I’ll answer.”

She gave a soft, humorless snort and rolled her eyes–but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You say that now. Wait until I call you at three a.m.”

“I’ll still be there…Even if I’m half asleep.” You replied, nudging her shoulder with yours. She looked down at her hands for a moment, then looked back at you, her eyes glossy.

”I’m still mad at you.” You nod.

”I know.”

”And I still think you’re abandoning me…”

You nodded again, “I know that too.” Yelena’s jaw twitched. She looked like she was going to say something else, but then she just reached down, picked up your water bottle, and twisted the cap off. She took a sip and handed it back like nothing had happened. Like the training bay wasn’t holding the fractured pieces of your friendship in its concrete walls.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna miss you,” she muttered.

You smiled, soft and aching. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

She glanced at you again—this time longer. The look in her eyes was weighted, but steadier now. Not entirely okay, but… accepting. Like the fight had drained out of her and what was left was only the sharp sting of goodbye.

“You better not disappear,” she said quietly. “Or I will come find you. And I’ll drag your sorry ass back here kicking and screaming.”

You laughed–really laughed, even as tears burned behind your eyes. “Okay. Deal.” She stood then, brushing her hands on her sweats, and offered you one last look before she walked off.

It was simple. Wordless.

But it said everything.

And after the door clicked shut behind her, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The ache in your chest was still there. Still raw. Still full of Bob’s silence and Yelena’s resignation and the ghost of the team you were leaving behind.

But somewhere beneath it all…Was the first glimmer of peace.

———————————

That night, sleep didn’t come—it hovered just out of reach, like a memory you couldn’t hold onto. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind filled with static. Movement. Noise. A hundred moments pressing down on your chest all at once.

So you gave up trying.

The clock read 2:47 a.m. when you finally swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath your bare feet. You pulled on a robe, soft and worn from too many laundry cycles, and padded quietly across the room. The boxes seemed to watch you as you passed—silent witnesses to the pieces of yourself you were leaving behind.

You didn’t bother with shoes. It was spring, and the air was warm enough to touch your skin without biting.

The elevator ride up to the roof was quiet, but your stomach twisted tighter with every passing floor. You weren’t sure what you were hoping to find up there–maybe just some air. Maybe some stillness.

But when the doors slid open with a soft ding, your breath caught in your throat.

Bob was there.

He was lying back on one of the outdoor couches, head tilted up toward the stars, arms folded across his chest. The glow of the rooftop lights had dimmed to their nighttime setting–just enough to paint the space in soft gold. You could see the outline of his shoulders rising and falling, slow and deep.

At the sound of the elevator, he lifted his head slightly. His eyes met yours for only a second before he turned away again and let his head drop back down with a quiet thud against the cushions.

You stepped out onto the roof, swallowing the lump that was already forming in your throat.

“Bob…” You called softly, moving toward him, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t answer.

“You can’t just let me go without saying goodbye.”

Still nothing.

You moved closer, your steps careful, hesitant. When you reached the couch, you saw he had rolled halfway onto his side–facing away from you now, his back rigid, spine curved like he was holding the weight of something that wouldn’t let go. There was just enough space behind him on the cushions. You lowered yourself gently, wedging into the curve his body didn’t fill. Close, but not pressing. Not yet at least.

“C’mon, Bob…” You murmured. “Can you please just talk to me?”

You heard it first. A soft, quiet sniffle.

Then a voice, broken in half:

“Am I not wo–worth staying for?”

The question hit you like a punch to the ribs. You blinked hard, reaching toward him before you could stop yourself. Your hand rested on his chest, over the thin cotton of his t-shirt—his heartbeat thudding unevenly beneath your palm.

“Bob…” You said, your voice catching. “Of course you are. Of course you are. But I can’t stay. I can’t be a Thunderbolt anymore.”

He didn’t look at you.

But you saw the tears glistening on the bridge of his nose, catching in the faint rooftop light as they slid down into the fabric of the pillow.

“So why don’t you ju–just quit the te–team and stay?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick and shaking. “Stay with me?” You closed your eyes, your thumb brushing gently back and forth against his chest.

“Because I need a clean slate,” You whispered. “I love you guys so much…But I can’t surround myself with these things anymore. I’m so tired of it.”

His hand rose shakily and settled over yours. His fingers curled around yours like he needed to hold onto something before it slipped away.

And his chest shook beneath your hand as he cried.

“I have been owned by people my entire life,” You said, your voice low and slow, every word weighted. “I never got to make decisions for myself. I never got the choice to be… who I am now. I was born into it. I didn’t get a say. I was punished for things I couldn’t control, and I had to pick up the pieces of myself that I never knew existed.”

Bob was silent, but his grip tightened slightly.

“I have never had a sense of normalcy,” You continued. “I’ve never experienced being on my own–really on my own–and being in control of my own life without the strict schedules of missions or handlers or daily combat briefings. I’ve been surviving for so long, Bob… And I want to live.”

You shifted closer, forehead resting gently between his shoulder blades, your breath warming the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m trying to find who I am outside of a weapon, outside of what I was raised to be. I need to know who that person is. Do you understand?” For a long time, he didn’t say anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the wind brushing across the roof, and the quiet, unsteady rhythm of Bob’s breathing.

Then, finally–so softly you almost didn’t hear it:

“I understand.” He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the side of his face. His eyes were rimmed red, lashes damp. “…But…” He whispered, voice cracking like a fault line beneath the surface, “I ca–can’t imagine living my life without you in it…”

The words struck something so deep inside you, you almost didn’t breathe.

Your heart seized.

A slow, aching twist that started in your chest and moved outward like a ripple through still water. Your eyes filled instantly, no warning, just heat behind your lashes and the sudden blurring of everything around him.

“Bob…” You breathed. The name didn’t even feel like a word–it was just grief in a single exhale. Heavy and fragile all at once.

But before you could say anything else, he moved.

His hand found yours, and with trembling fingers, he brought it to his mouth.

You felt his breath first–hot, unsteady. It fanned across your knuckles like the flicker of a flame. His lips hovered, trembling, and then your fingertips accidentally grazed the curve of his bottom lip. You flinched–barely–but the touch set your pulse reeling.

“Yo–You can’t say that,” You whispered, voice unsteady. “You can’t…”

He nodded, his eyes closed now, like he was bracing for impact.

“I kn–know,” He said, his voice thudding low in his throat. “But I need you to also understand the truth from my eyes as well… I ca–can’t keep that bottled in.”

A single tear broke free from your lashes and slipped down your cheek. You felt it trace your jaw, warm and cold all at once. You didn’t wipe it away.

And then–

His lips pressed to the tips of your fingers.

It wasn’t a kiss, not really.

It was something else.

Like a confession made in silence. A truth laid bare in skin and breath and trembling restraint. You felt the warmth of his mouth wetting your fingertips slightly, felt the tremor in his body as he held you there like he was hoping time might pause.

Like maybe if he just held on long enough, the rest of the world might forget to take you away.

The moment stretched, thick and reverent, until all you could do was whisper into it.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” Bob murmured, mouth still brushing your skin.

“I think I love you.” The words tumbled out before you could catch them–raw and stripped down and full of everything that had gone unsaid for too long.

You felt him still beneath your touch.

Then he exhaled–shaky, wrecked.

“I do lo–love you,” He whispered, broken and sure and barely there.

Your throat closed around the sound.

He finally turned to face you fully then–his eyes red and glassy, the soft streetlight glow catching his hair. And the way he looked at you…God. You’d never been looked at like that before. Like you were everywhere in his world. Like you had taken root in the hollow behind his ribs and nothing–not even the grief–could pull you out.

You leaned forward, forehead brushing his, and for a second the two of you just breathed the same air. Sharing silence like it was the only language that wouldn’t break you. Bob wrapped his arms around you like he didn’t know how else to stay whole.

There was no hesitation anymore. He just pulled you into him–tightly, fully–like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against his body. His hand slid up your back and cupped the base of your skull, his fingers trembling slightly in your hair. You buried yourself in his chest, the soft fabric of his shirt warm from his skin, damp from his tears.

“I sh–should’ve said it sooner…” He whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “And I know it’s too late no–now… But I wanted you to know before you le–left…”

You pressed your face harder against him, your forehead nudging the hollow of his collarbone. His scent wrapped around you like a balm–soft and warm and impossibly sweet. He smelled like vanilla bean and the faintest trace of brown sugar, like the last page of a well-read book and fresh sheets on a summer night. There was a lingering note of coffee in there too–familiar, comforting, so Bob.

“I wa–want you to be happy,” He murmured, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “And if th–this is the way you’ll be happy…Do what you need to do…”

A fresh wave of tears slipped down your cheeks, warm against his shirt, soaking into the cotton like ink into paper. You felt the rise and fall of his chest match your own–uneven and trembling, the both of you wrapped in grief you couldn’t outrun. Not this kind.

Neither of you spoke after that.

You just held each other, clinging to the fading moment, to the ache of what was about to be lost. The silence was thick, but not empty. It was shared. Like the pause between heartbeats before something new begins.

You didn’t know how long you sat there.

But eventually, when your sobs had softened to slow, silent exhales, you shifted your weight just slightly. Your hand moved to rest over his heart, and you tilted your head to look up at him, chin resting lightly on his chest.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I was able to go outside?” you asked softly.

Bob blinked down at you, his eyes still red and rimmed with salt. He shook his head gently, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand in a way that made your throat clench.

“I was in a lab in Nebraska,” you began, voice distant, like it was echoing down a hallway of memory. “I’d just been transferred there. One of the lab assistants was going through my records…Noticed how often I got sick, how reactive my skin was. All my charts said the same thing–chronic immune issues, recurrent infections, photophobia–but no one ever questioned why.”

You swallowed.

“They asked if I’d ever been outside. And I told them no. I didn’t even know what ‘outside’ really meant.”

Bob’s brow furrowed, his fingers curling around your waist, pulling you in closer.

“They brought me out the next day. Just behind the facility, this patch of open field surrounded by chain-link and barbed wire. It wasn’t much, but it was sky. Real sky. And sunlight.” You exhaled slowly, remembering. “I stayed out there until my skin burned. My arms, my face, the back of my neck. I couldn’t stop shaking. But I didn’t care. I was sixteen. I had spent every day of my life inside a room with no windows. I wasn’t going to waste it. I wanted the full experience.”

Bob gave the smallest, broken smirk. It was laced with so much hurt, but also wonder. He was listening with his whole body.

And then you said, voice softer still:

“…When I first saw you in the Vault… I thought I was having the same experience.”

He blinked.

“You did?”

You nodded. “When you looked at me…I swear Bob, it was like I was seeing the sun for the first time…The awe…The ache in my chest…I knew from the moment I saw you…You were going to be someone special to me…Just like the sun.” His mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something–but he didn’t have the words. He just stared at you like the world had stopped moving for a moment. Like you’d just told him something too big to hold.

Then–

Ding.

The soft mechanical chime of the elevator broke the stillness, and both your heads turned.

Bucky stepped onto the rooftop, eyes adjusting quickly. His brows raised when he saw you tangled in Bob’s arms, cheeks flushed, eyes swollen from crying.

He froze.

“…Sorry,” He said quietly. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

You sat up slowly, gently pulling away from Bob–but not far. You looked at Bucky and gave a faint shake of your head.

“No,” You said softly. “You’re not.”

And that was where the conversation ended.

——————————

The quinjet loomed like a shadow against the early morning sky, sleek and still beneath the soft haze of sunrise. The compound’s landing pad was bathed in gold light, long shadows stretching beneath your feet as the team worked in quiet rhythm, hauling your boxes up the ramp one by one.

Everyone was there.

Except Bob.

You scanned the area again–half-hoping, half-desperate–but his tall frame was nowhere in sight. Not lingering by the cargo bay. Not leaning against the railing like he always did. Not even watching from a distance the way you knew he sometimes did when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

Gone.

After everything you shared on the roof last night, part of you had believed–naively, maybe–that he’d come. That he’d meet your eyes one last time. That you’d have a goodbye that felt like something final and full and whole. Something sacred. But the empty space where he should’ve been said everything you didn’t want to hear.

And your heart cracked. Quietly. With no fanfare. Just a hollow snap beneath your ribs.

The last box clunked into place in the cargo hold. You stood at the foot of the ramp, hands hanging uselessly at your sides, watching the team slowly gather near you, one by one.

Alexei came first. He was cradling your coffee machine under one arm–comically oversized in his grip–and he set it down gently before reaching for you. His hug was firm. Solid. The kind of hug that wrapped you in safety without words.

His arms enveloped you fully, a wall of warmth and steady breath as he muttered gruffly, “Is always place for you at my table. No matter where that table is.” He squeezed once, hard, then stepped back like anything more would undo him.

Ava followed. Her hug was briefer, more reserved, but no less sincere. She touched your upper arms and rested her forehead lightly against yours. “You come visit when you can…We’ll miss you a lot.” You nodded, throat tight, and she offered a faint smile before stepping aside.

Walker surprised you.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, scratching the back of his neck like he was unsure whether a goodbye was earned between you. Then he stepped forward, arms spreading almost defensively like he expected to be swatted away. But when you let him hug you, he pulled you in–not hard, but secure. Not rigid, but genuine. His hand patted your back once, and he muttered under his breath, “It was fun working with you…And I hope you find what you’re looking for…”

You smiled, and let out a small breath, “Thanks, Walker.” Bucky was last before Yelena. He stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, jaw set. But when he stepped forward, it wasn’t with the stoic air he wore in the field—it was something softer. Tired. Human. He looked at you like he wanted to say more, but all he did was pull you into a single-armed hug, metal arm staying at his side.

“When you figure out what ‘home’ really means…Let me know…Maybe I’ll find mine too.” He murmured.

Your throat closed up. “You can visit anytime. Seriously.”

He nodded, releasing you gently, his lips twitching into something almost like a smile. “One day. I will.”

Then it was just Yelena.

And everything in you stilled.

She didn’t rush. She walked to you like she was measuring every step. Then she opened her arms without a word, and you crashed into them.

Her hug was everything.

Tight. Unyielding. Unapologetically emotional. Her fingers curled into the back of your shirt, and her breath hitched against your shoulder.

“I don’t forgive you yet,” She whispered shakily, “but I’m trying.”

You nodded, arms squeezing her just as tight. “I know.”

She sniffled, pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. Her mascara was smudged.

“I’ll call you once I land and get everything sorted,” You said, voice trembling.

“You better,” she said, and tried to blink away the tears. “Or I will track you down.”

You nodded again, unable to say anything else without falling apart.

And then–it was time.

You turned, climbing the ramp slowly. Every step away from them felt like it dragged a little piece of your heart behind. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. If you did, you weren’t sure you’d be able to leave at all.

Inside the cockpit, you slipped into the seat, fingers shaking slightly as you ran through launch protocol. The quinjet hummed around you. Systems came online. The ramp sealed shut behind you. You typed in the coordinates for your new house, and pressed enter.

You stared out at the horizon, waiting for the weight in your chest to lessen.

But it didn’t, and as the jet lifted off–smooth, steady, rising into the quiet morning–you pressed your forehead against the glass and whispered so low only the sky could hear:

“Goodbye, Bob.”

And the clouds swallowed you whole.

———————————

The quinjet touched down in a slow, whisper-soft descent, the grass parting gently beneath it as though the land had been expecting you. You powered down the systems one by one, the low hum of machinery giving way to stillness–pure and uninterrupted. There were no voices. No distant alarms. No radio chatter or metal doors hissing open in the background.

Just silence.

When the ramp hissed open, the world met you with a breath of spring.

The air was cool–cooler than it had been at the compound–but not cold. It wrapped around your skin like a clean sheet pulled fresh from the line. There was a weight to it, not heavy, but full. Damp with dew. Sweet with the scent of tilled soil, blooming clover, and the soft tang of wild lilacs carried from somewhere far down the slope.

You stepped onto the grass, and the earth gave a little beneath your feet. The field rolled out around you like a green sea, golden in the sunlight. The quinjet stood in the middle of it like some strange, sleeping bird. A few feet away, tucked against a thicket of trees and set back from the gravel path, was your house.

Your house.

Your throat tightened as you looked at it.

It wasn’t grand. Wasn’t sleek or modern or fortified with anything but wood and love.

But it was everything.

A one-story farmhouse with soft grey-blue siding and white trim that had weathered seasons of wind and sun. The porch stretched across the front like open arms, its columns uneven and chipped but sturdy. A rickety wooden swing hung on rusted chains from one corner, moving slightly in the breeze. The railing was scuffed in places, like someone had leaned against it a hundred times to watch the sun go down. Ivy had started to creep along one edge.

There were windows everywhere.

Tall ones. Bare ones. Not a single one had bars. They were thrown open to the wind like someone had once opened them and never thought to close them again. Light poured from the inside, golden and warm, dancing over the warped floorboards of the porch.

You took a step forward.

And then another.

The mailbox stood on a crooked wooden post, its red flag bent sideways like a tired elbow. You popped it open and found the envelope tucked inside. Your name was written across the front in soft cursive. Inside: one brass key.

Your fingers curled around it.

It was heavier than you thought it would be. Not physically. Just…Symbolically. Tangibly. Like something final.

You climbed the porch steps slowly, savoring the sound of each creak under your feet. They weren’t sharp or alarming–just lived in. Familiar. You reached the front door and slid the key into the lock.

It turned with a quiet, satisfying click.

And then you stepped inside.

The warmth hit you first.

It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came from heat or sunlight. It was the kind that came from home. From a place that had been touched, loved, settled in–even if only by someone preparing it for you.

The floor beneath your feet was hardwood–old, slightly warped, but recently cleaned. A wide area rug stretched across the living room, woven in soft tones of sage, clay, and wheat. A couch was tucked beneath a large window, throw blankets tossed lazily over one arm. There were mismatched pillows, soft and frayed at the seams, like they had been used to prop up lazy Sunday afternoons.

To the right, the kitchen opened up–warm wood counters, a farmhouse sink with a deep basin, and cabinets painted buttercream yellow. A cast iron kettle sat on the stove. The window above the sink looked out into the field, and the breeze was gently lifting the gauzy curtains.

There was a small dining table tucked into the corner, set with two chairs. One of the seats had a tiny chip in the backrest. It didn’t look lonely. It looked like someone had pulled it out and sat there for hours, sipping coffee while the wind spoke against the windows.

You moved forward and set your keys in the ceramic dish that waited on the entryway table.

They landed with a soft clink.

You smiled.

It was the first real smile you’d felt in weeks. Maybe longer. A smile that didn’t ask anything from you. A smile that came from a chest slowly, slowly uncoiling.

You walked further into the house. Past the fireplace. Past the faded print on the wall of rolling hills and prairie skies. Past the stack of firewood and the tiny woven basket someone had left on the coffee table filled with lavender sachets and a handwritten note: Welcome home.

And that’s when you heard it.

A voice–low and familiar, carved with hesitation, but laced with that gentle brand of humor only one man ever used on you.

“You’re going to ha–have to get a better security system…” You stopped mid-step. Every hair on your body stood up. The air shifted around you–suddenly warmer, suddenly sharper. You turned slowly, your feet rooted to the hardwood, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

The voice had come from the back hallway.

From the open doorway at the far end.

And when you stepped into the frame and followed it with your eyes–you saw him.

Bob.

Leaning casually against the bedroom door frame like he belonged there. Like he’d always been there. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a navy blue crewneck, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing the lines of his hands–familiar, scarred, warm. His hair was tousled, and wind-tangled. And his mouth–God, that soft, crooked smile was already stretched across his face.

His eyes flicked over your expression, and something about the way he looked at you made the shock in your chest soften. Melt. Like the earth had tilted just slightly under your feet but settled in a better position.

“I th–thought,” He started, his voice cracking slightly, “Instead of saying goodbye…I’d be the fi–first to say hello.” Your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first.

You blinked in shock.

And then–your smile broke through, wide and disbelieving, laced with something just this side of laughter. “How did you… How did you know? And how the hell did you get here?”

He pushed off the doorway with one shoulder and walked toward you slowly, like he didn’t want to spook you. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his sweats, and his eyes never left your face.

“Well…” He said, shrugging, “I as–asked Val.”

You raised your brows, still trying to catch up. “You asked Val?”

“She’s still ki–kind of scared of me snapping, so she…” He gave you a sheepish, apologetic glance. “Gave me the information pretty fast.”

That made you huff out a laugh.

He paused a few feet away, then looked down for a second. “Then I just…Fl–Flew here.”

You stared at him. “You used Sentry?”

He nodded once. No shame. “Of co–course I did.”

Your hand rose to your mouth, trying to hide the slow, surprised grin spreading across your face. “Jesus, Bob.”

He shrugged again. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like flying to you was as natural as taking the subway. There was a pause. Just the two of you standing there in the middle of your new living room, the breeze moving through the open windows, the quiet pulse of shared history hanging between you.

Then Bob added, voice softening:

“Af–After you told me about that story yesterday…I thought you were go–going to be moving here.”

You tilted your head at him, warmth blooming slow and thick in your chest.

He smiled again, smaller this time. “Glad I caught on and that you didn’t just ra-randomly tell me that story about Nebraska for the hell of it.”

You laughed under your breath, a sheepish little sound, and rolled your eyes. “Even though it was still relevant…”

“Mhm,” He hummed, and then his gaze drifted past you, scanning the space like he was seeing it all for the first time–the porch swing, the chipped paint, the breeze in the curtains, the scent of lavender and old wood. “It’s ni–nice.”

You nodded. “It is.”

He looked back at you. His eyes were soft, and gentle, glistening in the lighting.

“Is it okay…If I st–stay for a little?” He asked.

Your breath hitched–just for a second–but the answer was already in your chest before he’d finished the question. You nodded once, slow and sure, the weight of your breath caught just beneath your ribs.

“Of course…” you murmured, voice soft. Then–after a beat, after a shift in the air that felt impossibly delicate–you added, “But I need to do something that I should’ve done last night.”

Bob blinked. His eyes searched yours—gentle, uncertain, wide like he hadn’t dared to hope for this exact thing. His hands slid a little deeper into his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you on instinct.

You stepped forward. Just one step. Then another.

And when you were close enough to feel his breath on your face, you looked at him–really looked at him.

At the soft barely–there freckles scattered across his cheeks, at the faint lines beneath his eyes from sleepless nights, at the way his bottom lip trembled just slightly, as if bracing for something too good to be true.

“I should’ve kissed you last night,” You whispered.

His breath caught.

The seconds that passed between you then were slow and golden and suspended in something you couldn’t name. Something like awe. Something like gravity giving you mercy.

And when you rose onto the balls of your feet and brought your hand to the side of his face–fingertips ghosting along his cheekbone–he leaned into it like it was instinct. Like he didn’t remember how to breathe without you.

Your noses brushed.

His lashes fluttered.

And then, finally–

You kissed him.

It was slow. Soft. Barely a breath at first.

But God, it was everything.

It was months of unsaid words, of near-misses and held-back glances and aching silence pressed into a single point of contact. It was the exhale of something sacred. The kind of kiss you only get once in a lifetime. The kind that feels like a promise made in a language no one else will ever speak.

Bob’s lips were warm–tentative at first, trembling slightly against yours like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. But then he sank into you, deepening it just a little. One hand lifted–hesitant, reverent–and cradled your jaw like you were something precious. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheekbone. His nose bumped yours gently.

You sighed against his mouth. A sound that was equal parts relief and wonder.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, your noses still brushing, breath shared in the quiet space between your mouths.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“…Wo–Worth the wait.”

You smiled–soft, a little wrecked, fully his. “Yeah,” you breathed. “It was…And I’m glad you came…”

242 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 8 hours ago

Text

Radio Silence | Epilogue

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time jumps, slice of life.

Notes — There are no words, really. I hope you cherish all of the tiny, specific details I added here. I spent a lot of time on it. Yes, I will possibly write some additional snapshots/oneshots of their future.

2025

Autism, Womanhood, and the Mechanics of Belonging by Amelia Norris

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

In me, it’s always looked like this: a difficulty with eye contact. An inability to read the curve of someone’s mouth or the sharp edges hidden beneath their tone. I learned early how to catalogue expressions the way other girls my age collected dolls — not for fun, but for function. A survival skill. A flash of teeth? Friendly. Or hostile. Or forced. Raised eyebrows? Surprise. Maybe judgment. Maybe not.

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

Sarcasm took longer. I still miss it, sometimes. I can design a suspension system from scratch, but I’ll still turn to my husband after a conversation and ask, “Was that a joke?”

It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

Touch has always been strange, too. I don’t like uninvited contact. Hugs feel like puzzles with warped edges — familiar in theory, but always a little off. It’s not dislike. It’s friction between my nervous system and the world. I used to think that meant something was wrong with me.

I was wrong.

I’m not broken. I’m just calibrated differently.

And then there’s the focus.

When I was a child, it was Formula 1. Not the drivers, not the glamour — the systems. The telemetry. The pit stop choreography. The physics. The math hidden inside motion. While other kids learned to swim, I was memorising tyre degradation patterns. While girls my age planned birthday parties, I was building aerodynamic models from cereal boxes.

I didn’t understand how to be part of the world I’d been born into.

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

That obsession became a career — eventually. But not right away.

My father, Zak Brown, became the CEO of McLaren Racing. I thought that would be an advantage. I was wrong again. He loved me, but he didn’t know how to take me seriously. I brought ideas. He catalogued them without thought. I handed him data. He passed it off to other people without remembering I’d written it.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — but he did. In a hundred careless ways.

Enough to make me leave.

I was already seeing Lando, quietly. It was early. Tentative. I was cautious because I didn’t always understand people. He was cautious because he was getting advice, loud, well-meaning advice, not to date the boss’s daughter.

He disappeared on me for a while. And I didn’t understand why.

I remember thinking: I must have done something wrong and not realised it.

But I hadn’t.

Eventually, he came back. Explained. Apologised. We learned each other slowly, and not always easily — but deeply.

Around the same time, I left McLaren. I took a job at Red Bull. Not for revenge. For recognition.

Max Verstappen didn’t care who my father was. He cared that I understood race pace like a second language. We won two championships together.

And in the meantime — Lando and I kept finding our way back to each other. Every time, more solid than before.

Eventually, I came back to papaya. But on my terms. Not as Zak’s daughter. As a lead engineer. With Oscar by my side and Lando in a car I had helped design, shaped precisely to fit his hands, his shoulders, his driving style.

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

And the hyper-focus I’ve carried my whole life shifted again — narrowed, but deepened.

It’s still data. Still equations and airflow and lap deltas. But it’s also Lando, who stopped having to ask to touch me years ago. Who doesn’t need explanations but still listens when I give them.

It’s Ada — glorious, curious, sticky. Who throws glitter onto my schematics and insists I help her fix the broken boosters on her cardboard spaceship with grunts and wife, pleading eyes.

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

My autism didn’t vanish when I became a wife. It didn’t soften when I became a mother. I am still who I have always been: meticulous, sensitive, blunt. I still script my voicemails. I still shut down when I’m overstimulated. I still have meltdowns. I still need more sleep than most people and can’t fucntion in rooms with flickering lights.

But I’ve grown. I’ve adapted. I’ve made peace not just with structure, but with chaos. With change. With soft interruptions. With a life I never thought I’d be able to build.

I’ve created a life where I don’t have to perform.

I just get to be.

And for the first time, I’m letting people see me. All of me.

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

Because somewhere, there’s a teenage girl memorising lap times and scared she doesn’t belong in a world that moves too loud, too fast, too unclearly.

Because I wish I’d known sooner that I wasn’t alone.

Today, I’m proud to announce the launch of NeuroDrive — a foundation dedicated to mentoring, supporting, and funding autistic young women pursuing careers in motorsport.

We’ll be offering scholarships. Internships. Mentorship. Resources. Community.

From engineering to analytics to logistics to aero to comms — every role that makes this sport move.

I want these girls to know that their focus is a gift.

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

I want them to know they don’t need to hide.

There’s room for them here. There’s room for all of us.

And they belong — fully, loudly, exactly as they are — in motorsport.

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

She hadn’t meant to write it all in one frantic breath. It had just… unfurled. A loose thread tugged gently free at the edge of the day, unraveling steadily until it wove itself into something whole.

She stared at the last line. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then lowered to her lap. She exhaled.

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

A moment later, familiar arms wrapped gently around her waist — warm, unhurried. Lando pressed a kiss just behind her ear, right in that small, quiet space that always made her flinch less than anywhere else.

“She’s asleep,” Lando murmured, voice low and amused. “Finally. Made me sing the rocket song. Twice. And do the hand movements.”

Amelia huffed a small, warm laugh but didn’t turn. “You hate the hand movements.”

“I hate them passionately,” he said, bending slightly to press a kiss to the space just behind her ear. “But she likes them. And I happen to love her enough to tolerate them.”

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

The sea air had slipped in through the open balcony doors behind them, warm and salt-tinged, carrying the gentle hum of nighttime Monaco.

Lando’s arms slid comfortably around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the screen. “Let me read it?” He asked after a pause.

“You already know all of it,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, nudging her temple with his nose. “But I like hearing it in your words.”

She didn’t answer, not with words anyway. She just leaned into him, letting her body relax in increments. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer before dropping quietly to her lap. Her pulse, which had been buzzing all evening, finally slowed. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen — steady, patient, waiting.

She would post the piece eventually. Maybe not tonight. But soon. She’d promised the women helping her build NeuroDrive that the launch would be personal, rooted in something real — something true. And this essay… it was all of that. Raw and oddly fragile. But hers.

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

“I think she likes it here,” Lando murmured, after a few minutes had passed in quiet. “Monaco.”

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

“Yeah. I had her out on the balcony earlier. She liked the sun.”

“She gets that from you,” Amelia said, dry as ever.

He laughed softly. “She does like the heat. More than I expected.”

“She likes everything here,” Amelia admitted, watching the night settle over the marina. “The boats. The water. Max’s cats.”

“She said ‘cat’ three times yesterday,” Lando said proudly.

“She’s five months old, Lando. It was probably just gas.”

“No,” he insisted. “She looked right at Jimmy and said it. Loudly.”

“Well, Jimmy did bite her toy rocket.” She said, her lips twitching at the memory of her daughter’s appalled face as the cat attacked her beloved stuffy.

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

They both fell quiet again, lulled by the rhythm of the moment. Amelia let her gaze drift across the open-plan living space of their Monaco apartment; all soft neutrals and clean angles, intentionally simple.

This was Ada’s first real stretch of time here. The first time Monaco would ever feel like home to their daughter, not just a temporary stop between England and wherever Lando was racing next. Amelia had worried about that — the splitness of things. Of belonging to multiple places but never fully resting in one. But Ada, with all her glittering confidence and stubborn joy, didn’t seem to mind.

“She doesn’t mind the change,” Amelia said quietly. “She just… adapts. Quicker than I do.”

“You’ve been adapting longer,” Lando said simply. “She’s still new. You had to learn the hard way.”

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

He brushed his lips against her cheek, slow and careful. “I love how your mind works,” he said. “I loved it when I didn’t understand it, and I love it even more now that I do.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight in the familiar, unwieldy way that happened when someone saw her too clearly. “It’s almost done,” she said, nodding toward the document. “Just a few more edits. Then I’ll post it. The site’s ready. The social channels are scheduled. The first mentorship emails go out next week.”

He squeezed her waist gently. “You built a whole new system, baby.”

“I built a team,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s not just going to be mine.”

He nodded. “You’re going to change lives, baby.”

“Hopefully not just change them,” she said. “Build them. Design them. Like a car.”

He grinned into her hair. “You and your car metaphors.”

“I don’t use them that often.” She frowned.

“Mm. You’re right. Only four times a day.”

He was teasing her. The lopsided smile, squinty eyes and tiny red splotches on his cheekbones told her so.

She rolled her eyes but leaned back into him anyway. Lando’s arms around her. Ada safe and sleeping. The sea just a five minute drive from their inner-city apartment.

It didn’t matter that the cursor was still blinking on her screen.

She’d found her place in the world; or built it, piece by piece.

And she was going to help other girls do the same.

—

@/NeuroDriveOrg Today, we’re launching NeuroDrive: a charity organisation formed to empower autistic women in motorsport — because brilliance comes in many forms, and it’s time we celebrate every one of them. Find out more and discover how to get involved by clicking the link below. #NeuroDriveLaunch

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

OMG AMELIA???? This is so crazy but I’m so here for it!! #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/racecarrebel

Autistic and a gearhead? That’s me lol. Signing up right now!

@/sarcasticengineer

wait so I can geek out about torque and not pretend i get social cues? literally a dream

@/cartoonkid420

*gif of a car drifting sideways* When you realize your fave F1 engineer is actually a real-life superhero #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

Yk honestly big ups to @/AmeliaNorris for making this happen. What a woman.

@/indylewis

This being the first post I see when I open this app after my diagnosis review? CINEMA.

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/notlewisbutclose LEWIS ON THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS? IKTR MY KING

@/LewisHamilton Proud to see and have a hand in making initiatives like NeuroDrive happen. It’s about time that we start making strides to pave the way for real diversity in motorsport. Change is coming, and it’s about time. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/landostrollfan99 PLS I KNOW LANDO IS CRASHING OUT BC HE’S SO PROUD OF HIS WIFEY RN

@/NeuroDriveOrg Thank you everyone for all the love! Our virtual mentorship program opens next week; sign up to be part of the first cohort! Over 18’s can sign up themselves, but anyone younger must have parental consent. Thanks, Amelia.

@/AnnieAnalyst

My mom has been a hardcore motorsport fan for decades. She’s on the spectrum. She’s found such joy in watching Amelia Norris take the F1 world by storm over the past eight years. I know that she’s going to be so happy about this. Can’t wait to tell her.

@/samliverygoat

This is sick. I’m a guy, but my sister is eight and autistic and wants to be a mechanic. I’m gonna tell my mum about this and get her signed up. Big ups your wife @/LandoNorris

—

Lando woke slowly, the Monaco morning sun spilling in through gauzy curtains and casting pale gold across their bedroom. The room was still, quiet in that delicate way that meant someone had been awake for a while already.

He blinked, then turned toward the warm shape beside him; and stopped, his breath catching slightly at the sight.

Amelia was sitting upright against the headboard, hair pulled into a messy knot, one arm curled around Ada who was nestled into her chest, half-asleep and nursing. Her other hand held her phone, screen dimmed low. She was speaking quietly — not in a cooing baby voice, but in her normal cadence, clipped and slightly analytical.

“…recognises familiar people, understands simple instructions, imitates gestures, like clapping or waving; well, I’ve literally never seen you wave unless it’s to say goodbye to your own socks.” She frowned.

Lando smiled into his pillow, eyes still half-closed.

Amelia glanced down at Ada, who blinked up at her with wide eyes and a dribble of milk on her chin.

“That’s fine. You’re spatially efficient already.”

“Are we reading milestone checklists?” Lando’s voice was thick with sleep, rough-edged and fond.

Amelia didn’t jump, didn’t even look away from her screen. “It’s her birthday. I thought I should make sure she’s not developmentally behind.”

“She’s licking your elbow,” he pointed out.

“Which is not on the list,” she sighed.

Lando scooted closer, propping himself up on one elbow to see them both better. Ada detached with a soft sigh, then yawned, full-bodied and squeaky. Amelia adjusted her shirt without ceremony and let Ada rest against her, one hand gently stroking her hair.

“She’s perfect,” he said, leaning over to kiss the crown of Ada’s head, then Amelia’s shoulder. “Milestones or not.”

Amelia hesitated. “She’s not pointing at things. That’s apparently a big one.”

“She screamed at Max’s cats until they moved out of her way, does that count?”

Amelia hummed in thought. “I suppose we could classify that as assertive communication.”

They sat like that for a minute, wrapped in the warm hush of early light and baby breaths. Monaco in June was hazy and beautiful, a perfect little jewel box of a day already unfolding around them.

“Do you think she knows it’s her birthday?” Lando asked, voice still low.

“No,” Amelia said simply. “Probably not. But we do.” She glanced down at their daughter again, something unreadable, almost too tender, flickering behind her eyes. “I know it’s been a year since I stopped being one version of myself and started being another.”

Lando’s hand found hers where it rested on Ada’s tiny back. “Yeah, baby?”

Amelia tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. I feel… broader. Like I can stretch in more directions now.”

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

Ada, half-asleep, made a soft gurgling sound and grabbed Amelia’s Lando necklace in one surprisingly strong fist.

Lando leaned in again, voice warmer now. “Happy birthday, sweet little pea,” he whispered to Ada, then kissed Amelia’s jaw. “And happy birth-day to you.”

Amelia made a face. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted. “You did all the work. You should get recognition too.”

“I suppose.” She considered it for a minute. “Does that mean I should congratulate you on the anniversary of her conception?”

She was being serious — which was why he just smiled instead of laughing the way he desperately wanted to. “If you want to, baby.”

She nodded and catalogued that away in the small corner of her brain that contained a long list of dates that mattered most to her.

She think about it like this: dates she will never forget. Not because she wrote them down, but because they’re carved into the soft machinery of who she is.

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday.

November 7th – Her father’s birthday.

December 12th, 2021 – Max’s first championship win.

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day.

July 2nd, 2023 – Oscar’s first Grand Prix start.

May 5th, 2024 – The day Lando won his first race.

June 30th, 2024 – The day Ada was born.

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

But those dates don’t need charts or colour codes.

They live in her like heat. Like heartbeat. Like gravity.

Later, there would be cake. Balloons. Chaos. Max will appear with sacks full of wrapped gifts. Ada will probably eat something that she isn’t supposed to.

Lando takes Ada into his arms and lifts her above his head, blowing a bubble at her with his lips.

She drools sleepily, and Amelia winces when milky bile spills from her mouth.

Yeah. Not a good idea to jostle a well-fed baby.

Lando made a face and then used his t-shirt to wipe their little girls’ lip clean.

She stared at him.

And at their small, wondrous girl.

A year old.

—

Seventeen Years Later

The sky was brightening in soft lavender layers over the marina. Monaco looked almost quiet for once — like it was holding its breath.

Ada sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her back pressed to the base of her mother’s old desk. The drawer had stuck for years, warped with sea air, but today it had slid open easily. Like it had been waiting for her.

Inside: one neatly folded sheet of thick paper. Her name was written in the corner in her mum’s handwriting. Clean, sharp letters.

She unfolded it carefully, even though part of her already knew what kind of letter this would be. Not sentimental. Not flowery. Not emotional in the ways people expected. But honest.

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

You’re asleep right now — finally — with vanilla frosting in your hair and a purple sock on one foot and not the other. Your daddy’s asleep too, mouth open, curled around the giraffe that Maxie gave you today. I should be sleeping. But I’m here, writing this. That probably says a lot.

I don’t know who you’ll be yet. Not really.

Maybe you’ll love numbers the way I do. Maybe you’ll throw yourself into art, or animals, or flight, or noise. Maybe you’ll carry the softness your father wears so easily. Maybe you’ll burn hot like me and never quite know how to dim it.

Or maybe, hopefully, you’ll be entirely your own: unshaped by us, unafraid of being too much or not enough.

All I know is this: whoever you are, whoever you become, I will love you without condition and without needing to fully understand.

Because understanding is not a prerequisite for love. It never has been.

I want to get everything right. I won’t. I already know that.

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

I will learn what you need from me, over and over again, as you change and grow and outpace me. I will listen — even when I don’t know what to say. I will ask you what you need, and believe you the first time.

Love isn’t easy for me in the way it is for your daddy. I don’t always say the right thing, or give affection in the way people expect. But please know: I love you with everything I have. In every way I know how.

It may not always look loud or obvious. But it will be real. And it will never leave you.

I will always be in your corner.

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

The letter smelled faintly of ink and something older; lavender, maybe, or the ghost of her mum’s favourite perfume. Ada folded it carefully along the worn creases and slid it back into its envelope, fingers tracing the edge before getting up and going back to her bedroom, tucking it inside the drawer of her nightstand.

The light from the marina hadn’t reached this side of the house yet, but the sea breeze had — soft and salt-laced through the open windows. Ada padded barefoot across the wooden floor, familiar as the lines on her own palm, and moved quietly into the hallway.

The balcony door was already ajar.

Her mother was there, as she always was on mornings like this — perched in her usual chair, legs tucked under her body, a latte cradled in both hands. Her hair was scraped back in a low twist, pale in the early morning light, and she hadn’t noticed Ada yet.

Amelia was humming. Softly. Tunelessly. A little stim she’d done for as long as Ada could remember.

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

Then she stepped forward, slow and quiet. Climbed into her mother’s lap without a word, curling against her like she was still small enough to belong there.

Amelia stilled for half a breath. Then she shifted, just slightly — letting her daughter fit against her without comment or tension. One hand settled over Ada’s spine. The other stayed wrapped around the ceramic heat of her cup.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she kept humming. A low, constant thread of sound that vibrated in Ada’s ribs as she pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder.

They watched the sun climb over the harbour. The light came in slow and sure, brushing over the rooftops and catching on the water in amber fragments.

Amelia didn’t speak. She just held her daughter. One hand stroking the same pattern — left shoulder to elbow, up and back again.

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

She was older now; too big, probably, to sit in her small statured mum’s lap like this. But not today. Not just yet.

In her mother’s arms, she was still allowed to be small.

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

And Amelia, in the language she had always known best, presence over words, held her through it.

As the light shifted across the sea, the only sound between them was the soft hiss of foam against porcelain. The familiar hum. The heartbeat of love — silent, constant, and entirely understood.

—

2025

It was impossible to sum up the 2025 season in any cohesive way.

There were days she felt like she was balancing on the tip of a needle.

Her car was perfect. That much was undeniable. For the first time since she’d begun clawing her way through every door that had once been locked to her, the machine under her boys wasn’t just competitive — it was untouchable. Fast on every compound. Nimble in the wet. Ferocious in the hands of a driver who knew how to take it to the edge.

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

But McLaren hadn’t combusted. Not yet, anyway. Not under her watch.

Oscar had grown into himself in ways that still caught her off guard — all lean control and precision, carrying the ice-veined patience of someone who had watched others take what he knew he was capable of. He drove like someone with nothing left to prove and everything still to take.

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

There were days he was still impossibly frustrating — still too harsh on himself, too reactive on the radio, still hurt in ways she couldn’t always patch. But he was stronger now. Calmer. Faster. And he trusted her. Not blindly, not because he loved her — but because he believed in her. Her mind. Her leadership. Her.

Every race had been a coin toss. Oscar or Lando. Lando or Oscar. Strategy calls had to be clinical. Unbiased. And every week she made them with the knowledge that whatever she chose could cost someone she loved the chance at something immortal.

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

Not when the car was finally everything she’d spent her life trying to build.

When the upgrades landed and they locked out the front row, she didn’t smile. She just stared at the data until the lines blurred, heart thudding, and told herself she’d allow joy when it was over.

When they took each other out in Silverstone; barely a racing incident, but brutal nonetheless, she didn’t speak to anyone for two hours. Just shut herself in the sim office and breathed through the silence until the tightness left her hands.

When they went 1-2 in Singapore, swapping fastest laps down to the final sector, she didn’t even hear the cheers. She just watched the replay of the overtake again. And again. And again.

Precision. Patience. Courage.

They had everything. And they were hers — in the only ways that mattered in this arena. Oscar, her driver. Lando, her husband. Both brilliant. Both stubborn. Both driving the car she had finally, finally perfected.

In the garage, she never played favourites.

In the dark, she ached with the weight of both of them.

Now, the season was nearly over. One race to go. One title on the line. Between them.

And Amelia?

She felt something not quite like calm. Not quite like pride.

Something vaster.

She didn’t know who would win. She truly didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if she had a preference. Her love for Lando, loud and chaotic, as real as gravity, lived beside her fierce loyalty to Oscar, who had never once asked her to earn his trust, only to maintain it.

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

And whatever the final points tally read, whatever flag waved first in Abu Dhabi, it would not change what she’d built. What they’d built. A machine so complete, so purely competitive, that the only person who could beat it was someone inside of it.

That, she thought, was the mark of something enduring.

And in the quiet before the finale, Amelia allowed herself a breath of pride so deep it nearly broke her open.

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

It was about the fact that the world had doubted her. Them.

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

Amelia had been keeping a spreadsheet. Of course she had.

A private one — just a simple, tucked-away Google Sheet with six columns: Developmental milestone, Average age, Ada’s age, Observed behaviour, Paediatricians’ notes, and Feelings (which she almost always left blank).

She updated it weekly. Sometimes daily. Just in case.

And she knew, clinically, that speech development wasn’t one-size-fits-all. That some children talked at eight months and others waited until twenty. That it was normal, even healthy, for some toddlers to take their time.

But normal never did much to soothe her.

Especially not when the silence had started to feel louder than it should.

Ada babbled — just not much. She gestured, pointed, tugged their hands, grunted with specific frustration when her needs weren’t met. She understood them. That wasn’t in question. But her lips hadn’t shaped a word yet. Not one.

At twenty-two months, Amelia was trying not to spiral. But her spreadsheet had too many empty cells. Too many quiet mornings.

“Maybe she just doesn’t have anything she feels like saying yet,” Lando said one night, rolling onto his side to face her in bed. Ada had gone down late and Amelia had spent the evening researching speech therapy assessments and second-language interference.

“She should have at least one word by now,” Amelia muttered, eyes on her screen.

“She’s got plenty. She just hasn’t said them out loud.” Lando reached out, nudged the laptop closed. “She’s fine. You know she’s fine.”

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

The next afternoon, Ada was with them in the garage — tucked into her earmuffs and her tiniest McLaren hoodie, perched in her playpen while Amelia ran final aero checks on a new floor configuration. Lando had stopped by between simulator sessions and was now crouched beside Ada, offering her a padded torque wrench like it was a teddy bear.

Amelia looked up from her laptop, distracted by a little squeal.

Ada had pressed both palms against the concrete floor. And a smudge of oil had made its way across her hand.

She looked at it, then at Lando, wide-eyed.

Then she scrunched up her nose, a perfect mirror of her mother’s expression, and said, clearly and without hesitation, “Yucky.”

Lando blinked. Froze. Then looked up at Amelia, stunned.

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

Amelia’s heart felt like it missed a step. Her head jerked up so fast she hit the underside of the wing she’d been crouched under.

“Ow—shit—”

Lando was already lifting Ada out of the playpen, laughing in disbelief, oil smudge and all.

“Say it again,” he coaxed gently. “Yucky? Yucky, bug?”

Ada just beamed at him and smacked his cheek with her dirty little hand, leaving a streak behind. “Yucky,” she declared again, giggling like she knew exactly what she’d done.

Amelia didn’t know whether to cry or pass out.

She walked over in a daze, eyes locked on her daughter. “She said it. She actually said—”

“Yeah,” Lando said, grinning. “You heard it too, right? I’m not making this up?”

“No,” Amelia said, soft and stunned. “I heard it.”

Then she reached for Ada without hesitation. Let her daughter press her messy little face into her neck and pat her collarbone with smudged fingers.

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect.

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

Not the official kind, with a lanyard and uniform and carefully timed steps. She wasn’t old enough for any of that. She wasn’t even tall enough to reach the front wing of her father’s car without climbing onto someone’s knee.

But she was there — always. Like a mascot, a comet, a little bit of joy wrapped in neon.

At three years old, Ada had developed a sense of style entirely her own. This week, it was neon pink. Head to toe. From the glittery bucket hat she refused to remove, to her sparkly tulle tutu layered over orange papaya leggings, to the pink Crocs decorated with star-shaped charms.

She stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the paddock; all matte branding and fireproof greys. But nobody dared to comment.

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

She’d grown up within the walls of paddocks. Learned to walk behind the McLaren hospitality motorhome in Hungary. Her first solid food had been a biscuit stolen off Oscar’s pre-race snack plate. Her mini paddock-pass gave her access to every team’s motorhome, just in case she got lost and needed a soft place to land.

By now, she knew the names of every mechanic, every engineer, and every race director on the rotating FIA schedule. She greeted them all by name. Correctly. And she remembered who liked what kind of sweets.

The media barely saw her. That was a conscious boundary. Amelia — razor-sharp, unbothered by PR expectations — had drawn the line early and made it immovable. No up-close photos of Ada’s face. No intrusive questions. If Ada wanted to be public someday, that would be her choice — not something sold for a headline before she could spell her name.

But within the paddock itself, Ada was a fixture. A streak of colour and mischief. Fiercely protected. Fiercely loved.

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

One of them involved storming onto the grid like she owned it (Amelia walked slowly behind), pushing past engineers and camera rigs, and beelining toward two very important people.

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

Oscar turned the moment he heard her voice, already crouching down with open arms. He was in his race suit, grinning like he hadn’t just been pacing with nerves ten seconds earlier.

“Oi,” he said, “that’s not my name, trouble.”

“But it’s what Mummy calls you!” Ada argued, already climbing into his lap like a koala. “I remember!”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Lando called from a few feet away, amusement curling through his voice.

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned forward for his good luck kiss. Ada planted a dramatic one on his cheek, complete with a mwah sound effect, then hopped off and marched across the grid to Lando.

Her daddy.

He crouched before she even reached him. She barrelled into his arms with the enthusiasm of a girl who had never once doubted she would be caught.

“You ready, Ada Bug?” he asked as he scooped her up.

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

She nodded solemnly, then leaned forward to kiss him right on the tip of the nose — her signature move. Soft, sticky-lipped from the fruit pouch she'd insisted on finishing on the way in. Then she whispered, very seriously, “Be fast. And be smart. Love you, Daddy.”

Amelia, standing just behind them, caught Lando’s expression shift; just a fraction. A sudden, raw quiet behind his eyes. He pulled Ada closer, briefly, wordlessly. Pressed his nose into her hair.

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

Amelia took her easily — muscle memory now — resting Ada against her hip like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag with her free hand and took a long sip of her iced coffee.

“Drive fast,” she said evenly, meeting Lando’s eyes.

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

And then, casually, almost too casually, she added, “I’m pregnant.”

He froze. One step from the car. “What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, softer this time. No smile, no build-up — just fact, like announcing the weather.

They hadn’t expected it. Not exactly. They’d been trying for a few months, hopeful but guarded. Amelia had been tracking everything — methodical as ever — but refusing to let herself get too wrapped up in the outcomes. Lando had taken a more gentle approach. Faith over control. He’d just kept telling her, It’ll happen when it happens. We’re already a family.

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

Then he turned fully — slow, like gravity had stopped working — and blinked at her.

Ada, oblivious, was babbling about how she wanted to wave the checkered flag today and if Max’s cats could come to the garage next time.

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice cracking wide open. “Holy shit.”

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

He was already in his race suit, just minutes from lights out, about to hurtle into one of the most competitive qualifying sessions of the season — but suddenly, he looked younger. Dazed. Entirely undone.

His hands hovered in the air like he wanted to reach for her — didn’t know where to begin.

And Amelia, ever precise, ever composed, leaned in and kissed him. Quick. Solid. Grounding.

“We’ll be fine,” she murmured against his lips. “We always are.”

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

Lando let out a breath. One hand came up to his chest like he needed to physically hold it all in — the awe, the fear, the quiet wonder of it.

Then his comm crackled: “Two minutes to final call.”

He blinked. Straightened. Looked at his wife. Then at his daughter. Then back again.

“Okay,” he said, drawing in one last steadying breath. “Right. Fast. Clever. Safe.”

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

“Love you,” he echoed, already stepping toward Will, adrenaline and awe carrying him forward.

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go and tell Maxie you’re gonna have a baby?” she asked, eyes wide and serious.

Amelia bit back a laugh and turned them toward the edge of the grid. Her mum was already waiting near Lando’s garage to take over babysitting duty.

“Not yet. Your daddy drives better with adrenaline,” she said, adjusting Ada’s ponytail with one hand, “but your Uncle Maxie gets distracted. We’ll tell Maxie another time, okay?”

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

“I think… we’ll tell him next week. At the wedding.”

Ada’s face lit up. “I can’t wait to wear my pretty dress, Mummy!”

Amelia kissed her forehead, pulling her a little closer as they weaved between team personnel.

“I know, baby,” she said softly. “You’re going to look beautiful.”

��

202X

He did it.

The air was electric. No — it was charged, like the world itself had paused mid-spin to catch its breath.

Lando stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in one hand, heart in his throat. There were tears in his eyes — real ones, wild and stinging, completely unfiltered. His face was flushed, soaked from the spray, but his grin was a thing of pure, stunned wonder.

He’d done it.

World Champion.

A cheer rolled across the circuit like thunder. The fireworks lit up the sky behind him in great booming waves, streaks of orange and silver and gold — and below, just past the glittering wall of photographers, she was there.

Amelia.

The crowd blurred. The moment blurred. But she didn’t.

She stood at the base of the podium steps, her hair tousled from wind and chaos, arms crossed tightly across her chest like if she didn’t hold herself together she might simply combust. Her eyes were glassy. Her face unreadable — until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

He caught her with the kind of ease that didn’t need choreography — years of knowing her weight, her stillness, her everything. His arms wrapped around her middle, and before she could say a word, he spun her. Under the lights. Under the fireworks. Under the full, beating heart of a decade in the making.

Her laugh cracked open the noise. Her legs curled up instinctively. Her hands dug into the back of his fire suit.

She said his name, just once. No title. No superlatives. No team radio.

Just him.

Lando.

He set her down slowly, like she was fragile, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast — but she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, on the corner of his mouth, where the champagne had pooled and the smile wouldn’t quite leave.

The world spun again.

And somewhere, behind it all, Ada was being passed from Oscar to George to Max to Amelia’s mother, hands raised above the crowd as she screamed, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

What a season. What a finish. What a moment. 🧡👑 #WDC #LandoNorris #F1

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

Congratulations, Lando. You’ve earned every second of this.

And yes — that podium was everything. No, we’re not crying, you’re crying. 🧡🧡🧡

@/formulawivesclub

There is NOTHING more powerful than a man who wins the WDC and immediately spins his wife under literal fireworks. Iconic. Romantic. Cinematic. I am unwell. 😭😭😭

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

the most magical WDC celebration this sport has seen in decades. maybe forever. PAPAYA ON TOP

@/maxverstappen1

*photo of Ada asleep on his shoulder post-podium, wearing her dad’s cap*

she said she had to stay up to see the champion. i think she made it to the fireworks. ❤️

—

202X

Final lap.

The sun was setting in streaks of copper and violet. Floodlights cast the track in electric brilliance, shadows long and sharp. And the world was holding its breath.

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

Not enough to coast. Not when Lando was behind him.

Not when the championship hung in the balance — years of sweat and heartbreak and razor-wire precision culminating in this.

From the pit wall, Amelia’s voice came through steady and clear.

“Final sector. No traffic. You’re clear. Bring it home, Ducky.”

No theatrics. No screaming. Just her voice, the one constant he’d had for the entirety of his F1 career. Focused. Fierce. Full of something rare and warm and undiluted: belief.

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

And then, in the most un-Oscar voice imaginable — thick with feeling, stripped raw, “…I don’t think I’m breathing.”

She laughed. A beautiful, cracked little sound. The comms team didn’t mute it. No one could. “Please breathe.”

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

The fireworks hit the sky immediately; red and gold and brilliant. The pitman and garages erupted. McLaren, orange-clad and screaming, split open with euphoria.

And then Amelia’s voice again; louder this time, breaking apart at the edges: “Oscar Piastri. You are a Formula One World Champion.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t reply. He just let out one long, disbelieving breath, and you could hear the hitched sound of someone trying not to cry and failing anyway. “We did it, Amelia.”

“You did it,” she corrected.

“No,” he said, firm now. Fierce. “We did. All of it. Every lap. You’re the best engineer and best friend I could’ve ever wished for. God, I love you so much.”

The audio went everywhere. Uploaded by the team, by fans, by rival engineers who had no choice but to respect it.

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

It was the most-streamed F1 clip of the year.

Because there he was — Oscar, still barely in his mid-twenties, helmet resting on the halo of his car, chest heaving as the gravity of it sank in.

And there she was; Amelia, halfway to the pit barrier, shoving her headset at a stunned junior engineer, sprinting.

He met her halfway.

She didn’t usually hug. But she did then. Tight and wordless. Face buried in his chest. Years of partnership and pride wrapped into that single, silent second.

And when they pulled apart, he knocked his forehead against hers, grinning like a boy again. “Told you I’d win it.”

“I never doubted you.”

—

The footage of the podium showed Amelia next to the team, arms crossed, blinking hard. Oscar had to compose himself twice during the anthem. And when he raised the trophy, he pointed straight at her.

No words.

Just… pride.

—

2028

It started with coffee.

Not just any coffee — her coffee. The specific roast she loved from that tiny roastery near Lake Como. Brewed in silence while she slept in. No baby monitor, no toddler noise, no midnight feeding schedules. Just the steady hush of morning, and Lando moving through the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Amelia stirred around 9:00 a.m. — a luxury in itself.

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

Happy anniversary, baby. Today is yours. We’re doing it your way. Uncle Ducky has both of our babies today. Yes, willingly. Yes, I’m sure. No, you don’t need to check in on them.

Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve got step one waiting for you.

Love you forever,

— Lando

She blinked. Then smiled. Then got up without rushing — another gift.

When she padded downstairs, wrapped in one of his old t-shirts, she found him barefoot in the kitchen with a table set for two, sunlight spilling through the open balcony doors.

"Happy anniversary," he said softly, crossing to her with a hand on her cheek and a kiss that lingered. "Sit. Eat."

There were croissants from her favourite bakery in town. Raspberries and whipped butter. Her coffee, perfect. And Lando — already looking at her like the day was made.

“The kids?” She asked eventually, narrowing her eyes.

“Totally fine. They always are with Oscar. He made me promise not to call unless someone was bleeding. He said that you deserve a proper day off.”

“I don’t need a day off from my children,” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “But it’ll be nice to be able to kiss you without tripping over one of them.”

“Exactly,” Lando said.

Breakfast faded into a walk — hand-in-hand along the coast, slow and sun-warmed. No schedule. No pushing. Just the faint hush of waves licking the edges of Monaco and the occasional squeeze of Lando’s fingers in hers.

They didn't talk much, and that was deliberate.

Afterward, instead of a spa or anything tactile, he drove her twenty minutes out to their favourite low-key golf course — a hidden gem tucked against the edge of a hill, quiet in the off-season.

It had started a few years ago, this habit of hers. Her golf-ball collection was ever-growing, each one labeled and tucked into a little wooden tray above the fireplace. A more serious, tactile comfort that had slowly morphed into a silly, sentimental thing.

Lando had never once questioned the golf ball. Not in the beginning, not in the middle.

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

She picked out a new ball from the pro shop (green) and tucked it into her coat pocket.

“You’ll label that one later?” Lando asked, swinging her hand between them as they walked back to the car.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It's Ada’s favourite colour.”

“This week.” He said.

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.”

—

Lunch came after.

A rooftop place they both loved but hadn’t been to since before Ada was born. White tablecloths, soda on ice. Her favourite risotto, his ridiculous stack of truffle fries, two hours of soft conversation without a single interruption from a baby monitor or a toddler needing to pee.

No baby wipes in her bag. No cutting food into tiny, manageable pieces.

Just them.

—

The sun was setting when they got back to their place.

Amelia kicked off her shoes by the door and reached for her hair tie. Lando caught her hand before she could disappear upstairs.

“One more thing,” he said, almost shy. “Come with me.”

They climbed to the top-floor balcony; her favourite spot in the house. There, waiting: a blanket. Two glasses of wine. A bowl of green olives (Amelia’s vice). And a tiny projector already humming against the far wall.

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

Clips started to roll. Grainy little moments he’d stitched together over months — Ada’s first steps down the hallway at the MTC, the hospital selfie when Amelia had delivered their second baby (Lando’s eyes red from crying, Amelia’s thumb still smudged with blood), lazy footage of her asleep on the couch with both kids curled up on her chest.

Her laugh in the background of a hundred quiet seconds. The clink of teacups. The sound of a little voice calling, “Mummy, look!”

Then his voice — low, warm, recorded late at night from the quiet corner of their bed, “I’m so in love with this life.”

Amelia said nothing. She was biting her lip a little too hard.

Lando didn’t push. He just shifted behind her on the blanket, pulling her gently between his legs and wrapping his arms around her waist — not too tight, just enough to say I’m here.

“You always make things perfect for everyone else,” he said into her shoulder. “So I wanted to make one perfect day for you.”

She swallowed once. Then leaned her weight back into him, just a fraction — a silent thank-you.

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

And finally, softly, “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, I think.” She admitted, truthfully.

Lando smiled into her hair and didn’t let go.

—

Later that night, Oscar sent a photo of Ada fast asleep on a pile of couch cushions in the middle of his flat, a cereal box half-open in the background.

Amelia texted back a blurry photo of her and Lando curled up on the balcony under a blanket, the projector still casting shadows across the wall.

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

Amelia had been trying to hold it back for hours — maybe days, if she was honest. The world had gotten too loud again. Too bright. Too many textures and demands and interruptions.

The fridge was humming wrong. Ada had spilled orange juice and then cried when her leggings got wet. The baby had been colicky all night. Lando was out doing media. Someone had moved the coffee mugs and none of them were in the right order.

She was standing in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the countertop so hard her knuckles were white, when it all finally crashed down on her.

Her chest seized. Her eyes blurred. The sound in her ears turned to static.

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She slid to the floor, knees curling up, hands covering her ears. Her breathing shortened. She rocked back and forth. Tears leaked out — not from sadness, but from pure sensory overload.

Across the room, Ada, six years old, in a T-shirt covered in glitter paint and crumbs, froze where she stood.

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway.

She found her daddy in the bedroom, changing the baby’s nappy. He’d only come home a few minutes ago. Her little hand tugged at the hem of his shirt urgently.

“Daddy,” she whispered, breathless. “Mummy needs you.”

Lando paused. His head whipped up instantly. “What’s wrong, little-pea?”

“She’s on the floor. She’s crying with her hands on her ears. She’s not talking.”

Lando’s jaw jumped, but he kept his cool and handed Ada her baby brother. “Stay here, okay? You hold him and don’t move. I’ll go help Mummy.”

—

Amelia was still in the same spot, crumpled in front of the dishwasher, the noise of the appliance now too sharp, like claws dragging through her skull.

Lando knelt slowly beside her. Not touching. Not speaking yet. Just breathing in sync.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“I knew the dishwasher was making a weird noise,” he added gently, knowing exactly what she was hearing. “I’ll call someone to fix it tomorrow.”

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

He sat down properly beside her, close but not touching, and began counting out loud.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

“…twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When he finally reached forty, her hands lowered. Just a little. Her breathing slowed.

Lando waited.

And when her eyes finally fluttered open — puffy, red-rimmed, exhausted — he reached out with one hand, offering it but not insisting.

She took it.

No words, just pressure — fingers threading through his, grounding herself.

“I hate this,” she rasped, barely audible. “I was fine. I should’ve been—”

“Nope,” he said. “No rules. No shoulds. You just were. And now you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Amelia blinked. Let out a breath that stuttered on the way out.

From the doorway, a soft voice, “Mummy?”

They both turned. Ada was peeking in, barefoot and clutching the baby monitor against her chest.

“I put the baby in his chair,” she said proudly. “And I put my light-up shoes away so they won’t hurt your eyes.”

Lando smiled faintly. Amelia just blinked again, overwhelmed by the careful compassion of a six-year-old.

Ada padded over, crouched carefully beside her mum, and offered a tiny, glittery toy dinosaur — the kind she usually kept in her backpack for comfort.

“You can hold this if it helps,” she said seriously. “Sometimes it helps me.”

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

And Lando wrapped them both up in his arms, squeezing tight.

—

Later that night, when things were quiet again and the world had shrunk back to something manageable, Amelia whispered into the crook of Lando’s neck, “She went and got you. She knew.”

Lando kissed her hair. “She always knows,” he said. “She’s yours.”

Amelia smiled, small and raw. “No. She’s ours.”

—

2033

They were sitting under the shade of an umbrella, barefoot and sun-drowsy, watching their children build increasingly complicated sandcastles twenty feet away. Ada had her arms bossily crossed, giving instructions like a forewoman. Her little brother — all curls and slightly sunburnt cheeks despite the copious layers of SPF50 — was digging trenches with his hands.

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

Lando leaned back on his elbows, sighing. “Is it Thursday or Friday?”

Amelia didn’t answer immediately. Her sunglasses were halfway down her nose. Her hair was damp at the ends from her swim. “Friday,” she murmured. “Pretty sure.”

He nodded, squinting toward the sun. “Days have been blurring. If it’s Friday, it’s already the twelfth.”

He was right. The days had all started to melt together. Long mornings. Naps tangled in hotel sheets. Late dinners with sticky fingers and endless laughter.

Amelia sat up a little. Not sharply — but enough to catch her husbands attention. “Oh,” she said, very quietly.

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

She furrowed her brow. Like she was doing mental arithmetic. Calendar math. Gut instinct. “I’m… late.”

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

“Four days?” She said it more like a question. “Maybe five. I didn’t notice. With travel and the kids and— I don’t know.”

Lando sat up straighter, heartbeat suddenly louder in his ears.

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Down by the water, Ada shrieked with delight. “Mummy! We made a castle for the sea princess!”

Amelia waved back, mechanically, then turned back to Lando. “I didn’t bring a test.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Should we go find a pharmacy?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She reached for his hand, threading her fingers between his, palm warm. “Let’s just sit. Just for a minute. I want to stay here a little longer, before everything changes again.”

His grip tightened on hers. “Is that okay?”

Amelia nodded. “I’m happy. Just… surprised.”

Lando exhaled, gaze flicking back to their children. Ada was crowning her sandcastle with a plastic fork she’d found. Their son was diligently filling a bucket with sea foam.

“I think we’re gonna be outnumbered,” he said softly.

“I think we already are,” Amelia murmured, smiling faintly. “But that’s exactly what we wanted, isn’t it? Three of them. A couple of years apart. It’s perfect.”

And they sat there. Under the umbrella, hand in hand, watching the beginning of their forever shift again.

The ocean kept talking, its waves crashing against the rocks at the other end of the beach.

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box.

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.”

“Three of them. Two of us. Five total.” He murmured. “We’re missing four.”

“No we’re not.” She whispered. “You’re right here.”

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her.

—

2034

Ada slammed the front door shut with the theatrical force only a ten-year-old could manage.

“Mummy!” She yelled before she was even properly out of her shoes. “Mummy, I have to tell you something very important!”

Amelia looked up from the kitchen table, where she was re-assembling a snapped pencil sharpener and ignoring the half-eaten apple Ada had left on the kitchen bench to rot that morning.

“In here,” she called calmly.

Ada thundered in, socks half-falling off, her backpack barely zipped. Her cheeks were pink. Her plaits were lopsided.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

Ada flopped dramatically into the chair opposite her. “I’m in love, Mummy. With a boy in my class. His name is Ethan and he wears Spider-Man socks and he let me use his sparkly blue gel pen for colouring even though he really likes it. He said I was clever.”

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

Ada sighed. “Yes, mummy. I know that.”

There was a pause.

From the hallway, the sound of keys jingling, the front door opening again.

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

“In the kitchen!” Ada called sweetly. And then, switching gears with dizzying emotional agility, she leaned in and whispered to her mum: “Don’t tell Daddy. He’ll make it weird.”

Amelia frowned. “I don’t lie to your dad. You know that.”

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

Lando appeared in the doorway a moment later, freshly back from sim training. “Why do I feel like I just walked in on a crime?”

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

“Oh, cool, that’s comforting,” he deadpanned, kissing the top of her head. Then he gave Amelia a suspicious side-eye. “What’s happening?”

“Well,” Amelia said, “your daughter thinks that she’s in love.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “I leave her at that school for six hours—”

“Daddy!” Ada groaned, flinging her arms dramatically over her face.

“—and now she’s in love?” He leaned over her chair, mock-serious. “Who is he? What does he do? What are his qualifications?”

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

“That’s not a qualification,” Lando said, faux-grave.

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

“Daddy,” Ada said solemnly, peeking at him through her fingers, “his name is Ethan, and he gave me the good gel pen. The sparkly one. That’s basically marriage.”

Lando clutched his heart. “God help me. Wait until I tell Max about this.”

“I knew you’d make it weird,” Ada whined.

“I am weird, Bug,” he replied, scooping her up despite her protests. “That’s your legacy.”

He spun her around like she weighed nothing.

Amelia smiled as she watched them.

But when Ada caught her eyes mid-giggle, cheeks flushed, safe and loved and full of her first little crush, Amelia just smiled at her.

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

He moves to Devon at the end of Year 6, and she forgets the way his name made her stomach flutter by the time she’s twelve.

The next crush is taller. The next one after that plays guitar.

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

But she never says anything. Because… she’s Ada Norris.

And Ada Norris grew up being known. Watched. Treasured.

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

Until one day, fourteen years after her dramatic kitchen confession, she finds herself in the back of the paddock in Monaco, barefoot and suntanned, her hair in a braid, with a camera slung over her shoulder and dust on her jeans.

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

And in front of her, sitting on a pile of stacked tyres, grazed knees tucked up under his arms and ice cream dripping down his wrist, is him.

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

She’s known him since before either of them could talk properly.

They played tag between hospitality units. Swapped Pokémon cards in Red Bull’s simulator room.

He once peed in her toy car. She once cut his hair with nail scissors because she thought it would make him less ugly.

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s the way he listens. The way he gets it — the legacy, the pressure, the strange ache of being a paddock kid with a famous surname and the expectation to become someone.

It’s the way he defends her when people assume too much.

It’s the way he doesn’t flinch when she stim-rambles or tells him she needs exactly ten minutes of silence.

It’s the way he waits — patient, steady, eyes bluer than any sky she’s ever seen.

She’s Ada Norris.

And someday soon, someday when the dust settles, and the stars line up just right, she’ll be Ada Verstappen.

And damn… it does have a nice ring to it.

—

2035

Amelia sat in the doorway of Sienna’s nursery, back pressed to the frame, coffee cooling in her hands. The house was quiet — unusually so. Ezra was napping. Ada was at school. Lando had taken a rare moment to go for a run.

And Sienna… Sienna was asleep. Peacefully. A soft halo of curls pressed into her muslin blanket, one fist curled beneath her chin like she’d already begun dreaming of something secret and important.

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

Ada, her first, her fiercest, had taught her what love felt like when it broke you open.

Ezra had come quieter. A gentle soul with his father’s smile and a knack for slipping into people’s arms like he’d always belonged there.

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

Amelia hadn’t cried — not then. Not when the results came in. Not even when the specialists had spoken gently about cochlear implants and early language support and accessibility.

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

It was adjustment. Recalibration. Learning a new language — not just in signs, but in patience. In pace. In how to prepare for a life she didn’t know how to predict.

Sienna would be fine.

Better than fine. She had her father’s stubbornness and her mother’s ability to see patterns in chaos.

She had a sister who’d already started practicing fingerspelling at the dinner table, and a brother who kissed her ear every time she blinked up at him. She had grandparents, uncles, a paddock full of honorary aunties and mechanics and engineers ready to build her whatever she needed.

She had love. The whole, complex, unshakable kind.

Still, this baby, this challenge, this gift, it had made Amelia stretch in ways she hadn’t before.

And there, on the floor, in the hush of a warm afternoon, she finally let herself feel it all. The fear. The wonder. The sheer magnitude of how much she loved these children — all three of them. So differently. So fully. So irreversibly.

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

The garden behind their Monaco home wasn’t large, but it was theirs.

The sea glittered just beyond the hedges, and the sunlight slanted golden through the lemon trees. There were chairs set out in uneven rows, a makeshift arch wrapped in white linen and fresh lavender. No press. No guest list politics. Just the people who mattered — their parents, their siblings, a few of their closest friends, and the three children who had rewritten their lives in the best possible ways.

Ada was fourteen and refused to wear anything but the pink dress she’d picked herself. Ezra, five, clung to Oscar’s leg until Lando knelt and whispered something that made him laugh. And Sienna — three and a half, curls pinned back with daisy clips, cochlear implant nestled behind one ear — was already signing “cake” to anyone who made eye contact.

Amelia stood barefoot in the grass, holding her bouquet with one hand and Sienna’s palm with the other.

Her dress wasn’t new. She’d pulled it from the back of the closet — the pale ivory one she’d worn to a gala years ago, the one Lando had stared at like he’d forgotten how to speak. Soft and silky against her skin, it still felt like him.

Lando met her halfway up the path, smiling like he always had.

“Hi,” he said, taking Sienna’s hand too. “You look beautiful.”

“You look sunburnt,” Amelia replied, then softened. “But handsome.”

Beneath the lazy sway of the breeze and the quiet murmur of waves, Lando took both her hands and said, “I’d marry you a thousand times in a thousand different lives. But I’m really glad I got this one. With you. With them. With all of it.”

Amelia, ever spare with her words, just said, “You’re the love of my life, Lando Norris.”

Later, while the kids played under the fairy lights, Max and Pietra poured champagne, and Oscar stole cake straight from the platter, Lando found her standing off to the side, heels dangling from one hand.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. Kissed the top of her head.

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew.

They had each other. They had their home.

And their love had only deepened with the quiet weight of time.

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

341 notes · View notes

missmadella · 1 day ago

Text

“How they react when they kiss you out of anger” // Tokyo Revengers

Charakters: Mikey, Sanzu, Ran, Rindou, Hanma, Wakasa, Kokonoi, Izana

Synopsis: You never thought you’d find yourself tangled up with someone you couldn’t stand — but here you are, caught in a whirlwind of bickering, sharp words, and stolen moments that make your heart race. Every argument feels like a battlefield, every glare a challenge, and yet, somehow, all the hate is just a thin veil over something much deeper.

Mikey (Sano Manjiro):

The rooftop was drenched in silence except for the heavy breaths you both struggled to control. The night air was sharp against your skin, but neither of you noticed—your worlds had shrunk to this moment, to the tension bristling between you.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you snapped, hands clenched at your sides. “I’m not just some backup plan you pull out when things get tough. I’m not going to sit quietly while you risk everything like it’s a game!”

Mikey’s eyes darkened, jaw tightening as he took a slow step forward, closing the distance between you. “I’m doing this for us. For the people I care about. You think it’s easy? You think I want to be alone in this?”

“Then why do you shut me out every time it gets hard?” you spat back. “Why act like I’m the enemy when I’m the only one trying to keep you from breaking?”

His fists clenched at his sides, the tension coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. He inhaled sharply, voice low and harsh, “Maybe because you’re so damn annoying.”

The words hit you like a punch, but before you could say anything, Mikey grabbed your waist, yanking you forward with a desperate force that stole your breath.

His lips crushed against yours, rough and wild, like he was trying to erase all the anger and confusion with the heat of that kiss alone.

You barely had time to register the movement before he was speaking again, voice raw and urgent between gasps.

“You don’t know how much I hate that you get to me like this,” he murmured, teeth catching your lower lip as his hands tangled in your hair. “You rile me up, make me lose control, and I… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He kissed you harder, desperate, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I want you,” he confessed, breathless. “More than anything. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild and searching. “You drive me crazy. You’re the only one who ever does.”

He kissed you again, slow and deliberate this time, lips tracing yours as if memorizing every inch.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Scared I’ll screw it all up. But I can’t stay away. Not from you.”

His hands slid down your back, pulling you impossibly close. “You’re so annoying… but I don’t want anyone else.”

The fight, the frustration, everything that had weighed on you both slipped away in the heat of that moment—leaving only the undeniable truth burning between your bodies.

___________________________________________________________________________

Sanzu Haruchiyo:

The narrow alley seemed to close in around you, the night heavy with tension and frustration. Your voice echoed off the cold brick walls, sharp and unyielding.

“You don’t get it!” you snapped, stepping forward, anger flaring in your chest. “You think you can just do whatever you want, hurt whoever gets close, and then act like nothing happened? What about me? What about what I want?”

Sanzu’s dark eyes glinted with something fierce as he took a step toward you, his usual smirk twisting into something almost vulnerable. “You think I want this? Dragging you into all this chaos? I don’t. But I can’t stop it either.”

You shook your head, voice cracking. “Then why do you push me away? Why treat me like I’m some annoying problem instead of the only person who’s actually trying to be there?”

His grin turned wicked, biting, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “Because you’re so damn annoying.”

The words hit you like a slap—but before you can respond, Sanzu’s hands are on your waist, yanking you close with a desperate urgency.

His lips slam onto yours, fierce and demanding, crushing away all the anger with the heat of the kiss. Your breath hitches as his hands roam your back, pulling you impossibly tight.

You wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his dark hair as the kiss deepens, messy and raw.

Between ragged breaths, Sanzu pulls back just enough to murmur, voice low and rough against your lips, “You don’t know how much you mess with my head... How every time we fight, it’s like you’re the only thing I can’t forget.”

His lips trail down your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before capturing your mouth again. “I hate how much I want you. How you drive me crazy every damn day.”

The kiss grows slower, more heated—full of all the frustration and longing he can’t put into words.

His hands slide lower, resting on your hips, holding you steady. “You’re the only one who gets under my skin this deep. The only one I want to fight for, even when I want to push you away.”

You feel the wild storm in his eyes as he kisses you again, soft and fierce all at once. “You’re annoying as hell... but I’m never letting you go.”

The world around you fades until there’s only the two of you, tangled in desperate, searing kisses, the fight replaced by something far more dangerous and real.

___________________________________________________________________________

Ran Haitani:

The rooftop air was warm and electric, the neon glow of the city casting soft light over the two of you. It wasn’t the first time you and Ran had ended up like this—too close, too angry, too aware. But this time? It had been brewing for weeks.

“You think everything’s a joke,” you hissed, stepping into his space, jabbing a finger into his chest. “People get hurt, Ran. You hurt people.”

His lips curled in that lazy, dangerous smirk. “And yet, here you are. Still chasing me around like you’re not obsessed.”

You scoffed. “You’re delusional.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to graze your nerves. “You talk like you don’t want me. But your eyes always tell on you.”

You shoved him lightly, but he didn’t move. He just tilted his head, watching you. Waiting.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you snapped.

That did it.

Ran’s smile twitched, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He took one step closer—then another—and then his hand was on your jaw, firm but not rough. He looked at you for a heartbeat longer. And then he kissed you.

Hard.

His lips crashed into yours, all smooth confidence stripped away and replaced with something messier—more real. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moved against yours, urgent and unrelenting.

You kissed him back, just as hard, meeting fire with fire. Your hands tangled in his hair, your body arching toward him like you’d been waiting for this since the first time you laid eyes on him.

He broke away for just a second, breathless, eyes burning. “You think I don’t feel it?” he murmured against your mouth. “Every time you walk in a room, I feel it. This pull. And it pisses me off.”

Another kiss—hot, open-mouthed and intense, like he was trying to consume the very air you breathed.

“You get in my head,” he whispered, voice cracking as his lips traced your jaw. “You make me reckless.”

He kissed you again, rougher now, like the more he kissed you, the less he could hold himself back.

“You’re the only one who talks back to me like this. The only one who doesn’t care who I am.”

He pinned you gently against the wall, hands slipping under your jacket, grounding you there, while his mouth found yours again, slower this time—deep and consuming.

“I tell myself to stop,” he breathed between kisses. “To stay away from you. But then I see you again… looking at me like you see through all of it.”

He paused, forehead against yours, breathing hard, fingers tangled in your hair. “And I lose. Every time.”

You pulled him back in before he could say another word, and he met you with even more desperation—like he needed this, needed you, to feel something real.

The fight, the taunts, the arrogance—it had all been the buildup to this: the moment Ran Haitani let go of control for you.

___________________________________________________________________________

Rindou Haitani:

You shouldn’t have come to the club.

You told yourself you were done with him — with the constant games, the hot-and-cold stares, the things he never said and the way he always looked like he might say them. But you were there anyway. And of course, he noticed.

Rindou didn’t approach you at first. He just watched.

From across the room, leaning back in a booth, fingers drumming lazily against the table, his eyes locked on you like a storm just waiting to roll in.

You tried to ignore him. Tried to laugh, to dance, to act like he didn’t exist.

But when you slipped outside for air, he was already there—waiting in the alley, cigarette hanging from his lips, his expression unreadable.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said flatly, voice low, almost bored.

You crossed your arms, heart pounding. “You don’t own me.”

He let the cigarette drop, grinding it out with his heel. “Didn’t say I did.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then why does it feel like you think you do?”

He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—and suddenly the air between you was suffocating. His voice dropped lower. “Because you’re in my fucking head. All the time.”

You blinked. “Rindou—”

“You think I don’t notice when you disappear?” he said, voice sharper now, words cutting close. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me and pretend it means nothing?”

You backed up half a step, your spine hitting the alley wall. He followed, close but not touching. Not yet.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours. “You make everything complicated. You make me complicated.”

And then he kissed you.

No hesitation. No teasing. Just months of tension spilling over, crashing into your lips with raw, unspoken emotion.

His hands found your face, holding you still as his mouth claimed yours — rough, deep, and desperate. You kissed him back without thinking, your body moving with his like you’d been waiting for this just as long.

He pulled back for a breath, lips brushing yours, voice ragged. “I hate how much I want you.”

He kissed you again, slower now, like he needed to memorize every second.

“I try not to,” he whispered, biting your lower lip between kisses. “I tell myself it’s just tension, just something to shake off…”

Another kiss. This one longer, drawn-out. Hungry.

“But then I see you walk in a room, and it’s like—fuck. I lose everything.”

His fingers slid into your hair, his mouth finding yours again, pulling you deeper into him.

“You drive me insane,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I want you so much it actually hurts.”

You stared at him, stunned by the rawness in his voice. But he didn’t stop. He kissed you again, slower this time, as if every kiss was another truth he couldn’t say out loud.

___________________________________________________________________________

Hanma Shuji:

The warehouse was empty, echoing with the sound of your boots and the bite in your voice.

“I’m not one of your toys, Hanma,” you snapped, storming across the floor. “You don’t get to screw with people’s heads just because you’re bored.”

He stood by the railing on the upper level, arms spread out wide like he was enjoying a performance. “Oh, come on. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just the loudest one when I poke.”

You climbed the stairs two at a time, fury rising in your throat. “You think this is fun for me? You showing up, starting shit, running your mouth like none of it means anything?”

Hanma’s grin twisted, and in the dim light, he looked like something wild barely kept on a leash.

“You like it,” he said flatly. “You like fighting with me. You like that I see through your little act.”

You reached the top and shoved him, hard. “Fuck you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared at you, eyes glinting behind those purple lenses, that goddamn smile glued to his face.

“You’re so annoying,” you spat.

And that’s when it snapped.

Hanma surged forward and grabbed your face, smashing his lips against yours.

The kiss was violent — clashing teeth, panting breaths, a tangled mess of everything neither of you had the guts to say. His hands dug into your waist, dragging you flush against him, and you kissed back with equal heat, fists tightening in his shirt.

“God, you piss me off,” he growled against your mouth.

Another kiss — hot, biting, filled with years of tension. His hand slipped under your jacket, fingers gripping your side possessively.

“You walk into a room, and it’s like—bam. I can’t think straight.”

You moaned into his mouth as he kissed you again, tongue sliding over yours like he needed to consume you just to shut himself up.

“I try to ignore it,” he muttered between kisses, lips dragging down your neck. “Try to laugh it off. Pretend it’s nothing.”

He nipped at your skin, breathing hard. “But I look at you, and it’s fucking chaos in my head.”

Another kiss — desperate now, almost angry. You were both pressed against the metal railing, bodies colliding like sparks off gasoline.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t play by my rules,” he said, voice cracked. “And I fucking love it.”

His hand cradled the back of your neck, keeping you close as he kissed you again, longer this time, like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t put into words.

“You’re so annoying,” he whispered again. “And I can’t get enough of you.”

You didn’t respond — not with words. You just pulled him back in, devouring the rest of his confession from his lips.

His fingers tangled in your hair, and without another word, Hanma pulled you back in — crashing his mouth to yours like he’d starve if he didn’t.

The kiss was frantic. Messy. Teeth grazing lips, hands roaming, both of you losing yourselves in the fire you’d been fanning for far too long.

You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound hungrily, pressing you harder against the railing. His body caged you in, all sharp edges and heat.

“Fuck,” he whispered between kisses, voice hoarse now. “You taste like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.”

He kissed you again. Slower, deeper. This one burned less with rage and more with something he didn’t dare name. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your head and kissed you like he needed you — not just wanted you.

“You don’t leave my head,” he murmured, lips barely pulling away. “Even when I want you gone.”

Another kiss. Then another. Quick, hungry presses of his lips to yours like he couldn’t stop, like stopping would be worse than dying.

“You fight me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You challenge me. And god, it kills me how much I love it.”

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt as he kissed down your jaw, trailing heat over your skin.

“I’ve kissed a lot of people,” he said lowly, lips brushing your neck now. “But I never needed it like this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you — his usual smugness replaced by something raw. Bare. Like maybe, just maybe, you were the first person to ever knock him off balance.

But he didn’t let you answer. He was kissing you again. Softer this time. Lingering. Like he wasn’t sure when he’d get to do it again.

And the most dangerous part? You didn’t want him to stop either.

___________________________________________________________________________

Wakasa Imaushi:

It was late.

The shop was closed, the lights half off. Just the low amber glow of a single lamp over the workbench. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Wakasa from across the room as he wiped his hands with a rag, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

The silence stretched between you like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

“You’re ignoring me again,” you said finally.

Wakasa didn’t look up. “I’m working.”

“No,” you shot back, voice sharp, “you’re avoiding. Like always.”

He sighed, setting the rag down with deliberate calm. “You came here just to pick a fight?”

You pushed off the counter, stepping toward him. “No. I came here because I’m sick of pretending this thing between us isn’t real. Because every time I get close, you back off like it’s a mistake.”

He turned slowly to face you. His expression was unreadable — cool, distant. Too still.

“I told you,” he said quietly, “this isn’t a good idea.”

“And I told you to stop acting like you don’t feel it too.”

His lip twitched — the only sign of the emotion simmering under his skin.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he muttered, voice laced with frustration. “You always have to push. Always have to dig.”

You stepped right into his space, not backing down. “Because I know there’s more under that mask you wear.”

Wakasa’s eyes met yours — and whatever restraint he had left broke.

In one swift movement, he grabbed you by the collar and kissed you — hard. The workbench dug into your back as he pressed you against it, mouth claiming yours with weeks of pent-up silence, frustration, and something too raw to name.

You gasped into the kiss, but he didn’t give you space. His hands gripped your waist, holding you like he’d been denying himself this every single day.

“You think I don’t want you?” he whispered between kisses, lips brushing yours. “You think it’s easy for me to pretend?”

Another kiss — deeper now, slower. His mouth moved like he was trying to memorize the shape of yours, trying to make up for every moment he looked at you and said nothing.

“This shop…” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, “used to be a place I came to feel peace.”

Another kiss. His hands slid under your jacket, tracing your spine.

“Now all I feel here is you.”

You pulled him back in, kissing him like you were claiming him in the same space where he used to hide from his own heart.

“I hate this,” he whispered against your lips. “I hate how much I need this.”

But he didn’t stop. He kissed you again, slower now, lips softer but still trembling.

“You’re not supposed to matter this much.”

And yet, in that dim, dusty shop filled with memories of the past, he held you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel alive in the present.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kokonoi Hajime:

The penthouse was quiet except for the faint hum of the city lights below. The sleek marble and expensive furniture felt cold and distant—just like him. You stood across from Kokonoi, arms crossed, eyes sharp as you watched him pour a glass of whiskey with the slow, precise motions he always used to keep everything controlled.

“You think putting on that flawless act makes you untouchable?” you said, voice steady but laced with frustration. “That no one sees the cracks underneath?”

He glanced up at you, a slow, almost mocking smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “And you think yelling at me is going to fix that? How adorable.”

You took a step closer, refusing to back down. “I’m not yelling. I’m trying to get through. But you don’t make it easy.”

His smirk deepened, sharper this time. “Maybe because you don’t even know what you want from me.”

“Maybe I do,” you said quietly, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “You’re scared. Scared that I’ll see through your walls.”

He laughed, but it was cold and bitter, nothing like genuine amusement. “Scared? You don’t even understand the word.”

“You’re terrified,” you shot back, moving closer so that the space between you was thick with heat. “Terrified that I’ll find out what you really feel.”

His eyes flickered, the first crack in his perfect mask. He set the glass down hard on the table and grabbed your wrist, yanking you toward him with sudden force. Your breath hitched as his face hovered inches from yours.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you’re the only thing I can’t just walk away from.”

Before you could say anything, he pressed his lips to yours—urgent, demanding, nothing gentle about it. His hands tangled fiercely in your hair, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was fiery, raw, like years of frustration poured into a single moment.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on as if you could stop the world spinning out of control just by being there.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his eyes dark with something more than annoyance.

“You push me to the edge,” he said hoarsely, voice cracked. “I hate it. I hate how you make me want things I’m supposed to forget.”

His hands slid down your back, pulling you impossibly closer. He kissed you again, slower this time, lips brushing yours with a desperate softness that made your heart twist.

“I hate how you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. “And the last thing I want to admit before I fall asleep.”

You smiled, small and shaky, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

“And yet here we are,” you whispered. “Neither of us able to walk away.”

He smiled back, a rare, genuine thing, and kissed you again—this time full of promise and surrender.

___________________________________________________________________________

Izana Kurokawa:

The warehouse was silent except for the faint drip of water somewhere far off. Dust motes floated in the shafts of moonlight cutting through broken windows, painting everything in cold silver.

You faced Izana Kurokawa, his pale eyes unreadable, fixed on you like you were a puzzle he’d been trying to solve — or maybe a problem he hated to admit he cared about.

“You really think you can just barge into my world and change anything?” His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge of something sharp underneath, like ice cracking.

You didn’t back down. “Maybe I don’t want to walk away.”

A flicker of something like frustration—or was it longing?—passed through his eyes. He stepped closer, deliberate and slow.

“You’re insufferable,” Izana said quietly, a ghost of a bitter smile curling his lips. “You keep pushing. You keep testing. You rile me more than anyone ever has.”

“And you hate it,” you said softly, “because you can’t admit what you really feel.”

His gaze darkened, the carefully constructed mask slipping just enough for you to see the storm beneath.

“You don’t understand what I’ve buried,” he whispered, voice thick with pain and something close to fear.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that shocked you—fragile, hesitant.

Then he closed the distance.

His lips were cold at first, barely brushing yours in a testing kiss. But when you didn’t pull away, when you leaned in, his kiss deepened — desperate, fierce, filled with years of silence and unsaid things.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him like he could hold the world steady if only he held you.

Between breaths, he murmured, “I’m tired of pretending. Tired of hiding behind control and coldness.”

His lips parted from yours only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, voice breaking just a little.

“You make me feel alive… and it terrifies me.”

You ran your fingers through his silken hair, feeling the tremor beneath his calm.

“Izana…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He kissed you again — this time softer, slower, as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

The loneliness he carried wrapped around you both, fragile and aching. For a moment, the fierce leader was gone — just a man, afraid and vulnerable, reaching out.

“I don’t know how to be anything but this,” he confessed, voice raw. “But with you… I want to try.”

You smiled gently, heart pounding, knowing that in this quiet warehouse, surrounded by shadows and memories, something fragile and real was beginning.

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kangshxrtie · 2 days ago

Text

55 . my girl..friend (written)

once you read her text, you sprinted to the window—half-expecting it to be a joke. but sure enough, there daniela stood, hands behind her back and a soft glow from the porch light hitting her just right. somewhere nearby, you could hear “get you” by daniel caesar playing.

“you know,” you called down to her, “i always thought you were joking about doing this.”

“i’m so serious about everything, y/n,” daniela replied, looking up at you, completely earnest.

“i can tell,” you said, heart already beating faster.

“so um…” she cleared her throat and pulled a jbl speaker from behind her back, holding it up like it was sacred. “i didn’t have access to an actual radio or anything, so this’ll have to do.”

“actually unserious,” you said, laughing as you shook your head.

“but you like this about me,” she smirked.

“i really do,” you said softly.

she took a deep breath. “okay—so. i came here because i really, really like you. and i don’t wanna lose you to anyone else. i was literally here first, but i also hope i’ve shown you how much i wanna be with you. i waited because i wanted to prove it and make sure i deserved you before asking. so... y/n... will you finally be my girlfriend? so i can actually mean it when i call you my girl?”

you didn’t even hesitate.

“of fucking course!” you shouted from the window.

“let’s gooooo!” daniela immediately jumped up, throwing her hands in the air.

“i’m coming down,” you called, already halfway to the door.

you burst outside with your shoes only halfway on and ran straight into her arms, crashing your lips into hers. she caught you easily, her arms locking around your waist while your hands tangled behind her neck. you kissed like it was your first and last time all at once—until the need for air forced you to break apart. you were both grinning at eachother as you looked into each other’s eyes.

“this is for you,” daniela said, reaching down to grab a bouquet of flowers that had been resting behind her speaker.

you laughed, brushing your fingers over the petals. “they’re beautiful.”

“i had a whole dance number planned, too,” she admitted sheepishly. “but you came down too fast.”

“you can still do it,” you said, stepping back with a teasing smile. “i insist.”

“wait—now?” daniela blinked.

“yes, dani. this is part of the confession.”

“you’re really gonna make me earn this, huh?” she sighed dramatically.

“i’ve been waiting for this moment.”

with a defeated laugh, she turned and gave a quick signal to someone hiding behind a nearby bush (probably manon). the speaker switched tracks smoothly to “can you stand the rain” by new edition.

daniela dramatically rolled her shoulders, pointed to the sky like she was on stage at the vmas, and began hitting moves with actual choreography—body rolls, smooth glides, a perfect spin right into a michael jackson point directly at you.

“wait. why is this good?” you blinked.

“told you i was serious,” daniela smirked mid-dance.

and when she hit the chorus, she brought out full-on boy band energy: chest clutching, kneeling into the ground, and throwing a wink at you during “storms will come, this we know for sure…”

she landed on her knee with her hand outstretched toward you like it was a proposal.

it was over-the-top. it was extra. it was so her.

you walked over, pretending to take her hand solemnly like she’d just finished a final performance on america’s got talent.

“damn you really show why i like you more and more everyday,” you whispered, cheeks hurting from smiling.

“i’m glad because i’m crazy about you,” she whispered back.

then she yanked you down onto the ground with her, still breathless from the dancing, pulling you into another kiss—deeper this time, slower, her hand slipping behind your neck to hold you there.

when you pulled back, foreheads resting together, she murmured, “you’re mine now, officially. i’m never letting go.”

“good,” you said. “because i wasn’t planning on leaving.”

the speaker, still softly playing r&b in the background, faded into a slower track. you both lay back in the grass, your head on her shoulder, fingers intertwined, the flowers still clutched in your hand.

“you said you were with manon?” you asked after a moment, glancing back toward the car.

“yep, she’s in the passenger seat,” daniela nodded, completely unbothered.

“and you just left her in there?” you blinked.

“she’ll be fine,” daniela waved it off.

“at least let her come and hang out with us,” you offered.

“why would we invite her?” daniela asked, genuinely confused.

“because i feel bad leaving her in the car like an abandoned child,” you said.

“i told you, she’s fine. she’s probably asleep,” daniela sighed.

“dani. be for real.”

“she said she didn’t want to come inside!” daniela defended. “i offered. she said and i quote: ‘if you two are gonna be doing couple shit, i’d rather be alone in here.’”

“that… sounds like manon,” you admitted.

“i even cracked a window like she’s a dog or something,” daniela smirked.

“you’re the worst,” you said, but you were already giggling. “can we at least bring her snacks or something?”

“we were literally at the store before we came here, she’s fine,” daniela said.

“that’s your sister from another mother and father; you can’t treat her like that.” you shook your head, biting your lip to suppress your smile.

“i love her, obviously,” daniela said as she pulled you close by the waist, guiding you to lie on your side so you were face-to-face. “but right now? i just wanna be here with you, and maybe get back to that very important couple shit we were doing earlier.”

you leaned in, resting your hands on her waist. “we can… whenever you don’t have manon locked in a car.”

“ugh, fine. i’ll go get her,” daniela groaned as she sat up.

you stayed sprawled on the grass, watching the stars blink lazily above you. a few moments later, daniela returned, with manon trailing behind her.

“was taking me home not an option?” manon deadpanned.

“i’m too lazy to drive back,” daniela said, already flopping down beside you and reclaiming her spot.

manon scanned the scene: the two of you curled up together, content as hell. “i don’t know what’s worse—being locked in that car or being a third wheel on the lawn like this.”

“come lay down with us,” you patted the empty space on your other side invitingly.

“i’m not getting in the grass to be in some freaky ass threesome with yall,” manon muttered.

“nobody said anything about that,” daniela said, rolling her eyes.

“just saying, if y’all start making out while i’m down here, i’m swinging,” manon warned as she reluctantly laid down.

“we wouldn’t do that in front of you,” you said.

“ugh, speak for yourself,” daniela groaned dramatically.

“we could lowkey become a throuple,” you teased.

“absolutely not,” both girls said at the same time.

“y/n, i swear—” manon sat up, pointing a warning finger. “this is not a polycule. i’m just here to be the fun aunt.”

“group cuddle?” you offered.

“no,” she said immediately. “…fine.” and then she leaned against your shoulder anyway.

daniela groaned but didn’t argue, just tucked herself tighter into your side.

BACK | MAIN | NEXT

TAGLIST 🪩 @saysirhc @wintersgff @sixflame438 @1luvkarina @ihrtantn @yeetaberry127 @urmom2314 @vrtualstar @sed7ction @inybits @ellezra @iisayfa @firstclassjaylee @modanisgf @kristalag @chaepu @wtfisthisnoclueman @xochitlisbest @taikatime @hotluvlet @yuyuyuuuuchlo @iluvyuandme

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fandomflotilla · 20 hours ago

Text

War of the Roses: Proposals

Ruby: Jaune, you’ve been close with us for a while now, and you really mean a lot to both me and Weiss.

Weiss: And we wanted to do this for tax purposes anyway, so…

Ruby: Will you marry us?

Jaune: Yes! Absolutely!

Weiss: Oh my god, you’ve made us so happy, Jaune.

Jaune: When’s the wedding, I need to find a new suit for the occasion!

Ruby: Three months!!!!!

Three months later…

Ruby: …Jaune. Why are you wearing a priest’s outfit?

Jaune: …because I’m marrying you and Weiss together? I mean I have the certification for being a deacon right here but I figured I’d look the part too.

Ruby: Deacon? Why would the you need to be a deacon…oh no.

Weiss: Why “oh no”? It’s not like he thought he was just…the…officiant…oh my god…

Jaune: …what?

Ruby: Jaune.

Ruby: When we said “Will you marry us?”, we meant will you be our GROOM.

Jaune: Oh.

Jaune: OH.

Jaune: Wait is THAT why you had me plan the honeymoon??????

Weiss/Ruby: YES.

Jaune: I THOUGHT I WAS JUST BEING A THOROUGH AND SUPPORTIVE OFFICIANT.

Ruby: WHY DO YOU THINK WE BOUGHT SO MANY CONDOMS?????

Jaune: I THOUGHT YOU WERE PRACTICING SAFE SEX!!!!!

Ruby: WHY WOULD WE NEED CONDOMS IF WE WERE ONLY HAVING LESBIAN SEX?????

Weiss: Wait, you told Jaune to buy condoms? Why would we need that?

Ruby: WHY WOULD WE NOT NEED CONDOMS????????

Weiss: I thought the point of getting married was to legally be able to rawdog it?? And tax breaks???? Is that not the point of marriage????????????

Ruby: THE POINT OF MARRIAGE IS TO LOVE AND SUPPORT EACH OTHER TILL DEATH DOES US PART, NOT RAWDOGGING IT AND TAX BREAKS.

Weiss: Wait, really? Huh. Learn something new every day. Honestly that makes marriage seem a lot more stressful. Not sure I would’ve agreed if I knew that.

Jaune: If it makes you feel better, Weiss, legally rawdogging it was the reason my parents said they got married, and they seem perfectly happy.

Weiss: Don’t you have 6 sisters?

Jaune: Seven.

Weiss: Damn. Okay, good to know the record to beat.

Ruby: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO?!?!???

Further into the pews…

Yang: *sniffle*

Yang: It’s so beautiful…my baby sister is getting married…

Taiyang: *sniffle*

Taiyang: It’s just like when Raven, Summer, Qrow and I got married. Right down to the rawdogging.

Qrow: Don’t remind me of that shit, Tai. I’ve spent 20 fucking years trying to forget that particular conversation. You’re lucky I haven’t divorced you.

Blake: Are none of you the least bit concerned that Ruby is basically the only sane person in this three way marriage? Are they going to call it off now?

Qrow: I assure you, Ruby is the least sane person onstage. The other two are dumb enough to not know what they’re doing, Ruby’s smart enough to know exactly what they’re doing, and is doing it anyway.

Ruby: *distantly* SO DO YOU IDIOTS WANT TO GET MARRIED OR NOT?

Weiss/Jaune: *distant murmuring*

Ruby: *distantly* GOOD. NOW IS THERE ANY OTHER IDIOT IN THIS FUCKING ROOM WHO CAN OFFICIATE THIS WEDDING????

Qrow: And that’s my cue. *gets up and walks down the aisle*

Blake: …you all deeply concern me.

Yang: Blakeeeeee, can we have a messy unorthodox wedding with Sunnnnn????????

Blake: …*sigh*

Blake: Fuck my life.

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midniqhtt · 5 hours ago

Text

part two comfort reads II 4k celebration

₊˚⊹⋆ main masterlist ꨄ︎ part one list ₊˚⊹⋆

a/n: ran out of links and tagging blogs. thus part two!

hi loves! i never do anything for celebrating but i thought i could make a big list of all my favorite fics i’ve read over the past few months/years and continue rereading. i can never get enough of showing my appreciation for writers and all their hard work, and i want them to know i think of these fics/series at least once a day ♡︎

key- A: angst II F: fluff II S: smut II C: comfort

.𖥔 HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE .𖥔

𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑼𝑺 𝑩𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑲

ꨄ︎ tulips part two II @amiableness II A + F + S

After finding out Remus Lupin has found himself a girlfriend, a devastated Y/n L/n asks Sirius Black to help her get over him. Except Sirius has feelings for her.

ꨄ︎ if you love something II @mischievousmoony II A

Your boyfriend, Sirius Black, hasn’t been faithful and you can’t stand it anymore.

𝑱𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑺 𝑷𝑶𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ time warp II @astonishment II A + F

when the time-turner breaks, you find yourself at the start of 6th year once again. the only difference? it’s 1976. stuck in a time you shouldn’t even be alive in, you do your best to blend in, anxiously awaiting to see if dumbledore can help you get home. that all goes out the window when you catch the eye of a certain bespectacled boy. and the more time you spend with him, the harder it gets to walk away. but you have to…right?

ꨄ︎ why didn’t we work out II @/astonishment II A + F

James Potter had two girlfriends in seventh year at Hogwarts. Y/N Y/L/N, who he dated for five months; and Lily Evan’s, who he dated afterwards. When he’s dared to call on of his exes, guess who’s number he dials…

ꨄ︎ i can see you II @pretty-little-mind33 II A + C

James panics when he sees what his boggart is.

ꨄ︎ i’ve got plans sorry part two II @livinginshambles II A + C

James is whipped. He adores his girlfriend so much, to the point that it starts to bother his friends. His reaction to a confrontation about it with his friends is to completely pull away from you, always finding new excuses to avoid you, leaving you to try and approach him. When you overhear him trying to be cool under peer pressure and say that you're too clingy, you also start pulling away, using the same excuses.

𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑼𝑺 𝑳𝑼𝑷𝑰𝑵

ꨄ︎ a man with a plan II @ellecdc II A + F

Remus planned to never fall in love. Moony had other plans. [link is ch8]

𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑶𝑫𝑶𝑹𝑬 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑻

ꨄ︎ peonies II @/amiableness II A + F

Reader is devastated when Mattheo gets a girlfriend and asks Theo to help her get over him.

𝑺𝑬𝑩𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑨𝑵 𝑺𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑶𝑾

ꨄ︎ the night shift pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 II @writing-intheundercroft II A + S + F

You're the lead healer in the St. Mungo's intensive care unit, and a painfully familiar face ends up in your ward.

𝑮𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑯 𝑾𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑳𝑬𝒀

ꨄ︎ illicit affairs II @festivalsofmargot II A + S

Garreth thinks back on his life with you, and it was far from perfect. But he’d relive every second if he had the chance.

.𖥔 STEVE HARRINGTON .𖥔

ꨄ︎ i’d knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss II @andvys II A + S

Steve was slipping through your fingers and you desperately held onto him not realizing that his heart wasn’t yours anymore. Dealing with the aftermath of your breakup turns out to be harder than you thought. Steve’s presence still lingers and while he keeps a hold of your heart, someone else sneaks their way into it too.

ꨄ︎ second chance II @astermath II A + F

steve decides to ask out the girl who he keeps seeing around hawkins with her nose in a book. he’s a little surprised when he gets brutally rejected, only to find out his “king steve” era is haunting him more than he expected. he attempts to make it up to you and show you he’s changed, even if it takes him a couple of tries.

ꨄ︎ hot for teacher II @handful0fteeth II S

you’re going on your first date with steve harrington, and hours before he’s due to pick you up your best friend gives you some rather unsavory information.

ꨄ︎ five tickets II @slashersteve II F

Steve couldn’t pass up a chance to be able to kiss you, even if there is a price.

ꨄ︎ for a good time call II @chestharrington II S + F

In the Summer of 1985, Steve's social standing is at an all time low. In an act of sheer, pathetic desperation, he calls a phone sex hotline. Little does he know, his dream girl from the hotline is just an escalator away.

ꨄ︎ christmas affairs II @maroon-cardigan II A + S + F

your christmas turns into a chaotic mess when your boss can’t fly back home and you end up stuck in New York City with him.

ꨄ︎ maybe this christmas time II @headkiss II F

working as an elf during the holidays (which he isn’t a fan of) is not how steve would choose to spend his time, neither is doing a bucket list of your creation. you end up changing his mind.

.𖥔 PEDRO PASCAL CHARACTERS .𖥔

𝑫𝑰𝑵 𝑫𝑱𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑵

ꨄ︎ best kept secret II @lincolndjarin II A + S + C + F

Married off to a prince on a planet that you hate? New husband doesn't know you, and doesn't want to know you? New husband gifts you a personal Mandalorian body guard as a wedding present? Mandalorian is a wiseass who won't leave you alone? Lucky you.

ꨄ︎ in a perfect world, you love me pt2 II @theidiotwhowritesthings II A + C

On the way to visit an old friend, you and Mando find trouble. Both of you are subjected to a drug that puts you in your perfect world. But, when you can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t, how do you know what to trust?

𝑱𝑶𝑬𝑳 𝑴𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ somewhere to run II @punkshort II A + S + C

You move to a small town in the middle of Texas to escape your past and start over. You don't expect to fall for the town's handsome sheriff.

ꨄ︎ i know who you are II @/punkshort II A + S + C

A fall on patrol causes you to lose your long term memory, forgetting the identities of your friends and loved ones. You have to learn all over again how to survive in a post-apocalyptic world, and you learn things about yourself along the way.

ꨄ︎ the fisherman’s wife II @joelmama II A + S + F

The free-spirited Reader is arranged to marry a divorced Fisherman named Joel Miller. And although she protested this at first, she soon wonders if maybe she could be happy with her new husband.

ꨄ︎ we bleed together II @bubbles-for-all-of-us II A

what if the last day of humanity was different? What if instead of loosing Sarah, Joel lost you - the mother of his two children and the person who had built him up to a better man.

𝑱𝑨𝑪𝑲 𝑫𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑺

ꨄ︎ cupcake II deactivated blog II F

Jack Daniels, lead used car salesman at his dealership, has a crush on you, the pretty receptionist. It's too bad he can't get out of his own way. Luckily for him, you have patience and a soft spot for shy cowboys.

ꨄ︎ hot chocolate II @/punkshort II F + S

You lead a quiet, boring life in a podunk town, but when a certain secret agent stumbles into your world needing your help to catch a criminal at the local carnival, your quiet little life changes forever.

𝑱𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 𝑷𝑬𝑵𝑨

ꨄ︎ online love II @absurdthirst and @storiesofthefandomlovers II A + S + F

Coming home after Cali, Javi finds that his dad has moved into modern times. There's a computer in the house. Unsatisfied with his reputation proceeding him, he decides to go online to find out if he can be the man he wants to be. Except the one he connects with, you, has a very complicated past together.

.𖥔 MISCELLANEOUS .𖥔

𝑷𝑶𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑵

ꨄ︎ hard landings II deactivated blog II A + F

Everybody in the kriffin galaxy seems to know you...Except for Poe.

ꨄ︎ something forgotten II @bensolosbluesaber II A + F

Poe Dameron is the love of your life, but he can’t remember you. Still, Poe finds himself drawn to you and seeing flashes of a life he has forgotten.

ꨄ︎ nine part two II @foxilayde II S

Idiots in love. You’re the idiot, mainly. You happen to hear something quite salacious about your bestie. And oooh boy, are you awful at keeping your shit together.

𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑵 𝑾𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ impetus II @wildwestdean II A + F

dean gets targeted by a witch while working a case, and she curses him to yearn for what he secretly loves the most. it seems to have no effect, until it's pointed out that he can't seem to stay away from you - but what happens when he tries to fight it?

ꨄ︎ friends after all part 34 II @angelkurenai II A + S

Dean Winchester. Mechanic. Neighbour. Best friend. Single father. And fake boyfriend? You babysit his daughter. You’ve known him for years and you’ve been really close. Everything will be put to test though when your sister's wedding approaches and he has the brilliant idea of pretending to be your boyfriend. Nobody would have ever thought of the result. Certainly not you.

𝑨𝑨𝑹𝑶𝑵 𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑵𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ sick of maybe II @luveline II A + C

You worry your boyfriend is ashamed of you. This is very much not the case. Or, 5 times Hotch hid your relationship (+1 time he didn’t).

ꨄ︎ three cents II @xneens II F

you butt dial your boss during a girls night … the girls night where you told them you’d fuck aaron hotchner for three cents.

𝑻𝑶𝑴𝑴𝒀 𝑴𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ wrong place, right time II @hauntedhowlett-writes II S

what if joel didn’t answer tommy’s call from jail? and what if the waitress he’d been defending that night bailed him out instead?

𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑯𝑼𝑹 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑵

ꨄ︎ fakin it II @hihomeghere II S

After a botched robbery, Arthur and you take refuge in a hotel, hiding from the O'Driscolls outside your door. When they do decide to search for you two, how will you throw them off your track?

#sirius black x reader #james potter x reader #remus lupin x reader #theodore nott x reader #sebastian sallow x reader #garreth weasley x reader #steve harrington x reader #din djarin x reader #joel miller x reader #javier peña x reader #jack daniels x reader #poe dameron x reader #dean winchester x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #tommy miller x reader #arthur morgan x reader #fic recs #fic recommendations

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a99jazzybean · 1 day ago

Note

OR it could be jaycexreader trying pot brownies 😬 I think that’ll be funny and can get spicy. If your are comfortable with it of courseee

This one was cute and fun to write! Thank you for the request!

High Enough

synop: You decided to make pot brownies for your roommate, but realize you don't have enough bud. You decide that using juice from a cart is a good idea. Jayce eats some of the brownies not realizing they have weed in them. He convinces you to get high and shenanigans ensue.

Reader is gender neutral but AFAB

words: 3.5K

includes: jaycexgn!reader, modern au, recreational drug use, weed use, high sex, creampie, smut

a/n: Guys, DO NOT make pot brownies like this. This recipe was inspired by my dumbass friends that poured a cart out into brownie mix. A tiny piece had me knocked out in 30 minutes. Do not recommend.

Dammit… You were all out of bud. You swore you had some left, but found measly crumbs at the bottom of your stash jar. That’s what you get for switching to pens you suppose.

A lightbulb went off in your head. That’s it! You could use a cart. That couldn’t go wrong, right?

You grabbed a fresh cart and some needle nose pliers and went to work on the cap. After some careful maneuvering, you managed to get it open without breaking the glass. Dumping it in your mixing bowl, you got to work making some brownies.

Turning on some tunes, you hummed and danced your way through cracking eggs and measuring flour. The brownies were for one of your roommates, Viktor. A “thank you” for getting you out of a bind on a major school project.

While they were a gift, you obviously were planning on trying them out yourself. Especially since you were experimenting with using a different form of weed. Probably best to see how you fared before accidentally making your friend green out.

When the brownies baked you found that this batch appeared to have less of the typical pungent scent than if you used flower. Noted.

After baking you left out the pan to cool. Deciding you needed a shower after accidentally covering yourself in flour, you headed down the hall. As you bathed, your other roommate returned home.

Upon entering, his nose and eyes were immediately drawn to the fresh baked brownies on the counter. Mouth watering, he skipped over to the kitchen. As the apartment’s resident baker, it wasn’t uncommon for you to randomly make goodies to share. Jayce saw this as no different. Pulling out a knife, he cut himself a decent piece of brownie. Taking a large bite out of the gooey chocolate, he moaned with content.

When you walked out of the bathroom, you heard Jayce shuffling out in the kitchen. Eyes widening, you rushed in. It was too late. The man had already scarfed down the brownie, his hand reaching once more to cut out another piece.

“STOP!” You yell, hand out.

Turning around, Jayce gave you a confused wide-eyed stare.

“What’s wrong?” Oh how naive the man was.

“Jayce, those are pot brownies.”

“Wait, really? I can’t taste it at all.”

“I might have used juice from a cart instead of flower…” You trailed sheepishly.

“WHAT???” His eyes grew even wider. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I ran out of bud! And I wanted to do something nice for Viktor!” You shrugged your shoulders.

“Something nice for-“ He let out an exasperated sigh. “ I’m pretty sure what you have created might put the man in a coma.”

You scoffed.

“I doubt it. He’s got an insane tolerance.”

“Regardless, I’ve eaten one.” His eyes narrowed at you.

“Don’t blame me! You ate one without asking!”

“You bake things all the time! How was I supposed to know?” He was growing very concerned.

“Hey, let’s calm down.” You softened your voice. The last thing you needed was for Jayce to spiral.

“How are you feeling?”

“I can already feel my head getting lighter.”

“Okay, so we know it hits pretty quickly.” You walked up to him slowly, taking his hand to help ground him.

He grasped yours tightly.

“I’ll keep an eye on you, kay?” Your thumb traced circles on the back his hand. The tender action made him shiver.

“What if you joined me?” Gears were turning in his head.

“What do you mean?”

“Eat one too.” He gave you pleading puppy dog eyes.

“Jayce, we have no idea how this will affect you, much less me.” You shook your head at him.

“Were you just planning on giving them to Viktor?” He eyed you suspiciously.

“W-well, no. I was going to try them-“

“Then try them. Since you were already planning on it.” He cut you off.

Those damned pleading puppy-dog eyes had you wavering. Really, what would be the harm? As long as you stay home you should be fine, hopefully.

Nodding, you gave his hand a squeeze of reassurance. He beamed at your response, making your heart swell.

Ushering you over to the counter, Jayce cut out a piece for you. You took it, giving the treat a once-over. Looking at Jayce, he was shifting side-to-side impatiently. Eyes blown out, leaving a tiny visible ring of a hazel iris.

“This is what that D.A.R.E. officer warned me about in eighth grade.” You sighed, then took a bite.

Chocolatey goodness filled your senses. Jayce was right, you couldn’t taste anything off about the brownies. Oh, that was dangerous.

You swallowed then looked at Jayce expectantly.

“What now?”

“We could chill in my room, or yours. Doesn’t matter to me.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

Jayce really, really did not want to be left alone right now. And if you were going to be in the same state as him might as well do it together, right? It’s not like he was expecting anything out of it. After all, you were very good friends. But in his weed addled mind, there was a teensy part of him that was hoping for maybe something more.

See, you were absolutely fucking gorgeous in the man’s eyes. While you had been close friends for a long while now, Jayce secretly wished for something more.

It didn’t help that the two of you had enjoyed the occasional sloppy make out sesh that followed an evening of drinking. Giving the man just a taste of what you had to offer, and nothing more.

The thing was, you also wanted a little something more as well. Not necessarily a relationship. But having a hot piece of ass like him around was tempting to say the least.

“We can chill in my room.” You said, grabbing his hand and dragging him down the hall.

Jayce had spent time in your room every so often, but it still felt like a sacred space. Especially now when it felt like his mind was floating.

Once in your room you hopped onto your bed. Sinking into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. This was the best part about being high. Just laying down and feeling it hit you. Limbs sinking down into the plush of your bed. Lifting your head a bit, you spotted Jayce awkwardly watching you. Shuffling in place like he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

“Get in here, Talis.” You motioned for him to join you.

He padded over to your bed, then laid down beside you. A small smile on his face as he watched you in content bliss.

“It’s so nice to just sink in.” You sighed.

“I take it the brownie has hit?”

You nodded with a hum. Allowing yourself to enjoy the pleasant buzz in your head.

Reaching out, you grabbed Jayce’s hand. He intertwined his fingers with yours and you let out another sigh.

“You have really nice hands.” You lifted his hand above your face, studying it. “So warm. They’re working hands,” you traced the calluses at the top of his palm, “but somehow still soft. Yes, very nice hands.” You hummed bringing his palm to your lips and placing a tender kiss in the center.

Mouth agape, Jayce stared at you wide eyed. A red flush dusting his cheeks.

Looking at him, you gave him a sweet smile. One he couldn’t help but return.

Even though you were holding his hand, the distance between you felt too far. Jayce wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you closer to him. Nose to nose, you giggled. This felt… really nice. Humming, you nuzzled your nose against his. The adorable action made him blush even harder.

Damn, you sure got physical when high. Not that he minded.

“Jayce…” You mumbled, then pressed yourself into the space beneath his chin. Your face pushed into his chest. “You’re soooo warm.”

“I think you’re higher than I am.”

Shrugging your shoulders you nuzzled into his chest. The man curled his arms tighter around you. Leaning his head down, he pressed a warm kiss onto your forehead.

“This feels really nice.” You murmured.

The comforting sinking returned. Feeling your body go heavy as you slumped into the man. Almost like you were going to meld with him.

Jayce’s skin was buzzing. Your touch feels ten times more intense than normal. As you curled up into the man, your hands roamed over him. Trailing up his torso and neck, fingers curling into his hair. Slowly they skimmed back down his arms. A pattern of movements that had him shivering against you. God, did it feel amazing.

“I really like that…” He said softly, kissing your forehead again.

“Mmm, yeah?” You gave him a dazed smile.

“Yeah.”

Your hands returned to his hair. Fingers scraping against his scalp, making him let out a low groan.

“You’re like a puppy.” You giggled to yourself as you continued to pet him. “So cute.”

“A puppy?” He questioned.

“Yeah. The way you’re responding to my pets. And you have puppy-dog eyes.”

“Puppy-dog eyes?” He gave you a confused look, head cocked to the side. Looking exactly like a confused dog.

Giggling again, you snuggled as close as you could to the man.

“Puppy-dog eyes that convinced me to get high with you.” You poked him in the chest. “They’re dangerous.”

He chuckled, puffs of air hitting the top of your head.

“Dangerous.”

“Exactly. So use them for good next time.” You admonished him with a finger.

“Is this not something good?”

Pondering on it, you shrugged.

“I’m not complaining, I suppose.” You gave him a sweet smile.

“Anything I can do to make it better?”

“I dunno. You got any ideas?” You gave him a sultry look.

He licked his lips nervously, eyes darting between your own and your lips. Leaning up, you pressed your nose against his. Lips just barely brushing against his. Looking into his eyes expectantly, you spoke softly.

“Well?”

Warm lips crashed into yours messily. The man moaned as soon as he pressed against you. Every fiber of his body on fire when you pressed your lips against his. Teasingly, you lightly lapped against his bottom lip. Jayce slightly opened his mouth, inviting your tongue to tangle with his. You slid your tongue into his mouth, groaning at his taste.

His hands roamed over your body. Appreciating the fact you wore nothing under your comfy pjs. Large fingers pinched your nipples over your clothes. You squeaked at the sudden sparks of pleasurable pain. He swallowed the sound, moaning against you. He was rutting against your thigh, making you feel the prominent bulge straining against his sweats.

Pausing for a breath, you slightly pushed away, looking over him. This probably shouldn’t go further. Although there was a burning ache in your groin, you knew that going into this high wasn’t the smartest decision. But you didn’t really make a smart decision on the brownies while sober… so perhaps the night was one ready for many mistakes. Though you didn’t feel like hooking up with Jayce was a mistake. It could be for him though, you wouldn’t hold that against him.

“Is everything okay?” He wanted to pull you back to him.

“Uh, yeah. I just don’t know if we should continue. I wouldn’t want you to regret anything.” You looked away from him, embarrassed.

“I could never regret anything with you.” His eyes pleaded with you, hips shaking as he did his best not to rut himself against you again.

His words made your heart swell, a blush flushing on your cheeks. Pushing yourself back in, you gave him a deep kiss. Fuck it. You wanted this, your body was making you feel like you needed this.

“I’ll take it you’re okay with us continuing?”

“Oh fuck yes.” You pressed your lips against his again, earning you a deep moan.

Jayce returned to rubbing up against your thigh. Letting out little whimpers at the friction against his hard cock. Feeling his length against you had you drooling at the thought of him inside of you. Through the fabric of his pants you could feel how long and thick he was. It would be a stretch, but you wanted all of the man in front of you.

“C-can I taste you?” Jayce pulled back for a breath. “I really want you to sit on my face.”

That had you flushing furiously.

“Are you sure?” You asked softly. A part of you was concerned about hurting him.

“Yes. I want- no. I need it.”

You nodded, agreeing. He beamed at you before shuffling your bodies on the bed. Rolling himself beneath you. You were straddling his waist and felt the head of his cock through his pants brush against your clothed sex. You whimpered at the friction.

Jayce reached for your sleep shorts, eyes asking for permission. Nodding, you maneuvered your legs to help him remove the article. After tossing them, he turned to look at you. Groaning at the shiny slick coating your pussy and thighs. Lifting you up, he encouraged you to crawl to his face. Obliging, you made your way above him. Holding onto the headboard, you slowly lowered yourself over him. Large arms encircled your thighs, forcing you onto his waiting mouth. The sudden action makes you cry out.

With a warm tongue, Jayce licked a stripe down your pussy. Your body was buzzing and sensitive with your high, making the pleasure more intense. Lapping through your folds, Jayce was making you release noises you had never known you could make before. Each whine and moan shot straight to his straining cock. Twitching impatiently as he made you fall apart on his tongue.

You had to use the headboard to stabilize yourself. Around his head, your thighs were shaking as pure pleasure coursed through your body. Warmth was growing in your belly with each tantalizing lick against your clit.

Beneath you, Jayce groaned. You were fucking delicious. He felt like he could stay under you for hours. Hearing the sounds you were making made him wish he could just hold you pressed against his tongue.

“C-close!” You squeaked out.

Jayce had begun flicking his tongue against you quickly. Each flick builds up your climax. With how sensitive you were, it would only be a matter of time before you burst. His tongue continued to flick against you rapidly. At this point, your entire body was shaking with the build of your orgasm. One perfectly placed swirl against your clit was your undoing.

Practically screaming, you came on his face. Squirting over his chin with the force that your orgasm hit you. Between your squeezing thighs, Jayce thought he died and went to heaven. Oh he would gladly die squished in your plush thighs, your taste filling his senses.

He only gave you a brief moment before his mouth was back on you.

“Jayce!” You squealed as he overstimulated your cunt.

It seemed like he didn’t need to breathe as he continued to eat you out with fervor. Tongue tasting every inch of you, occasionally pushing into you. You could barely keep your body up as the shaking grew stronger. Your climax rapidly grows with each lap against your sopping pussy.

With a shaky hand, you reach for the top of his head. Fingers curling into his hair. The feeling made him moan against you.

This time, your orgasm hit you like a train. Crashing through your entire body with a giant wave of pleasure. Above him you twitched and whimpered as his tongue continued to lick you. Eventually you pressed your hand against his forehead, making him let you go.

“T-too much, Jayce!” You whined.

Sliding off of his face, you flopped belly down onto the bed. Jayce eyed your bare ass and legs, licking his lips with anticipation. He slid behind and over you. Turning to watch him, you felt your thighs clench. Flopping against his belly was probably the most enticing cock you had ever seen. Tip flushed an angry red, just begging to be fucked.

Jayce looked at you, the hunger in his gaze making you shiver. Wiggling your hips, you urged him to continue. He spread your legs, and pressed down on your back. You lifted your hips, whining impatiently.

Because of that, Jayce decided to tease you. Dragging his cock between your folds. Gathering up your ever-accumulating slick dripping out of you. His cock caught on your entrance, making you whimper. Fuck, you needed him to fill you. You felt like you were floating and sinking at the same time. A pleasurable bliss that was about to get better.

Slowly, Jayce pressed himself into you. Thick cock stretching you out deliciously. Both of you moaned as he continued to push his length inside. His cock brushing against the gummy spot that had you keening.

“That feel good?” He leaned his body over yours, murmuring into your ear.

It felt too good. You couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Instead, you decided to nod vigorously. Hoping he would move inside you.

“Mmm, good.” He crooned, pulling out slowly then slamming back into you.

Your whole body jolted with pleasure as his cock began to abuse your sweet spot. Head of his length continuing to hit it over and over again. Clutching the bedsheets you were a sobbing mess. The oversensitivity from your high mixed with the pure pleasure the man was giving you caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes.

“J-Jayce!” You cried out and one very intense thrust.

“F-fuck,” he released a stuttering breath against your neck. “Please cum, please cum for me. I need to feel you. So fucking bad.” He nuzzled into your shoulder.

Jayce would soon be getting his wish. An intense pleasure was blooming within you, making you gasp and moan. This man was making you feel like an overstimulated puddle. Each press of his cock makes the pleasure grow tenfold. Your entire body was ready to shatter.

And shatter you did. Jayce’s cock thrusting in and out of you, draggin your orgasm along with it. Your pussy clenched his cock, drenching your bed sheets as you came.

Jayce groaned, but held himself back. He needed to feel you do that at least one more time.

You whined when he pulled out of you, then yelped when he flipped you over. A brief moment of soberness had you remembering that he was actually really strong. Then your stoned brain chimed in with how fucking hot it was that he was manhandling you so desperately.

He had you on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders. As he pressed back into your wet heat, he gave you a sloppy kiss. The two of you catching eachother’s moans of pleasure. He pushed up your shirt to your shoulders. Warm hands cupped your breasts, teasing over your nipples. The action makes you shiver all over.

His hands moved to your waist to give him more leverage. Fast thrust pummeled the sweet spot within you. Jayce managed to hit it perfectly in this position too. Crying out, you felt a sting of pleasure. Thick fingers were circling your abused clit, sending sparks shooting through your body. Moans and whimpers escaping you with each circle. Your hands clenched his biceps for purchase as your body shook.

He could feel your pussy pulsing around him. Another climax building inside you. He chased your high, wanting to cum with you. Knowing he could burst at any moment, Jayce hoped you would join him. The tightness in his balls was growing a bit too unbearable.

As if your body was answering his wish, he felt you clench against his length. Unconsciously thrusting your hips as you chase down your orgasm. A scream of pleasure ripping out of you as you gushed around him.

Warmth filled you as Jayce was granted his release. Cock twitching deep inside you as hot ropes of his cum poured in. A pleasurable feeling that seemed never ending. Jayce’s orgasm lasted long after he had fully unloaded in you. Cock overstimulated with the feeling of your tight twitching walls around him.

Both of you came down from your orgasm highs. Still extremely high from the brownies. Something that could easily be read based on your drooping eyelids and dopey smiles. Before pulling out, Jayce kissed all over your face. You giggled as his lips pecked all over your cheeks.

“That was amazing.” He purred against your neck, giving you a kiss. “You are amazing.”

“You feel sososososo good, Jayce.” You pressed a kiss to his lips.

With a groan, Jayce pulled out of you. His eyes transfixed on your pussy now dripping out his spend.

“That’s hot.” He looked up, chuckling at your confused expression.

Kissing your forehead, he stood up.

“I’ll get us cleaned up.”

After a moment, Jayce returned with a wet washcloth. Softly he wiped you down. You softly thanked him for helping you. He responded with a sweet kiss.

When you were both cleaned up, Jayce returned to snuggle up in your bed. Large warm arms held you close to him. You felt yourself drifting as Jayce spoke to you softly. The man letting out a stream of compliments and fond memories. Occasionally he would kiss you, feeling like he was drowning in your lips.

“We should do this again.” Jayce said softly.

“Yeah? Yeah.” You giggled, answering yourself.

“Though I think we could skip the brownies next time.”

#a99jazzybean #jayce arcane x reader #jayce talis #jayce arcane #arcane #arcane fanfic #modern au #fanfic request

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diorchids · 3 days ago

Text

FATHER, FORGIVE ME!

♱ father charlie mayhew x reader. 𝜗𝜚

w/c: 4.1k

a/n: originally wrote this for miguel o'hara but charlie my guinea pig. voilà! (i can always post if someone wants itttt, wink, wink!)

the feeling after sinning. uncomfortable, guilty, shameful.

you’d just moved into the city and needed to get out of the house, and back to god. your neighbor stopped by and asked you to join them at church. you were planning on it anyway, and it’s not too far, so why not?

"good morning, i hope all of you had a lovely morning today," he smiles until his gaze lands on you. "i see we have someone new with us."

you smile awkwardly and wave to him and everyone around you. his whole sermon was amazing. his cadence, his gestures, his voice were entrancing. you absorbed every bit of it, but attributed that to the scripture.

you came constantly for months after that, dropping plans to make sure you’d be there to witness him in all of his glory.

one morning after service he’d noticed you in the back, helping yourself to the foods placed by fellow churchgoers. he slyly sneaked behind you and spoke, "ah, a familiar face. how have you been?" he takes a step closer, his huge frame allowing him to tower over you. "i must say, you look absolutely radiant today," his smile widens as he takes in your appearance. "it's hard not to notice the way you light up the room, all glory be to god.”

you nervously smile and relax your tense shoulders, it’s like his presence is a remedy to you. “thank you, father. i’m a bit stressed today, though,” you play with the hem of your skirt while talking, the skirt he knows all too well. “oh, that’s no good, my child. perhaps a…” his eyebrows furrow, “confession is due.”

you nod as before he leads the way to the confessional. an uncomfortable feeling sits in your stomach as you walk behind him, his broad shoulders and burly arms cloud your head with disgusting thoughts. he allowed you to walk in front, admiring your stride toward repentance.

you moved the curtain to the side as you both sat inside the confessional. “father?” you whispered into the latticed opening. you saw his brown eyes, then heard his voice, “yes, my child?” you cleared your throat anxiously before he spoke again, “remember; i’m here to listen and guide you in the name of the lord.”

you nod before pausing and sighing, being filled with guilt and needing cleansing. “i… i’ve done something bad,” you say. charlie’s hand sits on his knee, slightly digging his nails into it as you spoke. your voice was soft. it was innocent. a girl like you couldn’t have done anything. his hand inched closer to his inner thighs, dragging it over his sensitive parts as you talk.

“please—please, tell me what you've done," charlie leans in closer, his gaze to the floor as his ear faces you as he waits for you to speak. he couldn’t look at you while he did this, softly rutting against the palm of his hand, stifling groans threatening to escape his lips.

“i… i—” you’re nervous. rightfully so, this is you asking for forgiveness. confessing your disgusting actions to the very man you look up to. “i… engaged in sinful behavior, father. he… touched my body in a way i’d never been touched before. and i—i enjoyed it. i begged him for more, for him to… be inside of me.”

charlie tries to keep his composure, but the mention of such explicit acts catches him off guard. he can’t help but imagine you, sprawled out on a bed, perhaps a couch, of an older man like himself. the man touching you, fingers running over your clothed cunt as you whimpered softly, begging, pleading with him to take you. at this point, he clasped his hands together tightly, not daring to free them, keeping his professional demeanor, "it’s important you learn to not only seek forgiveness from god but to forgive yourself. That’s what matters, my child.”

you look at him through the lattices, eyes full of guilt as you swallow harshly. “thank you, father. i should go,” as you adjust your skirt and pull open the curtain before he could register you leaving.

"goodbye, my child. may god be with you always." charlie says loudly as you walk down the hall and watches as you leave, feeling an immense amount of relief, knowing you were too far for him to touch. to hear. god knows what he would’ve done if you’d stayed.

you sat in silence when you got home, becoming embarrassed at the thought of your encounter with him. you had to do something to calm yourself down.

you touched yourself. to the thought of him. your priest. this wasn’t a new thing, you did this practically every night, looking on the church's website for pictures and clips of him, finding his facebook that’d been inactive for years, only finding old, pixelated pictures.

charlie's face lights up with happiness and surprise at seeing you again the next morning, you came back to the church hours after service had ended.

"welcome back, my child. it's good to see you again," he gestures for you to follow him to his chambers and take a seat, eager to hear what's on your mind.

“last time we spoke… you bravely confessed your sins to me. have you made any progress with that?” he sat behind a brown wooden desk, adorned with symbols and photos. “i haven’t. i have this… this feeling,” you avoid eye contact and stammer stupidly.

charlie nods, understanding the need for you to talk about what's on your mind. "what kind of feeling, my child?" he asks softly, giving you space to express yourself and exploring the feeling with you. he only stayed for the small chance of you coming, hoping you’d barge in at the last moment, maybe late at night, begging. for forgiveness of course.

your lips part involuntarily, “whenever i see you… it’s—it’s…” charlie's eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he maintains his composure and continues to listen attentively. "go on," he encourages, leaning in slightly to show his interest and support.

“…lust.” a painful feeling sits deep in your stomach again. a familiar feeling. charlie takes a deep breath and nods, understanding the weight of your words. "i see," he says quietly, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts before continuing. under his desk, he’d been rubbing himself through his vestments, holding back groans as you awaited an answer.

you shake your head and it hangs low, “i’m sorry,” digging your nails into your palms as you regretted your words.

charlie waves off your apology with a smile, "there's no need to apologize, my child. it's natural to have such feelings and emotions. the important thing is that you recognize them and are seeking guidance, and that, my child, is why you’re here.”

you lift your head slowly, disbelieving his calm demeanor. how could he just be so calm? “but… do you ever feel that way?” you ask him.

charlie meets your gaze with a steady and clear look, "as a priest, it's important for me to maintain a certain level of celibacy and focus on my duties. but, i am still a man, with human desires and temptations." he pauses, considering his next words carefully, knowing he has to keep a level of control over this conversation.

“tell me about them. about your desires, father,” you say quickly, practically sitting on the edge of your seat, waiting for his words.

“well, my child," Charlie starts, taking a slow and deliberate breath. "my desires are complex and varied, like anyone else's. i desire companionship, a sense of belonging, and affection. and yes, there is a physical aspect to it as well."

for the first time, you realize your priest, the man you look to for guidance, also has needs. you’re familiar with priests’ celibacy, but you’d never thought of how much it’d affect them.

“if you don’t mind me asking, who do you think about, father?” you’re curious, to say the least. "well," charlie starts, taking a slow and deliberate breath. who does he think about? those older women who sit in the front rows? the recently divorced mother who helps clean after every service? who?

“i always… find myself thinking of you before i sleep,” you admit, leaving out the small part of you curling your fingers inside your tight hole, knuckles deep as you think about him.

he looks at you, surprises evident in his features. "i see... i didn't realize my presence would have such an effect on you, my child." he pauses, studying your face with a soft look. “it does, father,” you break away from the eye contact, “it really does.”

“now, i must ask, how do you think about me?”

you could lie and say you think about his words, about scripture, about anything else. but you can’t. you can’t lie to him now. “a-about your face. the way you speak to me, about your body.” charlie's cheeks flush, a mixture of shock and embarrassment crossing over his features. he never thought his body would be the subject of someone's desire before, let alone someone who he finds himself attracted to. "i... i see." he clears his throat, stammering slightly. "i—”

you interrupt, “i touch myself to you. to the thought of you,” charlie's breath hitches as he takes in your words, his mind racing with a mixture of guilt and arousal. he knows he shouldn't be feeling this way, but he can't help how his body reacts to your confession. "my child..."

“so much. it’s disgusting, really,” you grind your teeth after you confess, utter embarrassment being the only feeling you have. charlie looks at you with shock in his eyes at your words. he knows he shouldn't be having these feelings himself, let alone someone else having them towards him. "please, my child, do not say such things. nothing is disgusting about desire and attraction.”

but it is disgusting. lying down, scrolling through facebook while you pump your fingers in and out, just barely hitting that spot. praying for your priest to be at your doorstep, ready to give you what you’ve been waiting for.

“i don’t want these thoughts, please,” you say, practically begging him for a solution for this. whether it be another baptism, more involvement in the church, you’ll do it. charlie takes a deep breath before turning to face you, his expression filled with compassion and understanding. "these feelings, my child, they are natural and normal. but you shouldn’t relish in them. there are ways to manage these—impure feelings.”

you nodded before asking another question. “do… do you think about me?” and this time, you don’t look away from him.

charlie's face turns a deeper shade of red, his eyes unable to meet yours. "i... i cannot deny that you have occupied my thoughts on more than one occasion, my child." he admits, looking up at you from under his eyelashes.

“really?”

"yes, really," charlie confirms, a small smile playing on his lips. "you have been a constant presence in my thoughts since we first met. your kindness, your strength, your beauty... it has all left an impression on me." he explains quietly, unable to look away from you now. you realize, hearing him speak of you, he’s pure. at least mostly. he speaks about you like an artist does their muse.

your hand was planted on the chair between your legs, and your hips slowly moving back and forth on the wood. “how do you think about me? how much do you think about me?” a soft smile creeping onto your face as you watch him become flustered again.

charlie takes a deep breath, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "i think about you in ways that a man of the cloth should not think about a member of his flock. i think about your lips, your skin, your body... and i desire you, my child,” he was palming his pent-up, strained cock under his vestments eat time you probed him, your innocent yet lust-filled eyes made him practically cum in his underwear like a teenage boy.

“father.”

"yes, my child?" charlie answers breathily, his body tingling with arousal at the way you say the word 'father'. oh, how he’d love to take you. "is there something more you would like to say?" he asks, his voice low and husky, a clear sign of his growing desire and attraction towards you.

you bite your plump lip before speaking, still softly rocking your hips against your hand, “i need you.”

he stands and walks to you, his gaze darkens as he hears your words, his body reacting immediately to them. he takes another step closer to you, his eyes locked on yours. "you need me, my child?" he repeats in a voice filled with raw desire and longing. "my child, i’m here… i am yours.”

you nod your head, lips parted, eyes wide, “i’ll do anything you ask, father,” desperately wanting him to touch you. charlie's throat tightens as he hears your words, his desire growing even stronger as he imagines all the things he could ask you to do. "anything, my child?" he asks, his voice husky with need and lust.

“yes, anything.” you say slowly, watching the way his face reddens. charlie takes a deep breath, his movements becoming almost predatory as he steps closer to you. "i want you, my child. i want to touch you, to taste you... i want to be with you in every possible way," he says, his eyes filled with a burning desire and lust. his poor cock straining against his tight underwear, practically begging for release.

you tilt your head, “then do that.”

charlie's movements become almost frantic as he hears your words, his body aching with desire for you. he reaches out and grabs you, pulling you close against his body. "oh, i will do that.”

he touches you everywhere, hands roaming your legs and ass, breasts and neck as he leans down for you, being tiny compared to him. you kiss his neck as he ruts his hips against you like an animal in heat.

charlie shudders with pleasure as you kiss his neck, a low moan escaping from his lips. he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you even closer to him and burying his face in the crook of your neck. "m-my child... you feel so good..." he says. you tease him, whispering in his ear, “bet you’re aching right now, hm? do you touch yourself at home, father?” you tease.

he’s hunched over with his cock pressed up against you, eyes half-lidded, charlie's body tenses at your words, his desire burning even hotter as he realizes you can sense his need. "yes," he admits in a low voice. "i do. w-when i am alone. i can’t help but touch myself, imagining how it would feel to be with you."

“sinful. so, so sinful,” you whisper.

charlie nods, his expression serious. "yes, my child. it is a sin. but in this moment, i cannot resist you. i cannot resist the temptations of the flesh." he leans in and presses his lips to yours, deepening the kiss as he becomes lost in the moment. you exhale at his words, they’re almost poetic. “you’re unmarried, aren’t you? when was the last time you had sex?” you ask, genuinely curious but still touching him. he begins to lift his vestments and unbuckle his slacks underneath.

charlie hesitates for a moment, his body going stiff with guilt. "it’s been m-many years, my child. i have dedicated myself to serving the lord and have not allowed myself to be tempted in such a way for a long time.” he says, looking away from you, still letting his hands roam your figure as they begin to reach into your skirt. your fingers curve over his bulge as you softly squeeze, “may i?” a soft voice in his ear making him crazy.

charlie's breath hitches at your words, his body trembling with desire. he nods, his eyes filled with longing as he watches you. "yes, my child. please. i beg of you." he sits and spreads his legs wider, giving you better access to his throbbing cock.

you drop to your knees, hand reaching out to touch him, thinking about how much he’s been needing this. his slacks are unzipped, giving you the perfect view of his big cock through his underwear. you hook your finger onto the waistband and tug them down to his ankles as he whispers under his breath.

“shh. just relax, father.”

your lips stretch around his girthy length as you moan around him and charlie's body tenses as you take him into your mouth, his breath coming in short gasps as you begin to suck his cock. his fingers grip the back of your head tighter, guiding your movements as he loses himself in the pleasure. "my… goodness… so, so good.”

you pull off him to ask, “does it feel good, father?” only to slap his puffy tip on your lips and run your tongue along a vein. charlie nods, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. "yes, my child," he breathes. "it feels so good. please, don't stop." his nails dug into the arm of the chair as he bucks up into your mouth, desperately chasing release.

you deliver kisses to the head of his throbbing cock while you watch him thrash and tremble, reveling in the feeling of eliciting this reaction from your priest. charlie lets out a low moan as you kiss his cock, his hips thrusting forward in response. "oh, yes, my child. just like that." he gasps, his hands tightly gripping the back of your head.

“c-come on, just cum for me.”

charlie's eyes roll back in his head as he feels himself getting closer and closer to the edge. with a loud moan, he finally reaches his peak, spilling his hot seed into your mouth. you practically choke around him, trying to swallow all of his delicious cum. "oh, god, yes!" he cries out, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm.

“there we go… let it all out for me, father,” you say as you pump his thick cock ‘till it’s empty. charlie takes a few deep breaths, slowly coming down from his high. you swallowed all of his cum, practically choking on it as his legs trembled when you dug your nails into them.

you licked every bit of him clean.

you sat there, on your knees in front of him as you spoke, “fuck me, father. need it s’bad,” your plump lips poke out as you utter those words. you're teasing him.

he hesitates for a moment. why? he wants you. in fact, he needs you. he’s waited for this for too long to hesitate like this. “father, speak,” you whisper adamantly.

charlie's voice comes out in a desperate whisper, his eyes burning into yours. "you know i can't resist you... but we shouldn't be doing this here..." he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. "but i yearn for you, my child." his eyes were locked onto yours, the sweat on his forehead mixing with yours as he spoke to you.

“then don’t resist me,” you whisper. you stand in front of him before lifting your skirt slowly. he’s met with the sight of your heat, soaking through your underwear. your underwear was white with lace trim and a small bow. you look down at him with those eyes that said everything. touch me, please. they say silently.

charlie looks up at you with his eyes, eyebrows softly furrowed before he moves to remove your skirt, pulling it down and having you step out of it. “i need you, my child,” he says in between breaths before grabbing your waist and delivering kisses all over your stomach. “i’ve always needed a woman,” kiss, “of god,” kiss, “to call my own,” kiss, “but i couldn’t. now,” he delivers a sloppy kiss right under your belly, “that won’t matter.”

he rubs your cunt through your underwear as you become a whimper mess under his touch. he stands before sitting you down on his desk and motioning you to lie down. you obey as he continues to touch your heat, rubbing lazily as he pushes his, now-clothed, cock against the dark wood of his desk. he moans softly as you do, getting loud before quieting himself.

his middle finger rubs your wet cunt up and down through your underwear before pulling the cloth to the side, getting a beautiful view of your glistening pussy. you throb for him. “oh, father!” you sigh.

he shushes you softly, his middle finger pressing against your entrance without pushing in. "we have to be quiet, my lamb," he kisses you deeply, his tongue pushing past your lips as his finger finally pushes inside you slowly. you gasp into his mouth as he moves in and out of you slowly.

his finger is quite thick. thicker than you’d thought when you imagined him fingering you in the confessional. you let out little whines and cries as he plunges his finger into you.

charlie watches you intently as he slowly pumps his finger inside your tight hole. he adds another finger, his ring, stretching you gently despite your cries of discomfort. he leans down and whispers in your ear, “i know this hurts right now,” he kisses your neck softly before continuing, “but it’ll feel good soon.”

he’d be lying if he said your cries didn’t excite him even more.

“ohhh, fuck, father,” you cried, his fingers digging deeper into your velvety walls.

he groans at your words, his fingers moving faster inside you. he reaches down and unbuckles his pants, freeing his hard cock. he positions himself between your legs and slowly pushes his thick head into your tight hole. “god…” he looks up and sighs.

charlie pauses once he’s fully inside you, giving you time to adjust. he leans down and kisses you softly before whispering, “father loves you so much,” he pulls out slowly before slamming back into you hard causing you to scream out again. “father loves being inside of you.” as he rubs your puffy clit in circles lazily. you gasp out, “father!”

"that’s it, say father's name," he commands as he pounds into you. the sound of his hips smacking against your ass fills the room. "say it loud so god can hear you worshipping father." you muster up the strength to yell, “yes, father!”

charlie smirks at your response, continuing to pound into your tight hole with reckless abandon. he’s fucking disgusting, frankly. lord knows he’d been waiting for you to make a move. he couldn’t say no to his penitent!

his thumb on your clit combined with his thick cock hitting that good spot over and over again has you seeing stars. he leans down and bites your neck hard, marking you as his. “cum for father, lamb.”

your legs were jelly—useless, soft, shaking under his touch. you feel that warm knot forming in your stomach, that tingling sensation in your clit as you slowly fall apart. you cum all over his cock, your tightness choking his length, pulsing around him. charlie groans deeply as he feels your tight hole clench around his cock, milking him. he thrusts a few more times before slamming deep inside you one last time, holding your waist as he releases his hot load deep within you. "that’s it, take father’s seed.”

he continues to pump his seed deep into you for no reason at all. "spread your legs wider," he says, pushing your thighs apart roughly. he watches his thick white seed drip out of you slowly. he pushes it back inside with two fingers, making you whimper. he knows you're overstimulated but he needs more of his seed inside you. how can you blame him? you just look so… angelic.

he cups your face with his hand as he looks at you with those eyes. "god wanted you pregnant with my babies," charlie whispers, pushing more and more of his hot cum inside you with his fingers. “this is what god wants," he says, lying. you nod in agreement, of course, this is. why wouldn’t he want this? this is good. right?

"that’s enough for today, lamb," chalie says softly, gently pulling out of you and watching more cum drip out. He helps you clean up, being surprisingly gentle despite his previous rough behavior. as he buttons up his priestly robe again, he leans down to kiss your forehead tenderly.

"remember, my dear," charlie whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "he wants this," he points upward. he straightens up and gives you one last lingering look before disappearing back into the shadows of the church.

uncomfortable.

guilty.

shameful.

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