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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Four

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, autistic breakdown on page, racing accidents (Las Vegas 2023), domestic fluff, slight (?) cliffhanger

Notes — Another longggg one! Hope you love it.

2023 (Las Vegas)

It was one of those overcast afternoons where the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or not. The light through the huge windows was grey and flat, and the air inside the rented house-slash-shoot-location had that odd, sterile warmth that came from too many camera batteries and ring lights and people trying to look casual for content.

The house itself was the kind of place you couldn’t quite imagine anyone actually living in — all clean lines, brushed steel, and exposed concrete. There were too many stairs. Too many echoey corners. And absolutely no soft lighting. It had been chosen for aesthetics, not comfort.

Amelia sat curled in the corner of the oversized leather sofa, knees tucked under her, one hand gripping her iPad, the other fidgeting absently with the drawstring of a hoodie that had somehow ended up in her lap. She hadn’t asked for it. Someone had draped it over her when she sat down, and now it was hers, apparently. That was fine. She liked the weight of it.

Her focus, however, was fixed entirely on her screen. The Vegas GP loomed ahead — a race full of unknowns, simulations stacked high with red flags and conditional parameters that changed every time she blinked. The track was new, the surface barely tested, the layout odd and inconsistent. Every variable gave her brain another reason to loop. And loop. And loop.

She was halfway through calculating braking loads based on preliminary corner speeds when Lando wandered past, all soft socks and too-long limbs, dragging one arm into a puffer jacket he wasn’t really planning to zip. He slowed when he saw her, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You gonna wear that for a photo?” He asked, nodding at the hoodie.

Amelia didn’t look up. “No.”

He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You sure? You’d look cute.”

She blinked once, then met his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for cute. I’m calculating brake performance for a track we have literally never raced on before. There are so many variables. I’m stressed.”

Across the room, Max Fewtrell barked a laugh, his voice echoing faintly as he adjusted a light stand. “That’s the most Amelia sentence I’ve ever heard. Like, ever.”

Pietra, seated on the floor nearby in flared jeans and a cloud-soft crewneck, turned toward Amelia with a gentle smile. She had a scrunchie looped around her wrist and two bracelets Amelia had given her after a layover in Japan. “You can do both,” Pietra said warmly. “Be cute and stressed.”

Amelia looked at her, expression softening around the eyes. “Honestly, I just want to stay sat down.”

“Okay,” Pietra said, and leaned sideways to gently press her shoulder against Amelia’s. “Then we’ll sit. Together.”

Amelia didn’t say thank you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Lando reappeared a moment later with a bottle of water in one hand and a small protein bar in the other. He plopped onto the armrest beside her, knees brushing hers. His eyes flicked to the hoodie.

“You know that one’s technically mine.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia said without looking up.

He grinned. “I figured.” He nudged her ankle gently with his socked foot. “Still think it’d look better on you anyway.”

“That’s not difficult,” she replied, tugging the cuff of the hoodie over her hand. Then, after a pause, she added flatly, “That was a joke.”

Max dropped into a nearby chair, flinging one leg over the side with practiced drama. “Just one picture of you, Amelia? Come on, people would love it. Bit of behind-the-scenes. The fans adore when you’re in anything.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “No thank you.”

Lando snorted into his water bottle. Pietra let out a warm laugh. “Stop bothering her, Max. Lando does enough of that.”

“Oi,” Lando said, mock-affronted. “Leave me out of this.”

“You’re both bothering me,” Amelia replied, perfectly even. “I’m trying to work. I already hate the Vegas track.”

He turned his full attention to her now, brows lifting. “Why? We haven’t even been yet.”

“Because it’s new!” she burst out, sharper than she meant to. The volume bounced off the walls. She winced immediately, ducking her head into her shoulder. Her voice dropped low, controlled. “Because it’s new and we haven’t raced it before and that means no past data to lean on. That means sim work based on theoretical grip levels. That means error margins get wider. And that means I have to prepare twice as hard with half as much certainty.”

There was a pause.

“...Fair enough,” Lando said gently.

“I hate guessing,” she mumbled.

“No one likes guessing,” Pietra offered.

Amelia gave a small nod. “I like control. I like knowing.”

Max opened his mouth like he was about to tease her, then caught the subtle tension in her shoulders and wisely shut it again.

Lando tapped the top of her tablet lightly with one finger. “Well. You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do.”

She glanced up at him. “Because it’s my job.”

“And because you’re brilliant.”

She didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth ticked upward.

“Are you wearing that to dinner later?” Pietra asked, gesturing to the hoodie.

Amelia looked down at it, then back at her. “Yes. I don’t want to change. I’m comfortable.”

Pietra smiled. “Good. I’ll wear mine too. We’ll match.”

“Accidentally?”

“Deliberately.”

Amelia considered that. “Okay. But only if we sit near the window.”

Pietra beamed. “Done.”

Lando looked between them, then leaned back on his hands. “You’ve replaced me.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “I only want to kiss you.”

He made a thoughtful face. “Alright. I’ll allow it.”

Max rolled his eyes. “You’re both so weird.”

“I’m autistic,” Amelia said plainly.

“You’re the weird one,” Pietra added to Max.

“Rude,” Max said.

Lando grinned. “You’re still in love with us.”

“Terrible.”

Outside, the sky finally made up its mind — light rain pattering against the windows in slow, scattered streaks.

Inside, Amelia tucked the hoodie tighter around her, legs still folded, checklist still glowing on the iPad in her lap. Her head leaned lightly against Pietra’s shoulder now, and Lando’s hand rested on her shin — grounding, present, always within reach.

They’d survive Vegas. They would.

Amelia exhaled through her nose. “I need a backup plan for the Sector 2 hairpin.”

“You’ll come up with one,” Lando said, completely sure.

And she would.

Because she always did.

—

The sim suite smelled faintly of coffee and carpet glue.

It was making Amelia feel violently ill.

It was well past nine in the evening, and the McLaren Technology Centre was mostly dark — lights dimmed, staff dispersed, and only the low hum of servers and quiet keystrokes from the strategy team still working in the next room. On the main screen, a full layout of the Las Vegas circuit was overlaid with predictive data. Telemetry lines in orange and blue flickered in real time, charting Oscar’s run.

Inside the sim rig, Oscar exhaled sharply and let the steering wheel go slack as the run ended.

“Turn ten still feels off,” he said, voice crackling slightly through the headset. “Rear snaps too easily on downshift. It’s like— I don’t know. It just unloads.”

Amelia stood beside the sim rig, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t look at Oscar as she replied. She was looking at the data instead. “We’re too aggressive with the engine braking into the apex,” she said. “You’re already on a mid-bite diff setting. I can pull back the torque map slightly — see if we can stabilise it.”

Oscar lifted his visor and blinked into the low lighting. “We tried that earlier though.”

“That was with a higher track temp sim,” one of the strategy engineers chimed in from his desk.

Amelia nodded. “This time we’re modelling it colder. Night session, cooler surface, lower grip. It’s a different profile now.”

Oscar gave her a skeptical look. “You think it’ll make the difference?”

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “We run tests. And I wait for the results.”

He frowned at her. “You’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” Amelia replied. “I’m tired. And annoyed. This track is stupid.”

The strategist behind her snorted into his water bottle. “That’s the technical term, is it?”

“Yes,” she said, deadpan. “Stupid.”

Oscar raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. No argument from me.”

Amelia stepped forward and typed something into the control console. “I’ll load the next setup with the revised map and a minor front wing tweak. You’ll run sectors two and three only.”

Oscar nodded, settling back into the seat. “Short run. Got it.”

“Not just short,” Amelia added. “Precision. I want minimal steering corrections. No overcommitting. If we’re going to adjust setup for the race, I need to see your clean line.”

Behind her, Lando’s voice chimed in from the doorway, “someone’s feeling bossy tonight.”

Amelia didn’t turn around. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m just here to observe,” Lando said, stepping in with a smoothie and a faint smirk. “Oscar’s face is funny when he gets told off for oversteering.”

Oscar flipped him off without lifting his head.

Amelia keyed in the updated run. “I don’t care what his face does. I care about what the car does.”

Lando walked over, watching the screen over her shoulder. “What’s the target delta?”

“Half a second gain from his last run if the balance correction holds.”

Lando let out a low whistle. “Ambitious.”

“It’s not,” Amelia replied. “It’s necessary.”

There was a pause.

“You doing okay, baby?” He asked, a bit more gently now.

“I will be fine,” she said. “After Vegas is over and no one asks me to model tyre deg on untested tarmac again.”

Oscar cleared his throat from the rig. “Not to interrupt, but—uh—ready when you are.”

“Go ahead,” Amelia said, refocusing instantly. “Cold tyres, revised torque, short sector two and three run. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Oscar replied.

The sim kicked back into life. Virtual Vegas, all garish lights and overblown spectacle, unfurled across the screen. Oscar’s car dove into sector two with smoother transitions, noticeably fewer corrections in the corners.

“Better,” Amelia muttered, half to herself.

Oscar’s voice came through again. “Still doesn’t feel natural, but it’s drivable now.”

“We don’t need natural,” she said. “We need consistency.”

Oscar snorted. “You should get that put on a mug.”

“I did,” Lando added from behind her. Sarcastically. “It’s in our kitchen. Pink ceramic. Very cute.”

Amelia didn’t respond to that. She was too busy watching the data smooth out. Torque delivery flattened. Brake pressure stayed linear. The car made it through turn ten without any hint of snap.

Finally, she let out a breath. “Alright. That’s something we can build on.”

Oscar coasted to a stop in the sim. “You going to sleep tonight?”

“No,” Amelia said plainly. “I’m going to write a full report for Andrea and then run sector modelling for Sunday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sleep.”

Lando moved closer, brushing his hand against hers lightly. “You’ll sleep. I’ll make sure of it.”

Amelia didn’t argue, but she didn’t confirm either.

Instead, she turned back to the engineers. “We’ll do a full load run tomorrow, weather sim in two parts. I’ll rework the wing config tonight.”

Oscar pulled off his gloves. “Do we ever do anything the easy way?”

“No,” Amelia said simply. “But if we want to win, we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

Lando smiled at that. “Now that should go on a mug.”

—

The Woking flat was dark except for the glow of Amelia’s laptop screen and the soft blue hue of the night bleeding in through the curtains.

Lando had been asleep for the last hour. Or at least, he’d been pretending to be—chest rising slow and steady under the covers, one arm thrown across the pillow she’d vacated earlier. He hadn’t moved, even when she’d shifted to the desk by the window and started typing furiously with only a desk lamp and the stars for company.

She’d barely noticed how stiff her back had become. Her legs were tucked beneath her again, one sock half-rolled, posture twisted into something unnatural. Her fingers moved with focused speed, mapping Oscar’s sector performance against a projected tyre wear curve.

“Amelia,” Lando said, voice rough from sleep but still gentle. “Baby. Come back to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve been almost done for forty minutes.”

“That’s because I keep finding new things to optimise,” she replied, tapping a key with just a little too much force. “The grip model’s still off in sector three. I think the sim is overcompensating for the surface temp. If Oscar brakes, he’s going to overshoot.”

Lando sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know you’re going to fix it all tomorrow anyway, right? It doesn’t all need to happen tonight.”

“It does,” she said immediately. “It does, because it’s unpredictable, and if I don’t account for everything now, I’ll be scrambling when I’m supposed to be thinking clearly. And I hate scrambling.”

He rolled out of bed with a sleepy grunt and crossed the room to her, quiet and barefoot on the plush carpet. When he reached her, he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded, watching her for a long moment. Not judging. Just… taking her in.

“You’re spiralling,” he said simply.

“No, I’m working.”

“Amelia.”

That one word, soft and firm and Lando-shaped, made her pause.

She didn’t meet his eyes, but her hands stilled over the keyboard. Her mouth was set in a thin line. Tired. Frustrated.

“I don’t know how to switch it off,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Not when I know I haven’t solved the problem.”

“I know,” he said, and gently reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “But right now the problem is that you’re running on fumes, and if you don’t rest, you’re not going to solve anything.”

“But—”

“You’ll still be brilliant in the morning. I promise.”

She swallowed, jaw tense. “I hate how much I care. I hate that it makes me feel—” She clenched one hand into a fist. “Like I’m chasing something I can never quite catch. Because there’s always something else to fix.”

“I know,” Lando said again. “But you’re allowed to rest without fixing everything first. That doesn’t make you less good at your job. It just makes you human, yeah?”

Amelia looked at him finally. Her eyes were glassy, but not tearful. Just full — with pressure, with effort, with the weight of wanting to be the best and feeling like she had to prove it constantly.

He reached down and took her hand in his.

“Come to bed,” he said gently. “I’ll lie awake with you if your brain won’t shut up. We can talk about strategy, or nothing at all. But I want you with me.”

Amelia hesitated. Then closed her laptop with a soft click.

“Okay,” she said, voice a little hollow from the sudden shift in momentum. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Lando squeezed her hand and led her back toward the bed. She climbed in beside him, limbs slow and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure how to be still. He wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“You’re allowed to rest,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to exist outside of your job.”

She let out a long, shaky breath. “I know.”

“Say it like you believe it.”

“I’m allowed to rest,” she repeated, curling into him. “Even if I haven’t fixed everything.”

He smiled against her skin. “Good girl.”

Amelia relaxed by inches, not all at once, never that, but her breath began to slow, her hands stopped fidgeting, and the tension in her shoulders faded as his warmth soaked into her.

It was enough.

—

Amelia stirred slowly, the weight of Lando’s arm still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even behind her.

Her brain came online before her eyes opened. The first thought was always a race.

Telemetry. Overnight sim data. Updated Vegas surface temps. Sector three.

She kept her eyes shut. Just for a moment longer.

Her hand reached, automatically, half-blind, toward the bedside table. She found her phone and lit the screen — brightness low, eyes squinting. There was a new email flagged from McLaren strategy. An attachment from the sim team. A message from Oscar. Just a quick one.

Brake marker change in T11? Feel like it’s off. Can we run it again?

Her thumb hovered over the reply button.

Then a low, sleepy voice rumbled behind her ear. “If you answer that, I’m going to bite you.”

She stilled.

Lando’s voice was rough with sleep, his face still half buried in her hair, but his grip on her waist tightened just slightly — enough to ground her, enough to keep her in the moment.

“I wasn’t going to answer,” she said softly. “I was just checking—”

“You were doing the exact thing we talked about,” he said, not unkindly. “Waking up and not even giving yourself ten minutes to take care of yourself before you start thinking about everyone else.”

She blinked. Her screen dimmed and went black. She let the phone fall gently back onto the bed.

Lando pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Thank you.”

“I really wasn’t going to do anything,” she murmured again, not sure why she was defending it. “I just needed to know what’s going on. So I could stop thinking about it.”

“I get that.” He kissed the back of her neck this time, a little firmer. “But I also know you. One look turns into an hour of work. You don’t know how to stop unless someone physically pins you down.”

She rolled onto her back to look at him. His hair was flattened on one side. His eyes were sleepy but open now, watching her like she was something fragile he was determined not to drop.

“I just don’t want to miss something important,” she said. “Vegas is proving to be a nightmare.”

“We’ll be fine. You’ll be better than fine.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can guarantee that if you burn yourself out now, you won’t be able to fix the problems when they actually matter.”

Her lips twisted into something half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s annoying because it’s true.”

“Mm.” He nuzzled her hairline. “I like you when you’re being all smart-pants Amelia,” Lando said, pulling her closer again. “But I like it better when you’re well-rested.”

She sighed and let herself relax, her head falling against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat — steady and calm — the opposite of her usual thrum of anxious energy.

He tapped her hip. “Tell you what. You stay here, in bed, with me for fifteen more minutes. Then I’ll get up and bring you your laptop, your iPad, three highlighters and whatever else you need. Deal?”

She closed her eyes. Thought about saying no. Thought about Vegas. Then she nodded.

“Deal.”

Lando smiled against her temple. “My girl.”

—

Las Vegas

Amelia found herself blinking too fast at the way the skyline shimmered. There was no charm, there was only overstimulation. Neon screamed from every building; engines echoed off concrete; something in the air smelled like fried sugar.

Her stomach turned.

As they moved through the paddock, she turned sharply to her dad, who was walking beside her, and asked, "Can I do a track walk later? I need to see the surface in person. Kerb structure, cambers. The sim doesn’t replicate the actual feel, not at night."

Zak gave her a careful look, then a sigh that told her the answer before he said it. “Honey… I’m sorry. They’re limiting access this weekend. Safety regulations, plus a logistical headache with all the road closures. Sorry, kiddo."

She stopped walking entirely. “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous. My understanding of this track is directly tied to driver performance.”

“I know that,” Zak said, placating. “But it’s out of my hands. FIA’s ruling.”

Amelia blinked. Hard. Her jaw set. Her brain scrambled to make the logic work — and couldn’t. The denial didn’t make sense from a safety standpoint or a performance one, and worse, it was illogical and personal.

She threw both hands out in disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now? What kind of regulatory framework tells the people making car decisions that they can’t assess the track in person?”

Zak ran a hand down his face. “I know. Believe me, I tried. I even—”

“No, this is absurd,” Amelia went on, ignoring the curious glances of passing engineers and team staff. “I’m being told to rely on visual models and telemetry estimates on a track that doesn’t exist on any previous calendar. Dad.”

That word slipped out sharp and unimpressed.

Zak winced. “You’re mad at the wrong person.”

Amelia exhaled through her nose and folded her arms. “I’m mad at everyone.”

Lando, a few steps ahead, doubled back when he realised she wasn’t beside him anymore. “Everything okay?”

“She’s not allowed to walk the track,” Zak supplied.

Lando’s brows rose. “Why not?”

“Ask the FIA,” Amelia muttered, rocking slightly on her heels, clearly overstimulated and trying not to explode about it.

Lando gave a low whistle, stepping up beside her. “That’s proper stupid.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, voice clipped.

Lando’s hand slid to the small of her back. Just the lightest pressure. She leaned into it instinctively, grounding herself.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “You’ve been simulating this track for two months. You probably know it better than anyone else already.”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She looked out at the chaos of the strip behind the paddock fencing, then back at the rows of garages, the closed doors, the high fences. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

Zak, softer now, said, “Hey. Don’t give this the power to make you wobble, alright? You’ve got this!”

Her face didn’t soften, but her posture did, just slightly. She nodded, tight and short.

Then, “If Oscar crashes because I misjudge Turn 12 apex grip, I’m going to email the FIA and tell them to eat gravel.”

Lando grinned. “There she is. My beautiful, terrifying wife.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss the side of her head and whispered, “Now stop worrying so much.”

—

The media room was lit like a game show. Two stools, a camera crew, a backdrop with the McLaren logo, and a table of whiteboards and markers.

Oscar looked mildly bored. Lando looked amused. Amelia looked like she’s been forced to be there (she had).

A social media coordinator beamed behind the camera. “Okay, welcome to a special edition of 'Who Knows Her Best!' We’ve got our race engineer Amelia here, and joining us are her driver, Oscar Piastri—”

Oscar gave an awkward little wave.

“—and her husband, Lando Norris!”

Lando winked at the camera.

Amelia stared dead ahead. “You have ten minutes. I have things to do.”

“Great! First question—What’s Amelia’s favourite food?”

Lando started writing instantly.

Oscar hesitated. “Does coffee count?”

Amelia frowned. “No. You don’t chew coffee.”

He groaned and scrawled something anyway.

“Alright—reveal!”

Lando flipped his board: Marco’s Italian Marinara Pizza Oscar’s board: …Toast?

Amelia pursed her lips. “Lando’s right.”

Oscar muttered, “She eats toast every morning.”

“I eat it because it's efficient, not because it brings me joy,” she replied.

Next question.

“Okay—what’s Amelia’s biggest pet peeve?”

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

Lando paused and narrowed his eyes. “Only one?”

They flipped.

Oscar: Inefficiency Lando: People breathing loudly near her

Amelia blinked. “Both are right. I can’t put one above the other.”

Lando smirked. “So I get half a point?”

“We didn’t agree on half points.” She huffed.

Oscar stifled a laugh.

The coordinator laughed nervously. “Alright! Final question: What’s her idea of a perfect day off?”

The boys scribbled.

Reveal:

Oscar: A quiet room, iPad fully charged, noise-canceling headphones Lando: No phones. No noise. Me, her, somewhere nobody can find us.

Amelia looked at both answers, then spoke flatly.

“Oscar’s is my ideal race-weekend. Lando’s is correct for a non-race-weekend.”

Lando grinned. “Boom.”

Oscar sighed. “I should’ve said that.”

“You were just guessing.” She shrugged.

The social media manager clapped. “Well! Looks like… Lando wins!"

Amelia stood. “Great. I’m going back to run a qualifying simulation now.”

She left frame without saying goodbye.

Oscar and Lando both laughed as the camera faded to the McLaren logo.

—

The McLaren garage buzzed with the low hum of machinery and murmured radio checks. Engineers moved with purpose, but Amelia sat on the edge of Oscar’s workstation, unusually still, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Oscar was halfway into his race suit, glancing at her between sips from his bottle.

“You’re staring at me,” he said, trying to make it light.

“I’m thinking,” she replied flatly.

He waited. She didn’t elaborate.

A beat passed.

Then, in that clipped, low tone of hers, “Track’s colder than ideal. Grip will suck the first stint. You’ll want to push, but don’t chase the feeling if it’s not there. Let it come to you.”

He nodded, tightening his gloves. “Copy.”

“Stay out of traffic, especially Sector 2. If someone impedes you, don’t get emotional about it. Just report and reset.”

Oscar studied her. “You okay?”

“I’m briefing you.”

“…Right.”

She unfolded her arms slowly, like the motion took effort. Her jaw was tense. The usual snap in her delivery was duller, like she was wading through fog and didn’t want to show it.

“You don’t need to prove anything to anyone today,” she said finally, without meeting his eyes. “Not to me. Not to the paddock. Just get the data. Clean session. That’s the win.”

Oscar hesitated. “You sure you’re alright?”

She finally looked at him. Her expression didn’t shift, but there was something behind her eyes—tired, maybe. Not physically. He couldn’t tell.

“Focus on your job, Oscar.”

A long pause.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s do it, then.”

He turned to leave for the car, but her hand briefly touched his forearm.

It was the first time she’d done that all season.

“You’ve got this,” she said.

And then she was gone; disappearing behind a headset and a screen, shutting the world out with precision.

Oscar didn’t say anything.

But when he climbed into the car and pulled his belts tight, his shoulders were a little squarer. His breathing calmer.

—

The TV feed cut to chaos. Red flag. Marshals sprinted onto the track. Carlos’s Ferrari was being craned away. Oscar hadn’t even managed to leave the garage yet.

Amelia stood at the pit wall, arms crossed, headset still on. She hadn’t blinked in fifteen seconds.

Her dad appeared behind her, phone in hand, expression a blend of irritation and corporate damage control.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Drain cover came loose,” she said flatly. “Sainz drove over it at 320. Floor’s completely destroyed.”

Zak frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The cover wasn’t welded properly. Obvious risk. They didn’t check.”

He looked at the monitor. “Are we running Oscar?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She turned her head slowly toward him. “Because there’s a hole in the track.”

Zak didn’t respond.

She continued. “Sending a car out now is negligent. I already told Race Control we won’t participate until they give a structural inspection report. I won’t risk Oscar’s chassis because someone forgot a torque wrench.”

Zak sighed. “Okay.”

Behind them, mechanics hovered awkwardly, unsure whether to continue prep or stand down. Amelia tapped her headset.

“FP1 is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Go back to base. Check Lando’s floor and cooling ducts for debris. Full diagnostic.”

Oscar walked up, half-suited, helmet under his arm. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him. “You’re not going out. Drain cover came off. Session’s red-flagged.”

“That’s it?”

“It could’ve killed someone,” she said. “So yes. That’s it.”

He blinked. “Right.”

She turned to walk back toward her workstation.

Zak called after her. “Don’t be angry!”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. “I’m not. Anger won’t fix the track.” Then, after a beat, she said, “But I think someone should be fired.”

And she walked off to find her husband.

—

The lights along the Strip hadn’t dimmed, but everything else had gone strangely quiet.

It was well past midnight. The garage, usually crackling with anticipation before a session, felt more like a waiting room. Too many people moving too carefully, voices lowered like something had been interrupted. Amelia stood at the pit wall, headset already pinching slightly against her temple, her fingers motionless over the trackpad. Waiting.

She hadn’t said much in the last hour. Not out of some dramatic mood, she just didn’t feel like filling the air with worthless commentary.

When the green light finally blinked on at the end of the pit lane, there wasn’t relief. Just exasperation.

She keyed her mic, steady. “Box out. Let’s see how everything feels.”

Oscar responded immediately. “Copy.”

The car pulled away, the hum of the engine disappearing into the neon distance. She stared after it a beat too long.

They hadn’t run in FP1. None of the planned setup work mattered anymore, this was just about salvaging time, collecting data.

But now, every drain cover was now a threat. Just another thing to add to her list of concerns.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to the screen, watching Oscar’s telemetry as if she could will the suspension to stay intact through every straight.

Two chairs down, her dad made some offhand joke about this being “the most expensive late-night go-kart session ever,” and she smiled with half her face, but didn’t turn.

The data streamed in. Amelia’s brain parsed it automatically, throttle traces, brake pressures, steering angles, but the usual focus wasn’t clicking the same way tonight. She pressed the mic button. “Feeling okay with the grip?” She asked.

“Better than expected,” Oscar replied. “Still a bit green, but manageable.”

“Copy that. Let’s try Mode 7 next lap.”

A beat passed.

“You alright?”

She blinked. The question had come in over a private channel. Just him. “Yeah,” she said. “Just having to watch everything twice. Sorry if I sound a bit distracted.”

She didn’t add that the neon lights were starting to feel like they were flickering behind her eyes, or that the pressure in her chest hadn’t really gone away since the FP1 red flag. Or that the silence before the sessions had settled into her bones in a way that didn’t feel temporary.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight. He had 90 minutes, and they had to make every single one of them count.

She shuffled on her hair, opened the sector comparison window, and let out a quiet breath. “Let’s go hunting, ducky.”

—

Amelia sat on the edge of a low bench, her headset off, fingers tapping absently on the worn fabric of her skirt. Oscar slid next to her, helmet still under one arm, face flushed from the heat of the track.

“You did well out there,” she told him.

Oscar smiled, the kind that barely touched his eyes. “You sure? It felt like I was half driving with one eye on every drain cover.”

She let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “Yeah, well, that’s what we get for racing on a casino parking lot.”

He glanced at her, watching for the flicker of something beneath her calm. “You okay?”

Her eyes caught his. “I’m fine. Just... processing. You know how it is.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. If you need to step back or—”

“No.” She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “No. I’m fine.”

Oscar leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Roll on tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Tomorrow.”

—

Oscar and Lando stood by the side of the track, away from the chatter and TV cameras, sharing a rare moment of quiet.

“She’s different,” Oscar said, voice low, like sharing a secret. “Not in a bad way. Just... more quiet, more serious. Even when she talks, it’s like she’s somewhere else.”

Lando nodded, eyes scanning the pit lane as if he could spot the cause in the distance. “Yeah. Noticed. You think she’s pushing herself too hard?”

Oscar shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t want to be that guy who notices too late.”

“Good call,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll try to get it out of her tonight, but I appreciate it.”

Oscar smiled, half relieved. “Anytime, mate.”

—

The lobby’s glare hit Amelia like a punch, each flicker of neon and burst of laughter hammering against the fragile calm she’d been clinging to all weekend. Every unfamiliar voice seemed to multiply, overlapping into a chaotic storm behind her eyes. Her skin prickled, nerves sparking in every inch of her body. She tried to focus on the steady rhythm of her own breath, but it felt shallow, too fast.

The weekend had been a relentless tide of changes — the new track layout, unexpected strategies, the flood of questions from media she barely had energy to endure. Everyone expected her to be sharp, ready, unflappable. But inside, her mind was scrambling to process it all, the sensory overload making everything worse.

She could feel the walls closing in, the pressure building behind her ribcage, tightening like a vice.

Just breathe. But the breath didn’t come easy. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers trembling.

She tried to steady herself, a practiced smile pressed onto her face for the reception staff, for Lando, for Oscar. But it was too much. Too loud. Too unpredictable.

The floodgate broke.

Her vision blurred, chest tightening until it felt like the air itself was betraying her. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want anyone to see this unraveling — but she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Lando’s voice cut through the haze — soft, patient, familiar.

“Hey, baby. Let’s go over here.”

His touch was a lifeline, grounding her in the chaos. She stumbled toward him, every shaky breath breaking as the raw exhaustion spilled out.

She wanted to explain, to scream ‘this isn’t weakness!’ but the words caught in her throat.

Lando didn’t say a thing. He just reached out, firm and steady, pressing his hand gently but insistently into the small of her back. A solid, grounding pressure that said, I’m here. I’ve got you.

She leaned into it, breath ragged, heart racing, muscles trembling. His warmth was steady beneath her — an anchor.

Her hands found his arms, clinging like an octopus, desperate for the hold that would stop the spinning. She didn’t have the words to ask for help, but the silent understanding in his touch was enough.

Without a word, Lando lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all, cradling her close against his chest.

The noise of the lobby faded into background white noise as he carried her through it, the solid rhythm of his steps matching the slow crawl of her ragged breathing.

They moved past the glare of the lights, past the curious eyes, straight back to the safety of their room — where she could finally just be.

—

The shower ran hot, steam swirling thick and heavy in the small bathroom. Amelia sat on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, fingers tightening around her stim toy, the familiar texture a welcome relief. The water hammered down, relentless and fierce and perfect.

Behind the fogged glass, Lando crouched, silent and steady. His presence wasn’t words or pressure, just steady warmth, a solid anchor in the swirling storm she couldn’t always control. His hand rested lightly on the tub’s edge, close enough that if she reached out, she’d find him there.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His calm, wordless support let her unravel at her own pace, gave her permission to sink low and find the fragments of herself again. The tight coil inside loosened, breath slowing, muscles softening.

When she finally reached out, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and exhaled a slow, quiet breath.

—

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Amelia lay on her side, knees tucked in, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might swallow her whole. The bed creaked softly as Lando shifted beside her.

After a long pause, his hand found hers in the dark. “You doing alright, baby?” He asked, voice low but steady.

She hesitated before answering. “No. Not really. Today was... too much. Like everything was spinning, but I was stuck in place.”

Lando squeezed her fingers gently, patient. “You’ve been on edge since we landed.”

A small nod, tight with tension. “Since the plane, yeah. I felt sick the entire flight. And then here—everything just kept coming at me. Noise, people, changes. I thought I could handle it, but it kept building.”

He kept his hand in hers, steady and warm. “Nobody had enjoyed the weekend so far, baby. I promise you, you’re not alone there.”

Amelia finally turned her head to look at him, eyes searching. “I don’t want to sound weak. Or like I’m complaining.”

Lando shook his head, a soft smile breaking through. “You’re the last person that anyone would think was weak.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little, a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding escaping in a quiet sigh. “I’ve just felt physically sick with nerves since we left England. It’s like the whole weekend’s hanging over me, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

“Hey,” he said gently, fingers fluttering over her cheek and eyelids, “We’ll get through it together. We handle tomorrow, then we handle race day, and then we get to go home.”

She gave a small, wry smile. “I might lose it completely if it wasn’t for you.”

Lando chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t let that happen, would I?”

They stayed like that for a while, fingers entwined, silence wrapping around them like a shield.

“I hate feeling like I’m not in control.”

“I know, baby. And I’m sorry I can’t take that feeling away.”

She blinked back the hint of tears, voice softer now. “Thanks for being here.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

—

The morning light spilled gently through the curtains, softening the edges of the hotel room. Amelia was curled up in bed, the duvet pulled just below her chin. Lando balanced a tray with two plates of eggs, toast, and steaming coffee, trying not to spill as he settled it on the bedside table.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked under him, already half-entwined in the quiet comfort of the morning. This wasn’t their first breakfast like this; the three of them, an unspoken little routine born out of long weekends and unpredictable schedules.

Lando grinned as he handed Amelia her coffee. “Here you go. Not too sweet, I promise.”

She gave a small, tired smile, reaching out to take it. “Better than last time.”

Oscar, perched close by, reached for a piece of toast and grinned back at her. “Glad I don’t like coffee. I’m just here for the food.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, sipping. “You remind me of a stray cat sometimes.”

Oscar laughed, warm and easy. “I weirdly don’t mind that comparison.”

Lando shot Amelia a fond look across the bed.

“So, what’s the plan today?” Oscar asked, munching thoughtfully.

Lando shrugged, “Take it slow. FP3 later and then Quali, obviously, but nothing crazy this morning.”

Amelia leaned back into the pillows, her voice quiet but steady. “I might go and buy some Epsom salts. Write some strategy notes in the bath.”

Oscar nodded, eyes kind. “Sounds relaxing”

She glanced at Lando, who gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Hope so,” she said simply.

Oscar reached out and ruffled Lando’s hair. “Christ, mate. You could do with a haircut.”

Lando scoffed, showing him away. “Fuck off. Says you, mister swoop.”

Amelia pursed her lips and hid her smile behind her mug.

—

The gift shop was a small, cluttered oasis of weirdness and nostalgia tucked inside the hotel lobby. Amelia was scanning the shelves with practiced efficiency, eyes locked on the little jars of bath salts.

Lando and Oscar were already browsing the second aisle.

Lando held up a neon cowboy hat. “Mate, how can you say no to this?”

Oscar was inspecting a glittery, oversized keychain shaped like a slot machine. “It’s got lights and sounds. Look.” He pressed a button and the keychain erupted with flashing colours and a cacophony of jingles. “Jackpot! I’m rich.”

Amelia sighed, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Guys, don’t start. I just want some bath stuff.”

Oscar grinned, undeterred. “But we’re just doing cultural research.”

Lando plopped the cowboy hat on his head sideways and attempted a drawl. “Y’all ready for the rodeo?”

Amelia gave him a flat look. “Great look, husband.”

Oscar laughed and reached for a novelty plastic cactus, pretending it was a microphone. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Gift Show! I’m your host, Cactus Carl.”

Lando, clearly in his element, grabbed a toy rattlesnake and slithered it along the floor toward Amelia’s feet. “Don’t step on the snake! It’s venomous.”

Amelia stepped back, raising an eyebrow, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Right. Venomous and ridiculous.”

Finally, she found what she was looking for; a small, unassuming jar of lavender bath salts with a label promising relaxation. She grabbed it, turning to the boys.

“Alright, I’m done.”

Lando tilted his hat back and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Mission accomplished.”

Oscar picked up another keychain. “Hey, look at this one! It’s a limited edition.”

Amelia sighed tiredly.

—

Less than an hour later, the hotel bathroom was filled with the soft scent of lavender from the bath salts Amelia had chosen. The water was just the right temperature, warm enough to ease the tension knotted deep in her shoulders but not scalding. She sank down slowly, letting the heat seep in, her fingers tracing the ripples on the surface.

Outside the bathroom door, Lando and Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with laptops balanced on their knees. Their voices were low, careful not to break the fragile calm Amelia was clinging to.

“So, the long straight,” Oscar said quietly. “Telemetry showed some unusual brake pressure spikes on your last run.” He said to Lando.

Lando nodded, flicking through the data. “Yeah, I noticed that too. Maybe the surface temperature was throwing off the balance?”

Amelia sighed, eyes closed. “Probably. Felt off the whole session.” She added, only having to speak a little louder than usual to be heard through the ajar door.

Oscar glanced toward the door. “You want us to try something different for FP3?”

She let her fingers trail in the water, thoughtful. “Maybe adjust front brake bias… just a bit.”

Lando nodded. “I’ll write it down.”

There was a pause, the only sound the gentle dripping from the faucet. Amelia opened her eyes a crack. “Thanks for this.”

Oscar grinned. “You asked for company and telemetry. We deliver.”

Lando chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve got nowhere better to be, baby.”

She let herself smile, a quiet warmth spreading beyond the bathwater. In this little bubble of steam and soft voices, the chaos felt a little less relentless.

—

FP3 was more than just practice—it was a chance to claw back control after yesterday’s chaos, and Amelia was feeling the weight of it.

Oscar was in the car, revving the engine, while her headset buzzed with team chatter. The track was unforgiving today, hotter, more demanding, but Amelia’s eyes stayed locked on the timing screen. She flicked through sector times, braking points, tire temps—all the little details she’d been obsessing over for days.

Her gut still fluttered, nerves stubborn beneath the surface, but she pushed it aside. This wasn’t the place for doubts. She spoke into the comms, “brake bias -0.3 for the next run. Watch rear temps.”

Her radio crackled, Oscar’s voice clipped but focused. “Got it. Feels different already.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Keep the feedback coming.”

A few laps later, she caught a subtle improvement in the data—sector two times shaving off milliseconds. Not perfect, but progress. The day wasn’t going to beat her.

By the end of FP3, the sun was blazing, sweat damp on her brow. Amelia’s mind was a swirl of analysis, but beneath it all was something steadier—quiet confidence, the kind that comes after pushing through the noise.

When Oscar pulled into the pits, she let herself exhale. One step closer.

—

Qualifying came in the blink of an eye and Amelia’s eyes were glued to the screen, every pixel of telemetry, every split second on the sector times drilled into her mind.

Oscar’s car cut through the track, precise and aggressive, pushing the limits. Amelia’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk—not from nerves, but calculation, running through every variable in her head. She caught the slight twitch in the rear suspension, the tiny loss of rear grip in sector two. Adjustments would be needed. Not a disaster, but enough to make a difference.

Will was nearby, watching too, but Amelia barely noticed him.

Oscar crossed the line, a clean lap, but not quite the best. Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Sector three’s where he’s losing time. Let’s tweak the brake bias for the final run.”

Will leaned over, quiet but warm. “You think he’s got it?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “I don't know. He needs the car to behave like it’s supposed to.”

The final moments stretched taut, then Oscar’s second run flashed up. Faster, cleaner. Still not enough to get out of Q1. Her jaw clenched.

Fuck.

—

[Twitter Feed – #protectamelia]

@/f1fanatic123:

just saw that vid of amelia having a full autistic meltdown in the hotel lobby in vegas last night… why don’t you weirdos shut the hell up and disappear into a hole and leave the fucking girl alone omfg

@/raceengineerlvr:

people spreading that clip with zero context? big yikes. amelia is freaking brilliant and deserves respect. stop the ableism.

@/landosupportr:

if anyone can handle this insane pressure it’s amelia. lando’s lucky af to have her, and honestly? so are we. back off.

@/keepitrealf1: autistic, blunt, iconic. amelia’s meltdown is just her being human—get over your toxic asses.

@/f1momlife: as a parent to a neurodivergent kiddo, this blatant ableism online is disgusting. show some empathy. #protectamelia

@/oscarp443:

oscar’s team isn’t complete without amelia. her meltdown shows how much she cares. toxic ‘fans’ need to check themselves

@/nocapf1:

y’all acting like sharing a meltdown is funny or weak. nahhhhhhhh, that’s ableism 101. have some respect or just stay offline ????

@/disabledandproud:

this is EXACTLY why autistic ppl get unfair hate. stop weaponising someone’s mental health moments for clicks. grow up.

@/f1_truthteller:

seeing the clips blow up and ppl twisting it into jokes? pure ableist nonsense. end of.

—

[Instagram – McLaren Official Story]

Video clip of Amelia working intently in the garage, captioned:

"Focused, fierce, and the backbone of the papaya team."

—

[Reddit – r/formula1]

Post Title:

“Can we talk about the video of Amelia Norris? The backlash is unreal and uncalled for.”

Top comment:

“It’s easy to forget these people are human. Amelia’s dedication is clear, and the meltdown just shows how much she gives. This fandom can be toxic. Let’s be better.”

—

Amelia sat rigid, fingers barely twitching on the edge of the conference table. The room felt too bright, too loud—like a spotlight had been slammed onto her without warning. She watched her dad pace. His voice was steady but tight, every word laced with frustration.

“How did we let this happen? The video should’ve been reported immediately.”

She caught Lando’s fists clenching behind her, his jaw set hard. He wasn’t shouting—he didn’t need to. The anger radiated off him like heat, a shield she wanted to lean into.

Oscar was quieter than usual, but his eyes, sharp and steady, burned with the same quiet fury.

They all thought they were defending her.

But inside Amelia, it felt like a thousand static whispers; people’s opinions buzzing at the edge of her brain, overwhelming and unrelenting. She wasn’t weak. She was tired. The energy it took to smile, to explain, to pretend like none of this was a breach of her life felt like a lead weight pressing down on her chest.

The PR team rambled about damage control and messaging, but Amelia barely heard them. Her thoughts slipped away from the room, spinning cold and sharp.

She looked up, met her dads expectant gaze.

Her voice was flat, stripped of any theatrics. “Yeah, it sucked having it put out there. But I’m not going to make a scene about it. I can handle it.”

They waited, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. She knew what they wanted: a show of vulnerability, maybe some anger.

Instead, she smiled inwardly.

She pulled her phone out, thumb hovering. Then, with a quiet kind of defiance, she pulled up a new tweet.

Autism affects 1 in 36 people. Awareness beats stigma.

Also, I married Lando Norris and you didn’t. Suck it.

[Link to autism awareness resource]

She hit send.

Lando’s laugh was the first sound to break the tension. Her dad let out a short, grudging chuckle. Oscar’s eyes flickered with something like pride.

—

[DTS Outtake Clip]

Will Buxton

“Yeah, so… that clip of Amelia, it really went viral, didn’t it? I’m sure she must have thought her weekend couldn’t get any tougher after that moment. But then Sunday came…”

—

Amelia caught Lando just before he stepped into the car. The hum of the track buzzed behind them, but for a beat, it was just them.

She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Good luck. Be safe. Drive fast.”

He smiled, eyes bright with that fierce fire she loved. “Always, baby.”

She turned and headed to the pit wall, heart steady but fierce — ready.

—

The roar of the crowd swallowed the pre-race tension whole as the lights blinked out, one by one. Oscar launched perfectly—an instinct honed from endless hours tracking telemetry and analysing every millisecond. He surged forward, slicing through the tight corners of the Las Vegas street circuit with brutal precision.

Amelia’s eyes locked on the screens, her fingers dancing over the buttons and dials at the pit wall. Every lap was a heartbeat, every split time a breath held. She was the calm centre for Oscar’s storm.

“Sector one clean, good pace,” she told him over the radio, voice even but focused.

“Copy. Tires feeling good,” came Oscar’s crisp reply.

She allowed herself a brief, tiny exhale. This was what she lived for, the rhythm of the race, the flow of strategy, the challenge.

But then, amid the relentless thrum of engines and tires gripping asphalt, the radio sparked. A sudden crackle, then Lando’s voice—strained, quick.

“Car’s sliding—shit—oh fucking—”

The pit wall fell silent except for the crackling radio. Amelia’s chest tightened. The word ‘crash’ hovered unspoken but undeniable in the space between sounds.

Her fingers froze. Her eyes darted to the live feed on the screen; Lando’s McLaren spinning wildly, slamming into the barriers.

Time fractured.

The noise dimmed, the crowd’s roar now a distant wave crashing against the edges of her mind.

“Lando’s out,” the comms guy said quietly beside her. “Full safety car. Medical car dispatched.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the sudden lump forming in her throat. Breathe. Focus.

She had to focus.

Oscar was still out there, still racing.

She shook her head slightly as if clearing fog. “Oscar, you’re clear. Keep the pace, watch brake temps—”

“I’m ok.” Lando reported, but his voice was tight — like he’d been winded.

Amelia’s voice cracked, and she hated herself for it. Hated how much it betrayed her insides.

Oscar’s voice came steady, but she could hear the surprise, the tension. “Shit. That was Lando?”

“Yeah,” she said before she could stop herself. “He’s… he’s climbing out of the car. He’s okay.”

She stole a glance at the live feed showing Lando being helped out, walking with a medic, shaking his head like he was fine. But she knew—knew the physical toll, the adrenaline masking the pain, the shock that would hit later.

She frantically grabbed for her golf ball — she always kept it beneath the monitors, and squeezed it. Grounding herself.

“Focus on the race, ducky. I’m here. We’ve got this.”

Oscar’s voice softened, “You sure?”

She swallowed hard again. “I’m sure.”

Every lap was a razor’s edge now. Amelia ran through data, strategic calls, tire management; but her mind kept drifting back to that crash, to Lando’s face on the screen, the unspoken “what if.”

The pit lane buzzed, the crew working, the team breathing with her through Oscar’s race, but she was somewhere else too.

She bit back a dry sob and pressed on. “Sector two clean. Let’s push on the next lap. You can get Sainz.”

Oscar’s voice returned with renewed fire. “Copy. Let’s make it count.”

She nodded, though no one could see.

And yet.

There was the ache.

The race carried on, unforgiving.

—

The monitor in front of her flickered with telemetry, lap times, sector splits—Oscar’s heartbeat in digital form. She had to be here. Had to be present.

Her fingers danced a quiet rhythm on the edge of the pit-wall console—a practiced stim to keep the rising panic locked behind a steel door in her mind. The world had already cracked around her today.

“Sector three’s slower by two tenths, watch the tyre temps,” she said, voice clipped, tight. Her gaze never left the screen, even as the chaos inside her threatened to seep out. The noise outside, the shouted team radio chatter, the flashing pit boards, it all blurred into one sharp focus: Oscar.

The world had been unpredictable all weekend. The unexpected video circulating. The judgment from people who didn’t know. Lando spinning out and hitting the wall. But here, in this moment, Amelia was the engineer, the strategist. The calm in the storm.

She clenched the golf ball in her palm, fingers twisting the soft silicone shapes until the ridges bit into her skin just enough to bring her back. The tears she hadn’t let herself shed yet pooled behind her eyes, but she swallowed them down. Not now. Not now.

Her radio crackled to life, “Oscar, focus on exit at turn seven, keep it smooth; tyres need managing.”

And then, after what felt like a lifetime of silence, she sensed him before she saw him. A warmth settling over her. Lando, standing just behind her, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. No words.

His arms wound around her waist and he squeezed. Tight and warm and perfect.

The sharp edge of panic softened in that quiet pressure. It was like a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding for hours finally escaped. The knot in her chest loosened.

She kept her eyes on the screen, voice steady but softer now, “Push on the next lap, Oscar. You’ve got this.”

The relief didn’t break her focus. Instead, it sharpened it, gave her the strength to keep Oscar moving forward through the pack.

But just for one brief moment, the whole world faded away, leaving just the hum of the race, the steady pulse of the monitor, and the quiet heartbeat pressing against her back.

—

Amelia sat at the small kitchen table, absently stirring her coffee, her mind half on the morning briefing notes she’d reviewed earlier.

She wasn’t in the mood to think much, really. Too many things buzzing in her head—the weekend, the viral video fallout, the constant undercurrent of stress that never quite left her.

Then, for no particular reason, her hand drifted to her phone, and she opened the calendar app. That’s when it hit her.

The date she’d been quietly expecting had come and gone.

No sign.

A slow, quiet realisation settled in her gut. She hadn’t missed a period in years.

She blinked, staring at the screen. No big dramatic wave of panic. No sudden flood of excitement either. Just… a plain, blunt acknowledgment.

Oh.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself quietly, voice flat but certain. “Should probably tell Lando.”

She stood and walked to the living room, pulling out her phone again.

iMessage — 13:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

She slid the phone onto the table, fingers lingering on the edge for a moment. Missing a period wasn’t a crisis, just a mildly inconvenient fact.

She glanced out the window at the bustling street below. Monaco was doing its usual thing, people rushing, cars honking, life barreling forward.

Amelia took another sip of coffee and muttered under her breath, “Well, that’s new.”

Then, with all the casual decisiveness of someone deciding what to have for lunch, she shoved the thought aside and got back to work.

NEXT CHAPTER

452 notes · View notes

kapilasteel · 3 days ago

Text

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0 notes

daddyslittlecrow · 3 months ago

Note

How about period Sex with caleb⁉️⁉️

YES YES I WILL!!

Oh.

You meant…no, no, of course. It's just a prompt! Not a serious possibility 🤧

Anyway….I love these types of prompts. Menstruation happens whether people like it or not and I absolutely love that the game has 5 such gentle, kind period trackers ❤️

And they would all absolutely fuck you during it if you let them

Not proofread, sue me 🤘

Warnings: 18+ MDNI

Painkiller - Caleb

For some reason, the cramps seemed to be much more intense this month. You spent the last few hours curled up around a heating pad, willing the painkillers to keep working. While the pain was still manageable, you peeled yourself from the sheets, hobbling to the bathroom to change your pad.

By the time you were washing your hands, you heard the door to your apartment shut. Caleb. You shamelessly texted him a while ago, begging him to come over after work so he could take care of you.

You collapsed back into your nest of self-pity just as he burst through the door. “I bought 4 different kinds of chocolate to avoid any tears. Learnt my lesson last time.” He said immediately, a plastic grocery bag in one hand and the other hiding behind his back.

He bent down. His kiss told you how much he missed you, caressing your lips with his. The scent of aftershave mingled with steel consumed you. You breathed him in, urging your racing heart to settle. It didn't help that he was still in his sexy uniform.

Caleb straightened up, a boyish grin plastered on his face. “Also got you these for being so brave.”

Red roses. Emotions swelled in your chest as you admired them. His gesture was returned with a weak smile. “They’re beautiful Caleb. Thank you.”

He left the bag of supplies next to you before walking out with roses and the vase that held last week’s bouquet. While you felt somewhat okay now, you knew the cramps were lurking. Patiently waiting until the painkillers left your system so they could seek revenge.

Thank God you asked him for more. The pills you took earlier were the last one in the box. You brought the grocery bag closer to you, sifting through the chocolate and pads. Oh no. Quickly dumping everything onto the bed, pure panic bubbled.

“Where are the painkillers?” Caleb was walking back into your room, eyes growing wide at your words. His cheeks flushed. He had forgot them, distracted by the flower stand.

You tapped your phone screen, checking time. It was too late. By the time Caleb returned to the store it would be closed. You sighed dramatically. “I guess I'll die tonight then.”

Caleb chewed on his bottom lip, feeling terrible that he racked his brain for a solution. He placed the roses on your nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. The warmth of his finger tips felt soothing as he traced patterns along your back. You were wearing the comfiest things you could find. A pair of sweatpants and one his t-shirts.

His amethyst eyes drank you in like you were the most beautiful creature on earth. Even if you thought you looked horrendous with your hair piled on top of your head and a lovely hormonal spot screaming for attention on your chin.

“You know Pips…i think I read somewhere that orgasms can help. Eases the cramps.” You laughed despite feeling your cheeks start to burn. Despite feeling miserable during your period, it also made you extra…sensitive.

“Nice try. Did you suddenly forget there’s literal blood flowing out of me?” You reached for one of the chocolate bars, trying not to focus on the slight tremble of your hands. “Come back when the river’s running clear.”

Caleb shook his head, hand sliding down to the hem of his t-shirt. Last month he had finally realised you got incredibly horny during your period. But you never initiated anything and he gave you space, assuming you weren't into it. But he decided to test the waters today.

He loved taking care of you and if that meant making you cum so you'd be less uncomfortable, well? It was a win-win in his books. “What if I told you I don't care whether you’re on your period or not?”

Avoiding the burning glare of his eyes, you snapped off a piece of chocolate and shoved it in your mouth. Anything to distract you from the pulsing sensation that started between your legs.

It's not that you thought it was gross to have period sex, you just couldn't stop imagining a grimace on your boyfriend’s face if he looked down. You’d rather just avoid the potential for embarrassment.

Caleb leaned over and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. Your breath hitched, a dribble of chocolate at the corner of your mouth. He knew his proposal interested you. Your thighs pressing instinctively together did not go unnoticed.

But he could also see you were too in your head, worrying about the worst case scenario. At war with yourself. He just needed to get you to stop thinking altogether.

The pad of his thumb collected the chocolatey drool before pushing it back into your mouth. Your heart hammered in your chest as you felt his thumb go past your lips.

“Suck.”

The command went right to your pussy, feeling it flutter with anticipation. A small groan slipped out of you. Instantly your lips wrapped around him, swirling your wet tongue around the tip. Just like you did with his cock.

Caleb hissed. Restraining his desires was quite the challenge when you hollowed your cheeks slightly to suction him. Your eyes locked on his - eager, waiting. His jaw clenched, forcing himself to ignore how hard he was already - straining painfully against his work trousers.

This wasn't about him.

A soft pop followed as Caleb removed his thumb from your mouth. Then his lips were on yours, claiming them, swallowing the soft moans the came from your throat. He took those sweet sounds as permission to keep going but he wanted to make sure.

He grabbed the material of the t-shirt, peeling it up over your head. Your back hit the mattress as he gently pushed you down. His eyes trailed down to your bare breasts before lowering himself, his body almost on top of you.

He kissed a scorching path down your neck, stopping when he reached one of your nipples. Your back arched, pushing your breast closer to his mouth. He smirked, flicking out his tongue to tease the sensitive bud. You whined. “Caleb…”

“Good girls use their words, pipsqueak.” His hand slipped under the waistband of your sweatpants, then your panties. A wave of embarrasment hit you and you tried to move his hand away.

Caleb tutted before grabbing your wrist with his free hand, pinning your arm over your head. His fingers pressed against your clit and you moaned loudly as he worked in agonizingly slow circles. Every bit of hesitation melted away as your pussy clenched around nothing. His eyes never left yours.

“Tell me what you want or I’ll stop.” He murmured against your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth. The tempo of his fingers increased, making your hips buck.

“You - ah - I want…you.” The pleasure started to build, making it difficult to speak. Caleb growled against your breast before removing his hand from your panties.

He practically ripped your bottoms off your legs, leaving you bare before him. His eyes hungrily roamed your body before stopping at your swollen pussy.

He didn't expect how aroused he got seeing your wetness tinged pink with blood. His dick was leaking at the sight. You’d feel so much wetter, hotter, if he sank his length into you right now. And because you were extra sensitive, you'd be able to feel every thick inch as he dragged through your gummy walls.

Before you could start overthinking, he gripped your thighs hard and pushed them apart, opening you wider for him. “Just like back and let me make you feel good, beautiful.”

Your fingers clutched the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as he resumed his touch on your engorged clit. You moaned his name like a prayer. He answered by bringing his middle finger right next to your pulsing hole.

“You want it Pips?” His voice was rough with raw need. He ignored your desperate hips urging him to go further, to fill you with his long finger. “Fucking beg for it.”

You let out a sob as his movements on your clit slowed, refusing to indulge you until you obeyed. “Please let me cum on your…ah…your fingers. I need you.”

The air left your lungs as he slammed his finger into your pussy. He grunted as he fucked it into you hard, making your eyes roll back as your body writhed. In. Out. In. Out.

The sounds of your squelching cunt was sending you close to the edge. He added a second digit, stretching your slick walls. Your hips rocked to match his pace, fucking his fingers as your stomach clenched from the intense pleasure that grew.

“That’s it baby. I know. It feels good doesn't it? So tight. Want you to cum.” Caleb curled his fingers, massaging your g-spot as your moans grew louder. “Good girl. Cum for me. All over my fingers.”

The tension in your body finally snapped. Your jaw went slack as you let out a guttural scream, pussy clenching as you chased each wave of your orgasm. Caleb continued to sciossor his fingers into you, loving how your back arched from what he did to you.

After a few more leisurely pumps, he withdrew his fingers. You melted into the mattress, utterly spent. Your flushed face only burned hotter when Caleb immediately went to the bathroom. He returned with a damp washcloth and gently cleaned you up.

“How are you feeling?” He asked softly, afraid he may have been a bit too rough. He just couldn't help it. He stopped cleaning a few times to leave kisses on your stomach.

Despite cringing at the undeniable mess between your legs, he may have been right. Your orgasm seemed to keep your cramps at bay for a while longer. “That was definitely better than swallowing a few pills.”

You broke out into a fit of laughter and he grinned as he leaned over to kiss you. Your eyes bore into his when he pulled away, stroking your cheek with his thumb. You didn’t miss the michevious spark that burned in his gaze.

“I’ll check in with you we get something to eat. I might be able to give you something…stronger if the pain comes back.”

#lads #love and deepspace #lads mc #lnds caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb smut #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #l&ds #smut

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srjsteel · 1 month ago

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7 Signs You’re Buying the Best TMT Bar for Construction

When building a home or structure meant to last generations, quality isn’t optional—it’s the foundation. Choosing the best TMT bar can make all the difference between a structure that endures and one that weakens with time. Right from the start, smart buyers should pay close attention to what goes into the making of these bars. That includes elements like HR coils and Super Rings, which directly affect strength, flexibility, and durability.

Low-grade TMT bars often compromise structural integrity. Cracks in walls, rusting frames, or poor resistance during quakes are all too common when corners are cut during purchase. So how do you spot the right choice in a sea of options?

Here are seven telltale signs you’re picking the best TMT bar for your construction project.

1. Raw Material Quality is Non-Negotiable

The first clue lies in the raw materials. High-grade HR coils are the backbone of premium TMT bars. These coils offer uniformity in composition, ensuring that the bar performs consistently under pressure. If your supplier can’t confirm the source and grade of HR coils used, it’s time to walk away.

2. Excellent Ductility with Super Rings Integration

TMT bars that incorporate Super Rings during processing offer better grip with concrete. This ensures higher bonding strength—an essential during earthquakes or heavy stress. The unique rib design these rings create enhances friction and structural cohesion.

3. Corrosion Resistance That Lasts

Structures often face harsh conditions—humidity, rain, and coastal winds. The best TMT bar includes anti-corrosive properties that come from a refined manufacturing process. If a bar rusts quickly or feels flaky at the surface, it won’t hold up in the long run.

4. Uniform Rib Pattern Across Length

Consistent ribbing—especially those shaped using Super Rings—makes a bar more dependable. It ensures equal bonding throughout, leaving no weak spots when embedded in concrete. Uniformity also signals that advanced rolling technology was used in manufacturing.

5. Certified Quality Control and Lab Testing

Top-tier manufacturers subject their bars to stringent quality tests—tensile strength, bend tests, elongation, and more. Ask for certifications. Brands that produce the best TMT bar don’t hesitate to share lab results. They know trust is built on proof, not promises.

6. Earthquake-Resistant Flexibility

Construction in seismic zones demands bars with excellent elongation properties. This flexibility often stems from how well the HR coils were processed and whether thermal treatment was uniformly applied. Without this, a bar may snap under stress instead of bending.

7. Transparent Branding and Reputation

Reputable brands make it easy to trace where their bars came from, how they were made, and what makes them reliable. They don’t hide the fact that HR coils and Super Rings play a pivotal role in delivering high-performance steel. If a supplier dodges questions or offers vague claims, they’re likely not offering the best TMT bar.

Conlusion

When all these signs align, it’s more than just a product—it’s peace of mind. Investing in a construction project is a long-term commitment, and quality should never be compromised for a quick bargain.

Recognizing these seven signs means moving beyond guesswork. It empowers buyers to make informed, confident decisions that keep people safe and properties strong. After all, the true strength of a building starts long before the first brick is laid—it starts with choosing the right steel.

FAQs

1. How can I test the quality of a TMT bar on-site? Check for uniform rib patterns, perform a bend test, and ask for mill test certificates from the supplier.

2. What role do HR coils play in TMT bars? HR coils determine the core strength and consistency of the bar—high-quality coils result in better durability and load-bearing capacity.

3. Are Super Rings necessary in TMT bars? Yes. Super Rings improve concrete bonding, reducing the chances of structural failure during stress or seismic activity.

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elryuse · 3 months ago

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She's Unforgettable

Winter X Male Reader

Tags : Bartender Male Reader, Angsty, Depression, Kissing, Teasing, Romance, Words : 4,203 Words

The bar was empty, save for the soft hum of the neon sign flickering outside. You wiped down the counter for the third time, the rag slipping through your fingers as you paused. The air smelled of whiskey and regret, the kind of place people came to bury their secrets or stumble into new ones. Normally, you liked it this way — quiet, predictable, nothing but the clink of glasses and the occasional murmur of the TV in the corner. But tonight, the stillness felt heavier, like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

Then she walked in.

Winter.

Her name suited her — cold, sharp, beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. She didn’t look like a regular; her eyes scanned the room like she was testing the water, hesitant but determined. She slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, her coat pooling around her like a shadow. You moved toward her, your steps deliberate, though you couldn’t say why.

“What’ll it be?” Your voice was steady, but something in the air between you wasn’t.

She looked up, and her gaze pinned you. Not in a flashy, dramatic way. It was quieter than that. Like she was seeing past the bartender, past the man, to something raw and unguarded. “Something strong,” she said, her voice low, almost a murmur. “But not too sweet.”

You nodded, turning to the shelves behind you. Your hands moved automatically, pulling a bottle of bourbon, but your mind was elsewhere. Why her? Why now? You poured the drink with practiced ease, sliding it across the counter. She reached for it, and her fingers brushed yours. Just barely. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

The warmth of her skin lingered, quiet and uncertain, like she hadn’t meant to reach across that distance. But you didn’t pull away. You froze, and in that stillness, something unspoken rose between you.

“I feel safe here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bar.

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to. You just didn’t know how. It had been so long since someone looked at you like that — not as a bartender, not as a mistake in the shape of a man, but something steady. Someone she could trust.

But it scared the hell out of you.

Because women like Winter didn’t stay. People with ghosts behind their smiles and cities tucked beneath their eyes didn’t settle for dim bars and broken men. They drifted. And you — you didn’t get to be the anchor. You were just the stop between storms.

Still, that touch lingered. You carried it in your palms, felt it each time you wiped a glass or struck a match for someone’s cigarette. It was ridiculous, but it was real.

She kept coming back.

And she stayed longer now. Sometimes until the chairs were stacked, the lights were low, and the city outside felt like a distant memory. The bar became a world of its own — dim, quiet, and raw. It wasn’t much, but in those hours, it was enough.

She talked more. Sometimes barely above a whisper, like her truths might vanish if she spoke too loud.

“I used to dance,” she said one night, her eyes drifting toward the dusty speaker playing Chet Baker in the background. “Ballet, jazz, contemporary. I used to move like I had somewhere to go.”

“What happened?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

She shrugged, took a sip of her drink. “Life. A cracked rib, an empty wallet, a man who said he loved me and left bruises instead.”

Your grip tightened around the bar rag, the fabric digging into your palm.

She didn’t cry. Winter never cried. But her voice wavered when she added, “I wanted to leave Seoul. Change my name. Become someone else. But I never left. The city clung to me. Or maybe I clung to it.”

You told her things too. Not all at once. In pieces.

How you used to sketch buildings in the margins of your notebooks. How you’d once dreamed of architecture school, of leaving behind a legacy of glass and steel. How your hands, once meant to build, now just poured.

She listened. Really listened. Her gaze never wandered. She absorbed everything like it mattered.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible.

One night, she leaned closer, her chin resting against the back of her hand. Her eyes held yours, and for a moment, the bar faded away.

“Do you believe in second chances?” she asked.

You paused, then glanced at her. “No,” you answered honestly. “But I believe in people who need them.”

That earned you the faintest of smiles.

The night deepened.

You were cleaning up, stacking glasses, when she moved from her stool and walked behind the bar. You didn’t stop her. She stood beside you in that quiet space that only two people carrying too much can share without words.

She picked up a lemon wedge, rolled it between her fingers, then set it down.

“I don’t think I’m the kind of girl you should want,” she said. “I ruin things.”

You laughed under your breath. Not at her. At the irony.

“I’ve been broken for a long time, Winter,” you murmured. “Maybe ruined things just fit together easier.”

She looked at you for a long time.

And then she kissed you.

Not deeply. Not hungrily. Just… softly. Like she was asking a question she didn’t expect an answer to.

Her lips were cold from her drink, but her breath was warm.

You didn’t kiss her back. Not yet. But your hands twitched like they wanted to. You were scared, and she felt it. She pulled away, but not far. Just enough to see you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said. “I just don’t want to feel alone tonight.”

So you let her stay.

You locked the door. Dimmed the lights. The two of you sat on the floor of the bar with your backs against the liquor shelf, drinking straight from the bottle, knees almost touching.

She talked about stars she’d never seen. Oceans she wanted to visit. Names she’d tried on in her head but never spoken aloud.

You talked about your father. How he used to build model trains and let you help. How he died before you graduated. How you stopped drawing after that.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was something else.

It was survival, woven between sips of whiskey and unfinished stories.

And when she finally leaned against your shoulder and drifted off — her breath steady, her chest rising slow — you realized you weren’t afraid anymore.

You were something worse.

You were hopeful.

And hope was dangerous.

Because girls like Winter didn’t stay.

But she stayed that night.

And when she left, the door didn’t close completely.

It stayed ajar, like an invitation — or maybe a warning.

You didn’t know which.

But when she walked back in the next night, her eyes searching for yours, you knew you were already in too deep.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” you said, your voice low.

She smiled, but it was tinged with something sad. “Neither did I.”

She stepped closer, and this time, her hand found yours.

The bar was empty, but it felt full.

And then, without a word, she kissed you again — harder this time, like she wasn’t afraid to pull you under.

You kissed her back.

And everything else fell away.

She pulls back, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and desire. Her breath is shallow, her lips trembling as they part to speak. “I want to show you something,” she whispers, her voice low, almost fragile, like it might shatter if she spoke too loud.

You don’t hesitate. You nod, the weight of her gaze pulling you forward. Her fingers brush against yours, cold but electric, as she leads you to a small room in the back of the bar. The door creaks shut behind you, the sound echoing in the dimly lit space. The air is thick with anticipation, heavy with the scent of old wood and something unspoken.

The room is small, barely more than a storage closet. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with dusty bottles and forgotten supplies. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a soft, yellow glow over everything. Winter stands in the center of it all, her back to you, her shoulders tense.

She turns slowly, her eyes meeting yours. There’s a vulnerability in them that you’ve never seen before. “I’ve been running for so long,” she says, her voice trembling. “From him. From myself. But when I’m with you, I feel… I feel like I can stop. Like I can breathe.”

Your heart aches for her. Without thinking, you step closer, your hands reaching out to cup her face. Her skin is cold, but it warms beneath your touch. “You don’t have to run anymore,” you murmur, your thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks. “Not from me.”

She leans into your touch, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opens them again, there’s a fire there, a hunger that burns through the fear. “I want to trust you,” she says, her voice a whisper. “But I’m scared. Scared that I’ll ruin this. Scared that I’ll ruin you.”

You shake your head, your hands sliding down to rest on her shoulders. “You won’t ruin me,” you say firmly. “And you’re not alone anymore. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re scared of, you don’t have to face it alone. Not anymore.”

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, she just looks at you. Then, without warning, she kisses you. It’s not soft, like before. It’s deep, desperate, fueled by a hunger that’s been buried for far too long. Her hands clutch at your shirt, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your arms wrapping around her, holding her as if she might disappear.

Her lips are cold, but they warm quickly, melting against yours. The kiss is wild, unrelenting, a storm that sweeps you both away. She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. “I need you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I need to feel something real. Please.”

You don’t need to be asked twice. Your hands slide down her sides, feeling the way her body trembles beneath your touch. She’s delicate, fragile, but there’s a strength in her that’s undeniable. She’s a survivor, and in this moment, she’s choosing to live.

Your lips find hers again, and the kiss deepens. Her hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, seeking the warmth of your skin. You let her take control, let her guide the pace, because this is her moment. Her need. And you’re more than willing to give her whatever she needs.

Her fingers fumble with the buttons of your shirt, and you help her, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands splay across your chest, her touch sending shivers down your spine. She’s hesitant at first, as if she’s afraid to touch you, but then her fingers dig into your skin, her nails leaving faint marks in their wake.

“You’re real,” she murmurs, her voice filled with awe. “You’re here. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips moving against yours with a desperation that’s almost painful. Her hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, and you let her unbutton them, let her push them down until they pool at your feet.

She’s trembling, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “I’ve never felt like this before,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”

Her words are a plea, a confession, and you can’t ignore them. Your hands move to the hem of her shirt, and you pull it over her head, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath. She’s beautiful, her body a map of scars and stories, each one a testament to her strength.

Your lips find her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her skin. She gasps, her hands tangling in your hair, holding you close. “I need you,” she whispers again, her voice breaking. “Please.”

You lift her, carrying her to the small, makeshift cot in the corner of the room. She’s light in your arms, her body fitting perfectly against yours. You lay her down gently, your eyes never leaving hers. “Are you sure?” you ask, your voice low, rough with desire.

She nods, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and need. “I’m sure,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You kiss her again, your hands exploring every inch of her body. She’s responsive, her hips arching up to meet your touch. She’s desperate, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you strip away the last of her clothing.

Her body is a revelation, a masterpiece of curves and softness. You kiss your way down her neck, her chest, her stomach, savoring every gasp, every moan that escapes her lips. When your mouth finally finds her, she nearly comes undone, her hands clutching at the sheets, her back arching off the cot.

“Please,” she begs, her voice a broken whisper. “I need you.”

You can’t deny her. You move up her body, your lips finding hers again. She’s trembling, her legs wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. When you finally enter her, she lets out a cry, her nails digging into your back.

She’s tight, warm, and you have to fight to hold back, to keep from losing yourself in the feel of her. But she’s the one who sets the pace, her hips rocking against yours, her breath hot against your ear. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t stop.”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you wanted to. She’s everything, her body, her voice, her need. She’s consuming you, leaving no room for anything else. Her hands clutch at your back, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

When she finally comes, it’s with a cry that’s half pain, half pleasure. Her body trembles beneath you, her nails digging into your skin. You follow her over the edge, your own release tearing through you like a wildfire.

For a long moment, you just stay there, wrapped in each other, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. She’s trembling, her body pressed tight against yours. “You’re real,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your arms tightening around her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

“I promise,” you say, your voice firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips soft against yours. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “Thank you for being here.”

You hold her close, your heart aching for her. She’s been through so much, suffered in ways you can’t even imagine. But in this moment, she’s here, with you, and that’s all that matters.

The room is quiet, the air heavy with the weight of what’s just happened. She’s trembling in your arms, her body pressed tight against yours. “I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m scared of what happens next.”

“Whatever happens,” you say, your voice firm. “We’ll face it together.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me we’ll face it together.”

You don’t say a word. You don’t need to. The way you cradle her in your arms, the way your fingers brush against her skin—it’s enough. You lift her effortlessly, her body light against your chest, her breath hot against your neck. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t question. She just clings to you, her arms looping around your shoulders, her face buried in the crook of your neck.

The walk to your apartment is a blur. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and red, the night air cool against your skin, but all you feel is her. Her warmth. Her weight. Her trust. She’s quiet, but you can feel her heart racing, her fingers gripping you tighter with every step.

You reach your door, fumble with the keys, and push it open. The apartment is dim, the moonlight spilling through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. You don’t turn on the lights. You don’t need to. The way she looks at you, the way her eyes catch the faint glow—it’s all you need.

You set her down gently, her feet barely touching the ground, and she doesn’t let go. Her hands slide up to your face, her fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw. “I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, but the words cut through the silence like a knife.

“Don’t be,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m here.”

Her lips press against yours, soft at first, tentative, like she’s testing the waters. But when you don’t pull away, when your hands settle on her hips and pull her closer, she deepens the kiss. Her tongue slips past your lips, and the taste of her—whiskey, salt, and something sweet—sends a shiver down your spine. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

You back her up against the wall, your body pinning hers, and she gasps into your mouth, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her hands slide down your back, nails digging into your skin, and the pain is sharp, immediate. But it’s not unwelcome. It’s a reminder that she’s here, that she’s real, that she needs you as much as you need her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you can hear the fear in it, the uncertainty.

“You won’t,” you promise, your lips brushing against hers. “You could never.”

She kisses you again, harder this time, more desperate, and you match her pace, your hands roaming her body, exploring every curve, every dip. Her breath hitches when your fingers slide beneath the hem of her shirt, tracing the soft skin of her waist, and she arches into your touch, her body begging for more.

You pull her shirt over her head, tossing it aside, and she stands there in nothing but her jeans and a black lace bra that clings to her skin like a second shadow. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen, and for a moment, you just stare, drinking her in, memorizing every inch of her.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling, and you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands move to the clasp of her bra, fumbling slightly, but she helps you, her fingers brushing against yours as the fabric falls away. Her breasts are small but perfect, the nipples hard and begging for attention, and you give it to her. Your mouth descends on one, your tongue swirling around the peak, and she gasps, her hands gripping your shoulders for support. Her head falls back, her eyes fluttering shut, and you take your time, exploring every inch of her, making her feel things she’s probably never felt before.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against her skin, your lips trailing up to her neck, and she shivers, her body trembling under your touch.

“I don’t feel beautiful,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, and it breaks your heart.

“You are,” you insist, your hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at you. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her eyes search yours, and for a moment, she looks like she doesn’t believe you. But then she kisses you again, her lips soft but insistent, and any doubt fades away. She’s here. She’s real. And she’s yours—at least for tonight.

You pick her up again, her legs wrapping around your waist, and carry her to the bed. The mattress dips under your weight as you lay her down, your body hovering over hers, and she looks up at you with those piercing eyes, her lips swollen from your kisses.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, and this time, you know why. She’s scared of what this means, scared of letting someone in, scared of being vulnerable. But she’s also scared of losing this, of losing you.

“I’m here,” you repeat, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nods, her eyes filling with tears, and you kiss her again, slower this time, more tender. Your hands move to her jeans, unbuttoning them, pulling them down her legs, and she helps you, her body lifting to make it easier. She’s naked now, completely exposed, and she’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

You strip off your own clothes, your eyes never leaving hers, and when you’re both bare, you pause, giving her a moment to adjust, to process. But she doesn’t need it. Her hands reach for you, pulling you down to her, and you don’t resist.

The first thrust is slow, careful, and she gasps, her nails digging into your back. But she doesn’t tell you to stop. She pulls you closer, her legs wrapping around your waist, and you move inside her, your bodies falling into a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

“You feel so good,” she whispers, her voice trembling, and you can feel the truth in her words. She’s tight, warm, and so wet, and you can’t believe you’re inside her, that she’s letting you be this close, this intimate.

“You feel amazing,” you murmur, your lips brushing against hers, and she kisses you again, her body arching into yours.

The pace quickens, the bed creaking beneath you, and she moans, the sound muffled by your mouth. Her hands roam your body, exploring every inch of you, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

“I’m close,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you nod, your thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

And she does. Her body tightens, her nails digging into your skin, and she cries out, her orgasm washing over her like a wave. You follow her, your own release hitting you hard, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, lost in each other, and it’s perfect.

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #kpop smut #aespa #aespa smut #aespa x reader #aespa x male reader #aespa winter smut #angst #smut

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drabblesandimagines · 1 year ago

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Swingin'

Leon Kennedy x female reader, established relationship, absolutely fluffy nonsense once again

“Stand here for me, ma’am.”

You giggle at the odd term of address as familiar hands maneuverer you forward into position by your hips, the owner of said hands stepping back in front of you when they seemed happy with your positioning.

“Now, put your left index finger on your nose.”

You roll your eyes. “You can’t seriously be making your girlfriend take a field impairment test.”

Leon crosses his arms, trademark smirk on his lips. “Oh, I’m serious, sweetheart. Left index finger – go.”

You swallow down a hiccup as you follow his order, finding your nose with ease and smile, triumphantly.

“Now with your right.”

That one doesn’t go as smooth, your finger sliding down the side and prodding yourself in the cheek before you reposition, finding it at last. “Oops.”

“Arms straight down by your sides.” You comply at once, straightening your posture as you do. “Place your left foot directly in front of your right, heel touching toes.”

That one is a little more tricky to follow, you admit, but you think you’ve nailed it after a little bit of shuffling, though your boyfriend doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“Walk forward – heel to toe every step and count aloud.”

“Heel to toe…” You mutter, looking down at your feet. “One.” You swing your right leg round a bit too dramatically and your foot lands too far in front of your left but you persevere.

“Two.” Another big step forward has you throwing your arms out for balance.

“Arms straight down by your sides, sweetpea.” Leon chides.

You huff, dropping them back down and scoot your foot backward, before stepping forward with the other. “Three…”

Unfortunately, you step too far off to the right, nearly losing your balance completely before Leon steadies you with a firm grip on your elbow.

“Yep, you are 100% not riding on the back.”

“But I promise to hold on real tight.” You press your face into his chest then, wrapping your arms around his waist in demonstration and giving a firm squeeze to show off your strength.

“Not a risk I’m willing to take.” Leon wraps his arms around you in return and presses a kiss to your crown. All it would take was for you to let go around a corner and…

He shudders, can’t even bear to imagine any further. Nope, not happening.

“I’m sorry.” Your words are muffled, feeling like an annoyance. “I really didn’t think I’d drank that much.”

And you hadn’t, it had only really hit you when you’d exited the bar into the fresh air to meet Leon on the sidewalk. He’d parked his bike a block or so away from the venue and that short, stumbled walk had set alarm bells ringing.

“I’m sure you didn’t, little lightweight that you are.” He teases. “Come on, it’s not too far a walk from here anyway – might help you sober up.”

You pull your head back and look up at him, brows furrowed. “What about your bike?”

He looks at it – his prized Ducati, security lock already in place from when he left it to walk towards the bar – and shrugs. “I can get it in the morning.”

“Uh-uh,” you step back, Leon loosening his arms as you do but still keeping you close. “You take the bike and I’ll walk home. Ooh, I could jog alongside!”

Leon smiles in amusement, but shakes his head. “Not happening.”

You look down at your feet, double-checking you were in fact wearing flats and not heels when Leon doesn’t take you seriously. He’s in his military-grade boots, as usual. You’re not sure how they can be comfortable to walk in, steel-capped toes, but he never seems to complain.

“Okay, how about you wheel it home as I walk?”

“Why are you so concerned about me leaving my bike?”

“Are you kidding me? You have the worst luck with it. If you leave it here, it’ll get stolen or hit by a truck, or… struck by lightning.”

“And my insurance covers all of those.” He turns you, gently, one arm snug around your waist and encourages you to take a step forward. “Come on, let’s get home.”

You wrap an arm tentatively around his waist in return and only make it a few steps before your insecurities arise. “Leon…”

“Mm?”

“Are you mad at me?”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” He squeezes your hip in reassurance. “Why would I be? You had fun, right?”

“Yeah, I did.” You nod, thinking back over the evening. You’d met up with your friends to catch-up over some cocktails, a rare evening where you’d all happened to be free. “It was so nice seeing them all. Tabitha’s been through two boyfriends since the last time we managed it.”

“She still dating jerks?” He frowns, familiar with her tales of dating woe.

“Sadly. Are you sure there’s no suitable guys at your work?”

“Oh, I’m one of a kind, baby,” he chuckles. “Don’t wanna set her up for disappointment.”

“Maybe this one will be diff… Ooh, look!” You point just up ahead, your attention span apparently at an all-time low. “They finally finished the renovations!”

The playpark had been taped off for a while – the equipment old and outdated and more than a little bit dangerous. You pull away from him and race through the gate, making a beeline for the swings. Leon jogs behind you, stopping a few feet in front of the swing-set and places his hands on his hips as you plonk yourself down and kick your feet against the fresh tarmac.

“I don’t think you’re the demographic they’re looking for, sweetheart.”

“Says you.” You tease, the agent having a handful of more years on you. “When’s the last time you sat on a swing anyway?”

“I dunno, 30 years ago?”

“Long overdue.” You jerk your head at the swing besides you. “Bet I can swing higher than you can.”

He tilts his head and smiles. “I’m sure you can.”

“Leon, come on.” You pout, scuffing your soles on the tarmac again as you swing half-heartedly back and forth. “Please?”

How could he ever say no to that face?

He rolls his eyes and walks over to the swing, sitting down heavily as instructed, wrapping his fingers around the chains. “Happy?”

“Uh-uh, not until you swing, Kennedy.” You kick your feet against the ground in demonstration, picking up some height and speed as Leon follows suit.

You look at him and grin as the two of you begin to swing in sync, getting higher and higher. Leon’s smile only grows wider as the wind rushes through his hair.

It takes him back for a moment – back to before he knew what Umbrella and BOWs were. He still has his jokes, of course, but it had been a while since he’d allowed himself to be a little bit silly.

You just make it far too easy.

He scuffs his boots against the ground to slow down his movement and watches as you follow suit, tilting your head in concern.

“You okay?”

“Mm-hm. Come here,” he pats his lap and you jump off mid-swing, somehow managing to keep upright. Leon rolls his eyes and stops his swing completely as you step over and drop yourself sideways onto his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck for stability.

“I can’t ride on the back of your bike, but I can sit on your lap whilst you swing, huh?”

“Uh-uh,” he lets go of the chain and cups your face. “I just wanted a kiss.”

He closes the gap then with a soft kiss, one full of utter adoration – not too firm, but one that makes your scalp tingle as his lips caress yours, over and over.

He pulls away to lean his forehead against yours.

“I love you, sweetheart. Thanks for keeping me young.”

You let go of his neck to pat his chest, chidingly. “Come on, you’re not that old. You were swinging pretty high.”

“Yeah, guess I was.” The cocky grin crosses his face then. “Higher than you, actually.”

“Uh-uh”, you shake your head, adamantly. “You just think that cos you’re a little bit taller.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

But he’s lost you, your attention fixed on something over his shoulder. “Ooh, they’ve got a new slide too!”

You make Leon try every piece of play equipment before finally heading home, but his smile never drops.

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

Comments and reblogs make my whole day x

#ghostdogwrites #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff #resident evil fluff

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mamiobesssionfics · 1 month ago

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Tiny Teeth, Big Feelings

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: Rhea shares her secret Labubu obsession, nervous about being judged, only to find you're genuinely interested.

You found it on her kitchen counter, sitting proudly between a half-eaten protein bar and a steel water bottle that looked like it had been through war.

A tiny, strange-looking creature. Big eyes. Sharp little teeth. Mischievous grin.

You blinked at it.

“…What is that?”

Rhea had just walked out of the bedroom in sweatpants and a band tee, a towel around her neck, fresh from the shower.

She froze. Visibly. Like you’d caught her doing something embarrassing.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly quiet. “Uh. That’s a Labubu.”

You turned to her. “A what?”

She cleared her throat, walking over, clearly fighting the urge to seem too excited. “They’re these… vinyl figures. Blind boxes. You don’t know which one you get until you open it. This one’s from the Monster series. Look at its face.” She picked it up and held it like a tiny relic, her fingers gentle despite her usual brute strength. “They’re kinda ugly-cute. I don’t know. I love them.”

Your brows rose. “You collect them?”

She hesitated. “Yeah. Not a lot of people know that.” Her tone was careful now, testing the waters. “They’re made by a designer in Hong Kong. I like the weird ones best. They’re kind of… creepy but sweet? Like me.”

You laughed softly. “You think this thing is sweet?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Look at the little ears.”

You stepped closer and did.

It had a fuzzy texture and a slightly off-balance stance that made it look like it was about to say something dumb but adorable.

“It’s kind of… cute.”

Her eyes lit up. Just for a second.

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, really. It’s got, like, ‘cursed plush energy.’ I kind of love it.”

Rhea bit her lip, hiding a smile with such effort that it made your heart ache.

“I got you one,” she said after a pause.

Your head tilted. “What?”

“It’s in the bag,” she nodded to the counter. “I was going to give it to you after dinner. But you saw mine first, so now the surprise is ruined.”

You reached into the little shopping bag and pulled out a box with bright colours and bizarre cartoon creatures on it.

“You got me a blind box?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “Thought it’d be cute if we opened them together. I dunno. Stupid, probably.”

You smiled and leaned against the counter.

“It’s not stupid.” You opened it gently, peeling away the wrapper. Inside was a weird little Labubu with bat wings and fangs and a shy expression.

Rhea peeked over your shoulder.

“Batbu!” she said, lighting up. “That one’s rare.”

You held it like it was something sacred. “So does this mean we’re Labubu parents now?”

Rhea snorted, then leaned down to kiss your temple.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I guess we are.”

"You’re the first person I’ve shown this stuff to.”

You looked up at her, wet hair, muscle shirt, ridiculous love for monster toys and fell just a little harder.

“Well,” you said, “I’m your biggest fan now. Of the Labubus… and you.”

Rhea looked like she might melt. She pulled you close, rested her chin on your head, and whispered.

“Good. Because I’ve already ordered us the Halloween set.”

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clairewritesfanfics · 24 days ago

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Villain Creation System Chapter 6

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Attempted sexual assault

CHAPTER 5: This Boy is a Choking Hazard Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

Wisteria was fancier than what you expected from a nightclub. Cleaner, too. It was glass and steel and purple to pink neon lights. Artificial wisteria flowers hung from the ceiling and walls.

The place was freezing and reeked of sweat, booze and a plethora of perfumes.

You were close to throwing up from sensory overload when someone yelled your name amidst the chatter and you found Amber waving at you from the bar.

You wove past the jittering bodies to join her.

“Mark invited you, huh?” She didn’t seem mad or jealous, but she did sound defeated.

“Is that bad?”

She shook her head, smiling weakly. “Nah. He’s a good guy, I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. Just don’t forget what I told you. Mark has a way of wriggling into people’s hearts, especially pretty girls’.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Amber.”

“No problem.” She glanced down at your clothes. “You look great, by the way. I love your jacket.”

You resisted the urge to scoff and thought back to several hours ago.

This body’s taste in clothes was similar to yours, if a little juvenile. The system said that it was because it relayed some of your memories to the World Consciousness. Being a tutorial level mission world certainly helped too.

[Do not expect this to be the same in every mission world, though. As I have said before, the World Consciousness is imperfect. A lot of its programming ability goes to replicating your defining physical features like eye color and complexion, but that leaves everything else subject to variation.]

“I get it already, limited energy or whatever, right?” You waved it off, trying to find the best outfit for the club.

The system huffed–it did not appreciate getting brushed off like some nagging wife–and pixelated smoke puffed out of the corners of its screen, dispersing in the air as tiny dots of light. Deciding to get back at its Host, the system waited for you to pick up a t-shirt and then played that buzzer sound quiz shows would use when a participant got an answer wrong.

[Too plain.]

You raised an eyebrow but agreed. Your hand went for another top.

[Too gaudy.]

Fine. You reached for something else–EEEEHH.

You crossed your arms over your chest and glared at the floating holographic monitor.

The system made an innocent face.

[Too ugly.]

[Too vibrant.]

[Too frumpy.]

It didn’t take more than two minutes of getting bombarded with that obnoxious EEEEHH for you to put your foot down. You settled for something comfortable but more party-coded than your usual wear. The most noteworthy piece on you was a denim jacket decorated with a few pins.

Amber was admiring the one shaped like a semicolon while you used disinfectant wipes on the barstool next to her.

“So,” you started, taking a seat. “How was your test?”

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “What’s done is done. Tonight, I’m just going to focus on dancing. Hey, you’re still coming to my party tomorrow, right?”

“Uh-huh.” To be honest, your social battery was drained to half capacity just by entering this place. If this was a purely social endeavor you would’ve already prepared a whole story about your not-grandmother being in a hospital and wanting to see you tomorrow, but this was a job. If playing nice and pretending to have fun is what your job needs then so be it.

Besides, it would feel wrong to say no to her now.

“I like your blouse,” you said.

She wore a gold sequin halter top with a pair of high-waisted jeans.

“Thanks! A friend of mine picked it out for me, I thought it was too much but she said it’d be a waste not to get it. I think you’ll really like her, she’s an architecture major.” Her eyes flickered over your shoulder and she beamed, waving at someone. “There she is now.”

[Ding.]

“Hey, Amber.” The voice was undoubtedly feminine and clear. The kind of voice befitting an important woman.

Red-orange flickered from the corner of your eye.

Amber stood to give the new arrival a quick hug and then introduced the two of you.

The emerald-eyed stranger offered you a smile and her hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

[Samantha Eve Wilkins has arrived.]

Long fiery hair fell delicately over bare freckled-kiss shoulders and her green eyes popped thanks to the lavender silk of her blouse. She was even more striking in person, there was no doubt in your mind that she was an important supporting character. Hell, she could probably pass for the main character.

You gave her hand two shakes. “Hi.”

The bartender arrived, sliding a cool root beer towards Amber and asking you, “What can I get you?”

“Lemon lime–” “–peach soda”

You and Eve exchanged glances, then you giggled at the same time.

The bartender nodded and left to get your drinks.

“Amber tells me you’re a total genius,” Eve said, sitting next to you instead of Amber and effectively sandwiching you between the two beauties. If you were as old as this body was, you would have thrown up from anxiety. Luckily, you have learned to be more adaptable before you died.

“I’m not a genius,” you replied, accepting the bottle of lemon lime from the bartender with a smile and barely audible ‘thank you.’

Amber waved her hand. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You always get the highest score in every test and pop quiz–and you only make what, one or two mistakes? It’s insane.” She leaned closer and said to Eve, “The professor thought she was cheating so he had her retake a different version of a test in essay form.”

“No way.” Eve’s jaw dropped. “Is that even allowed?”

“We’re not sure, but jokes on him, our girl here–” she gave you a friendly elbow jab “–got perfect marks on that.”

You groaned internally. You weren’t a genius, but you were technically a college graduate, one who already suffered through chemistry, biology, psychology and so many other -ies.

Daily study sessions, a stringent schedule, different tutors and a sprinkle of all-nighters here and there can go a long way. You also genuinely enjoyed learning, and in this reality, you didn’t have to worry about time or money, so you can focus your energy on studying. The only catch is that you have to go above and beyond for one particular, very specific subject: Mark Grayson.

Your interest in other people who are too distant to be considered friends is usually limited. Relationships are hard, at least for you. Humans can say one thing but mean something else. For example, if one is invited for a drink with their boss, technically, they can say no, but they don’t because it is a faux pas to reject a social invite from an important person. One has to smile and nod when another speaks, even when the topic is boring or nonsensical or disagreeable.

Etiquette and expectations. Tradition versus reason.

Confusing, annoying, but necessary, you admit.

You stared at the cartoon logo on your plastic bottle.

Speaking of confusing things, where the heck is Mark?

[Ding. The system is offline.]

[The system was called “useless” and “unnecessary” by the Host.]

[Since this system is so “useless” and “unnecessary,” it shall stay away for now.]

[(˶˃⤙˂˶)]

Little punk.

You rolled your eyes and let it be, deciding to survey the area. According to Mark, tonight the whole club was reserved for the college or something; an immediate celebration after the first major exams of the academic year.

Expectedly, the entire floor was swarmed with young adults, from freshmen to seniors. Some held beer, others went with sodas or juice.

“Great place, right?” Eve asked, pulling you out of focus mode.

“Yeah, it is.” You turned to face her. Sharp green eyes smiled at you.

“I gotta say, I haven’t been to a lot of nightclubs but I can already tell that this is relatively high end.”

“Amber tells me you’re an architect.”

“Well, studying to be one.”

“That’s cool.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. There’s a lot of math involved.”

“Not a big fan?”

“It’s not my favorite subject.”

“Here, here.” You raised your unopened bottle and she toasted with her peach soda. “I despise mathematics.”

Amber laughed. “Really? I thought you’d eat it up for sure.”

“Math is not as fascinating as chemistry. Or biology.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, but what kind of things do you do for fun? Eve and I have been itching for a girls’ night.”

You opened your mouth to reply but the lights dimmed and the multi-colored lasers focused on the stage.

A young man with green hair and studded leather pants announced into the mic, “Ladies, gentlemen and dear nonbinaries; friends and enemies, congrats on finishing the first Hell Week of the year!”

The two girls beside you cheered with the crowd. Not one for screaming, you opted to clap your hands.

“We got a lot of great performers lined up today, folks. Starting off strong, we present–Indigo Muse!”

Your peers erupted into applause.

The black velvet curtains behind him parted, revealing Mark and his band.

The guy behind the drums lifted his sticks and began the count, “Three, two–”

youtube

Your ears perked at the familiar guitar riff–and soon, the entire floor was dancing.

I’m on my way, but I don’t know

What to do or where to go

Despite being the bassist, Mark was the lead singer and of course, he had the voice of an angel.

You felt your back being pushed and your arms getting pulled.

Eve yelled behind you, “Come on!”

“Let’s dance.” Amber dragged you off your stool.

“Wait, I don’t–”

The two were stronger than they looked and you found yourself standing in the middle of the dance floor, getting squished by varied-smelling bodies.

I’m so nervous, I feel sick

I hope I don’t come off like a jerk

You gripped hard on your lemon lime, trying not to vomit.

You lifted your chin and found Mark’s eyes on you.

I went all out, I washed my hair

I searched and found some clean underwear

There was that gaze again, like you were the only thing worth focusing on in the whole room.

It was too much.

She’s so hot, I can’t resist

I don’t know what I’ll do if she gives me that first kiss

Suddenly feeling extra thirsty, you tried to open your soda, but the condensation made your hand slip. The bottle dropped to the floor and a stray leg kicked it away.

��Crap.” Your two dance partners were too preoccupied to notice you crawling away.

“Excuse me, excuse me! Sorry!” You braved through stiletto heels and heavy boots. The smart thing to do was to get a new soda, but you didn’t want to be responsible for someone slipping on the bottle and causing a domino effect of fallen dancers and a really busy ER.

The bottle hit the legs of a nearby sofa, finally stopping.

You sighed in relief, but just as you approached forward, a girl bumped into you and dropped her bottle.

She rubbed her head. “Ow… Sorry.”

“I’m fine.”

You picked up both drinks and stared at them. Huh. Both lemon lime. Both unopened.

“Here.” You gave her one randomly.

“Thanks. Sorry again for, uh, falling on top of you.”

“No harm done.”

She grinned and walked away, her long blonde ponytail bouncing with each step as she disappeared into the sea of people.

You reached inside your jacket for a wet wipe and cleaned the soda bottle from top to bottom.

You twisted the cap open and the system dinged just as you realized–

Shit.

***

Mark didn’t stop looking even when you did. He half-expected you to email with some generic excuse like a relative in the hospital or a dead grandparent, so seeing you here, in the flesh, was a win in his book.

He was happy to see you all dressed up. He couldn’t wait to ask the story behind every pin on your jacket. Would you actually get giddy like you did during philosophy debates? Would your face remain deadpan? Would you lose your patience and get mad?

His well-practiced singing never faltered as he watched you weave through the crowd.

What were you doing?

They already reached ⅔ of the song when you stopped near a sofa to wipe your soda clean.

He recalled applause and his team patting his back. The emcee approached him while he saw you suddenly burst into a panicked sprint from across the room.

“Mark? Hey, dude?”

“Sorry, I need to use the restroom.” He shrugged off his strap and swiftly put down his bass.

The emcee pointed his thumb behind him. “There’s a staff only wash over–”

Mark leaped off the stage and went the other way.

The emcee glanced at his bandmates, who could only shrug.

Mark did his best to dash towards the restrooms, but with this many people he couldn’t blitz his way recklessly.

By the time he reached the girls’ toilets, he had calmed down enough to try and knock first, but he heard screaming and he burst through the door with a kick.

“Princess!”

He froze, and so did you, and so did the large guy you were hitting with a mop. Beneath that football player-shaped guy was a blonde girl crying on the floor. Her blouse was ripped open and Mark could see red handprints around her throat.

The bastard recovered from shock earlier and swung at you. Your legs faltered and you hit the sink with a loud thud.

Mark didn’t breathe–he didn’t think–

all he saw was red.

“You like hitting girls, huh?”

THUNK

“What about me, tough guy?”

THUNK

“Come on!”

THUNK

“Fight back, asshole!”

“Mark–”

“Fight back–”

“Mark.” Cold, clammy palms covered his cheeks.

Clear eyes grounded him. “Stop.”

“Princess?”

You gave him a small smile. “We’re okay now.”

Something cool and wet touched his knuckles. He looked down and saw you wiping away the blood.

He glanced back at you and saw the early signs of a shiner. He used his free hand to cradle that side of your face. “He hurt you.”

“I’m not the victim here.” You used your mouth to gesture behind him.

The blonde girl was unconscious, but you had draped your jacket over her torso.

Mark swallowed. “Did he–”

You shook your head. “I arrived just when he pushed her down. She’ll be… she’ll remember this night, but she’s one of the luckier ones.”

“Luckier, huh.”

You frowned. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. It just stinks that this is what we consider lucky.”

You silently finished wiping the blood from his knuckles and threw them inside a ziplock bag.

Mark cocked an eyebrow. “You… carry ziplock bags with you?”

“You’ll never know.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I saw you run here from the stage.”

“You got good eyes.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I got better instincts.” He met your gaze. “How did you know what was about to happen?”

You showed him a bottle of lemon lime soda inside a bigger ziplock bag. “She and I accidentally switched bottles. They were both unopened at first glance, but when I twisted the cap, it was loose.”

He examined the container.

“Oh, and it didn’t fizz.”

“What?”

“The soda didn’t fizz. A loose cap is one thing, but then add the fact that it didn’t fizz?”

“You pieced that together fast. I would’ve just thought that it was an old bottle.”

You grinned. “I’ve been told that I’m something of a genius.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He chuckled.

“Are you okay?” You asked, surprising him.

“You’re asking me? I’m not the victim here,” he parroted your words back to you.

“That didn’t stop you from worrying about me.” Your eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay, Mark?”

You put your hand over his clean knuckles.

His breath hitched.

You were close enough to–

He heard groaning behind him and you pulled back, standing up.

“Hey,” he heard you speak to the blonde girl. “Do you remember where you are? It’s okay. You’re safe, it’s all right, the police are on their way.”

He heard crying as he looked down at the man whose face was now unrecognizable.

He looked at his freshly wiped fingers.

“You’re okay.”

He then turned around and saw your shaking hands comfort the weeping girl on the floor.

Mark clenched his fists.

***

[Affection: 44%. Darkening: 15%.]

You stared at the pink and black bars while the paramedic cleaned your wounds.

Amber was in tears, holding your hand and apologizing for not paying more attention, despite your insistence that this was nobody else’s fault except the criminal who was currently on his way to the ER.

Eve said she would go check up on Mark. The system informed you that they were conversing on the roof.

The blonde girl, Ariel, was giving her statement to the cops. When she was finished, she walked over to you and surprised you with a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Unsure what to do, you awkwardly patted her head. “No problem. Anyone would have done the same.”

“I’m sorry about messing up your jacket.”

“Eh, I needed a new one.”

She and Amber laughed.

Ariel stepped back. “Thank you.”

She nodded at Amber and then joined a female officer inside a police car.

Amber’s phone chirped and she squeezed your hand. “You hungry? Eve and Mark want to eat nachos.”

“I didn’t know Eve and Mark were close.”

Amber blinked. She then waved her hand. “No, no, well, yes, they are close, but not like that.”

“Then like what?”

“Well, apparently, they work at the same place. I still don’t know what they actually do, but they see each other occasionally. Eve’s taken though. Some guy named Rex.”

“I see.” For some reason, your heart felt lighter.

***

“Amber said they’re good for nachos,” Eve said, putting away her phone.

Mark stayed quiet as he stared at his hands. You told him to wash them thoroughly but he can still feel the stain on him.

Eve walked closer. “You did good. You saved them.” She stopped talking, but Mark knew that tone.

He hated it because it meant she had something else to say, something annoying. “But…?”

“...but you should’ve held back.”

“He was a rapist.”

“Yes, and I hate him, too, but he’s also human. If you kept going the way you did you would’ve killed him!”

Mark paused.

He was brought back inside that tiny rest room. Before the police arrived, the staff nurse offered to take Ariel inside the attached clinic for treatment. You reassured them that you would follow, and when it was just you and Mark, you locked the door, walked over to Ariel’s attacker and stomped down on his crotch; hard enough that Mark actually winced, hard enough that he heard squishing noises when you lifted your foot.

Face blank, you said to him, “If they ask, tell them it was self-defense.”

He almost laughed. Hearing that was liberating.

He wondered if Eve would have approved. Eve wasn’t a goody-two shoes, but she drew hard lines when it came to crime-fighting. Excessive force and torture were something she balked at.

“I recognize that guy, y’know,” Mark mumbled. “I saved a different woman a few months ago.” In addition to being a prized player at the university, he was part of a powerful frat, a legacy. “I will never forget that smug face of his when the judge let him free.”

“That sucks.”

Mark sneered. That’s all Eve ever says. “If only I–”

“If only, what? If only you killed him? You’re better than that.”

Mark could hear his mother’s voice echo from the back of his mind: “You’re better than him.”

He shot to his feet and turned towards the door.

“We aren’t done here.”

“I think we are,” he snapped back and swung open the rooftop door.

“Oh.”

You were standing right in front of him. “Hi,” you squeaked.

“Hi.” He flashed you his signature smile. “Missed me already? I thought we were meeting at the restaurant?”

“I just needed some fresh air, I didn’t think there was anybody here, sorry. I’ll leave.”

Eve interrupted you, “No, it’s fine. We’re done.”

She gave Mark a look and then smiled at you. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Mark held the door, stepped to the side and made a sweeping motion with his arm, like a doorman welcoming guests.

“You really like roofs,” you noted, strolling towards the railing. “Do you enjoy looking down at the world?”

“You make me sound like a megalomaniac.”

“Your words, not mine.” You rest your elbows on the guardrail.

Mark joined and you uttered to him, “I have a confession.”

His heart stopped for a moment. “What?”

“When you were punching that guy, I was really tempted to let you beat him to death.”

“Oh.”

You eyed him and he quickly added, “–kay. Okay. I see. So why didn’t you?”

“I was worried about you. You didn’t look like yourself.”

He guiltily lowered his head. “Sorry for scaring you.”

You let out a loud Ha! “You don’t scare me, not even when you had blood all over you.” You glanced down at the city. “What I meant was that you seemed to be in a trance. I didn’t want you to wake up and realize you killed someone in your sleep. That would suck.”

This time, Mark let himself laugh.

***

He was laughing.

Jesus, what a psycho. He almost killed someone and he was laughing?

He really was destined for villainy.

[Affection: 49%. Darkening: 16%.]

You were supposed to pretend to love someone like this? For how long? And how many times before you were free? How many more horrible things did you have to experience and witness?

Mark’s brown eyes widened. “Princess?”

“Hm?”

“Are you–”

You turned away from him and brought a shaking hand to your face. “I’m all right, I promise.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, you felt his arms slowly, almost hesitantly, stretch around your shoulders.

Permitting this moment of weakness, you leaned your head on his chest.

His arms tightened, folding over you protectively. “It’s okay, princess. You’re safe.”

You shook your head, because he was awful and kind and confusing and he had no idea what he was saying.

[Ding. Affection: 52%. Darkening: 20%.]

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