#and I’ve been just on the edge of functional;

[tojishousewife]

Farmer toji x bunny reader.

cw - rough sex, tiny anal play, size kink, dumbification

The livestock didn’t even flinch anymore. They were used to it by now.

You were draped over the edge of the old wooden fence of one of the stables like a ragdoll, your little tail flicking erratically as farmer Toji pounded his girthy dick into you from behind. His huge hands squeezes your hips tight enough to bruise, manhandling you back onto his shaft over and over while his heavy body towered over yours—your toes were barely even touching the ground. The creaking wood beneath you almost seemed to shriek with every brutal thrust that the massive man delivered.

“Fucking listen to that shit,” Toji growled, voice guttural as his hips smacked into your rippling ass loudly. “You hear how sloppy this pussy’s getting? Nasty cunt’s fucking singing to me from how wet she’s soaking my cock”.

Your cunt squelched around his thick cock with every rough stroke, leaking down your trembling thighs, soaking the hay-strewn floor beneath your feet. His cock was so fat, you could feel your gummy walls struggling to hold onto him, stretched wide and raw with every deep drag of his length. Your breath came out in helpless, high-pitched gasps, each one bouncing off the barn walls.

“Stuffed full’a cock,” he rasped, letting one hand slide up to your lower back, pressing you down even more until your face was nearly buried in the hay. “Barely any room left, huh?”

You couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t form. Your mouth hung open, drooling onto the wooden beam, tears spilling freely as your body spasmed. Your vision blurred. Your mind was mush. The only thing you could focus on was how brutally stuffed full you were, his cock punching up into you again and again like it was trying to rearrange your insides.

“Bet you can’t even think straight right now,” he groaned against your ear, broad chest pressed flush to your smaller back. “So dumb and empty up here.” He gave your temple a rough, qteasing tap with two fingers. “All your brains are leaking out your drooling cunt”.

A sob tore from your throat — you didn’t even know if it was pleasure or desperation anymore. His cock was stretching you so wide your belly ached, and yet your hips still kept pushing back to meet him, chasing the sickening pressure of his fat tip battering your cervix.

“You keep squeezing me like that, baby, like you’re tryna pull my fucking load out of me,” Toji panted, his voice breaking into a low laugh. “Greedy fucking hole, you’ll get it soon enough, don’t worry”.

Then you felt his rough fingers slide back between your cheeks, spreading your ass wider. Your tiny tail twitched wildly as his fat, calloused thumb circled the little hole in your ass, smearing your slick mess over it.

“You know I’ve been waiting for this, baby,” he murmured, panting against your cheek. “This cute little backhole just winking at me every time you bend over in that short little skirt”. His breath was ragged. “Begging me to stuff it full”.

Before you could even react, his thumb pushed forward, breaching the tight ring. The stretch made your entire body jerk forward against the fence, whimpering like an animal as he worked his thumb in and loosened you slowly. The barn was filled with nasty, wet sounds: your pussy sucking him in, your asshole stretching around his finger, your gasps and mewls bouncing off the beams.

“That’s it. Take both, bunny,” he crooned, almost sweet if it weren’t so fucking nasty. “One cock, one thumb. Little holes stretching so pretty for me. You’re made for this shit”.

Your brain barely functions anymore. Your legs were shaking so bad you thought they’d give out, but Toji had you trapped — his thick arm snaked around your neck now, locking you tight against his chest as his hips picked up their brutal pace again.

“Fucking perfect,” he moaned into your ear, hips snapping forward in hard, sloppy thrusts. “Stretched wide n’ drooling with your ass plugged up— fucking look at you”.

You sobbed brokenly, eyes rolling back as your body convulsed around him, orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. You couldn’t even breathe properly, too full, too overwhelmed — your pussy spasming wildly as he groaned deep and snapped his hips flush to your ass.

“Take it, take it,” he hissed, and then you felt the hot flood of his release pump deep inside you. Heavy spurts of cum filled your cunt while his thumb wriggled deeper into your ass, holding you stretched open as his cock pulsed inside your clenching walls.

The cows were mooing again, the sheep shifting, but neither of you heard any of it anymore.

His breath was shaky and hot on your cheek as he finally let his weight rest on top of you, trapping you under him like you were nothing but his little fucktoy.

“Don’t move, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with satisfaction. “Might not be done with you yet”.

[littlelamy]

your day had been a parade of powdered wigs and drooling mouths. one by one they lined up—lords and sons of lords, limp-limbed and overperfumed, every one of them staring at your tits instead of your face, reciting lines their mothers made them memorize. “your beauty rivals the moon.” “you’d make a fine wife, princess.” “your hips look strong enough for sons.”

you smiled, curtsied, even laughed when they made jokes that made your stomach twist.

and all the while, rafe stood silent at the edge of the hall, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes dark as thunderclouds. you could feel the heat of his gaze even through the silks. but he didn’t come to you or save you from your misery—not until it was over and you were left alone in your chambers, throat sore from pretending to be sweet, hands shaking as you pulled pins from your hair.

“you didn’t like them,” he said from the doorway, quiet.

you turned, robes sliding down your arms, curls falling wild around your face. “what gave it away? the part where i almost vomited when lord routledge said my voice reminded him of his favorite milk cow?”

“you shouldn’t have to stomach that.”

“but i do.” your voice cracked on it, just barely. “i’m the daughter of a king. but apparently, my future belongs to the highest bidder with a functioning cock.”

rafe crossed the room in two strides. “forget that.”

you blinked at him with doe eyes, confused on where this is going, “you’re not supposed to say that to a princess.”

“then punish me then,” he said, cupping your cheek. “tie me to your bedposts and make me beg for your forgiveness.”

your laugh was a weak, shaking thing. “i don’t want you to beg.”

he kissed your forehead. “then let me gift you.”

you didn’t argue when he dropped to his knees. he pushes your robe down slow and careful, kissing each inch of bare skin he uncovered like it was sacred. “my star,” he whispered against your thigh. “my heart. my furious, radiant highness.”

you leaned back onto the bed, heart hammering. “rafe…”

he parted your legs and looked at you like you were something divine. like he'd bleed for the chance to taste you.

“you’ve been good all day,” he murmured, dragging his mouth up your inner thigh, teeth scraping. “let me make it better...let me ruin you, my sweet.”

your breath hitched as his tongue slid between your folds—slow, teasing, a filthy kind of devotion in the way he moaned like he’d found the cure to every wound in the world. he licked like he meant it, nose brushing your clit, hands wrapped around your thighs to keep you right there, trembling and gasping.

“you taste like honey,” he groaned, lips slick, voice ragged. “i should stay here forever; between my princess’ leg.”

your hands tangled in his hair, tugging. “rafe—oh gods, rafe—”

he sucked your clit hard, making you scream, and then soothed it with lazy licks that had your thighs shaking.

“shh,” he whispered, tongue flicking faster. “you’re not leaving this bed until i’ve made you forget every bastard who looked at you today.”

and he did; you were still trembling when he finally climbed up beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple, his face sticky with you and pride.

“better?” he asked, lips curved against your hair.

you turned, curled into his chest.

“tie you to my bedposts tomorrow,” you murmured. “i’ll make you beg then.”

he laughed—low, warm, wrecked. “can’t wait, your highness.”

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[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Epilogue

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

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

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

2025

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

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

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

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

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

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

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

I was wrong.

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

And then there’s the focus.

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

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

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

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

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

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

Enough to make me leave.

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

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

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

But I hadn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

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

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

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

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

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

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

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

I just get to be.

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

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

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

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

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

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

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

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

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

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

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

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

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

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

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

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

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

@/racecarrebel

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

@/sarcasticengineer

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

@/cartoonkid420

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

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

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

@/indylewis

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

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

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

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

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

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

@/AnnieAnalyst

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

@/samliverygoat

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday. 

November 7th – Her father’s birthday. 

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

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day. 

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

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

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

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stared at him. 

And at their small, wondrous girl. 

A year old. 

—

Seventeen Years Later

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

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

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

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

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

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

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

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

I will always be in your corner. 

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

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

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

The balcony door was already ajar.

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

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

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

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

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

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

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

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

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

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

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

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

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

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

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

— 

2025

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

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

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

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

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

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

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

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

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

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

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

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

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

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

Precision. Patience. Courage.

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

In the garage, she never played favourites.

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

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

And Amelia?

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

Something vaster.

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

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

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

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

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

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

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

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

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

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

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

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

But normal never did much to soothe her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

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

“Ow—shit—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect. 

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

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

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

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

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

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

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

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

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

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

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

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

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

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

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

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

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

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

Her daddy.

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

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

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

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

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

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

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

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

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

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

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

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

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

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

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

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

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

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

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

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

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

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

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

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

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

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

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

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

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

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

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

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

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

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

—

202X 

He did it.

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

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

He’d done it.

World Champion.

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

Amelia.

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

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

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

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

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

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

Just him.

Lando.

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

The world spun again.

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

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

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

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

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

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

@/formulawivesclub

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

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

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

@/maxverstappen1

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

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

— 

202X

Final lap.

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

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

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

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

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

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

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

Silence.

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

“You did it,” she corrected.

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

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

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

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

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

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

He met her halfway. 

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

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

“I never doubted you.”

—

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

No words.

Just… pride. 

—

2028 

It started with coffee.

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

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

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

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

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

Love you forever,

— Lando

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” Lando said.

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

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

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

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

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

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

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

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

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

“This week.” He said. 

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.” 

—

Lunch came after.

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

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

Just them.

—

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

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

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

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

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

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

“I love you more.”

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

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

—

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

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

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

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

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

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

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

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

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

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

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

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

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

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

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

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

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

Lando waited.

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

She took it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

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

—

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

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

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

— 

2033

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

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

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

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

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

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

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

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

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

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

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

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

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box. 

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.” 

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

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

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her. 

—

2034

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

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

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

“In here,” she called calmly.

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

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

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

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

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

There was a pause.

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

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

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

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

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

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

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

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

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

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

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

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

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

He spun her around like she weighed nothing. 

Amelia smiled as she watched them. 

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

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

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

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

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

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

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

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

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

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

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

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

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

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

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

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

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

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

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

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

She’s Ada Norris.

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

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

—

2035

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

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

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

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

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

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

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

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

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

Sienna would be fine.

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

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

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

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

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

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

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

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew. 

They had each other. They had their home. 

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

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

[nizhspo]

pairing: megumi fushiguro x gn!reader

synopsis: he answers every call with “fushiguro,” but it’s never cold when it’s you.

content: fluff, established relationship.

he’s been doing it since before you started dating.

honestly, he was doing it before you even liked him.

the first time you ever called his phone, you were just trying to get ahold of nobara. she’d borrowed your charger and forgot to bring it back to school, and somehow her phone was dead and yuji had left his at home. megumi was your last resort. reluctantly, you punched in the number nobara gave you and hit call.

he answered on the second ring. “fushiguro.”

just like that. no hello. no who’s this. just that low, steady tone, his last name sliding out like a sigh, flat and functional. and maybe you were just sleep-deprived and bored in class, but something about it made you grin.

“…okay, government name,” you murmured, twirling your pen. “you always answer like that?”

there was a pause, like he hadn’t expected you to ask. “…yeah?”

you heard the tiniest edge of confusion in his voice. like how else are you supposed to answer the phone? and it made you giggle.

you told him why you were calling. he sighed. and the next day, your charger was sitting on your desk before homeroom with a note scribbled on the sticky pad: returning this under nobara’s orders.

you’d smiled at that too.

the second time you heard it, you were calling him on purpose.

you’d been partnered for a senior project—megumi was smart, quiet, always on time, which meant you had no reason to complain, but you did need to figure out when to meet.

it was late. you called his number without thinking too hard about it.

“fushiguro.”

this time, you were ready.

“hi, fushiguro,” you said sweetly, “this is your project partner. gojo’s favorite student. miss me?”

there was a very long pause. “…we saw each other four hours ago.”

“it was a very long four hours without my favorite lab partner?”

he groaned, probably dragging a hand down his face. “what do you want.”

“a time and place, fushiguro. because you couldn’t give me proper ones in school, either.”

“you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met.”

“you say that,” you replied cheerfully, “but you still answered on the first ring.”

the third time? well, you were officially his girlfriend.

it’d been three months. he walked you to class every morning. carried your bag when you were tired. waited outside the gym after volleyball practice, even when he swore the smell of sweat from standing next to the door to the football locker room made him lightheaded. sometimes, he’d hand you a cold drink without saying a word, like he could sense you needed it before you even asked.

but he still answered the phone like he was taking a work call in a corporate office.

you proved your point on a random thursday.

you were in his room, sprawled out on his bed, legs kicking gently against the comforter. he was sitting cross-legged at his desk, earbuds in, focused on some physics homework you were actively avoiding.

you called his phone. from five feet away.

he glanced at the screen. rolled his eyes. answered anyway.

“fushiguro.”

you nearly choked trying not to laugh.

he glanced over his shoulder, unamused. “really?”

“i’m just saying,” you said, pushing up on your elbows. “you’re literally my boyfriend. and you answer like you’re screening for telemarketers.”

he didn’t respond. just turned back to his worksheet.

so you got up. padded over. stood behind him with one hand on your hip and the other curved into the “call me” sign.

you cleared your throat, then in your best impression of his voice:

“fushiguro.”

he let out the deepest sigh of his life.

but he was smiling. just barely, and you caught it.

and when you leaned down and hugged him from behind, pressing your cheek to his, he didn’t pull away. just leaned into it. let your arms wrap tight around his chest. your voice teasing, soft by his ear.

“you’re such a weirdo,” you whispered.

he shrugged. “still answered your call,” one hand coming up to rest lazily on your forearm like he wasn’t thinking about it. like it was just instinct now. “besides—takes one to date one,” he muttered back, lips curling barely at the edge.

you grinned. shifted to press your cheek to his, voice low. “you know you love me.”

he didn’t look at you. didn’t say anything right away. just nodded. slow. certain.

“mmhm. always will.”

and your chest did that annoying little flutter thing you could never seem to stop around him.

[julietsf1]

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

---------------------------------------------------

You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

[starkeymeow]

plot ── after you undergo a procedure to erase rafe from your memory, rafe, devastated by the realization, decides to do the same, only to find himself fighting to hold onto the love you shared, proving that some connections can never truly be forgotten.

content ── another fucking mini series bc i cant stop, rafes perspective, memory loss, emotional distress & heartbreak obvi, dysfunctional relationships, existential themes

authors note ── sorry guys ive been so busy w my new life that i have NOT touched tumblr in a good while. plus this semester is more demanding in terms of my workload ugh so im never writing anym its so lame

main masterlist | next

rafe stares at the card, his fingers gripping the edges so tightly the paper starts to bend. his breath is slow, shallow, like his body is forgetting how to function properly. the words blur together, but it doesn’t matter. he’s already memorized them.

he lifts his gaze to his father. ward stands stiff, arms crossed, staring down at his shoes like he’s the one who’s been blindsided. like he’s the one who just had his entire world gutted out of him in a single fucking sentence.

there’s guilt in the way he exhales through his nose, in the way his jaw slides ever so slightly, but rafe doesn’t give him the chance to speak.

“this is real?” his voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud will make it more true.

ward hesitates, then nods.

rafe lets out a short, breathless laugh, his chest rising sharply before sinking under the weight of it all. he shakes his head, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he looks down at the card again, like maybe this time the words will rearrange themselves into something less impossible.

“so, what?” he scoffs, wetness pricking at his eyes. “they just . . . deleted me? like a fucking file on a computer?”

ward sighs. long, slow, through his nose. he knew this would be hard to explain.

“how many?” rafe asks. how many memories are gone now?

his father doesn’t answer right away. his jaw shifts, gaze dropping to the floor like he doesn’t want to say it. or maybe he’s just trying to soften the blow of something that can’t be softened.

when he finally speaks, his voice is careful. deliberate. “all of ‘em, bud.”

rafe scoffs again, but it’s weaker this time, like his body is struggling to keep up with his disbelief. he smiles, but it’s the kind that only comes when someone is trying not to fall apart.

“no . . . no. she didn’t. she wouldn’t do that.” he shakes his head again, faster this time. “that’s not even a fucking thing— i mean, erasing someone from your mind? since when did we have the tech for that bullshit? that didn’t happen.”

he throws the card onto the table like it burns to hold it any longer. gets up so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. his chest is rising and falling too quickly, hands threading behind his head as he paces across the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth, his fingers digging into his scalp.

ward doesn’t stop him. he just watches, his own grief settling deep in his expression. and maybe it’s not the same kind of grief. maybe it’s not the gut-wrenching, all-consuming, ‘i’ve lost the love of my life kind’, but it’s still there.

because he’s seen lucuna inc. before, out near the edge of the island, where no one really looks unless they’re desperate enough to. he’s seen it and he’s hoped no one he loves would ever consider walking through its doors.

but you did. a girl who once sat at his dinner table, who used to laugh with his family, who was supposed to be his daughter-in-law one day.

was rafe really that bad? bad enough to make you want to erase him?

rafe stops pacing so suddenly it’s like something clicks into place inside him. he turns, slipping out of the kitchen without another word. his father calls after him, but he doesn’t listen. his hands move on their own, grabbing his keys from the hook by the front door, pushing outside, stepping into the thick outer banks air like he’s coming up for air after drowning.

he doesn’t know where he’s going.

apparently, he can’t go to you.

but he’ll do something.

a/n: just the short little prologue so def let me know if ud like to be tagged for this one!

[hyukascampfire]

(🍐) WANNA TOUCH? .. い葉 hard thoughts

𝓘N WHICH 𝗍𝖺𝖾𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗮 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆?

nerdy태현 ⊹ 𝑓 rea 19OO smut non idol ╭╯ titty fucking breast worship subby tyun

ɑ︭ : serving this one up for u @heesmiles thank u for this incredible opportunity to write subby taehyun and now i’m drooling from multiple places. this one's been in the vault for a while hehe but omfg it needed to come to life because whew!

Poor Taehyun. You’ve been prancing around his house in little to nothing more than a flimsy pair of the cutest cotton shorts and, the worst offender, that thin, buttercup yellow tank top. It moves with the plush of your curves, looks so soft against your skin. And because you’ve spent a hundred nights like this, you’re so unaware. Sprawled out over his bed, torturously comfy in his presence.

And, god, he can tell you’re not even wearing a bra. It’s got his throat dry and palms sweaty with the effort of not popping a boner over his best friend just sitting there. He feels like a true pathetic, horny weasel of a man.

“It’s so fucking hot in here, Taehyun, seriously. Do you have the heater on eighty or something?” you say, lips pouted in such a way that his melted mind does not miss. The blush dusting your cheeks, proof of the heat, doesn’t slip by him either. He’s so far gone that truth be told, there is not one inch of you that Taehyun is not currently hyper-aware of. Especially the print of your nipples against the soft cotton of your top, belying the shape of you so cruelly that Taehyun hardly has to imagine it.

Oh, and you better believe that imagine it, he has. But seeing it in live action is different than the fuzzy edges of his imagination. Here you are, his best friend, so pretty and real in the flesh. So much better, but so much worse when it’s tangible and real in front of him. “No,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But… I can check. For you.” He remembers the tent in his pants and the pillow he’s clutched over his lap for the past twenty minutes, praying to god you don’t start asking questions. “Or you can. If you wanna.”

Well, of course you start asking questions. It’s been obvious all night, and Taehyun knows you’re just unsure of how to go about asking your guy best friend why his eyes are glued to your tits and he’s obviously covering a hard-on. It’s a stifling, new situation for the both of you. “You okay, Tyun?” Your eyes drop to the ironclad curl of his fingers into the pillow. He wonders if your skin would have the same give. “Are you seriously hard right now?”

The room does suddenly feel hot… The way you giggle the words like his struggle for the last however long is funny, as if his manhood was laughable, sends his blood boiling in his veins. Shoots his cognitive function to all hell until he really is a pathetic, stumbly mess. “It… it happens,” he says. Even the waver of his voice is mortifying. He’s not convincing anybody. “For no reason sometimes. You wouldn’t understand.” Are his lips numb, or is his face just on fire?

“Huh.” You purse your lips in a way that seems like it should be in understanding, but it feels more patronization than anything. “I guess I wouldn’t. I’ve just got these.” To Taehyun’s worst dismay, you take your tits in your palms and squeeze. Feel the weight of them. Like they were nothing more than stress balls, when they’ve been the very source of his strangulating terror. If you think you’re lightening the situation up by making jokes, you are dead wrong. His soul has already left his body. “They act on their own sometimes too, I guess, though. So.”

Fuck. He is so thoroughly fucked. Is this a joke? Is this funny to you? He can’t answer that, because bare minimum, he can’t form thoughts.

“Oh my god, Taehyun,” you laugh. You look beautiful as you witness his humiliation, and he supposes that’s the worst part. You, his pretty, popular, perfect best friend, now know exactly how much of a fumbling loser he really is. “Are you okay? Your face is white.” The moment extends excruciatingly long as you connect the dots in your head. “No fucking way—have you never seen boobs before?”

“Wha… I? Yes I have?” he says. His knuckles creak at the force with which he holds that damned pillow to his hips. For what reason? You’re already keenly aware of his shame if that sparkle in your eye says anything. “I’ve seen tits before. Jesus,” he tries again. He should just stop talking, really. For both of your sakes. “And don’t say it like that.”

The moment lingers. He debates running to the bathroom for some sort of escape. And then you drive the stake in his chest and finish the job. “On Pornhub?” you say, tilting your head in a cheeky way that suggests you’re playing with him like a cat would nudge at a mouse it pitied more than the rest. Like it wasn’t even worth digging its teeth into it. Like a charity case, you furrow your brows and take the hem of your cute little floral sleep set and hit him with, “Do you wanna see some? Real ones?” Or, rather, like you’re just performing some civic duty. Giving handouts to the poor loser who’s never seen a pair of tits. The worst part is the way his cock twitches at the prospect. He is exactly what you think he is: a hopeless virgin ogling his best friend.

His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Should he say no? Save himself some dignity?

Breathing a laugh, you tug your top up and over your chest. The sight sucks the air from his lungs. The yellow, rucked all the way up, frames it perfectly. He watches as your nipples tighten and how it makes you shudder, the shape of them branded into the back of his skull. “Holy shit,” he says, mouth moving faster than he can realize how embarrassing that is. “You can’t just—do that.”

For the second time, you just laugh at him. Your cheeks are dusted a delectable pink, your back arched to show them off better for him. It’s unreal. A thing only of his most depraved fantasies, and it’s playing out in blisteringly real time right in front of him. “You should see your face right now,” you say, shifting. Your skin, so plump and grabbable, moves softly with it. So does your chest. He’s not sure he’s even breathing at this point. “You’re blushing so hard. Your ears are red. It’s cute.” Circling your fingers around his wrist, you say, “You wanna touch?”

The weight of them—the soft give of your skin, how you feel more like marshmallows under his fingertips than he could’ve ever imagined, and he knows you’d taste just as sweet. It’s all got his stomach twisted right up. He abandons the pillow to roll his thumbs over the buds of your nipples, big brown eyes framed by his glasses darting up to check how you feel about it. He feels the seam where the swell meets your torso, dusts the pads of his fingers over your skin in such a way that makes your breath hitch and your chest jump. Explores with trembling need, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips.

“They’re… pretty,” he manages. He’s had a taste now, and perhaps this version of you, skin so malleable and bed-warmed, will consume him. Will you laugh in his face if he says he wants all this and more? Always? Maybe he’s a dog on a leash, but those soft, exploring eyes of yours don’t say that. Maybe this is as fresh and nerve-wracking for you as it is him.

It’s such a captivating, soft scene, the two of them. Tentative, crossing boundaries with thundering hearts, the familiarity of the same bedroom they’d spent so many other casual nights like this together in. But tonight was so different.

“Yeah?” you say, eyes searching his own. “You’re so…” Feeling up your own chest as if to reaffirm his words to yourself, you shift. “Do you wanna fuck them?” Your voice is like sugary whipped cream in his ears. “You can.”

Well, if he wasn’t breathing before, he certainly isn’t now. He blinks. Reels. That’s… fuck, that’s different. That can’t just be explained away as some horny exploration between two close best friends. That’s his fucking dream. Mouth drying up, his heart stutters in his chest. “Can… well, I…”

Next thing he knows, he’s discovering just how giving your body is, with his length nestled snug between the valley of your breasts. Your skin is so, so warm and welcoming, your body committing to the shape of him and keeping him there just right, and you’re staring up at him with wide, smoldering eyes and curiosity that banks on him using you like this. The sight is borderline too erotic with your hair splayed over his pillows and you laid so prettily beneath him.

“Go ahead,” you encourage. Your cheeks are the color of the plumpest strawberries. “Use them. I know you want to, Taehyun. It’s okay. You’re so sweet, I know you deserve it. You’re the best friend, make yourself feel good.”

You don’t have to ask Taehyun twice. He’s slow and unsure at first, but then his tip starts kissing your lips and he’s seeing fuzzy stars. Bracing himself, he cants his hips until he’s dropping his head down with sluggish whimpers and the valley has gone sticky and slick. He slips right through now. Brown strands of damp hair fall in his eyes, pupils blown wide with the deep thrill that starts in his belly and twists up his spine. “Heeh—fuck, oh fuck,” he says through his teeth, pushing his glasses back up his nose bridge. “Gotta—on your face? Can I… cum on your face?”

“Uh-huh,” you preen, your own eyes glazed over. For a moment, a beautiful, lingering moment, he is positive that you’re just as destroyed by this as he is. That you’re not dragging him along like a thing to pity, but rather that you’re taking as much pleasure in watching him fall apart over your body as he is getting to touch it. “Don’t stop, please, Tyun. Feels so good you’re losing your mind, huh? Do you want them to be yours?”

Taehyun’s lost his mind. “Yes,” he says, choked and tight. He’s losing rhythm. “Yes, I want to… shit, I wanna… Have them…” Unable to complete a full thought, he opts for something simple and to the point. “Love you so much. Love your tits. Can I h…have you?”

You don’t get to answer him that, because he locks up and paints your face with soft white ropes abruptly as if he’d been holding it back. And truthfully, he had. He was on the cusp a few measly moments after feeling you pressed around him, but he couldn’t handle the look on your face if he had came so quickly.

Anyway, he didn’t want the moment to come and go so quickly. But now it’s gone, inevitably, and he’s staring down at his longtime crush painted in him and looking prettier than ever. He prepares himself for the awkward snap back into reality, but you don’t recoil once it comes seeping back in at the corners.

Sitting up, you brush some unruly hair from your face and wrinkle your nose with a melodic laugh. “You’re getting this off my face, Taehyun. If I break out, you’re buying me three straight weeks of coffee.”

That’s all it takes for Taehyun to know that while he may be a loser and you may be so far out of his league that it’s unfathomable that you even grace him with your attention, things may have changed today, but so much will remain the same. That’s all it takes for him to loose a shaky laugh, still basking in the throes, and shoot back a familiar, “You know I’ll buy you some, anyway.”

OO1. 【 tagging 】 . . . @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @soohashits , @f4iryfever , @arcturus444 , @linqed , @serenityism00 , @immelissaaa , @luv4cheol , @lickingan0rchid , @20-cms , @hhoneylix , @beestvng , @hyucktapes , @bewitchless , @blankliving , @yaoizee , @stormy1408 , @missychief1404 , @izzyy-stuff , @lunesdesire , @sunoolver , @cherricola-star , @xylatox , @hyunj00 , @taebatu , @caratcakemoa , @biteyoubiteme , @dawngyu , @hyunruhi , @heesmiles , @lunesdesire , @yystarz

rblgs & asks >ᴗ<

[mrsclrakey]

Omg new request!

So again its about Inside. So what if the reader and George have been dating before the show and they decidated to keep it secret so nobody knows that they are dating. And then its gets reavelad in the shoking questions or spill your guts or spill the tea.

OR

Just simply reader being in the temptation room because George has been whining constantly about how much he misses his girlfriend, and he obviously loses it the moment he steps into the room.

Thank you for the request I did the one about the temptation room so hope I you like it

STORY NAME-The Temptation Room

George had been suffering.

It had been days of filming, and at this point, he didn’t even care about the challenges, the punishments, or the embarrassment. No, what was truly breaking him was the fact that he hadn’t seen you.

And he would not shut up about it.

“I actually think I’m dying,” he groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch. “I can’t function properly without her.”

“Oh my God,” Simon sighed. “Can we please get this man a picture of his girlfriend or something?”

“A picture wouldn’t do shit,” George grumbled. “I need to see her. I need to hold her.”

JJ snickered. “Man’s acting like he’s been deployed.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “If I have to hear about this girl one more time—”

“Then let’s do something about it,” the producer cut in, smirking. “George, welcome to the Temptation Room.”

The room erupted in laughter and cheers, clapping as George shot up, immediately on edge.

“What? No. No, no, no.” He pointed at the producers. “You lot are evil.”

“Go on, then.” Harry smirked. “Let’s see if you actually have the willpower.”

George let out a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as he stood. “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”

The others burst out laughing as he walked toward the door.

And then he stepped inside.

The second his eyes landed on you—sitting there, comfortable, waiting for him—his entire body froze.

It was dead silent.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. His hands shook. His breathing hitched. His brain short-circuited.

And then—

A broken noise escaped him as he sprinted toward you, launching himself onto you so hard that you nearly toppled over. His arms crushed you against him, his face immediately burying into your neck as he clung to you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

The mic picked up everything.

The sharp intake of breath. The little gasp he let out. The slight shake in his voice when he breathed out, “Oh my God.”

The reactions outside were instant.

“WAIT—”

“NAH, WHO IS THAT?!”

“GEORGE, ARE YOU ACTUALLY CRYING?”

The boys were losing it, banging the walls, shouting over each other.

But George didn’t care. He was too busy inhaling the scent of your perfume, wrapping himself around you like a lifeline. His voice was muffled against your skin as he rambled.

“You’re actually here. I’m not dreaming. I haven’t gone insane. Oh my God, babe.”

You laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. “Hi, love.”

He whined—physically whined—before pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands cupped your face, eyes scanning every inch like he was memorizing you all over again.

“You are so unreal for this,” he whispered. “I don’t even care that they know. I missed you.”

And then, in one swift motion, he kissed you—deep, desperate, like he was making up for every second apart.

The moment was immediately interrupted as the boys stormed in.

“AYO, WHAT THE F—”

JJ’s cackling filled the room. Simon was doubled over. Ethan was literally screaming. Harry was just standing there, hands on his head.

“THIS IS A SETUP.”

George, still holding you, turned to them with zero shame. “Yeah. And?”

And just like that, the secret was out.

But judging by the way he refused to let go of you, you doubted he cared.

[please-destroy]

Jurassic Heart

Natasha Romanoff x Clumsy!Dork!Reader

Word Count: 2.2K

.

‘You’re allowed to look.’ The beautiful red-headed woman told you with an obvious grin. You didn’t dare, keeping your gaze firmly at eye level and flushing obviously with embarrassment.

‘No, really.’ The woman insisted lightly. Her teasing tone made you certain that she’d caught your lingering stares from across the room. 

‘I just think your costume is really cool.’ You told her embarrassedly, trying to swerve the implication that you’d been looking at her breasts. 

‘Not as cool as yours.’ She leaned forward so you could hear her over the thrum of music. Her finger tapped the side of your wrist. Her touch made your skin tingle.

‘I’m Natasha.’ She called out and her head tilted invitingly. The small braid woven into her long hair caught your eye.

‘(Y/N)’ You replied with a nervous smile. 

‘How did you end up here?’ Natasha raised her eyebrow like she knew it would be a good story. You swallowed nervously, aware of how out of place you seemed at a party like this. 

‘I’m just an intern.’ You told her, trying to rub the back of your neck and hitting yourself with the spiky wing that was part of your costume. You winced in surprise and Natasha’s lips twitched with a small smile.

‘You’re cute.’ Natasha determined and her finger tapped the side of your wrist again. Your cheeks suddenly felt unbearably warm. You hadn’t expected her to flirt. 

‘You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.’ You replied unthinkingly. Your eyes widened with momentary panic as you heard the truth fall from your mouth.

Natasha’s teasing smirk faded as she registered your words. Her head tilted curiously. Your gazes tangled up for a moment and you tried to take a mental picture of the colour of her eyes. 

After a moment, Natasha's touch trailed down your wrist as she went to take your hand instead.

‘Let’s get a drink.’ She decided, leading you over to the bar. 

.

The bartender, dressed as someone from the stone age, couldn’t stop staring at the front of Natasha’s costume either. 

‘I like your, uh, little arms.’ She told Natasha with an overfriendly smile as she made up her cocktail.

‘I bet you do.’ Natasha replied with polite but clear disinterest.

You felt her thumb draw patterns on the back of your hand. Your stomach flipped.

Don’t screw this up. Your mind warned you immediately.

You pushed the thought away, you didn’t have a clue what you were doing anyway. 

You accepted a drink from Natasha gratefully. 

You raised the glass to your mouth and watched Natasha bite an olive from a cocktail stick in her martini. You faltered and wondered if you were having a fever dream.

‘Uh.’ You tried to start a conversation. You tried to think of something to say that wasn’t ‘Lips’, ‘Natasha’ or most embarrassingly ‘Bite Me.’

‘Our costumes match pretty well.’ Natasha looked you up and down thoughtfully, mercifully ignoring your awkwardness. 

You remembered how to function and nodded as you sipped your drink.

‘I wasn’t sure what the ‘Historic Moment’ theme meant on the invitation.’ You murmured, voice lowering automatically now that you were standing together at the quieter edge of the bar.

Natasha glanced over at the crowd on the dance-floor. You followed her gaze, scanning a sea of people wearing the sexiest outfits imaginable that could barely be called vintage.

You looked back at Natasha, taking the opportunity of her distraction to glance down again at the front of her dress. 

Unlike your own, Natasha’s costume couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes to assemble. 

All she’d done was tape two tiny T-Rex arms to the bustiest part of her green dress. 

You’d both come dressed as dinosaurs, but you knew for certain that your own homemade pterodactyl contraption was not attracting the same appreciative glances as Natasha’s.

You’d stared at her chest, deep in thought. When you looked back up, Natasha was waiting patiently for your attention. 

‘Oh no.’ You mumbled, moving to hide your face with your hands. You forgot about the attached string pulley system again. You smacked yourself in the face with your own pterodactyl wings. 

You fought the tears that sprung in your eyes at the surprise hit. The wing looked absurdly soft but there were still metal coat hangers underneath the fabric.

You screwed it up. Your mind whispered.

You stared up at the assortment of loose balloons that bobbed against the ceiling. You tried to recollect yourself. You wished desperately you hadn’t worn such a lame costume. 

You jumped when Natasha’s hand touched your cheek. She hummed gently as her thumb brushed your skin.

‘That looked sore.’ She murmured, her eyes catching yours. There was a heartbeat. You felt the steady thump of the loud music through your feet. 

You noted absentmindedly that Natasha’s eyes were a much prettier green than her costume. You realised you could barely remember your own name when she looked at you. 

Natasha moved closer. Her lips brushed your cheek and shivers went through you. Her hand slid along your waist, just under the hem of your costume.

You breathed out slowly as her lips left your cheek. Natasha gave you a careful smile, assessing your reaction silently. Her hand didn’t leave your waist.

‘Come and meet my friends?’ She offered, her fingers drumming a soft pattern against your body. 

You started to nod, before you hesitated.

‘My costume.’ You mumbled. ‘I should take it off.’

Natasha smirked. 

‘Maybe later.’ She told you and it sounded like a promise. 

.

You let her lead you down some stairs and around the side of the large dance floor. You didn’t realise that you were in the VIP section until you saw Tony Stark approaching you.

His eyes scanned across Natasha’s costume, lingering obviously on the tiny T-Rex arms. Then, he glanced at yours.

‘Glad someone got the right idea.’ He declared, gesturing down at his own Freddie Flintstone costume. ‘I thought Out of Time was self explanatory. But it looks like a slutty ABBA reunion out there.’

His eyes flickered over your costume again. 

‘You work for me?’ He asked neutrally. You nodded, gulping automatically at his tone. You suddenly imagined having to tell people that you’d been fired because you pretended to be a dinosaur at your boss’ party.

‘Good.’ He said abruptly. ‘That wing mechanism is fantastic.’

Natasha’s hand slid easily out of yours as Tony moved to introduce you to his friend. You gave her a helpless look. Natasha gave you a small wave, eyes twinkling.

You watched her attention flicker to a group of women in the corner and she wandered over with a familiarity that told you they were good friends.

Captain Rhodes was deeply impressed by the wings on your back and the unnecessary features that you’d added to them just for fun. He murmured something distractedly about military tech and then went to get another man. Before long, there were several people asking you questions about the home-made contraption. You tried not to seem nervous, sipping your drink and pretending like any of this was normal. 

A server wandered past the group and Tony grabbed two drinks from the tray. Calmly, he offered you another glass of the same drink that you’d just finished. Then he started asking you about your internship and the other projects that you’d been working on. You stumbled over your words as you tried to explain how much the 6 month opportunity meant to you.

You tried to ignore the voice in your head worrying that you were screwing it all up again. 

Tony stayed silent as you talked. It made your ramble feel even more out of control.

.

‘Tomorrow is a new day.’ He declared when you finally lapsed into silence. ‘Actually.’ He corrected himself dryly. ‘It’s a New Year.’

You nodded unsurely.

‘Time for a new, permanent contract I think.’ He shared a conspiratorial look with the others in the group.

You followed his gaze, catching the approving nod of Captain Rhodes.

A sudden rush of pride for your silly costume filled you. Your cheeks hurt trying not to smile too wide as you realised that you’d just been hired by Tony Stark personally.

Something about your rush of happiness turned your gaze back to Natasha like a magnet. 

She was sitting alone on one of the small sofas to the side of the VIP area. She was already looking at you, her expression soft.

Without thinking, you directed your smile at her. 

Natasha smiled back brightly and you noticed the way it made her eyes crinkle. She nodded at the space next to her and you found yourself shrugging off the harness that held your wings and handing the contraption to Colonel Rhodes.

You walked over to Natasha, leaving Tony and the others to continue their discussion.

Natasha’s gaze wandered along your bare arms, exposed without the clunkiest part of your costume. As you sat down, her arm slipped easily around your side. She felt warm pressed against you. You found yourself leaning into her touch. 

‘Having a good time?’ She asked you, like she couldn't tell already. 

‘I think tonight has been better than my whole year.’ You told her seriously and Natasha laughed. You swallowed an overwhelmed feeling. Her laugh was quieter than you expected but you felt it vibrate through you. You wished you could replay the sound forever.

‘It’s only ten minutes until midnight.’ Natasha said suddenly a moment later. You heard the question behind her words. You looked at her curiously. 

You wondered how she’d ended up here at this party without someone to kiss at midnight. 

Natasha looked away self consciously and you realised she could see the question in your eyes. 

You reached out, letting your fingers brush her wrist. 

‘I’d like to kiss you.’ You told her honestly and Natasha gave you a shy smile. 

‘Now or at midnight?’ She teased and her hand brushed your knee.

You felt so grateful for Natasha already. 

‘Let’s make it special.’ You decided. 

Natasha’s head tilted and you realised that she hadn’t expected your answer.

You shrugged nervously.

‘You’re special.’ You mumbled, feeling all of a sudden too much like a teenager at prom.

Natasha hummed a sceptical sound and you knew her disagreement wasn't another tease. You paused unsurely.

‘So, how was your year?’ You asked carefully. 

Natasha glanced away then. Her arm moved away from you as she reached for her drink and took a casual sip.

‘There were ups and downs.’ She answered after a moment.

.

Her tone was light but it made your heart sting.

‘Maybe next year will be better.’ You said, as you moved your hand to find her free one.

Your fingers tangled loosely together and you gave a light squeeze. Natasha looked down at your hands but she didn’t speak.

After a moment, she bumped her shoulder with yours.

‘Do you know what’s gonna happen at midnight?’ You asked, gesturing over to the packed dance floor that was only becoming more crowded as the New Year approached.

Natasha rolled her eyes.

‘You know the ball drop in Times Square?’ She asked. ‘Tony’s going to drop his own version. Except this one will look more like a meteor falling from the sky.’

.

There are few points in your life where a decision is crucial. This was one of those times.

You stood up, tugging at Natasha’s hand as you did.

She looked up at you curiously.

‘Dinosaurs don’t do well with meteors.’ You told her seriously. 

Surprise flickered over Natasha’s face but she let you lead her away.

.

The stairs to the rooftop took several minutes to climb. 

You both gasped when you opened the last door and stepped into the freezing night. Natasha huddled close to you as you stood huddled together, watching the dial of your watch count down the last minute.

You started counting aloud when there were ten seconds left until midnight. You rubbed Natasha's bare arms gently, trying uselessly to protect her from the snow that had started to fall.

When your countdown reached 8, Natasha started counting with you. Her green eyes held yours intently. 

When you reached 5, Natasha licked her lower lip and you swallowed nervously.

As you both said 3, you tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. Your fingers brushed her small braid. Your hand stayed by her face, cupping her cheek carefully. 

By the time you got to 2, you watched her nervous huff of breath like sudden fog in the cold air.

At 1, you leaned forward, and so did she.

As midnight arrived, you heard fireworks begin to pop across the city. You lost yourself in Natasha. You couldn't remember who you were before her lips had found yours.

Her fingers slipped into your hair as she encouraged you to kiss her again. She didn’t need to. You didn’t want to be anywhere else.

.

When you broke apart at last, there was a half beat where you weren’t sure what to do. 

‘Don’t laugh.’ Natasha told you seriously and you watched as she plucked the T-Rex arms from the front of her dress. You gave her a soft smile. You felt dazed, heavy with attraction and light with relief. 

In the first few seconds of the brand new year, you felt completely free.

You opened your arms when you realised Natasha’s intent. Natasha pressed herself against your chest and you wrapped your arms around her. The tip of her nose was ice cold when she buried it into the crook of your neck.

‘We’re the last two dinosaurs.’ She mumbled and her hot breath sent tingles down your spine.

‘We already survived the meteor.’ You smiled, arms tightening around her. 'It's going to be a good year.'

[sunsetmade]

Symptoms: You

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky ends up getting sick leaving his girlfriend to take care of him— even when he’s grumpy.

There was a specific kind of stubbornness that only came with a hundred-year-old super soldier who refused to admit he was sick.

Bucky had been sniffling since he got home—quiet at first, trying to hide it—but she noticed. His shoulders were drawn up, tense with the kind of discomfort he wasn’t ready to admit to, and his eyes, usually so clear and alert, were glassy. A flush high on his cheekbones gave him away more than anything else. That, and the subtle wobble in his steps as he moved through the apartment.

From the kitchen doorway, she watched as he tugged a blanket haphazardly over his shoulders, trying to look functional. Steady. But the illusion cracked with every dragging step and shallow breath.

“I’m fine,” he said, again. That made four times now.

“You don’t look fine,” she said gently, arms folded as she leaned against the doorframe.

He didn’t look at her. “I always look like this.”

“No, Bucky. Usually you look tired. Now you look sick and tired.”

He shot her a look over his shoulder, a glare that should’ve been sharp but barely registered as a pout. It dissolved entirely when he stopped halfway across the room, bracing himself against the arm of the couch like just walking had winded him.

She walked over, pressing a cool glass of water into his hand without waiting for him to ask. “You need to sit down.”

“I’m not—”

“Bucky.”

Just his name, softly spoken, but with a firmness that made his shoulders sag in defeat. He took the water with a quiet grunt, eyes avoiding hers as he sank into the cushions. She followed him down, crouching beside the couch and reaching up to brush the damp strands of hair off his forehead.

Her touch made him close his eyes briefly. His skin was hot beneath her fingers, flushed and clammy. Not just tired. Burning up.

“Let me take your temperature.”

“I don’t need—”

“If you argue again,” she warned, lifting a brow, “I’m going to take your arm off and use it to hold the thermometer still.”

That finally earned a faint spark of amusement, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’re bossy when I’m dying,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“You’re not dying. You’re congested.”

Beep.

She showed him the display: 101.3°F.

He didn’t even flinch. “I’ve had worse,” he mumbled, half-asleep already.

“That’s not the point.” She huffed out a chuckle.

She stood up without waiting for a reply, disappearing down the hall. Bucky slouched further into the cushions, blanket pulled tighter around him, muttering something about “being babied” like it was a crime. But he didn’t move. Didn’t protest when she returned a few minutes later with a bowl of soup, a cold washcloth, and the thermometer still in hand like a silent warning.

She set the tray down and knelt beside him again, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out with care. He watched her through heavy lids, blue eyes hazy and rimmed red from fever. She didn’t say anything about the way his hands were trembling. Or how his flesh hand stayed curled tight against his abdomen, like every breath hurt just a little.

She just pressed the washcloth gently to his forehead, soft and cool.

He exhaled slowly, leaning into her touch and sliding his metal arm around her waist.

“You don’t have to take care of me doll,” he said after a long pause, voice barely above a whisper.

“I want to,” she replied simply, tucking the blanket higher over his chest. Her fingers brushed his collarbone before pulling away, gentle as the rest of her.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to her face, and for a long moment, he just looked at her. Really looked. Fever still dulled the usual sharp edges in his eyes, but something quiet and unguarded rested there now. Something soft.

“‘S not exactly how I pictured our night,” he rasped.

“I know,” she murmured, smoothing his hair back again, letting her fingers linger this time. “Me neither.”

He exhaled through his nose, the sound tired, but content in a way that made her chest ache. Leaning back slowly, he let his head fall against the couch cushion while she adjusted the blanket higher up his chest, tucking it gently under his chin. He didn’t flinch when her hand brushed his jaw in the process. If anything, he leaned into the touch—barely, but enough to make her pause.

The room had gone still, wrapped in warmth and the soft hum of the heater. The spoon resting in the bowl beside her made a faint clink when she stirred the soup absently, her hand still resting on his blanket-covered chest. His eyes were closed again. Not asleep, just… resting. Giving in.

Then, her voice came through the quiet.

“Do you want to lie down, Buck?”

“No,” he whispered. “‘M good right here.”

But not even a minute passed before he shifted, sluggish and deliberate. He nudged his head gently until it found her thigh, testing the weight of it like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. She didn’t move. Only adjusted slightly to support him better, her hand already finding his hair again.

He let out a low breath, one that seemed to deflate the last of his resistance, and nestled his cheek against her leg. The fever had him flushed and sluggish, but this—her—he trusted enough to let go.

“You okay?” she whispered, thumb tracing a line just above his temple.

He hummed softly. It wasn’t a yes, not fully, but it was close enough.

She didn’t speak again. Just carded her fingers through his thick hair, slow and rhythmic, her nails barely grazing his scalp. Comfort. Anchor. Something solid for him to sink into.

He didn’t say much after that. Didn’t need to.

His hand found her knee, warm and heavy, fingers curling gently around the curve of it like he just needed to feel her there. His thumb moved once, brushing her skin—just once—and then stayed. Quiet thanks.

She kept brushing her fingers through his hair, and when she whispered that he should try to sleep, he didn’t answer. But his breathing slowed. Grew deep. Steady.

And then—still.

He’d fallen asleep in her lap.

His vibranium arm hung limp off the side of the couch, the metal catching the last bit of fading daylight, fingers twitching faintly as if even in sleep, part of him still lingered half-aware. But the rest of him—the real, human parts—had melted into her like she was something safe. Something known. His cheek was warm against her leg. The weight of him there was heavy but not burdensome. Never that.

She kept her hand in his hair a smile resting on her face. Gentle. Reassuring.

Time passed like that. Minutes stretching, soft and undisturbed.

By the time he stirred again, the room had dimmed. Evening had settled, casting shadows along the walls. He blinked slowly, groggy, his brow pulling together as he tried to make sense of the hour.

“How long was I out?” he rasped, voice thick with sleep.

She looked down at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Couple hours.”

His brow creased. He shifted slightly, then stilled again. “You should’ve moved,” he murmured. “Bet your legs are numb.”

“They are,” she admitted softly.

He lifted his head an inch, enough to glance up at her through squinted eyes. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged, looking down at the curls spilling over his forehead. Her fingers brushed them back gently, tucking them behind his ear. “You looked peaceful.”

He didn’t respond right away. His hand still rested on her leg, the weight of it grounding both of them. Then, just above a whisper—

“You’re too good to me, doll.”

Her gaze lifted to his, surprised by the quiet tenderness there. “You’d do the same,” she said.

And he would. She knew that.

His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I would.”

She brushed her hand over his face again, her knuckles grazing his cheek. His skin was still warm, fever lingering, but his breathing had steadied.

“I still might take your arm if you try to get up tomorrow,” she said, half a tease, half a threat.

He gave a rasp of a laugh, low and rough in his chest. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She smiled. “Don’t test me.”

A grin ghosted across his lips, tired but real, and he let his head fall back onto her leg with a sigh. This time, he shifted just enough to bury his face there, nose pressed into the curve of her thigh, like he needed the closeness. Her warmth. Her smell. Something real to cling to in the haze of fever and exhaustion. He pressed light kisses to her bare thighs making her giggle.

“Stay a little longer,” he murmured, breath tickling her skin.

She didn’t answer.

She just curled her hand in his hair again, her other brushing lightly along his shoulder, and stayed right there—holding him through the quiet, until sleep took him again.

⸻

Bucky woke slowly, the early morning light filtering through the curtains and casting a soft, golden haze over the room. They were now in his bedroom. His body felt lighter, the tight ache in his chest from the day before finally loosened. The fever had broken sometime in the night, leaving him just tired—and comfortably warm.

Warm, because she was still there.

He yawned, stretching his arms out with a low groan before letting them settle again—one draped possessively around her middle, hand splayed against the soft fabric of her shirt, keeping her close. She was tucked beneath the blankets with him, curled into his side, her head resting against his shoulder, their legs tangled somewhere under the sheets. His chin found its place atop her hair as easily as breathing.

His fingers flexed slightly against her stomach, pulling her in even closer, like his body couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them.

A soft, sleepy smile tugged at his lips as he felt her begin to stir beside him.

She mumbled something incoherent and shifted, rolling toward him until they were chest to chest, her cheek now pressed over his heart. Bucky moved without thinking, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, his thumb ghosting along the curve of her cheek.

“Good morning, doll,” he rasped, voice still heavy with sleep.

She grumbled in reply, nuzzling closer with a sniffle, her breath warm against his chest. Then, without even lifting her head—

“You got me sick.”

He chuckled, the sound rough but amused, and tilted his head to look down at her. “Guess we’re even now.”

“No,” she mumbled, her voice thick. “You were a pain when you were sick.”

“And you love me anyway,” he muttered smugly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She grumbled again in a way that sounded suspiciously like agreement, wrapping her arms tighter around his waist, burying herself in his warmth.

Bucky shifted just enough to look at her fully, eyes soft, hand tracing slow, absentminded circles against her back. “You stayed with me all night,” he said quietly.

“You drooled on me.”

He grinned. “Still nice of you.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, the smallest smile on her lips now, even through the sniffles. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Need anything?” he asked gently, voice low, rough with affection. “Water? Blanket? Revenge?”

She shook her head against him. “Just this.”

Bucky stilled at that—then held her tighter.

“Okay,” he murmured, lips brushing her hair. “Just this.”

And he didn’t move. Didn’t let go. Not even when her breathing slowed again, soft and steady against his chest.

He stayed right there, wrapped around her like a blanket, like he’d never let her go.

[calypso-rt]

HELLO SO some stuff is happening to me rn with my frat boy friend and it gave me an idea for a fic 🙈 Could you do a Frat boy! Rafe x Reader that are just friends and he needs a date for his date function, so he asks her? the theme/idea for the date function is that they get handcuffed to each other for the night and they have to drink a bottle of champagne. Definitely flirty friendship (w lotsa tension) but up to u whether anything actually happens or not!

Love love love your works! 🫶

Cuffing Season

-> Frat!Rafe x Reader

-> A/N: this has been sitting in the drafts for AGESSS but it's out. thank you @rafeycameronsgf for such a fun idea

You’re halfway through a paper on political theory when your phone buzzes.

Rafe 😕:

yo u home? emergency. need you.

You sigh. Glance at the clock. 6:47 p.m.

Another buzz.

i’m outside

You blink.

Sure enough, two minutes later: knock knock knock on your door.

You open it, and there he is. Backward hat. Faded hoodie. Grinning like the devil.

“Hey, genius,” he says easily. “You busy tonight?”

You fold your arms. “You’re aware it’s Thursday and I have three papers due.”

He smirks. “Perfect. Then you’ll need a break.”

“Rafe.”

“Listen.” He leans against your doorframe. “I need a date.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“For the function. The handcuff one.”

You stare. “The what?”

He grins. “It’s stupid. Whole theme is we all get cuffed to our date and have to do challenges together. Drinking games. Obstacle courses. Whatever. My original date bailed. But 's for the best since you’re the only person I trust to win me that title, anyway.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I’d say yes?”

He flashes that dangerous smile, the one you’ve seen melt half the campus. "Because you secretly love chaos. And you haven’t been out in weeks."

He’s not wrong. You’ve been buried in your books. And you do like chaos... on your own terms.

Rafe leans in slightly, voice low. "Come on. You know you’ll run circles around these people. I’ll even buy you all your drinks."

You narrow your eyes. "You’re really desperate, huh?"

He smirks. "I’m asking you, aren’t I?"

And despite yourself, despite the very obvious implications of being handcuffed to Rafe Cameron for an entire night, something in your stomach flips.

You sigh. "Fine. But if you annoy me, I’m taking the key and leaving you cuffed to Topper"

His grin turns downright wicked. "Deal."

...

You almost forget why you agreed to this. Until you’re standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide just how good to look.

You’re not a regular at the frat scene. You watch it happen from the edges. You’ve seen Rafe in his element: confident, loud, magnetic, and you’ve always been the one with a knowing smirk in the back of the room, drink in hand, unbothered.

But tonight… cuffed to him?

You smirk to yourself and pick the dress, the one you reserve for nights you want to be remembered.

By the time you’re done, your hair falls in soft waves, your lipstick is a shade deeper than your usual, and your phone buzzes again:

Rafe 😕:

outside. don’t make me come drag you out 👀

You grab your jacket and head downstairs.

When you step out, you spot him leaning against his car, blue jeans, black tee, hands in his pockets.

And when he sees you?

His entire posture changes.

His smirk falters for half a second, like he wasn’t prepared. Then it comes back twice as cocky, but his eyes drag over you like they’re memorizing the view.

“Holy shit,” he says low. “You’re gonna be the reason half this party cries tonight.”

You cock your head. “That good, huh?”

He pushes off the car, crossing the distance in two easy steps. His voice drops. “Better. You’re dangerous like this.”

Your breath catches, just for a second, but you recover fast. “You’re the one who asked for this.”

“Trust me,” he says, leaning in, voice like velvet, “I’ve been wanting an excuse.”

Before you can question that statement, he holds out his hand, handing you some handcuffs. “Cuff me, genius.”

You roll your eyes but your fingers tremble slightly as you fasten the cuff to his wrist, then your own. The click feels louder than it should. When you glance up, his gaze is already on your mouth.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You lift your chin. “Try to keep up.”

The frat house is already buzzing when you pull up. Bass thumping, bodies moving, lights spinning.

Rafe slides out of the car and pulls you with him, the chain between your wrists forcing you closer than you mean to be.

“You good?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing your knuckles, an excuse, probably, to touch you.

You nod. “I can handle a party.”

“Yeah?” His grin turns wicked. “Can you handle being cuffed to me all night?”

You smirk. “Don’t tempt me.”

Inside, people immediately turn. Rafe Cameron, cuffed to you? It draws attention. Whispers. Stares. He eats it up, throwing an arm around your shoulders, pulling you through the crowd with easy arrogance, but you can feel it: the tension in the way he holds you a little too close, the way his fingers flex against your side.

“Didn’t know you had this in you,” he says against your ear when you pass a particularly wide-eyed group of sorority girls.

You glance up at him, eyes glittering. “You clearly haven’t been paying enough attention.”

He stops walking, just for a beat, turns so you’re facing him, closer than close.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice a little rougher now. “You have no idea how much attention I pay.”

Your pulse kicks.

Before you can answer, someone calls your names for the first challenge.

Rafe smirks. “Guess we’ll see if you can really handle me tonight.”

And with that, he tugs you toward the center of the room, handcuffed, heart racing, wondering how in the hell you’re going to survive this night without letting him see how much you already want more.

...

“Cameron! Y/N! You’re up!”

You glance at Rafe, raising a brow. “Remind me again why I said yes to this?”

He grins. “Because you like winning.”

Fair enough.

They call you both to the center of the room where a long folding table is set up, shot glasses in a neat row, alternating liquids. Some tequila, some water, some vinegar (to mess with you), some mystery shots that smell dangerous.

The challenge: One hand each. One person drinks, the other handles the refills. Fastest pair wins.

Rafe looks down at your cuffed hands, then back up at you, eyes glinting. “Guess that’s me and you, superstar.”

You smirk. “Just don’t slow me down.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He leans in close, voice a dark drawl. “Try to keep up.”

The countdown starts. 3… 2… 1… GO!

From the first second, you two are locked in. Seamless.

Rafe flips the first shot toward you with perfect timing. You down it, slam the glass. He grabs the next one, fluid and fast. When it’s his turn to drink, your grip is already on the next glass, waiting.

People start cheering when they see how fast you move.

“Holy shit, look at them!” someone shouts.

But you barely hear them, your whole world is narrowed to the heat of Rafe’s body next to yours, his breath in your ear every time he leans in, the sharp glint of focus in his eyes when he watches you.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs after you knock back a brutal shot without flinching. His hand squeezes yours under the table, fleeting, electric.

You smirk. “Thought you said I couldn’t handle you.”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound. “You might be the only one who can.”

Another round, faster now, you and Rafe moving in perfect sync, like this is a game you’ve been playing forever. The cuffs force you close, shoulders pressed, legs bumping, heat building in every unspoken glance.

By the time you slam the last glass down, the whole room is roaring.

“WINNERS!” someone shouts.

Rafe grins wide, breathless, and turns to you, eyes bright, chest heaving from adrenaline and tequila.

Without thinking, he grabs your cuffed hand and lifts it over your heads, triumphant. “Dream team, baby.”

You’re grinning too, heart racing, not from the win, but from the way he’s looking at you now. Not like a friend. Not like a teammate.

Like a guy who’s been trying to hold it together all night, and who’s about five seconds away from forgetting you’re supposed to be "just friends."

...

The night blurs in a whirl of heat and music and too many shots. You lose count after the third round of challenges, the cuffs feel like part of you now, the weight of Rafe’s hand in yours a constant, grounding thing.

At some point, the crowd thins. People disappear to rooms, to Ubers, to dark corners.

You and Rafe end up collapsed on the beat-up couch in the sunroom, fairy lights flickering, music muffled now, the air cooler against flushed skin.

You’re both giggling at something stupid, an earlier challenge, the fact that you managed to win two rounds in a row even though you’re swaying slightly now. Rafe leans back, head tipped against the wall, eyes half-lidded and fond.

“You’re trouble, y’know that?” he says, voice low and lazy.

You nudge him with your knee. “Me? You’re the one who handcuffed me to you for four hours.”

He grins, tipsy and lopsided. “Best decision I’ve made in a while.”

You should laugh it off. Should tease him back. But something in the way he says it, too soft, too sincere, catches you.

You glance at him, heart thudding a little too fast. “Rafe..?"

He turns his head, meeting your gaze fully now, no smirk, no cocky edge. Just warmth. “Yeah?”

You swallow. The words come out before you can stop them. “I think I… might kinda like you.”

Silence.

Then he exhales a soft, shaky laugh. Runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N.”

Your stomach drops. “I shouldn’t have said—”

“No, no.” He grabs your cuffed hand gently, thumb brushing over your skin. His voice is rough with something like relief. “I’ve liked you since forever.”

You blink. “What.”

“I mean it.” He shifts closer, forehead nearly touching yours now. You can feel his breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint and tequila. “But I wasn’t gonna screw it up. Not with you.”

Your pulse is a wild thing in your chest.

“I don’t want this to be because we’re drunk,” he says softly. “Or because we’re cuffed and everyone else is gone.”

You nod, throat tight. “Me neither.”

He studies you for a long moment, eyes searching, reverent. Then slowly, carefully, he leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek.

Soft. Steady. Like a promise.

When he pulls back, his voice is barely a whisper. “When we’re sober. I want our first kiss.”

You can’t speak, just squeeze his hand in silent agreement. And there you stay, tangled together on the couch, cuffed and incredibly drunk, hearts racing, two idiots too fond of each other to move.

But finally, finally, knowing you’ll get the moment right when the time comes.

[steddieas-shegoes]

Steve’s parents send him on a gap year after high school in hopes that it’ll get him ready to apply to colleges and become a proper adult. They let him choose any of their three vacation homes so he chooses their condo in Paris.

He’s expected to find a job and himself.

The bakery down the block from the condo is owned by two old men who don’t wanna open anymore because they like sleeping in and sipping on their coffee on their balcony. Steve is happy to take over.

Especially when he sees the guy who works at the wine store across the road.

He’s in by 8 every morning, waving to the people coming in and out of the bookshop next to him and the bike repair shop next to them. His smile is contagious, and Steve often finds himself completely distracted by it even if he’s helping customers.

His long hair is always down when he gets there, but by the time Steve sees him leave in the afternoon, it’s pulled up and he has a sweaty sheen across his skin.

Steve decides to visit on his day off, maybe grab a bottle of wine even though he hates every wine he’s ever had to sip on at family functions.

But the man isn’t there when he stops by, or at least not at the counter. An older man is there, wrapping a bottle in paper for a customer who seems like they visit often.

It’s a small store, no bigger than the bakery, so it’s not like the guy could be hiding somewhere.

“Looking for something?” The older man asks as he walks around the counter towards Steve with a smile.

“Oh. Um.”

“You’re lookin’ for Ed right?” The old man’s smile turned into a smirk. “Ed! Customer!”

The man Steve had been seeing every morning and afternoon was suddenly rushing from the back of the store, clipboard in hand, hair sticking to his neck and forehead.

“Hi! What can I help you with?”

Steve could think of quite a few things he could help him with, but it probably wasn’t appropriate to say in front of someone else in his place of work.

“Sorry. Do you need me to speak French?” The man, Ed, asked in flawless French.

“No,” Steve assured. “I work in the bakery across the street. Just wanted to come by and say hi.”

Ed’s brows furrowed as he turned to the older guy who was already back at the counter trying to look busy.

“Does David need a bottle for something? He usually has Wayne pick his pairings.”

Steve shook his head. “No, not that I know of. I’ve just…um. Well, this is actually weirder now that I’m here. So I think I’ll go. Sorry to waste your time!”

Steve turned to go, but a hand grabbed his arm, tugging him back.

“Are you always this awkward?” Ed asked. Steve looked up from his feet to see him smiling. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Steve.”

“Steve. How about you come taste our sample bottle for the day? Maybe it’ll take the edge off,” Eddie offered, gesturing towards a side table that had an open bottle of wine and small sample glasses. “You like rosé?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Then let’s find out.”

Turns out Steve didn’t mind rosé that much, but maybe that was the company. The flavor was a bit less bitter than he was used to, going down much smoother without leaving a burning sensation on his tongue.

And later, after Eddie had talked to him for nearly an hour about himself and the store and his uncle who took him in and worked for him, Steve leaned in and got a taste of the rosé on Eddie’s tongue.

Steve decided he liked wine more than he thought.

[cupidkenji]

Doctor, Doctor, please listen!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Chubby!Fem!reader Cw; Tension (I tried), cursing, the smallest physical description of reader in the last portion (just mentions their stomach going over their pants), reader has scars from previous cases, rivals to lovers?, lmk if i'm missing smth Summary: 3 times you called him doctor, 3 times he wonders why. Disclaimer: Reader is always written with a chubby/bigger person in mind but I don't really ever describe their bodies that much cause it's x READER and every body has a different body <3 WC: 3,596 I am literally so obsessed with criminal minds somebody save my soul OBLIVOUS IDIOTS WHO WANT EACH OTHER MY BELOVED. Title from mad hatter by Melanie Martinez don't even @ me for that

1.

“...she will be an important part of making your team function quicker. We fought hard to get her here. I ask that you all treat her with respect and not make me intervene.” 

Strauss finished her introductory spiel with a familiar “mom-glare” towards the team, walking away once she finished her speech. Unfortunately, her departure left you standing alone in front of the most intimidating man you’ve ever seen and four of his team members. You had been practically still until now. You hated the pressure of everyone’s eyes on you, causing a general freeze response to the stress of a new team. Fawn, you thought, the newest addition to the fight or flight categories and also the lovely thing forcing you to practically disassociate in front of your new boss and co-workers. 

“Welcome, Dr. L/N. We’ve heard good things. I’m Aaron Hotchner, I supervise the team.” He was leaning on the table before he stepped forward to shake your hand as he spoke. “This is Emily Prentiss, Jenifer Jareau, Derek Morgan, and Doctor Spencer Reid.” He pointed towards the corresponding people as he spoke of them. “Agent Rossi is away right now, and you’ll meet our T.I. later…she’s been excited.” If you hadn’t been good at your job, you’re sure you would have missed the way his lips turned up slightly at the edges when mentioning the woman. He didn’t seem so scary anymore, more like a father of the team. You’d been expecting a drill sergeant - your last team leader could have given a bull a run for it’s money with how much aggression that guy had. You welcomed the rush of excitement you felt at the discovery, mentally shaking off the stiffness you were carrying. 

“I’m happy to be here, sir. I’ve heard good things about the team, too. Your boss seems to think highly of your capabilities.” You addressed the room as you spoke. Public speaking was a skill you were still trying to master, so you practiced whenever you could. 

Your statement earned a chuckle from the table. Nobody bothered to explain the reason. You figured it was too much history to sum up on the spot. Your eyes wanted to linger on Reid. He seemed so young, and you wondered if he’d been told that his entire career - lord knows you had too. A fellow doctor. You assumed he was a bit of a stickler about the title, as even his boss kept it tacked onto his name when introducing him. You’d originally hoped to find some comfort in the man, on the surface he seemed a lot like you. He was probably too smart for his own good as well. Given the way he was staring at you, though, you felt the realization sink in that the man had no intention of welcoming you. 

“Why exactly do we need another profiler?” His voice held no malice as he spoke in the direction of his boss. There was more curiosity in his voice than anything, however you did pick up on the sense of superiority that sat just beneath the surface of his words. You guessed that’s how he behaved generally - as though he was superior. Still, your head tilted slightly to the side at the question. 

Damn. Tough crowd. 

You saw the intake of breath in Hotchner as he prepared to defend your place here but you spoke before he could start. “While I am a profiler, sir, first and foremost I am a psychiatrist - a doctor. As I’m sure you heard from Strauss, the board is unhappy with your recent efficiency rates and would also like to aid your team in dealing with mental health crises. I’ve spent my entire life studying the effects and conditions of the mentally diseased brain. I’ll be able to tell you the most efficient and effective way of interacting with these individuals, along with more accurately predicting their actions and methodology. I’m an agent, I took the same oath everyone here did but I was brought here for my expertise.” You were on a bit of a tangent, you knew that, but something about the smug feel of the man forced an emergence of competitiveness. He looked at you so indifferent, and you couldn’t help the tiny sparks of anger lighting beneath your skin. You kept a friendly disposition towards the man - you were a professional, after all, not a teenager - but you sensed a rivalry sprouting it’s roots.

The others at the table suppressed their smiles or looked down to hide it. Nobody had ever challenged Spencer like that. They could all feel he was a tad bit territorial. He was the guy people went to when they needed to know something. He was the Doctor of the group. They didn’t think he would take too kindly to another one encroaching his land. They saw the way he was tense, even more so after you responded. It was a riveting sight, though. The lot of them saw Spencer as a younger brother, and him meeting his match was something they were all so excited to see.

“Play nice, pretty boy.” Derek muttered to him, Spencer was slightly slouched in his chair now, not losing sight of you. Derek followed suit, turning his attention towards you. “We’re glad to have you, Doctor. We’ve spoken about an addition like you before, I’m glad to see the higher ups finally listened. I look forward to working with you - excuse me.” He left once his phone rang. 

The others took his exit as an excuse for their own, everyone giving you a warm welcome as they left. You reciprocated happily, telling everyone they could just call you by your first name, never having been one for titles. ‘There’s one difference.’ You thought, even your internal dialogue was bitter. Aside from him, there was a warmth here that you had been desperate to find in your last team. If you had to work passive aggressively with one uptight man in exchange for a team like this - you were going to take that deal. 

He refused to leave it seemed. He just sat looking inquisitively at the table, occasionally extending his stare to look at you before returning. How did you two end up alone in this room?

“Are you gonna have a problem with me, Doctor?” You shifted slightly on your feet. A notoriously nervous sign, one he definitely picked up on.

He stared again. It was his mind that kept him rooted in his seat. You were fucking alluring. He’d never met someone so like himself in his line of work. He was being a dick and he knew it but it seemed to be instinctual - some type of precaution, maybe. He didn’t know why you were being so respectful. Doctor. God, he didn’t know if the title had ever sounded so good being directed at him. His frustration only rose as he thought on the issue more. He wasn’t welcoming, it would be so easy to drop the formality, something he knew you knew would get on his nerves. But you didn’t. It didn’t seem like a question of dignity. You didn’t seem like the type to refuse a little pettiness - he sure wasn’t the type either. A thought stirred, an unsafe one he wanted to squash immediately but one he also couldn’t help but lean into. Did you want a power imbalance?

“No.” He stood abruptly, obviously still focused on the thoughts in his head. “Welcome to the team.” He addressed you one last time and then walked out of the room.

You followed shortly after, ready to make home on your couch and be done with being the newbie for the day. Your stress would follow you home, though, as the last thing you heard before you left the building was “Oh my god they’re perfect for each other.”

2.

The first few weeks were always the hardest. This was something you knew and were prepared for but it did nothing to calm your nerves. You’d been on countless missions having worked this job for a while now, but this was an entirely new dynamic to learn. You were an outsider for the first time in four years and it was scary. This case was shaping up to be a rough one, too. A man was having delusions telling him to kill. An extremely rare manifestation of his Schizophrenia, only elevated by the newly acquired aspect of him being an insomniac. 

Spencer hadn’t ceased being headstrong in cases either. Every time you wanted to help he made it his mission to overcompensate in order to snuff you out. On the contrary, he’d warmed up to you a little. It wasn’t major, he barely held any positive feelings toward you, but barely was better than not at all, so you coped. You two had managed a couple small talk conversations outside the battle of one-upping that you were currently losing. You absolutely hated it, but you liked him. You liked him a lot, actually. You don’t know when in the past few days that anger morphed into fondness but it had shifted hard. The casual dominance he exuded drew you in like a porchlight lures a moth. You doubted the opposite proved true for him, and that stung. You came to enjoy the banter, the competition, even if you were always playing the losing hand. It was the only way to get his undivided attention and the feeling of his eyes on you started to follow you home. 

You thought a lot about how you could get the relationship to pivot into something better. You didn’t want to be the girl he bickered with at work. You didn’t know what it was you wanted but you knew that your current fate sounded horrid. He was an ass, though, and he did not make it easy to admit those feelings. Every time he undermined you, you grew more attached and also more angry at yourself for doing so. It was because he’s so much like you, you thought. You knew from the way he interacted with his team that he wasn’t a cold guy, didn’t hold malice towards people for no reason. He needs time. He needs to know you, and God how badly you wanted to know him. 

You had sustained good relations with everyone the past few weeks you’ve been here. Meeting Garcia and Rossi had been a treat - both of them being delightful company. You’d heard them whispering about you and Spencer when they thought you weren’t around. The whole team seems to think that you’re basically fated to be together. It was unnerving how comforting that thought was to you. You hoped they were right. 

Spencer hoped they were right too. He’d heard the same whispers you had, chastising the team when he got the chance as if he didn’t think about you every moment he could. His eyes seemed to naturally land on you if you were around. He watched you walk around the bureau more and more lately, enjoying the gained confidence in your step as you cemented your place in the team. The sway of your hips or the swing of your arms. You mesmerized him no matter what you did. One time he got so caught up in his thoughts of you that Prentiss had to check he wasn’t having a silent panic attack. He clung to his sense of resentment, tried so hard to remind himself of the feelings he had when he first met you - you were beautiful, of course you were - but you were on claimed land and he was anything but eager for you to make home on it. That had faded fast, seeing how kind you were, scrambling to help and earn respect from everyone. The only reason he kept up the act of  “man who wants you gone” was so that he could keep talking to you. Spencer was a genius but he didn’t know how to handle someone like you. He’d been interested in girls before, hell he’d had girlfriends before but it had never felt like this in such little time. Such intense infatuation was crippling for someone who’s brain worked in patterns - this was new ground for him. 

“Everybody suit up. We have Foster’s location and we need to move quickly. He’s going after the source of his rage and we don’t have time to spare.” Hotch came down the stairs two at a time, spurring the team into action. 

“This man is highly dangerous but also highly deluded. The cases I’ve read similar to this say it’s best to speak gently. He’s sick but he can be reasoned with.” Spencer pulls from his memory as he sets his ‘FBI’ vest into place on his chest. 

“No, not this time. This man is too severe, his mind is too far gone. If these hallucinations of his are strong enough for him to touch them it’ll be extremely easy for him to rearrange or imagine your words differently. You need to be loud, direct, and assertive. Speak as little as possible. The quieter you are, the easier it will be for him to change what you’re saying in his head.” You also spoke while putting your vest on. You didn’t carry a weapon - a personal vow of yours, as you were more than classified to - so there were no holsters to fill. The contradictions between the two doctors of the team made everyone hesitate even though they lacked the time to do so.

Spencer looked at you, slightly out of breath from working so quickly. “You’re questioning my memory?” 

“I’m not questioning your memory, Doctor. I’m questioning your sources. There’s a higher risk level if we do what you’re suggesting. Let me do my job.” You made the final adjustments to your attire as you finished speaking. You returned his eye contact for just a beat too long, letting the others rush out of the building while you stood your ground, the two of you begrudgingly following after them a moment later.

You had been assigned a different car than him for the ride over. ‘Thank God’ was the only thing you could think when you saw him heading to the other SUV. After another confrontation - another public one, at that - you weren’t sure you could handle being pressed leg to leg with him in the backseat. Your words were a looping record in his head as he rode towards Foster. They were about to attempt a hostage negotiation with a man seeing people who weren’t there but all he could think about was that fucking word you refused to drop. 

I’m not questioning your memory, Doctor

You had to be doing this on purpose, he thought. He originally believed this had started because you knew stripping him of his beloved title would cause irritation. Now he suspected you knew how badly he wanted his name in your mouth and this was your way of torturing him. ‘It’s working.’ He thought. God was it working. He agreed with his team, you were perfect for him. You had knowledge to match his, kept him on his toes. One time the start of a ramble slipped through his “I don’t like you” façade and he felt his heart speed up at the genuine interest that roused in your eyes. You wanted to know him and he was an idiot for all the shit he was doing. 

He wasn’t surprised when your strategy worked and Ben Foster was taken into custody. You were the one to talk him down, and if you hadn’t already been accepted to the team, he knew then and there that they needed you. You were flawless. He knew you’d been doing this as long as he had and it showed. He pleaded with himself to stay focused, zeroed in on the weight of the gun in his hand to save face. His mind never left you, though, much like his eyes. This was the expertise you spoke of - no wonder they fought hard to get you here. 

“You were excellent in there.” It was just the two of you now. Even in the dull, flashing police lights, you were breathtaking. “Good job.” He said. Then he walked away because he was on the brink of kissing you and didn’t feel like breaking about 18 workplace rules while at the scene of a crime. You wouldn’t have been complaining if he did.

3.

Every time something like this happened it was difficult to remind yourself that not carrying a weapon was a choice you made willingly. You were currently sitting in the back of an open ambulance, about to be hoisted onto a stretcher and driven to the ER for stitches. You’ve been with the BAU for almost 3 months now and have miraculously managed to avoid injury in that time. This had been one of the easier cases. No chases or clues to follow, just a sick man who left a fairly obvious paper trail. You were the speaker on almost all cases. You were in charge of de-escalating a situation, making sure the bomb didn’t blow. You’ve never carried a weapon, always preferring to take the wounds of a job over using a gun to back up your words. You were a psychiatrist, you wanted to make people better, not vilify them. It worked, usually. People did tend to trust you more when you were unarmed. This time, though, it got you stabbed.

It wasn’t a bad injury, the blood had already stopped and was mildly dry by the time Spencer was joining you. Just one more scar to your collection. It was to the side of your quad, missing any artery by miles and just serving as a pain source at this point. A little numbing and some stitches and you’d be right as rain is what the doctor in the ambulance had said. 

“What happened?” He spoke softly to you. There wasn’t a rivalry between you two, not really. The banter hadn’t stopped, but it changed. It was playful and actually fun now. The both of you weren’t obsessed with outdoing the other anymore. Some casual boastfulness and a budding friendship is where you were at with him currently. 

“I got stabbed.”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

He exhaled like he couldn’t comprehend the stupidity of your answer. You laughed at that. One enjoyable pastime you’d picked up in the past month was trying to bewilder him. The EMT said he needed to check the rest of your body for injury despite your protest of such a procedure. It was typical and you knew that, but you held onto the fear of your own body that middle school gave you. There was a man you liked here, and the thought of him seeing the bit of stomach that hung outside the waistline of your pants scared you more than you thought it would. You forced yourself to be rational in spite of this. It was Spencer, you wanted to be seen by him. 

“Holy shit.”

You chuckled at that. You forgot that maybe a warning was in order for the amount of scars that littered your stomach.

“Probably should have told you about those.” There were dozens. You amassed a countless amount of scars over the course of your job. Stab wounds, bullet grazes, burn marks. Unsubs, as much as you tried to empathize, were often violent at the end of the day and usually lashed out before they could be helped. 

He was staring - well, gazing more like. Not like someone stares at a car accident on the freeway but instead how someone stares at the moon - awe. He was in awe of you. Your strength, your courage, the fact that you went through all these individual events and still chose not to arm yourself. Some of these were in places that could have been fatal, and he thanked whatever entity may be listening that you persevered, begged them to continue that streak. He crashed hard into the desire to touch you, to run his hands over what little of your past he could see. He wondered if you would let him. If you’d fit into his palms the way he thought you would - if that was something you even wanted. The EMT was gone by now, having moved to the passenger seat for the ride to the hospital. 

“Could I - " He hesitated for a moment, this was definitely the wrong question to ask. “Can I touch you?”

Your eyes glazed over slightly. Jesus. You felt your lips part a little.

“You want to?” Genuine surprise. You didn’t think you looked particularly desirable in your current state. He wanted to touch your fucking scars. Who does he think he is?

“Please.” He was looking at you in a way you hadn’t seen before. His eyes were glazed over too. You held his eyes as you nodded. The heat was so stifling that you laughed just a little at the tension.

“Fucking hell, Spence.”

Blood shot to his ears when you said his name. It had been well worth the wait to hear you say it like that - breathy and confused and so fucking pretty that he wondered how he ever lived before you said it. 

“Will you tell me about them?” He was breathy too, but he wouldn’t have you here, not like this. He just needed to feel you. 

“I’ll tell you anything you want, Doc.”

His hands were warm. It wouldn’t be the last time you felt them.

[munsonify]

may i request steve harrington x shy ditzy reader where he’s her first kiss (she kisses him) ? and he almost begs to be her bf and it’s all so cute and fluffy ? friends to lovers

of course!! i love this, it’s so cute 😫 i apologize for such a late response, i’ve been trying to get myself back into the writing groove!

finally - steve harrington x shy!ditzy!fem!reader

warning/s. friends to lovers, kissing, reader wears lipgloss, pet names (honey, sweetheart), slight cursing, one use of y/n. not proofread in the slightest. reader is 20.

word count. 1360

———

steve was so close to you. his intoxicating scent and his welcoming warmth embrace you, taking up all of your senses. it’s hard being around him. especially when you’re meant to be focusing on other things. even with robins constant energy and rambles, all you could think of was him. his smirk, his eyes, his laugh. it was times like these that you wish you weren’t so shy, something he only made so much worse. you felt like you couldn’t function.

you wondered if he noticed all the times he made you nervous, all the times you couldn’t hold eye contact with him while he speaks to you. you thought maybe he could and just ignored it, or maybe he liked knowing he made you nervous.

“y/n?” steve’s voice snapped you out of your thought, a blush creeping up your neck and to your cheeks at the way your name rolls off his tongue. his arm nudged yours in attempts to get your attention, too, and god is he warm.

“oh sorry, what’s up?” you ask him, finally looking up and into his eyes. they welcomed you in, and even though you tried to fight it, you succumbed anyways. you couldn’t help the way you softened around the edges when with him. you barely noticed the pole you almost ran into.

steve let out a soft laugh at your absentmindedness, eyes not leaving yours. you’d say he almost looked smitten if you weren’t so oblivious all the time. why would he of all people be looking at you in any sort of way?

“it’s okay,” he spoke with a small smile, arm lingering close to yours. his voice was always so soft with you. “we’re gonna head home. sound good?”

you gave him a nod and a weak ‘sounds good’, trying to give him a smile back that ended up a little too lopsided. you were sure to beat yourself up over that a little later.

—

it was a quiet ride home on your end. music played underneath robin and steve’s rambling, the car engine melting somewhere inside the noise. you found your eyes trailing towards steve while you sat in his passenger seat. you went straight to his hands, admiring the way his fingers curled around the steering wheel. steve’s hands were warm, and you knew it. you wanted nothing more for them to be on you instead of the wheel.

after an almost 15 minute drive, steve pulled up in front of robins house. they bid each other a quick goodbye, double checking to make sure they were still going to work together the next day, before she got out. it wasn’t until steve saw her enter her house safely that he pulled away to head to your place.

it was always that way when you three hung out. you lived much closer to steve than robin did, which you enjoyed. it meant you got to spend a little extra time with him, alone. it took you a few long moments to register steve’s tone shift when he spoke to you. it was a lot softer compared to how he spoke to robin. you always assumed he was being kind or a tease.

“lets get you home, honey.”

that nickname. it came out so naturally, as if it was made to be said to you. you tried to play it off, a small smile playing on your glossy lips as if your chest wasn’t warm from his words. still, you felt like he could sense your nervousness.

the rest of the ride to your place was a lot more quiet. soft music, soft words, soft giggles. you were disappointed when steve turned onto your rode, and even more disappointed when he made it to your house. your eyes, warm and round and perfect, met his again once he parked. you adored his presence.

“thanks for the ride, steve,” you said, voice almost at a whisper as you gazed at him, a gaze you didn’t even realize at the time. he looked at you with such intensity that it was hard to keep yourself in check. you wanted to fold into yourself at the way he was with you all the time.

“don’t have to thank me,” steve told you, a reassuring smile thrown your way. you noticed how one of his eyebrows quirked up. was something wrong? “you’ve got an eyelash.”

a hand of yours immediately flew up to your face, patting your lash line gently in hopes to find the stray blindly. you saw as he shook his head, a pout immediately playing on your lips. steve was gentle to replace your hand with his, his thumb dancing carefully against the skin under your eye, picking up the eyelash in one swoop. those two seconds felt like an eternity, skin heating up under his touch. even more so when he didn’t move an inch.

steve’s fingers moved to brace the side of your head, palm pressed against your cheek, thumb slowly tracing your cheek. you weren’t sure where this was coming from, eyes searching his again in a desperate attempt to read him. you couldn’t. especially not when you had the urge to kiss him. it was quick and out of the blue, rattling in your stomach and lingering.

as silly as it sounds as a 20 year old, you’d never kissed anyone before. you weren’t sure if it was because of your shyness or your lack of awareness sometimes, or something else entirely. it left you unbelievably unprepared when faced with any previous opportunity to change it.

but kissing steve? now? it felt right. you didn’t feel that pressure for it to be correct. it clicked into place, and suddenly, you realized why you might not have felt that desire to kiss someone before. they weren’t steve.

your hand found your way to the collar of his shirt, gentle as you gripped it. you pushed through all of your shyness to make this next move, face leaning into steve’s, eyes glancing down at his lips. you were half expecting him to jolt away, his warm touch leaving your face. the only thing he did as you shifted yourself closer to him was let his eyes flutter shut.

before you could talk yourself out of it, you pushed your soft lips against his in a chaste kiss, eyes fluttering shut just as his before. it lasted for only a few perfect moments, your mind only swarming with the thought of how warm his lips were on yours. his hand didn’t stop cradling your face, even after you pulled your lips from his with a small smacking sound. you couldn’t help but cringe a little, the sound of your lips releasing such a cliche, nose scrunching up only slightly.

steve gently leaned in again, resting his forehead against yours. you felt the soft sigh he released against your cheek, warm and minty. your eyes finally opened up, finding their way to his, already open. they beamed at you almost as much as his gentle smile did.

while tucking strands of hair behind your ear, steve began to speak in a whisper.

“you don’t know how long i’ve been waiting for that.” heat creeped back up into your cheeks from your neck that was already burning hot. his voice was so sincere. “i thought you’d never catch on.”

“catch on to what?” you questioned, eyebrows furrowing together. you pouted again as steve began to chuckle, tongue flicking against his lower lip. still so oblivious.

“catch onto the fact that i’m so unbelievably into you, sweetheart.” you couldn’t help but nudge his shoulder gently, still as shy as can be. it was kinda obvious, looking back on it. the abundant kindness, soft voice, and gentle words. you just prayed to whatever god that was listening that he didn’t also notice your lack of experience.

if he did, he didn’t pay any mind to it. that was the last thing he was worried about.

“please let me take you on a date,” steve told you, voice desperate, almost a whine. his eyes begged into yours. how could you say no?

———

taglist. @songbirdofthenight

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Let Me Go (No Puedo) Pt. I

summary: the day you meet Joaquin is the day you decide that you won’t fall for him.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!wilson!reader

contents: 18+/MINORS DNI, forbidden romance, flirting, pining, longing, minimal angst, mentions or depictions of abusive parents

wc: 2,235

an: this one has been soooo fun to write with the mutual pining, will they won’t they energy. hope yall enjoy and feel free to share your thoughts with me <3

let me go (no puedo) masterlist

The day you meet Joaquin is the day you decide that you won’t fall for him.  

You and Sam weren’t related by blood, but he was like a big brother to you nonetheless. You’d do your sibling duty, and not fall for his newest partner— his closest friend since Steve besides Bucky.

You were there when Bucky had gotten a stern talking to about flirting with Sarah, and took it seriously. Obviously, it struck some nerve for Sam, two people he cared about deeply transcending their relationships with him to have one with one another.

And you owed Sam too much to betray him like that. He and Sarah had practically raised you due to your parents’ neglect. They always advocated for you, brought you food, and begged their parents to bring you along to errands and eventually family functions. By the time you were 15, you lived with them instead of your own family. 

The least you could do is not piss off your brother. That’s how much he meant to you— even if you felt an instant, undeniable pull towards Joaquin upon meeting him. Who wouldn’t when he’s so gorgeous, and charming?

“This is my little sister, I’ve mentioned her before.”

Joaquin raises his brows, smirking. “Have you? Because I feel like I would remember someone so—“

“Watch it,” Sam quips, his brows set as his eyes flicker between the two of you.

You extend your hand and Joaquin takes it, his handshake firm…his skin softer than you had imagined. “It’s good to meet you, Joaquin. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“All good things I hope?”

You laugh, nodding, “With how deep his glare is right now, I’m surprised at how good it all was.”

“I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

“You two finished?” Sam asks stiffly.

You reach out and give his shoulder a rub, hoping he takes it as reassurance that nothing will happen between you and Joaquin. No matter how much you may want something to happen.

“I need to go check the grill anyway,” You suggest, giving them both a wave as you start across the backyard.

“Nice meeting you!” Joaquin calls after you, and you glance over your shoulder at him giving him a wave in response.

It gives you a front-row seat to the way Sam snatches Joaquin closer by his t-shirt. Sam’s face has shifted from a simple glare to an intense glower. And though you can’t hear what he’s saying you know it’s something like:

“Don’t ever— and I mean ever flirt with my sister.”

It should’ve ended there. 

—

But, it didn’t. 

Sarah had mentioned redecorating more times than you can count and she finally bit the bullet. While that brought you some relief from mulling over color palettes, fabrics, and artwork it now meant that it was time to build everything.

You’re on your way over, headphones on as you sit tucked into the back corner of the bus with your toolbox in tow. 

When you get there there’s a man on the roof. No, not just any man— Joaquin is on the roof. Thank God you can’t get too good of a look at him, you can tell that his shirt is clinging to him in ways that would breed sinful thoughts. 

You’ll just head inside and hope he stays up there for most of the day, it’s silly and you know that he can’t, but a girl can dream and pray can’t she?

Apparently, the answer is no, because Joaquin glances over his shoulder as you walk up the stoned path. There’s no mistaking the bright grin that spreads across his face. He makes his way to the edge of the roof, plopping down with feet dangling over the edge.

“Hey, querida.”

“Hi, Joaquin. Sarah didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

His smile widens into something more teasing, and with the gap closing between you with each step you take, you can see the way his brown eyes shine. “Funny, you being here was one of her selling points for me.”

You feel your face grow warm despite the sticky Louisiana heat. Sam would be disappointed to know that you can’t be firm with Joaquin and tell him the two of you can’t do this. 

It was hard to resist him though when you felt this strange pull inside of you that begged to know him. 

“Good to know,” You murmur, a little shy by the way your eyes avoid his.  “I’ll see you inside?”

“Bet on it.”

When you make it inside, you immediately grill Sarah— it’s part of the Wilson tradition.

You come to stand in front of her, arms crossed against your chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you warn me that Joaquin would be here?”

“Oh, so there is something there. I was wondering,” She hardly looks up from the mail she’s thumbing through. 

“You were wondering?” You breathe incredulously.  

She shrugs, unphased by your anger. “He wouldn’t take his eyes off of you at the barbecue a few weeks ago and you just happened to avoid putting your eyes on him the whole time. I just had to know.”

“I don’t know, you could’ve asked!” You insist, annoyed. 

“So you could lie to my face? Yeah right. Now get to work, I’m making you both lunch and you have to earn it.”

There’s no use in arguing with Sarah, just like the rest of you she’s stubborn. But her stubbornness and her opinions have more weight as the oldest.

By the time you’ve halfway finished building her new coffee table, Joaquin makes his way inside. He has a slight sheen to him from the sweat, and you were right— being this close to him, seeing the way his shirt molded to his skin did conjure salacious thoughts.

Thoughts you forced yourself to swallow down as you turned your eyes back to the screw you were tending. 

“Roof’s all good. Where do you want me?”

“Could you put up those shelves? I figured you two could build the couch together once all the small stuff is down.”

You scoff softly, rolling your eyes even as you keep them focused on the task at hand.

Joaquin looks at you, intrigued. “Not a fan of manual labor, querida?”

“I’m fine with it, this just better be the best lunch I’ve ever had.”

“It will be because I made it,” Sarah retorts, unable to keep her knowing grin at bay.

Joaquin just looks between the two of you, wise enough not to put himself in the crossfire of sisters arguing— he’d take identifying some alien species or destroying missiles any day. 

The three of you settle into your respective tasks until you’re looking for the last few screws to complete the coffee table. They’re nowhere to be found.

“Joaquin, do you have 10-inch screws in your kit?”

He’s moving to his box immediately, riffling through it with an urgency that would make you think it’s life or death.

“No, ‘looks like just 8 inch. It’s particular isn’t it?” He asks, but before you can answer he’s making his way over to you so that he can read the manual with you. “Particular,” He repeats. “I can run and grab you some.”

“No, no, I can get them.”

“Déjame. It’s fine. Here,” He fishes his phone out of his back pocket and hands it to you.

“What’s this for?”

His eyes are wide, innocent but his mouth quirks into a smug smile. “So I can send you pictures and make sure I get the right ones.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second but don’t have it in you to resist despite knowing that Sarah is watching your every move. Because if you’re being honest, with Joaquin so close and so clearly happy to see you, it feels like no one else exists. 

Typing in your number quickly, you hand the phone back to him, your hands accidentally brushing his. This casual touch that should mean nothing sends a flicker of electricity through your skin. Joaquin must feel it too because his gaze meets yours, going a little hazy. 

That is how you and Joaquin end up exchanging phone numbers. And for a long while, it’s radio silent.

—

You’re sure that the universe is trying to send you spiraling. It was already a rough day at work, and you could feel a migraine coming on, tension settling into your shoulders. Usually, you’d talk to Sam about it but he was away on a mission with Joaquin in a completely different time zone. 

Sam had sent you some texts of reassurance but you didn’t want to bother him further, not when whatever he was doing was probably keeping the world spinning.

You’ve stepped out of the shower and are trying your best to massage the tautness out of your flesh when your phone rings.

Maybe Sam had finished up early. You don’t bother looking down at your phone, you simply answer it and continue with your massage.

“God, I’m glad you called. Today fucking sucked.”

“So I heard. I’m glad I called too then, hermosa,” Joaquin’s smooth voice comes over the line, softer than ever.

Your blood goes completely cold as if you’re being hunted for sport and you freeze, eyes wide as you stare at yourself in the mirror.

After several moments of silence, he asks, “Te fuiste?” 

“No, I’m here. I’m— I didn’t know that you— you called me?”

“Sam said you had a bad day, but he’s beat. Passed out as soon as we got on the plane. I figured I’d check on you.”

“Well, thank you.”

“No sweat. You wanna talk about your day?”

You should say no. Leave it at thanking him and hang up the phone, but it’s like all of the blood in your brain has traveled to your heart. It squeezes with endearment. He wanted to check on you despite knowing that this couldn’t go anywhere. What’s one phone call? He’s being a friend. Who are you to deny that?

“Honestly, I’d rather talk about anything but.”

“Mmm, okay, okay. Then tell me what you do for fun?”

“Nine times out of ten somehow I end up with Cass and AJ. They’re so adventurous for their age, so…brave. Every single day they teach me something new. Kind of a lame answer but—“

“No, it’s not. You love your family. There’s nothing lame about that, querida.”

“Thanks,” You breathe shyly, a soft smile pulling at your lips. “What about you?”

“You know the drill, not much time for fun when you’re being dragged around the globe.”

“Dragged? You’re certainly willing.”

“Ready and willing on more levels than you know. But, yeah, it kind of absorbs your life. If we’re not on a mission, I’m training or sleeping or eating. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to get a drink with a friend or watch a movie.”

“And your family?”

“Just me and mi abuela,” He admits. 

You didn't know that—that Joaquin didn’t have parents either. Not with his confidence, his willingness to be open and vulnerable. In the beginning, when you had finally realized and accepted that your parents didn’t want to care for you an intense loneliness had taken root in you. You find yourself growing even more curious about him, wondering if it impacted him similarly.  

“Sam never told me that.”

“Let’s be real, Sam’s avoiding telling you anything about me since we met.”

“I’m sure it’s vice versa.”

“Yeah, I was surprised he mentioned you tonight. He must’ve been really worried. This helping?”

“It’s helping. Thank you, Joaquin.”

“I told you, descuida. I— I like talking to you. More than I should. Or should I say more than Sam would like.”

“Sam doesn’t like a lot of things if that makes you feel better.”

“Trust me, yo sé. Enough about that guy— what do you dislike?”

You end up staying on the phone with Joaquin for hours, putting him on speaker once you finally finish your skincare and head to the kitchen to make dinner. He asks you questions about your taste in food and film. What your favorite thing is about your siblings. If there’s something you think about before you close your eyes at night and when you wake up in the morning. You’re sure that he’s truly listening by the way he hums or the follow-up questions he asks, and his answers to the questions are just as thoughtful.

When you finally let out a yawn, Joaquin glances at his watch.  He frowns, he hadn’t meant to keep you up, especially not after a difficult day. “What time is it there?”

Through another yawn, you say, “Oh, um, it's almost 2 a.m.”

“You should head to bed, hmm? Get a good night’s sleep so you don’t have another shitty day.”

“2 a.m. is nothing,” You insist, not ready to let the conversation end just yet. You were sure you’d never get an opportunity like this again with him; that was for the best. 

“Cierra los ojos, querida,” He murmurs. His voice is so gentle it makes your heart ache with longing. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

Both of you know that’s not true though. You know that tomorrow you’ll pretend this call never happened. And if Joaquin knows what’s good for him, he’ll do the same.

“Goodnight, Joaquin. Thank you again.”

“Goodnight, hermosa. I’m always happy to help you.”

> pt. ii

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[crowsofdarkness]

Bucky is tired of being "just neighbors".

18+ cw's below the cut(unprotected p in v, creampie, clit play)

It started off innocent. You asking Bucky for some sugar or coffee. His cat Alpine would find her way into your apartment which would have you bringing her back to Bucky. 

Then he would help you bring your groceries up the stairs into your apartment. One time a light bulb needed to be replaced in the bathroom but you couldn’t reach it so of course Bucky helped you. 

One night, it all changed when you awoke to find a spider crawling across your bed. You despised spiders so it had you running over to Bucky's apartment to ask for his help in disposing of it. There always was this undeniable pull between the two of you. No matter how much either of you tried to ignore it, it was as if the universe wanted you two together. 

So when Bucky opened the door, you felt your body flush with heat when you noticed that he was only wearing a pair of red checkered boxers that were hanging dangerously low on his hips. The dark hairs that line from his belly button down to the edge of the boxers made your mouth water. It led to one thing. 

Salvation. 

His hair was a mess due to sleep and his vibranium arm seemed to glisten underneath the light that spilled in from the hallway. 

Bucky’s eyes darkened when he drank in the sight of you wearing nothing but a flimsy tank top and a pair of green panties. 

His favorite color. 

That undeniable pull was too strong now, vibrating and damn near stealing the breath out of you. The spider in your bedroom long forgotten when Bucky crashed his lips to yours, dragging you inside of his apartment. Your tank top and his boxers were strewn about as he laid the top half of your body over the back of his couch so your head hung just above the cushions. 

“I’ve been wanting this for so long, dot,” he groaned, slipping two flesh fingers over your panties. 

Your very wet panties. 

“Seems like you feel the same way,” Bucky chuckled with a slight edge that made your spine ignite. 

As much as Bucky wanted to spread you open with his vibranium fingers, he held back. He knew it would take you some time to get used to them, especially the vibrating function. You two had the rest of the night together. 

Maybe even lives if you wanted it. 

You begged him to do something, his name sounding so weak on your lips. Pushing your panties to the side, Bucky spat down on your cunt before dragging the head of his cock up and down, spreading the saliva all over. You pressed your ass closer to his cock, silently begging him to enter your eager pussy. 

“Take all of it, you hear me?” He ordered on a choke breath when he finally pressed inside of you. 

You nodded, already gone from the pleasure that consumed you. All at once, he filled you completely and both let out a shared moan that sounded sinful even to the devil. 

“I’m not going to last long,” Bucky panted, his pace anything but slow. 

You didn’t have to tell him to go slow, he could feel the way your cunt clenched around his thick cock that you liked it fast and hard. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoed throughout the apartment. The couch began to slowly move with each hard thrust and it seemed to annoy Bucky because he held onto the back edge of the couch with his vibranium hand to keep it in place. 

Your mewls of pleasure got louder when he pressed two flesh fingers to your clit, drawing quick circles. The only warning you gave him before you came apart was his name falling from your lips like a prayer. 

“Son of a bitch,” Bucky moaned, his cock thickening inside of you. 

Not wanting to cum inside of you, he pulled out his cock to stroke it a few times before painting your cunt. 

“Mine,” he said, body falling limp against yours. 

You agreed with a lazily nod.