#everything is a learning curve. everything is something you have to adjust to. down to the clothes on your back....

[pumpkinrootbeer]

hello . SUICIDE!

[emmiesoverthemoon]

correct me, i dare you

pairing: bang chan x reader wc: 8k. summary: as chan's choreographer, he told you not to test him. now you’re all messed up in a studio chair, trying to remember your own name while he’s planning round two. tags: brat/brat tamer dynamic, porn with plot, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), tension. enjoy

It always began the same way.

With him being late.

You were halfway through your warm-up, music echoing low through the empty studio, when his reflection emerged in the mirror—hood up, the ghost of a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips. He moved with the casual arrogance of someone who had never once been told no. Someone who knew you would forgive the delay simply because he was good.

You did not turn to greet him. Did not acknowledge him. You continued to stretch, breathing steady and precise, though your skin buzzed with a treacherous awareness—an irritating, familiar hum that only he could summon. The kind that made you feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.

Behind you, the studio door closed with a soft thud.

"You’re late, Chan," you said, gaze fixed forward.

"I’m worth waiting for," came his reply, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. His voice, lower than usual, dragged across your spine like velvet laced with steel. You heard the dull thump of his bag hitting the floor. A moment later, he stepped into your space as if it belonged to him. “Unless you missed me.”

You finally turned, offering him the flattest look you could summon. "I missed the part where you follow the schedule."

"Schedules are tedious."

"And you’re exhausting."

He hummed, letting his eyes wander over you with the kind of unrepentant interest that made your blood simmer. His head tilted slightly, all charm and provocation. “Strange. You look wide awake to me.”

He came to a halt too close—deliberately close—and there was something maddening in the way he regarded you. Expectant. Like he was waiting for you to snap. To bite. To rise.

You did not dare give into him. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward, refusing to retreat. "Are you going to follow the routine today? Or must I play babysitter again?"

Chan’s smile curved, sharp and wolfish. “You can try.”

He moved past you with infuriating ease, brushing his shoulder against yours in a way that felt far too intentional. You swore he did it just to steal the air from your lungs.

And it worked. You exhaled through your nose, reached for the speaker, and pressed play.

As the beat rose and the session resumed, you already knew—this would be difficult. He would not merely follow the choreography. He would flirt with it. With you. With every boundary you had erected between what was permissible and what was not.

And worse still?

You were going to let him.

The first mistake was subtle—a  single beat too early. A downward roll of his shoulder when it should have lifted. Barely perceptible to anyone else—but not to you. You saw everything.

You cut the music.

The abrupt silence cracked through the air like a whip. He glanced up, one brow raised, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, breath steady despite the interruption.

"You’re early on that step," you said as you crossed the floor toward him, your tone calm, precise, with the faint edge of authority you had learned to wield like a shield.

"I’m in the pocket," he countered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You’re simply obsessed with clean lines."

"No, I’m obsessed with accuracy."

"Mm." He made a thoughtful sound, amused. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

You stopped in front of him. "Turn."

He obeyed—slowly, deliberately. As though he were indulging you. As though you had not earned his compliance.

You stepped into his space, eyes on his shoulders, fingers lifting to adjust the angle. The moment you touched him, everything shifted.

His muscles stilled beneath your hand. The air thickened. His breath caught, barely audible—but there. Real. Raw. You were too close. You could count the freckles scattered beneath his jaw, trace the curve of his smirk with your thumb if you dared.

"Like this," you said, your voice softening, almost in spite of yourself. Your fingers guided his arm upward. "Not down. It ruins the symmetry."

You anticipated a nod. Silence. Deference.

Instead, his gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted to meet yours. His lips parted, just enough to be dangerous.

"Are you always this hands-on with the others?" he asked, his voice low and curling.

Your fingers twitched. You pulled away like he had scorched you.

He turned to face you fully, his expression unchanged—confident, calculating, unreadable.

"Go on," he said. "Correct me again."

The words were a dare.

An invitation.

A spark held too close to dry kindling.

Your pulse quickened. Your mouth dried.

"Keep pushing me," you murmured, almost without thinking. "See what happens."

He stepped forward, gaze unwavering.

"I am."

You held his stare.

And for a moment—just a single, suspended second—he believed you would retreat. That you would fall into old patterns: step away, bite your tongue, pretend this was not a game you both played in heat and proximity.

But not this time.

This time, you lifted your chin, voice cool and unwavering. “Is it attention you want that badly, Chan? Fine. Let’s correct the entire routine.”

You stepped forward with deliberate poise.

His eyebrows rose—barely—but the subtle arch was all the proof you needed. A hairline fracture in that maddening self-assurance.

You reached for his wrist, adjusting it into the proper position—higher, tighter, until the tension rippled through his forearm. Satisfaction bloomed in your chest at the way his breath hitched, ever so slightly. Your other hand swept across the line of his back, palms pressing flat, coaxing his shoulders into symmetry with a precision born of practiced control.

“You’re slouching,” you murmured, your tone featherlight and biting.

“I’m relaxed,” he replied, tone casual, though his posture betrayed him.

“Wrong energy.”

You moved behind him, fingers barely skimming the plane of his spine as you traced a slow descent. He stiffened beneath your touch, every muscle drawn taut, as though your proximity alone threatened to unravel him. You paused at his hips, nudging them into alignment, the silence between you swelling with something unspeakably charged.

“You like giving orders, do you?” he muttered, the words caught between a breath and a challenge.

“Only when people fail to listen.”

His head turned slightly, gaze sliding to meet yours over his shoulder. His eyes had darkened, that lazy grin now replaced by something sharper. Edged. Curious.

“Is that why you keep touching me?”

You offered a smile—sweet, sharp, devastating.

“Would you prefer I simply tell you that you’re wrong?”

And then—purposefully—you let your hands fall from him, slow and final, the ghost of your touch lingering even as you stepped away.

“Your choice, Chan,” you said with a shrug, voice dripping with implication. “Keep testing me. I don't mind showing you exactly what you can’t get away with.”

The atmosphere shifted.

His breath caught.

That ever-present smirk faltered.

And for the first time since he arrived, he remained completely still.

Throughout the rest of practice, he listened.

Not perfectly. Not without that trademark insolence glinting in the curve of his mouth or the flick of his gaze. But he listened.

Because now, he knew what it cost not to.

Every cue you gave, he followed—sharp, fluid, intentional. Every correction you made, he absorbed without a word. You watched him from the corner of your eye, and it infuriated you just how good he looked when he was focused. How easily he slipped into that quiet dominance, body cutting through the choreography like he was born to lead.

And still—you felt it.

The shift.

With every pass, the space grew tighter, the air more fraught. Every glance he threw your way bore a weight it had not held before—no longer teasing, no longer smug.

Something else had taken its place.

Something coiled. Waiting.

At one point, you reached for your water bottle and caught him watching you through the mirror—openly, steadily, unflinching. He made no effort to look away.

You raised a brow.

He licked his lower lip—slow, subtle—and exhaled the softest laugh. The sound was quiet, but it struck you like a match dragged across dry kindling.

It lingered between you. That laugh. That look. That dare.

By the time the last beat dissolved into silence, your pulse thundered in your throat, your skin overheated—not from exertion, but from him. From the unbearable presence of him, the pressure that never eased.

You knelt to unplug the speaker, sweat cooling against your spine. You never heard his footsteps—only felt the warmth of his approach, the charged silence that always accompanied him when he drew too close.

His voice came low. Measured. Dangerous.

“You push harder when you are flustered.”

You rose slowly, subconsciously standing just a little too close for professionalism. “And you make more mistakes when you want attention.”

He smiled—barely. But it was different now. The mischief was muted. The darkness had settled in. He leaned even closer to your face, mere centimetres away by now.

The proximity sent your brain into haywire—was he about to kiss you?

Then, he broke the silence softly—almost like a secret—

“So what happens when we slip?”

Your breath caught.

He did not wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, towel slung over his shoulder, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his actions and the heat it carved into your chest.

You lasted four minutes.

Four long minutes of stretching, of pretending to cool down, of rationalizing your stillness in an empty room now thick with unsaid things. You told yourself you were being responsible. That this was routine.

You waited for him to return, to shut up your flustered little brain with his lips, like he threatened to do before he left. But, the doorway remained empty. So, you went after him.

The hallway outside was dim, lit only by vending machines and flickering overhead lights. You found him by some lockers, shirt clinging to his back, head bent as he scrolled through his phone like nothing had happened.

Your voice cut through the quiet.

“You always walk away like that?”

He looked up—slowly. No trace of surprise. Just a small flicker of something that told you he expected this. Maybe even wanted it.

“That a complaint?” he asked.

You gave a half-shrug. “Doesn’t feel like your style to run.”

He offered a lazy smile, but his eyes were sharp beneath it. “I wasn’t running.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There was a pause then. Something softer. And when he spoke again, it came quieter. “You followed me.”

The air changed again, heavier now, suspended in a silence that could shatter with one wrong word.

You took a step closer.

His eyes tracked the movement—first your mouth, then your hands, then back again.

“You keep starting things you don’t finish,” you said, your voice low.

He tilted his head, gaze steady. “And what exactly is it you want me to finish?”

You let the question settle for a breath. “Pick one.”

His jaw clenched—subtle but telling. You saw the moment something inside him shifted, his control fraying at the edges.

“You really want me to finish something?” His voice dropped, warmer now, tinged with restraint.

“I want you to stop pretending this isn’t real,” you said, barely more than a breath. “Whether you act on it or not, stop playing like it isn’t there.”

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. Still not touching. But the pressure of his presence was overwhelming.

“Then tell me,” he whispered. “Which one do you want?”

And God help you—you could not tell if he meant the choreography or the almost-kiss.

But either answer would be dangerous.

And either way, you were about to find out.

You said nothing. You had no need to.

Because something in him changed. His gaze dropped to your mouth—and stayed there. Your breath stuttered, heat washing over your skin.

He moved closer.

Not boldly. Not recklessly. Just—closer. Deliberate. His hand lifted, hovered near your jaw, fingers twitching as though asking permission he would not voice.

Your lips parted. Not in invitation. In instinct.

You did not lean in.

But your eyes flicked to his mouth—and that was all it took.

He leaned forward.

Just enough for your foreheads to brush.

Your breath mingled. His hand found your waist, not with confidence, but with care—uncertain, hesitant, like the moment might collapse beneath the weight of it.

You tilted your head, just enough for the moment to turn.

And then—

The door swung open.

Footsteps. A voice, casual and unaware: “Yo, Channie—manager’s looking for—oh. Uh..”

You broke apart as though scalded.

His hands dropped. You stumbled back. Blood roared in your ears, a deafening rush of shame and unspent want. Chan cleared his throat, turning away as if to hide what could not be hidden.

“Right,” he muttered. “Coming.”

The third voice mumbled an apology and disappeared.

And what followed was silence.

Not the charged kind. The kind that ruins everything.

Neither of you spoke at first. You didn’t even look at each other.

But as he reached for his bag, something passed between you—unspoken, trembling.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Me neither.”

A beat passed.

Then the faintest, wryest smile. “We’re such liars.”

You said nothing, you just watched him walk away for the second time.

But this time, the tension did not dissipate, it settled. Sank deep into your bones.

Waiting. Waiting for the next time. The inevitable. Not if.

When.

The next time you encountered him, it was in another studio. The mirrors were unfamiliar, the playlist unfamiliar still, yet the weight beneath your skin remained unchanged. A pressure that had not dulled, only shifted—waiting. You had arrived early, already moving through stretches when he stepped in. Earlier than usual. Deliberate, perhaps. His gaze found yours too quickly, and for the briefest of moments, both of you froze, suspended in the remnants of memory. The lockers. The breathless hush of almost. The air between mouths that had nearly touched.

But no words acknowledged it.

“Morning,” he offered with the kind of ease that could only be forced, lifting one arm to stretch overhead, voice deliberately light.

“You’re on time,” you replied, nonchalant.

“Trying to be good.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, measuring.

His smile curved, laced with implication. “For now.”

Electricity pulsed between you—not overt, not overwhelming, but coiled tightly beneath the surface, waiting for friction. You chose silence, turning toward the speaker as though the task of finding a track demanded all of your focus. In truth, your hands betrayed you, trembling faintly with the effort it took to maintain distance.

The music began. The session commenced. But the silence between the beats—between the counts—spoke louder than anything the speakers delivered.

Every motion you made was shaped by awareness. His presence carved itself into your periphery, every mirrored movement sending subtle tremors down your spine. When your rhythms aligned, when his shadow stretched too close behind you, it no longer felt like mere choreography. It felt deliberate. Intimate. Dangerous.

He slipped once, losing half a beat on a glide. Your eyes met his in the mirror, and the atmosphere shifted. That heat—undeniable and hungry—returned with a vengeance.

You were the one who looked away first this time, though only just. And yet, before the song had finished its final measure, you reached for the speaker—only to find him behind you once again. Not touching. Merely present. His breath a soft warmth against your neck, the scent of sweat and something inherently him clouding your thoughts.

“Still correcting me?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing the back of your mind like velvet dragged slow.

You did not turn. “Do you still require correction?”

There was a pause—barely a breath—before he answered, quieter still. “Perhaps.”

Then, as though his nearness had not unraveled the composure you fought to maintain, he turned away, towel in hand, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. He left you standing there, the ache blooming inside your chest like a bruise kissed too many times.

And this time—this time—you cursed him, because it had been you who wanted to close the space. You who ached to kiss him first.

It began with a glance. He was mid-step, face composed, body fluid—until your gaze found his in the mirror once again, and you gifted him a smile far too knowing, slow and sweet, laced with an innocence you did not possess. He faltered, missing his mark by a fraction of a second.

“Too early,” you noted smoothly, your tone silk and challenge in equal measure as you crossed the studio floor. “Again.”

He cleared his throat, gave a terse nod, and reset his posture. He did not meet your gaze this time. Did not dare.

The music restarted, but you no longer danced. Instead, you circled. A quiet predator draped in calm, arms crossed, watching him with all the patience of something waiting to strike. He held steady, but you saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly each time your footsteps drifted too close behind him.

You waited.

You let the chorus build.

And then you moved.

When he turned, you were there—too close again, and yet not touching, until your hand rose with precision to adjust the angle of his posture. The movement echoed your earlier correction, but this time your fingers lingered. They traced the length of his forearm, slow and deliberate, pausing at his wrist before gliding upward again, your eyes never leaving his.

“Better,” you murmured, your breath teasing the edge of his skin. “I hadn’t expected you to be so obedient.”

His breath caught—a shallow hitch—and you watched the restraint tighten across his brow.

“You like it when I touch you, don’t you?”

He tried to laugh, but the sound caught, strangled by the atmosphere. “Don’t start something you won’t finish.”

You stepped in until your chest nearly brushed his, your gaze heavy-lidded, your voice a murmur blooming like smoke between you. “Who said I wouldn’t?”

His stare burned. His hands remained clenched at his sides, but his entire body trembled with the effort to remain still.

And then you touched his chest—once, lightly, a single mocking tap over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Start again.”

He did not move immediately.

You saw the conflict in him, the tension that curled like a storm behind his eyes, the desire barely restrained. He waited. He wanted.

And in that hesitation, you knew you had won.

Because this time, he had no words.

This time, it was him left breathless.

You continued, unabated.

The lingering touches, the glances heavy with implication, the murmured suggestions veiled in choreographic critique—each one became more deliberate, more artfully placed. A calculated seduction cloaked in professionalism. And he? He accepted it all in stride. A faint smirk here, a deeper inhale there. But he never rose to the bait. Never stumbled. Never retaliated.

So you pressed further.

During a lull—water break, bodies gleaming with effort—you leaned casually against the far wall, the curve of your hip framed in sunlight spilling through the studio window. You sipped slowly from your bottle, letting the straw linger between your lips, tongue brushing it just so. A test.

He looked.

This time, he did not smile.

Instead, he walked toward you—unhurried, unflinching, and terrifyingly assured. Each step reverberated like a silent countdown. You straightened, half-formed wit on your tongue, some flirty retort meant to reestablish the upper hand—but you never spoke it. He reached you first.

One hand braced against the wall beside your head, grounding you in place with a subtle dominance that stole your breath. The other hand lifted, slow, deliberate, until his fingers curled beneath your chin. Gentle, yet inescapable, he tilted your face upward, commanding your gaze with nothing but touch.

His eyes were not cold—but they were unreadable. Deep and calm, like a still ocean hiding a storm just beneath the surface.

“You finished?” he asked, voice low and unshaken.

Your stomach dropped, heat coiling in its place. “What?” you whispered.

“Playing.”

You blinked, feigned confusion. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

His grip did not tighten, but it also did not relent. His thumb traced lightly along the line of your jaw, as though mapping it to memory—or warning.

“You’re charming when you tease,” he murmured, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips, though it held no mirth. Only precision. “But don’t forget what could happen when I stop indulging you.”

Your breath caught. Blood surged, dizzy and hot beneath your skin.

He studied you like a man memorizing a work of art—one he intended to wreck, piece by piece. His voice remained smooth, but it darkened, dipping into something far more dangerous.

“You believe you’re in control here?” His smile sharpened, languid and lethal. “Princess, I’ve only allowed you to think so.”

Then he leaned in—not enough to kiss, not quite. But his breath caressed your skin, hot and deliberate, brushing your ear like a secret.

“You want to be a brat? Go on, be my guest,” he breathed. “Just remember—”

He withdrew, slowly, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe with devastating intention.

“Brats get handled.”

And then he stepped back. Casual. Composed. As if he had not just stolen every shred of power from your body and left it trembling in your veins.

You remained there—motionless, lips parted, heart thrumming in your throat. Breathless, undone.

You knew, then. The game had shifted.

The next round?

You would not be the one in control.

But you did not stop. Even after that moment at the wall—after the words that laced threat with promise, after the heat of his breath echoing in your skin like a burn—you could not seem to stop. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you now, gaze simmering with warning and anticipation, like a man one heartbeat away from devouring. Perhaps it was the thrill—the exquisite danger of pushing too far, too fast, too close.

But today, he was done playing.

Today, he struck the match.

You had been playing a dangerous game—one step too close, one brush too many, your body skimming his in a way that most certainly did not belong to the choreography. And he saw it. Saw you smirk at your own boldness in the mirror.

That was all it took.

The music cut, abrupt and echoing in the sudden hush that followed. The studio stilled. Heads lifted. A few half-smiles, expecting a correction, perhaps even a teasing remark.

But he did not joke.

He turned to you. “Come here.”

Your stomach turned over at the sound of it—low, commanding, unmistakable. You hesitated, just long enough to register your heartbeat climbing.

“I said—” His tone sharpened. He snapped his fingers, pointed to the floor in front of him with infuriating precision. “Come. Here.”

You moved, pulse thudding like thunder in your ears.

He did not touch you. Not at first. He circled you slowly, like a thought forming in real time, eyes raking over your frame with unnerving composure. And then, he began to correct.

His hand settled at your hip, adjusting the tilt with a firm, measured push. His palm rose to your arm, guiding it upward, fingers splayed just wide enough to graze the sensitive space below your ribs. He stepped in closer, lifted your chin with a single knuckle—not gently, not cruelly, but with a control that brokered no disobedience.

He said nothing.

Not until he stood behind you, breath whispering against your ear like silk edged in flame.

“You want to be a brat?” he murmured. “Very well.”

His hands did not wander—they instructed. They placed. They demanded.

“You will hold this form. You will listen. And if you test me again—”

He leaned in, just close enough for the strength in your knees to falter.

“—I’ll deal with you in private.”

And then he stepped away. As though the warning had never left his lips. As though he had not just carved a promise into your spine with the threat of restraint.

You remained where he placed you—locked in position, every nerve alight, throat tight with anticipation.

And from that moment forward?

You behaved. But it was not fear that tethered your obedience.

It was desire.

After the rehearsal had concluded, you gathered your things in silence, though every motion, every breath, was steeped in tension. You felt his presence behind you like heat radiating from a fire you refused to face. Each glance toward the mirror caught his reflection—poised, dispassionate, but never inattentive.

He was watching.

Waiting.

Your steps carried you to the smaller practice room—the one without windows, the one with a door that locked. You stepped inside. The door closed behind you with a soft, decisive click.

You did not need to turn.

He followed. Still, he did not speak.

He moved toward you with the same deliberate calm, the air between you darkening, thickening, drawing tight around your throat. His eyes raked over your body—not with lust, but with intent. Calculation. Possession.

“You don’t listen,” he said, his voice quiet, surgical in its stillness.

You did not reply.

“You flirt. You provoke. You test.”

He stopped in front of you.

“And when I warn you?”

You glanced at his lips, unthinking.

His hand snapped to your jaw—not violently, but with unwavering dominance—redirecting your gaze back to his with a pressure that brooked no defiance.

“You smile.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, without ceremony, he leaned in. His lips did not find yours. Instead, they brushed your cheek—deliberate, lingering. A claim, not a kiss.

“You wanted this,” he whispered, voice deep enough to tremble through your bones. “Every little stunt. Every subtle touch. Every glance.”

He pulled back, just enough to study your expression.

“You wanted to be handled. Is that right?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His smile returned, slow and devastating.

“Then put your hands behind your back.”

Your breath stilled.

“Now.”

And you obeyed.

The moment your wrists crossed behind you, he moved—swift, precise. One hand gripped your hip, dragging your body flush to his. The other tangled in your hair, firm but controlled, tilting your head until your throat bared for him.

“You don’t speak unless I say so,” he growled, voice rich with heat and power. “You don’t move unless I command it.”

A kiss, featherlight, brushed just beneath your ear.

“And you don’t come until I allow it.”

You shuddered.

He felt it. Smiled.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “Lesson begins now, right?”

His fingers tightened in your hair—not cruelly, but with authority. A signal. A seal.

You nod meekly in answer.

He tilted your head just enough to force your gaze to his, his thumb ghosting along your jaw with a delicacy that belied the command in his posture. His eyes locked to yours—unchanging, fathomless, a storm beneath glass.

“Words.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He studies you for a moment longer, then releases your hair with a final stroke and began pacing behind you. Slow. Silent.

You did not turn to look. The weight of his eyes was too heavy to bear.

You felt him instead—circling, appraising, plotting every step like a predator does when they know the prey cannot go anywhere.

Then, without warning, his voice unfurled at your ear—low, deliberate, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Take off your jacket.”

You obeyed. Fingers trembling slightly, you slid the fabric from your shoulders. Slowly. Precisely. Offering him the ritual of your submission with each inch revealed.

He didn’t move to help. Didn’t lift a hand to touch.

Just watched.

When it fell to the floor in a soft rustle, he made a sound—deep and approving, barely more than a hum.

“Good girl.”

The words landed like fire in your chest.

“Now,” he murmured, “come here.”

You stepped forward, heart caught in your throat. But before you could close the distance, he halted you with a hand at your hip. His grip was firm—anchoring, possessive. You felt the shape of his restraint pressed against your body, his power held tightly in check.

Still, he did not kiss you.

Instead, his palm slid upward, trailing the curve of your waist with exquisite slowness, watching your eyes as if waiting for the moment they’d break.

“You know what I want?”

You shook your head, breath caught in your lungs.

His fingertips ghosted along the edge of your waistband—just enough to tease, never enough to give.

“I want to hear you beg.”

Your breath stuttered. But before you could speak, his smile curved—dangerous.

“Not yet.”

Then suddenly—motion. Heat. Pressure.

His hands closed around your hips, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. He placed you on the table’s edge, the wood cool and unyielding beneath your thighs. He spread your knees, stepping into the space he now owned like he’d claimed it by right.

His mouth brushed your cheek. Barely there.

“You’ve been restless all week,” he murmured, breath hot and intimate. “Acting out. Testing limits. All so I’d give you this.”

“I—” you started, but your voice came out as a whisper, shaky and small.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, knuckles trailing your spine, an ache of contact that never satisfied—too light, too brief, too intentional.

“Quiet,” he said, voice like silk drawn tight. “You don’t speak unless I say.”

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue softly. “Still not listening.”

Then his mouth descended on your throat—not with tenderness, but with claim. Each kiss dragged, teased, taunted. He pulled soft, involuntary sounds from you—gasps that dared to break past your lips before you swallowed them down.

His hand dipped lower, brushed between your thighs—once. Barely.

Your body jerked forward, instinct chasing what it needed.

Immediately, he withdrew.

“Don’t,” he growled—low, sharp, searing. “Do. Not. Move.”

You froze. Eyes wide. Breath stalled.

He waited until the tremble settled in your legs, then tilted his head with that maddening smirk.

“I thought you wanted to be good.”

“I do,” you said, the words spilling out, hoarse and needy.

“Then prove it.”

And with that, he stepped back—not to leave you, not to show mercy, but to begin.

To take his time.

To teach you exactly what it meant to fall apart at the hands of someone who delighted in denying you everything until you earned it.

He returned to that maddening rhythm—touching, teasing, coaxing you to the precipice only to steal it away with surgical precision. Again. And again. Each retreat more cruel than the last. Each denied high a blade across your nerve endings.

Your thighs trembled, the ache blooming into something unbearable, your lips parting in a silent plea you no longer knew how to suppress.

His mouth traced your collarbone like a secret he’d memorized. Up the delicate slope of your throat, across your jaw—each kiss a promise without fulfillment, a cruelty dressed in velvet.

Still, he didn’t kiss you.

Still, he withheld.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice a warm breath against your skin, fingers pressing almost—almost—to where you burned for him.

You nodded, a frantic gasp caught in your throat, a tremor running through you like lightning.

But he only leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper edged with wickedness.

“Not even close to earning it yet.”

Then—emptiness.

He stepped back, stripping you of warmth, of touch, of relief. You were left gasping, trembling, hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt like you might come apart if you let go.

His smile as he watched you was both tender and merciless—beautiful and brutal.

“You’ll beg soon,” he said, voice like a verdict.

And then, to your disbelief, he turned.

Walked to the other side of the room with unhurried grace. Dragged a chair across the floor, the sound scraping through the silence like a dare. He sat—legs spread, arms folded, gaze fixed on you with the full weight of his dominance.

“Try again,” he said. “From the top.”

Because this wasn’t indulgence.

This wasn’t even pleasure.

This was a lesson—and you, trembling and undone, were the student.

The chair groaned beneath him as he leaned back—composed, commanding. He looked relaxed, leisurely, like a man with all the time in the world.

But you knew better.

His eyes were sharp—cut-glass cold. Unforgiving. Watching not just your body, but the unraveling of your will. He wasn’t waiting.

He was watching you fall. A performance, a masterpiece in the making.

A slow, sweet descent into obedience.

You were still trembling—perched on the edge, slick and aching, every nerve a livewire. Jaw set tight, lips parted, your whole body strung taut with need. And still, you did not move.

Not until he allowed it.

His voice slid into the silence like silk over a blade.

“Go on,” he said, low and unhurried. “Beg.”

You blinked, your breath catching, heart stuttering like it had forgotten how to beat.

“What… what do you want me to say?”

That earned you a slow, dangerous smile.

“I want you to admit it. Tell me what you need.”

The silence stretched. Heavy. Punishing. You swallowed.

“I… I need you to touch me.”

He hummed—displeased. Like that wasn’t enough.

“You’ll need to do better than that.”

Your hands clenched into trembling fists. Your voice, when it came again, was louder. Frantic.

“Please. Please—just touch me. I need—”

He leaned forward just enough to steal your breath.

“That what all this attitude was about? All week?” he asked. “Pushing buttons, playing games—just to fall apart at my feet?”

Shame flared hot across your cheeks, but you nodded. The truth clung to you like heat, undeniable.

“Say it,” he ordered.

Your throat worked. You were already breathless.

“I want to come for you,” you whispered.

His smile sharpened, cruel and beautiful.

“And why should I let you?”

“I can’t think—I can’t breathe—” The words tumbled out in broken pieces. “I’ve been aching since you walked in—I need you to take it—I’ll be good, I swear—please, please—”

And then he moved.

Two strides. A fist in your hair. He tilted your head up, forcing your eyes to his.

“You’ll be good?” he growled.

“Yes.”

“You’ll listen?”

“Yes—yes, I promise—”

“No more bratty little stunts unless I ask for them?”

“God, yes—please—”

His mouth descended on yours in a brutal kiss—hot and claiming, teeth and tongue, a devouring hunger unleashed. His hands gripped you everywhere—commanding, unrelenting—like your pleading had finally torn the leash from his restraint.

And then he pressed you to the mirrored wall. One hand slipped between your thighs, the other pinned your wrists high above your head.

He smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured, reverent and wrecking.

And you broke.

Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant—that he had made you wait for it. That you had earned this.

He kissed you like he had starved for it. No space. No mercy. Just his mouth consuming yours, swallowing every whimper, every gasp. One hand fisted in your shirt, the other tracing fire between your legs—not teasing this time.

This time, it was real.

Your hips jolted forward, seeking more, but he pulled back—just a hair.

“Don’t,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “You begged to be good. Be good.”

You froze. Your whole body trembling in the silence that followed.

His smile was maddening.

And then he moved again.

His fingers pressed between your thighs—deep, slow, deliberate strokes over fabric. Not fast. Not generous. Just enough to have you writhing, your hands twitching in his grip.

“Still,” he reminded.

You obeyed. Barely.

His mouth traveled down your neck—biting, soothing, leaving traces only he would know were there.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he murmured. “Dripping, trembling, obedient. Until you forget everything except how to beg.”

You whimpered—weak, wrecked.

His fingers circled your clit again, slow and torturous.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “Let me take you apart. Piece by perfect piece.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please—”

“Then ask.”

“Please… let me come.”

He stilled.

And smiled.

“Good girl.”

Then everything changed.

He slipped beneath your waistband, found you bare, drenched, desperate. Two fingers pushed deep, curling just right, sending shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, your body arching, but he held you fast—his strength the only anchor in the storm.

“You hear yourself?” he growled, mouth against your ear. “So fucking loud. So needy. You were made for this.”

He moved with purpose now—no longer denying, but delivering. Each thrust of his fingers uncoiled something unbearable inside you. His mouth was at your neck again, claiming every sound, every twitch, every unraveling breath.

“You take it so well,” he whispered. “Fucking perfect.”

Your body tightened—hips trembling, core clenching around him.

“Say it,” he commanded. “Who do you come for?”

“You,” you gasped. “You—Chan, fuck—please—”

“Then come.”

And you did.

With a cry that shattered the silence. Your body convulsed, clinging to him, coming apart in his hands while he whispered you through it, holding you like something precious. Reverent. Relentless.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s my girl.”

Your vision blurred. Your limbs trembled. But he didn’t stop.

He slipped his fingers free—wet, glistening. He moved to hold them up to your mouth.

“Open.”

You obeyed wordlessly, to which he slid them past your lips, watching as you sucked yourself clean, dazed and undone.

“That’s right,” he whispered, “You’re all mine.”

And then—he lifted you.

A gasp escaped before you could stop it, air rushing from your lungs as the ground disappeared. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs instinctively circling his waist. His grip was firm, assured—like he’d done this a thousand times in the dark of his mind. He carried you like you weighed nothing, then lowered you into the chair with reverence, like he was crowning you, before sinking to his knees between your spread thighs.

“You don’t get to stop now,” he murmured, dragging you forward until you were right where he wanted. “I decide when you’re done.”

You barely managed a nod before his mouth was on you.

His tongue moved slowly—devastatingly—like he intended to savor every inch, like you were something forbidden he’d finally been allowed to taste. He licked into you with aching patience, moaning against your soaked skin, hands gripping your thighs with a possessive edge as he opened you wider, held you still.

You tried to shift.

He growled.

“Still,” he ordered.

A whimper rose from your throat.

He only smiled, smug and sinful, and kept going—flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit until your eyes rolled back, sucking you softly until you cried out, until your legs trembled around his head and tried to close. He forced them open again with a harsh squeeze, unrelenting.

“No running.”

And then you shattered—quick, brutal, your climax torn from you in a sob that barely sounded human.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t pause.

He kept licking, mouth locked to your heat, tongue dragging through your second orgasm as it surged up behind the first—hot and helpless, tearing through you as your body arched, your fingers twisted in his hair, and your voice broke on his name.

When you finally slumped, boneless and breathless, reaching for him with a wrecked sort of need, he rose.

Unbuckled.

His cock was flushed, hard, slick with precum as he stroked himself lazily, watching you with a hunger that made your knees shake all over again.

“Get on my lap,” he said, voice dark velvet—an order barely veiled in honey.

Your breath hitched, heart pounding against your ribs as you obeyed, your limbs moving on instinct alone. You climbed into his arms with a quiet gasp, thighs trembling as they slid around his waist. His hands guided you with slow precision, anchoring your hips as he settled you astride him. The chair groaned beneath the shift of weight, wood creaking with every motion like it, too, was aware of what was about to happen.

“Take it,” he murmured, eyes burning.

Your fingers trembled as they slipped between your bodies, wrapping around his cock—hot, heavy, slick with need. You guided him to your entrance, breath shallow as your body quivered with anticipation, still pulsing from the high he’d already coaxed from you.

You began to sink down—inch by inch, unbearably slow.

He filled you like fire—stretching you wide, pushing into the sensitive ache he’d left raw and wanting. The pressure stole your breath, your spine arching as you took more of him, your walls fluttering helplessly around the thick drag of him.

He didn’t help.

Didn’t thrust.

Didn’t move.

He just watched—utterly still beneath you, like a king on his throne, content to let his prize struggle to claim him. His hands rested on your hips, warm and commanding, but he offered no lift, no aid—only possession. His gaze tracked every twitch of your mouth, every tremor in your thighs, every desperate gasp you made as you worked to take all of him.

“You can take more,” he rasped, his voice jagged with restraint. “Be good for me. All the way.”

You whimpered, nearly undone by the fullness—the way he stretched you open, made you feel too much. But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you, like nothing had ever captivated him more.

Finally, with a trembling sob, you sank the last inch, until he was buried to the hilt—hot, thick, deep. Your body clenched, fluttering in overwhelmed surrender, your thighs quaking around him as you tried to breathe through it.

He didn’t move.

Just one large hand rose, slow and sure, to wrap around your throat—not tight, but claiming. He tilted your face up until your eyes met his.

“Now ride.”

You tried.

You set a rhythm—fragile, unsteady, the rise and fall of your body a stuttering dance over his cock. Each descent was a war against gravity and exhaustion, your slick walls dragging along his length in maddening friction. But your strength was spent, your body trembling from earlier pleasure, and your movements slowed with every pulse of overstimulation.

He watched you falter—watched the way your head dropped to his shoulder, your grip on him desperate and shaking.

And then he took over.

His grip on your hips turned unyielding, and he slammed you down onto him with brutal precision. His thrusts were deliberate—slow, devastating, designed not for pace but for impact. Each one drove up into you with a punishing force, making your eyes roll back as he filled you again and again, bottoming out so deep you saw stars.

“Still think you’re in charge?” he panted against your ear. “Still think you can tease me, push me, and not pay for it?”

You sobbed, lips parted, unable to form a single word as your next climax rushed toward you like a breaking wave.

He caught your face again, palm hot against your cheek, thumb dragging across your lower lip.

“Look at me,” he growled. “You’re gonna come again. On my cock. Right now.”

And you did.

Your body broke like glass—shattered and blinding and unbearable. Your head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream as you clenched hard around him, your walls fluttering in helpless spasms as pleasure exploded in white-hot waves through your core.

But he wasn’t done.

He held you there—crushed against his chest—and kept thrusting into you. His pace slowed, but the force remained—deep, relentless, possessive. He fucked you through the aftershocks, through the sobs, through the trembling collapse of your strength.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice breaking. “So deep you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you move. You’ll think of me every time your thighs press together.”

You clenched around him, broken by his words.

And it was enough.

He let out a guttural moan and buried himself to the base, spilling inside you with a shudder that rocked through both your bodies. His hips stilled, jaw clenched tight as warmth spread between your thighs, thick and hot and endless.

You collapsed against him.

Ruined.

Shaking.

His.

The silence that followed felt holy. Your breath came in broken exhales against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. His hand rubbed slow circles into your back, grounding you as you melted into him—sweat-slicked and spent.

“You alive?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

You nodded, the movement barely there. “Barely.”

He chuckled, low and tender. “Didn’t tap out. I’m impressed.”

“You didn’t let me,” you mumbled, lips brushing his skin.

“Of course not,” he said, mock-affronted. “You begged for this. Over and over.”

You groaned weakly, burying your face in his neck. He laughed again, thumb sliding beneath your chin to tilt your head.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

And his gaze—soft now, reverent—melted everything inside you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Really okay.”

“Good,” he murmured, and kissed you slowly. Like a thanks. Like a promise. Like a home.

Then—“Gonna have to carry you to the showers, aren’t I?”

You scowled. “I can walk.”

He arched a brow. “Is that so?”

You tried to shift—and winced.

His grin turned feral.

“Thought so,” he said smugly. “Guess I’ll have to take care of you. Again. What a burden.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Obviously. You were such a brat. And now look at you—wrecked and clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.”

You slapped his chest half-heartedly.

He caught your wrist, brought your fingers to his lips, and kissed them with mock solemnity.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered as he stood with you cradled in his arms. “I’ll deal with you properly once you’ve recovered.”

You blinked, dazed. “That wasn’t properly?”

His smirk darkened.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he said, walking toward the showers. “That was just the start.”

You were curled against his chest, limbs boneless, body swaddled in the oversized hoodie he’d tugged over your head with gentle hands—still warm from him, still carrying the ghost of his cologne. That scent—clean, musky, unmistakably him—wrapped around you like second skin, grounding you in the aftermath.

A thick studio blanket had been pulled from the couch and thrown over both your bodies, tangled at your waists where your legs remained loosely knotted, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. The lights had been dimmed to a golden hush. Somewhere, the mirror still wore the breath of your bodies—fogged and glistening in the low light, like it remembered.

Everything was slow now. Quiet.

His fingers brushed idle shapes into your bare thigh, the pads of them warm and absentminded, like he couldn’t stop touching you, even when he had no destination in mind. His voice came low, laced with the softness of a man who'd thoroughly undone you, and was still basking in the afterglow of your ruin.

“You were good,” he murmured, tone deceptively casual. “Eventually.”

You huffed into his shoulder, lips twitching. “I tried.”

He hummed, thoughtful and amused, his lips brushing against your temple like punctuation.

“Next time,” he whispered, the words velvet and sin against your skin, “don’t make me work so hard.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut as you nestled closer into the cradle of his arms. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His chest rumbled with a deep, lazy laugh—content and unhurried—as he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to your hair.

“God,” he said, almost to himself, “you’re lucky I like you.”

A quiet grin curved your lips, full of warmth and weariness and something dangerously close to love.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then there was nothing but his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, the rhythm of his breath against your back, and the comforting weight of his embrace as he held you there—tucked safely in the stillness, limbs entangled, skin to skin in the hush that followed the storm.

He did not speak again, he just kept holding you, as if he were protecting your tired form from the world outside his arms.

soo this was a lil longer than expected......

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[mahgyu]

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓 ──── 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Nanami is meticulous, and that extends to post-sex care. He always makes sure you're comfortable, clean, and relaxed before anything else. If it was an intense night, he prepares a warm bath for both of you, cleaning you with patience and dedication. If it was something more spontaneous, he keeps you nestled against his chest, stroking your skin until your breathing steadies. His touch is firm but full of care.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

On his own body, he appreciates his hands. Firm, large, experienced—capable of gripping your waist with ease, pressing against your throat just right, and tracing safe paths over your skin. On you, he has a fixation on your neck and the curve of your hips. He loves holding, biting, and marking those spots, watching how your skin reacts to his touch.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Nanami is organized and rational, but when it comes to coming on you, he transforms. His desire to see your skin smeared with his cum is almost possessive. If it’s inside, he makes sure to keep you filled for a while, pressing his fingers against your entrance just to ensure nothing spills. If it’s outside, he loves seeing your face messy, your breasts covered—he doesn’t talk much about it, but his intense gaze says it all.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He has touched himself countless times in his office thinking about you. On the most stressful days, when the routine wears him down and his mind drifts to the last moment you had together, he locks himself in the bathroom or leans back in his chair, loosening his tie as he gets off remembering how you moaned his name.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Before you, Nanami didn’t have many relationships to build his own experience, but there was nothing he couldn’t learn from you. And so, he memorized every weak spot of yours, every response your body gives to the slightest stimulus. He likes to learn in the process, absorbing your responses and adjusting his approach to maximize pleasure. When he fucks, he fucks with precision.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary is a classic for him—because it allows control, eye contact, and depth. But he also loves having you on your stomach, his hand on the back of your neck, keeping you exactly where he wants. He enjoys when you ride him, but only if he can guide your movements with his firm hands on your waist.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Nanami doesn’t laugh much during sex. He takes the moment seriously, focused on every sensation and response. But sometimes, when you tease him or when something unexpected happens, he lets out a low, murmured chuckle against your skin. The most fun he allows is dry sarcasm when you try to challenge him.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Nanami exudes intimacy without needing excessive declarations. The way he holds your face as he moves inside you, the way he whispers your name against your mouth between deep kisses—everything about him screams connection. He doesn’t just fuck for the sake of fucking; he owns you in every thrust.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He prefers to hold back for you, but when he's away or extremely frustrated, he jerks off in the most methodical way possible. He leans against a wall, eyes closed, his hand slow and firm around his cock, imagining how it would feel to have your mouth on him at that moment.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Control. Nanami likes being in charge, dictating the pace and making you submit to him. Subtle restraints, silent dominance, and dirty praise are part of his repertoire. He also has a slight fetish for lace and sheer lingerie.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bed is the basic choice, but Nanami isn’t limited to that. His office has been the scene of a few transgressions, as well as the shower, where he can fuck you against the tiles with water running down your bodies.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You, pure and simple. Your scent, your voice, the way your gaze gets heavy when you desire him. If you ask, if you tease, if you surrender—he can’t resist.

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

He would never do anything that could truly hurt you. Severe humiliation, harsh words, or extreme violence are not part of the game. He dominates you with precision.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Nanami prefers giving rather than receiving. He treats oral sex like an art—precise, dedicated, endless. He sucks your clit with expertise, pushes his tongue deep inside you until your legs tremble.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Firm and calculated. He likes to maintain control, keeping a rhythm that builds tension to the limit. But if he’s particularly desperate, he can be brutal.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He isn’t a fan of rushing, but when necessary, he makes every second count. A hurried encounter in the car, in a bathroom at an event, in the middle of the night when he needs you now.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s discreet but loves subtle danger. Doing something where you might get caught, but in a calculated way. A bold touch under the restaurant table, a hand sliding between your thighs at the movies.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can last through long rounds without losing breath. Nanami isn’t the type to be satisfied quickly—he wants to make sure you’re wrecked with pleasure before he is.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t use them on himself, but he has no problem using them on you. Vibrators are his favorite, especially when he holds them while fucking you, just to see you lose your mind.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He can be cruel with teasing. He loves keeping you on the edge, denying orgasms just to hear you beg. Pleasure only comes when he decides.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He isn’t overly loud, but he groans low and rough in your ear. Every ragged breath of his is pure gold.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He loves morning sex, in the laziest and most delicious way possible. No rush, just you riding him while he savors every inch of you, his hands sliding over your body as if he’s discovering you for the first time.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He pretends to have control, but his need for you is raw. He desires you all the time and knows exactly how to hide it until the right moment.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He takes a while to sleep. He spends time watching you, feeling your scent on his skin, the weight of your body against his. And only then, with one last kiss on your forehead, does he close his eyes.

After a long time of leaving this blog inactive, I decided to come back.

I'm a bit rusty in writing, so please ignore any possible mistakes. Kisses babes <3

©mahgyu | I do not allow adaptations, translations, or copies of my work.

[tagged-by-trauma]

Stay quiet, darlin'

He was your father's best friend, but that didn't stop you from sneaking into your bedroom while your father was downstairs. Pairing: dbf!Joel x f!reader Warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), age gap, softdom!joel/subby!reader, teasing, dirty talk, protected sex (sorry not sorry), p in v sex, pussy slapping (one time), slight aftercare, cuddling Word count: 3.6k

You knew it was wrong for a number of reasons. He was a lot older than you, grumpy and he almost never looked at you when you passed by. But most of all, he was your father’s best friend since they were in elementary school. They were always hanging around each other, sometimes they were like brothers. When something happened, they were there and you always saw them in a different light. Your father, who raised you up to the woman you are today, and his friend, who saw this whole journey.

He saw when you were learning how to ride a bike for the very first time. He was looking after you when your father had to go on a work-trip, helping you with your geography homework and he was always like a second father to you. Until this small connection between you took a whole turn.

You started going to college and started to change. Your appearance became similar to the other girls, your curves developing every year. The girly clothes in your wardrobe were changed to more elegant and minimalist ones, and you were a lot more confident in some situations, and shyer in others.

But every summer when you went home you could see Joel’s gaze shift. His eyes raked over your body like he was seeing you for the first time, but you could feel them burning your skin where they tracked a path. He saw that you weren’t that little girl anymore, and that fact made you feel something deep down in your heart.

But everything changed forever between you on a warm summer night.

It was your father’s idea. Watching a basketball match like in the good old days. And you agreed. Of course you agreed. But he didn’t tell you that he also invited Joel.

“I thought it would be amazing if we could spend some time together. And he said he didn’t have anything to do tonight,” your father’s words still echoed in your ears as you were getting ready. You pulled out your favourite summer dress with small flowers on it, and let your hair down, it’s waves cascading down your shoulders.

You were sitting on the couch when you heard three firm knocks on the door. You looked to your left, gaze falling on the clock hanging from the wall. 6:47 pm.

“Can you get it?” your father yelled from the kitchen while he was preparing the snacks and the beers. You slowly stood up, adjusted the hem of your dress, and walked slowly to the door. When you opened it, Joel was standing there, his hand raised to knock again, when his eyes locked with yours. He had a checked shirt on with old jeans on, a six pack of beers in his left hand. His hair was longer than you’d remembered, and gray hairs could be seen scattered around. His expression was unreadable, but you saw his eyes flicker down to your body for just a mere second.

“Hey,” he said with a low voice and a shiver ran down your body. His voice seemed lower than the last time you’ve seen him.

“Hey, come in,” you steeped to the side so he could come in, and as he took a step inside he brushed against you, the smell of him hitting your nose. It was something like wood, leather and something else that you couldn’t really name but your brain has strongly associated it with him.

“I brought some beer. Didn’t know if there would be enough,” he held up the pack in his hands and you nodded. You looked back up and your gaze met his, eyes so dark that it made a blush creep to your cheeks. As you opened your mouth to answer him, you heard footsteps behind you from the hallway, and you both broke the eye contact, glancing in the direction of your father as he emerged.

“Joel, finally,” your father took his hand and gave it a hard and firm shake. You watched the interaction from the side, catching the faint smile in the corner of Joel’s lips. “You bought extra beer?”

“Didn’t know if we needed more. Though I think ahead,” he held out the six pack to him, and your father took it. You crossed your arms in front of you and when you saw Joel look down for just a moment, you smirked and gave him a subtle wink—one that your father didn’t notice. He quickly averted his gaze, his posture going rigid as he followed your dad inside the living room.

You were still standing there in front of the door, thinking about the gaze he just gave you, and how he just basically checked you out in front of your father. Subtle. Very subtle. Yeah, things definitely changed between you with the years. And you couldn’t help but anticipate what this night will hold for both of you.

—-—

The match was blasting on the TV, the light from it illuminating the otherwise dark room, coffee table full of snacks and beer. You were sitting on the single armchair, legs under you, hand propping your face up, the other wrapped around a cold beer in your lap. Your father was sitting on the couch; eyes fully focused on the screen and the player who just threw a basket. And Joel. Joel was sitting to his right, closer to you, slightly slouched down the soft material of the furniture. His left hand was wrapped around the head of his beer, his right behind his head.

Your eyes averted from the TV to his form and you couldn’t help but basically drool at the sight of him. Here in the light the gray hairs were more prominent in his hair and beard, the shirt now unbuttoned at the top—showing the white t-shirt underneath. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a big gulp, your eyes travelling down to his neck—the bob of his Adam’s apple.

He was completely engrossed in the match but when he felt something like a burning sensation he looked to his right. He caught the way you looked at him and smirked at you. When you pulled back your gaze to his face, you noticed that he was already staring at you. But now, instead of turning away embarrassed, you held the eye contact, holding your head up high. His smirk turned even smugger. The sudden movements of your father broke the little trance, and you finally turned your head back to the TV.

When the match came to the half-time you stood up and placed your empty bottle of beer on the coffee table. Your father and Joel looked at you with a questioning gaze but you just shrugged.

“I’m feeling a little sleepy so, I think I’ll go and get some sleep,” you lied, stretching towards the ceiling, dress riding up your thigh, exposing even more skin. You saw Joel’s jaw flex, eyes trying to stay on your face.

“Are you alright?” your father asked, completely oblivious to the little connection between you and Joel.

“Yes, just a bit tired,” your father nodded at your response, and reached for his phone, settling further into the couch. You winked at Joel and went to the kitchen to fill a cup with water. Halfway through you heard heavy footsteps behind you but didn’t look back. But then a heavy presence loomed behind you, and you stopped in your tracks. You felt his hot breath against the back of your neck, his arms caging you between his body and the counter.

“If you woulda kept lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, I don’t think I would have lasted through the whole night,” he growled in your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. You placed the water on the counter and slowly turned around to face him. First his broad chest came into the level of your eyes, but when his hand came up and cupped your jaw gently, forcing you to look up, you were met with a dark pair of eyes burning low with desire.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” you whispered innocently, batting your eyelashes at him.

“Oh, darlin’. Don’t play the innocent to me. You know exactly what I’m talking ‘bout,” he leaned closer, his breath mingling with yours. “And doin’ it while your daddy’s sittin’ next to me?” he chuckled, and you grew redder and redder with every word that was leaving his lips. His hand came to your waist, squeezing down softly.

“And what will you do about it?” you smirked up at him, your hands coming to rest on his chest. His eyes flicked down for a second, and you could see the shift in them.

“Oh, trust me, darlin’, you don’t wanna know.”

“And what if I do?” as soon as you finished your sentence his mouth found yours with a slow tenderness that you didn’t expect from him. His body moved even closer to you, lips fighting each other for dominance. He leaned forward, and with a simple move he picked you up and placed you on the counter. Your hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, while his found your cheek. You could feel his hardening length pressing against your thigh, and you smiled into the kiss. In this moment you completely forgot about your father in the next room, but when you heard footsteps you quickly moved away and jumped off the counter trying to fix your appearance.

“Oh, I thought you said you were going to sleep,” your father appeared in the doorway, his look moving back and forth between you and Joel.

“Uhm, yes, just needed some water.”

“Right. And you?” your father now dedicated his question to Joel, moving to one of the cupboards.

“Just came for another beer,” his voice was a bit gravelly, but his stance went back to his normal state.

“I might take another one too,” he smiled at both of you, and you picked up your water from the counter and looked at your father.

“Then I just go. Enjoy the rest of the match, guys,” you walked past your dad, sparing a final glance at Joel, who looked after you with hunger in his eyes. Your father was too busy with whatever he was searching in the cupboard, so you took the chance and winked at Joel.

“Later. My room,” you mouthed to him, and smiled as he subtly lowered his hand and adjusted himself in his pants.

—-—

It took him a whole hour.

You were laying in bed when you heard the unmistakable sound of his boots on the hardwood, and you smirked at the ceiling. Next three firm but quiet knocks came down on your door. You got up, walked to it, and opened it. Joel was standing there, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the stairs. When he heard the soft creak of the door he looked up, and his breath caught in his throat.

You already took off your sundress and dressed into soft black shorts and a white tank top. You didn’t bother to put on any bra, you knew it would have been unnecessary. Especially with him. When you saw the expression on his face, clear satisfaction creeped into your mind.

“Like something you see?” you asked with a cheeky tone, and he looked at you in disbelief.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him without a noise, and the next thing you know, you were caged between his arms. “You don’t even know how much. That little sundress of yours tonight? Drove me fuckin’ crazy,” he captured your lips with his, and you let out a quiet gasp at the sudden contact. You melted into his arms, and you let him carry you to the bed.

One of your hands found the back of his neck while the other grasped the shirt on his chest. His were roaming all across your body, caressing your hair, cheeks, waist, hands tightening when he reached your hips. You moaned into his mouth, and he used this little moment to slip his tongue inside your mouth. He let out a growl, and unconsciously moved his hips forward, making you throw your head back. His lips left yours and traced gentle kisses along your jaw and the curve of your neck. You were holding on tightly to his shoulder. When his hand reached for the hem of your shirt he pulled back and looked at you, asking for permission. And that’s when it all hit you. Your father was just downstairs, watching the TV.

“Joel. My father—”

“Don’t worry ‘bout him, darlin’,” he continued to pepper your throat with kisses, occasionally nipping at the skin.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s so drunk that he decided to bake cookies,” he looked into your eyes, caressing your hair.

“Cookies? At—” you looked to the clock on your bedside table. “At 9:24 pm?”

“As I said, darlin’, he’s really drunk. I’m pretty sure, he’ll fall asleep in the first five minutes, although…” he searched your eyes again, and when you nodded, he pulled off the tank top. “Although that doesn’t mean you won’t have to stay quiet,” he threw away the top, not bothering to look where it lands. “Fuck, look at you, darlin’,” his gaze dropped to your breasts and lingered there.

His mouth connected with your throat again, moving lover and lover with every kiss. He traced a path between your breasts, and when he took one nipple in his mouth you threw your head back against your pillow, stifling a moan. His tongue was dancing around the hardened peak, his hand coming up and playing with your other one. You arched your back when he started sucking. When he felt satisfied, he moved to your other nipple, giving it the same treatment.

He moved lower on your body, but you pulled him back up by his shoulder. He looked at you confused, parted his lips to say something but you drowned the words into him by reaching for his belt buckle.

“We don’t have time, Joel,” as soon as the words left your lips he reached for your shorts and pulled them down with a rough tug, leaving you only in your panties laying under him. Your hands moved with a quiet determination, shaking softly by the weight of the moment. He took them and squeezed down softly.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, darlin’,” he reached down to unbuckle his belt himself, and you leaned up on your elbows to watch him. You could see the prominent bulge through the fabric of his jeans. He tucked his hand in his back pocket and took out a condom. You looked at him in disbelief and surprise.

“You kept a condom in your back pocket while my father was sitting next to you?”

“Gotta be prepared, darlin’,” he tugged down his briefs, and his cock sprang free. You looked at it with a quiet awe and a bit intimidated by the size of him. As he opened the small packet, and rolled the condom on, he noticed your expression.

“Don’t worry. We’ll gotta make it fit,” you nodded at him. He let out a quiet chuckle, and tugged your panties to the side, his fingers tracing the completely soaked fabric. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re so wet already,” he ran his fingers up and down, his fingers drawing slow circles over your clit. You couldn’t hold back anymore and let out a moan.

“Joel—” he stopped in his tracks, his hand coming down on your thigh with a soft strike. You gasped, and looked at him, whimpering.

“What did I say ‘bout keepin’ quiet, baby?” he soothed over the slightly reddened skin while you reached for his cock. He took your hand and brought it up over your head, pinning it to the mattress. His other reached for his length, tip leaking with precum and almost purple under the low light. He lined himself up with your entrance and looked at you for a final confirmation. When you nodded, he smiled at you and gave you a quick kiss. “Stay quiet, darlin’.”

He slowly eased himself inside you. The stretch at first was making you wince, and after he released you hand you dig your nails into his clothed back. He leaned next to your ear, and he groaned by the sudden warmness and tightness. When he fully bottomed out, the stretch turned into pleasure, and he looked at your face.

“You alright, darlin’?”

“Yes, just… Please move, Joel,” to emphasize your words, you slowly circled your hips. He pulled out and with one quick move he thrusted into you. He set the pace and moved in and out of you like his life depended on it. You were trying to stay quiet, but it was almost impossible. And that’s how it happened that you let out a strangled cry of his name. And Joel? Joel suddenly stopped, pulled out of you. You whined at the sudden loss of contact, but when the tip of his cock came down on your clit, you arched your back off the bed.

“What did I say, darlin’? Do you want your daddy to hear us?” you shook your head, and he contently nodded. Then he lined himself up again and buried in you in one thrust. Now he didn’t stop his pace, didn’t pull away, but his hand came over your mouth to stifle your moans and cries.

“Fuck, darlin’. You’re so fuckin’ tight. Your lil’ pussy’s squeezin’ me so deliciously,” you were a writhing mess under him, and he was relentless. You felt the muscles in his shoulder and back tense with every move, his voice in your ear intensified by the moment. When he saw you were close to the edge, he moved his hand down between your bodies and found your clit. His thumb circled the little bundle of nerves, his pace quickening if that was possible.

“Come for me, darlin’. Let me feel you clench around my cock,” as soon as his words reached your brain, you were gone. Your orgasm shattered like an old vase on the ground, and with a last cry you clenched down around him. He talked you through it, whispering and groaning into your ear. Just a few seconds after you his rhythm faltered, thrusts getting messy and sloppy, and with a final move he buried himself to the hilt and came with a quiet growl. His body was tensed up, and he collapsed on you, careful not to put too much pressure. Your hand came up to comb through his salt and pepper hair, and you let out a content little sigh.

“Jesus, girl,” he murmured into your bare chest. “I think I just threw my back out,” you laughed at his comment, and he squeezed your waist.

“Old man,” you murmured under your breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you breathed too quickly, and he looked at you suspiciously but left it at that.

When you both felt like you could move again, he climbed off of you, his now limp cock sliding out of you, and a whimper leaving your lips at the emptiness you felt in that moment. You leaned up on your elbow, watching as he pulled off the condom and tied it with a firm knot. He threw it into the bin next to your bed and pulled back up his briefs and jeans.

“I should go down and check on your father. Hopefully he didn’t burn down the kitchen,” you chuckled and looked at his disheveled form.

“Wait,” he looked at you confused when you reached for the little mirror in your bedside drawer. You held it out for him.

“For your hair,” he nodded and took it, looking at himself and the soft curls that were now completely messy. “I have to say I wasn’t very careful with my hands.”

“It’s alright, darlin’,” he combed through his hair, flattening down the waves at the back of his neck and the top of his head. You were looking at him still sprawled out on your bed, still half-naked. He handed back the mirror and gave you a small smile. With a final kiss, he went out your door, and minutes later you could hear him helping your father into his own bedroom. You laid back, and looked at the ceiling, replaying everything that just happened.

Yeah, it was definitely not a one-time thing.

—-—

Later that night, close to midnight you heard your phone hum with a new text, and you immediately picked it up. When you saw it was Joel your stomach did a little flip, and you blushed at his message.

Joel: Thank you for tonight, darling! You: Are you really thanking me? Joel: Why? Is that a bad thing? You: No, just unusual.

For a few moments the three little points were popping up on your screen then disappearing. You thought that maybe he won’t text back, but the phone lit up in your hand again.

Joel: Are you free on Friday? Maybe like 7:00 pm? You: It depends. What are you planning to do? Joel: It’s a secret. But you can trust me, darling! You: Then I’m free. Oh, and my father won’t be home, he is going on a work trip again. Joel: Amazing! Then I’ll pick you up! Good night, darling! You: Good night, Joel!

Safe to say, you fell asleep that night quiet easily. The happenings of the day and the exhaustion was catching up to you, but surely the last thing you saw before the darkness consumed you was Joel’s face and those beautiful dark brown orbs.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty

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, pregnancy, strong language, slight smut, a bit of general anxiety.

Notes — Welcome to Miami!!!!!

2024 (Miami—Imola)

The McLaren garage was quiet in that early-morning lull before the chaos. Screens still black. Tyres covered. Mechanics nursing coffees and stretching into the day. Amelia stood just inside the halo of overhead lights, hands on her hips, watching her car, her car, come alive in pieces.

The floor gleamed with fresh resin. The side-pods were lean, smooth, seamless in their curvature. The front wing was finally the right spec; the airflow data had confirmed it. The new floor geometry played nicer with the updated rear suspension. The whole package, finally cohesive.

It had taken months of pushing. Quiet conversations. Brutal ones. Drawings on the back of napkins, pacing in her kitchen at 2am. And it was all here now, carbon and copper and logic made real.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just circled the car slowly, one hand brushing against the wing mirror, the leading edge of the nose, the curve of the intake. Reverent, almost.

Tom stood a few feet back, sipping from a thermal mug. He was always nearby at the moment; watching and learning. “Looks different,” he said.

Amelia nodded. “This is the car I designed from the beginning. No compromises. No shortcuts.” She crouched beside the floor, fingers tracing the sculpted undercut, the exact shape she’d fought for. “We’ve been patch-working upgrades onto old foundations. But this; this is a clean slate. It’s mine. Finally.”

“So it’s ready?” He asked.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Yeah. It’s ready to win.”

Lando ducked into the garage then, still in joggers and a hoodie, yawning around a protein bar. He caught her eye, then stopped mid-step. “Holy shit.”

Amelia nodded.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. Studied the car with wide eyes, taking in every minor adjustment, every small change that’d somehow made the entire car look different. Meaner.

“It looks fast.” He breathed.

“It is.”

He turned toward her, something quiet in his expression. “You happy?”

Amelia didn’t blink. “I’m relieved. Now it’ll do exactly what I designed it to do.”

Oscar wandered in a moment later, eyebrows lifting when he saw the chassis. “Oh shit, this the final spec?”

“The one I promised you both,” Amelia muttered.

Oscar grinned, circling the nose. “Looks like a weapon.”

Amelia hummed. “That’s because it is. All the patchwork’s gone. This weekend, you’ll both be driving the car I built for you from the ground up.”

Tom, now beside her, tapped his pen against his notebook. “You going to name it?”

Amelia looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “It already has a name — and that name has my initials in it anyway. Why would I give it another name?”

Oscar shrugged. “I name my chassis something new every weekend.”

“That’s because you’re weird.” She told him.

But later, when they were running race simulations and Lando had slipped out for media, she sat alone beside Oscar’s car, one hand resting lightly on the side-pod. Just for a second. And under her breath, too soft for anyone to hear: “Don’t let me down.”

Because it was all here now; her vision, her work, her legacy in motion.

And in Miami, for the first time all year, she was finally going to see her car on track.

—

Even in Miami, the F1 Academy paddock felt smaller. Tighter-knit. Less spectacle, more steel. It reminded Amelia of the early days she’d watched on flickering TV screens—before race suits were tailored, before engineers had agents. When she’d been three feet tall and already knew more about car setup than most of the men working on them.

She walked beside Susie, the low hum of tyre warmers and generators buzzing faintly underfoot. The air smelled like brake dust and fuel. It smelled like home.

“You don’t get much spare time,” Susie said, glancing down at the curve of Amelia’s bump beneath her papaya hoodie. “So thanks for making this one count.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Amelia said, eyes scanning the compact garages. “These girls are the future of motorsport.”

A mechanic rolled a jack across their path. A knot of young drivers stood nearby, still in their fireproofs, talking fast, voices tight with nerves.

Susie called one over. “Chloe. Come here a sec.”

Chloe Chambers jogged over, ponytail bouncing, already grinning like she knew exactly who Amelia was.

“Amelia Norris,” Susie said, pride softening her voice. “Meet Chloe. One of our brightest. She’s been dying to pick your brain.”

Chloe stuck out a hand, eyes wide. “I’ve watched every onboard from Oscar since you started working with him. And you basically built this year’s McLaren, right?”

Amelia glanced at the hand, winced, then gave a small shrug. “Built it. Argued over it. Cried about it once or twice. So—yes.”

Chloe lit up, dropped her hand like she didn’t even register the rejection. “I want to do what you do. I mean—I want to drive first. But also understand the car. Maybe even design one. Someday.”

Amelia's smile tugged sideways, something more serious behind it. “Then don’t let anyone tell you to choose. You don’t have to.”

A few more girls wandered over—Doriane, Abbi, Maya. One asked if it was true she’d rewritten part of the ride height algorithm in the middle of the night, thanks to pregnancy nausea.

“It’s true,” she said dryly. “Wouldn’t recommend it. I couldn’t stand the smell of carbon fibre for three days.”

They laughed, young, high, unfiltered, and something eased in her chest. She didn’t feel like a figurehead here. Not a myth. Just one of them. Older, yes. Blunter, definitely. But still part of it.

“Do you still get nervous?” One asked. “Being Oscar’s engineer?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But sometimes, I get… quiet before an upgrade. Or a tough strategy call. But I trust the hours I put in. That’s how you survive in this job—you trust the work, then you trust yourself.”

They asked for a photo. She said yes.

Afterwards, stepping back into the heat and light, Amelia felt something shift beneath her ribs. Not the baby. Something else.

“These girls,” she murmured. “They’re so—”

“Ready,” Susie finished. “They just need someone to show them what’s possible.”

Amelia looked down at her belly. The baby kicked once, low and firm. She wondered—would her daughter want this one day? The speed. The noise. The risk.

Would she want her to?

She didn’t know.

But she knew this: she wanted the door to be open. And she wanted it to stay that way.

“Well,” Amelia said, eyes back on the track. “Let’s make sure the road stays clear.”

Susie nodded, a quiet kind of promise in her voice. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”

—

The room was dark.

Not pitch-black—just enough light from the closed blinds to trace the edges of things. A spare media suite deep in the team hospitality unit, soundproofed from the bustle outside. Cold air whispered from the vents overhead.

Amelia sat curled up on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands. In her lap, she twisted the stim toy between her fingers: click, roll, flip, snap. Again. Again. Again.

Her morning had unravelled in that invisible way it sometimes did. Nothing catastrophic—just too many voices, too many schedule changes, someone touching her shoulder without warning. The wrong texture on the cutlery at breakfast. The wrong smell in the paddock. She’d swallowed it all down with a brittle smile until she couldn’t anymore. Now the inside of her head felt raw and overlit, and only silence helped.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

The door opened.

Soft, slow. No bright light flooding in. Just a narrow slice of hallway glow and a silhouette. Lando.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside, closed the door again behind him. Let the dark settle. He moved quietly, then sat beside her, legs stretched out, shoulder to shoulder with hers.

A beat later, the door creaked again. Oscar this time.

She didn’t look up, but she knew him by the shape of his walk, the subtle way he moved like he was trying not to wake a sleeping cat. He settled on her other side, crossed-legged, just close enough to touch but not quite.

Nobody spoke.

Amelia kept clicking. Rolling. Flipping. Snapping.

And slowly, her breathing evened out.

Lando reached over and gently brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She let him. Then let her head tilt sideways until it rested lightly on his shoulder.

Oscar stayed quiet, respectful in that way he always was with her—like he got it, even if he didn’t always understand. He just existed beside her, like a grounding point.

The toy made a soft clack as she turned it over again, her fingers finding the rhythm she liked best. The baby shifted inside her, low and firm. She exhaled slowly.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t asking her what she needed. They just were. Present. Patient. Steady.

It hit her, then, with quiet force: how deeply she was loved. Just… for being.

She blinked hard. One tear, maybe two. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind that came when the pressure released, even just a little.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

Lando rested a hand on her hip, tracing soft circles on the red, itchy stretch marks. Oscar leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Amelia let the dark hold all three of them.

And she knew that soon, she’d feel okay again.

—

Amelia had gone out for air.

That was the plan, anyway—just ten quiet minutes away from the structured chaos of media day. No cameras, no questions. Just walking, hoodie on, head down, hands in her pockets.

But somewhere along the paddock hospitality row, she saw them—six or seven VIP fans lingering near the McLaren garage, lanyards bright, eyes wide, trying not to look starstruck and failing. Most of them were young women. One had a notebook. Another had made her own earrings out of mini DRS wings. A third was nervously adjusting the hem of her papaya windbreaker.

They saw her before she could disappear.

“Hi—sorry—Amelia?”

She could’ve smiled and nodded and kept walking. Instead, she stopped. “Yes,” she said. “Hello. You’re not supposed to be standing there. You’ll block the tyre trolleys.”

One of them blurted, “You’re, like… kind of our hero.”

Amelia blinked at them. “Why?”

Which made them all laugh awkwardly.

“I mean,” the DRS earring girl said, “you built the car. Everyone knows it. You’re the reason we’re consistently getting podiums again.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Amelia said bluntly. “But thank you.”

The girl with the notebook held it out. “Could I maybe ask you a few questions? Just for fun?”

Amelia glanced around. There was a patch of artificial turf by the hospitality tents where a drinks cooler sat forgotten. No cameras. No execs. No schedule.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to sit down. And I want something to eat.”

Fifteen minutes later, Amelia was cross-legged on a grassy patch, a fizzy drink in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, surrounded by a semicircle of fascinated girls. Someone had scrounged up crisps and trail mix from a hospitality unit. It was, essentially, a picnic.

She’d taken a napkin and a pen and was now drawing vortex flows and side-pod shapes in clean, confident lines, explaining how turbulent air off the front wing could be used as a tool, not just a nuisance.

“People always think air is the enemy,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a language. And if you understand what it’s saying, the car will behave for you.”

Someone gasped. Someone else scribbled furiously. One girl offered Amelia a gummy bear, which she accepted without breaking eye contact from the diagram.

“Do you… want your daughter to be an engineer too?” One asked, softly.

Amelia paused. “I want her to believe that she can be anything she wants to be.”

That was when Lando found her.

He was coming from an interview and nearly missed the scene entirely. Then he spotted her—Amelia, sitting in the middle of the grass like a camp counsellor or a pre-school teacher, surrounded by fans who all looked like they were in total and utter awe of her.

Oscar arrived seconds later. “Is this… what’s going on?”

“I think it’s a cult,” Lando whispered. “My wife has created a cult and she is their leader.”

One of the girls spotted them and nudged the others. The whole circle turned.

“Oh. Hi,” Amelia said, gesturing vaguely to them. “They asked me about ground effect. I got carried away.”

Lando sat down beside her without a word. Oscar followed, grabbing a crisp from the communal bowl like this was all perfectly normal.

“We’re learning,” Oscar said solemnly. “Let’s not interrupt the professor, Lando.”

One of the girls burst into laughter. Amelia handed her the napkin diagram and grinned.

And there, in the middle of a media day she’d meant to escape, Amelia Norris held court not to journalists or executives; but to the next generation. Bright-eyed. Hungry to learn. Eager to belong.

—

Later, Lando slipped an arm around Amelia’s shoulders.

“So,” he said, voice light but steady, “when our daughter’s old enough, do we risk teaching her about vortex generators and having her build a wind tunnel in our bathroom?”

Amelia rolled her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “Who knows? She might put us all out of a job.”

He laughed softly. “She’ll definitely get your brains.”

“And your stubbornness.” She gave him a sidelong look. “And adrenaline addiction.”

“Great combo.”

They walked slowly back toward the garage.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If she wanted to race,” Amelia started, her hand moving instinctively to her hip, “would you want that for her?”

Lando scrunched his nose, bit his lip. “God. Uh…” He paused, searching her eyes. “I’d be worried. Not happy about it, but if it’s what she wanted, I’d make it happen.”

She studied him. “You’d make it happen even if it made you unhappy?”

“Worried,” he corrected gently. “Worried sick, probably. I’ve crashed, seen the worst of it. You know how dangerous this sport is. Would you be okay with it?”

She shrugged. “I’d tell her the risks, the stats. Karting? Sure. But racing professionally… I don’t know.” She hesitated, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”

Lando cupped her cheek. “It’s okay not to know yet.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, staring into his eyes as panic fluttered beneath her skin. “Why don’t I know? I should.”

He pulled her close, voice low. “It doesn’t work like that, baby. I’m sorry.”

She sniffled, clutching his shirt. “Parenting is already hard and she isn’t even born yet.”

“Yeah,” Lando agreed, with a shaky kind of inhale. “Yeah.”

—

Amelia sat on the couch in their hotel room, fiddling with her stim toy, brow furrowed. The past few weeks had been… confusing. She knew about pregnancy hormones, but this sudden surge in her sex drive? That was new and confusing territory.

Lando entered the room, carrying a glass of water. He caught her eye and smiled, but there was a flicker of something (nervousness?) in his gaze.

“You okay?” He asked, voice a bit higher than usual.

Amelia bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Is it… normal to suddenly want sex all the time? Like, nonstop?” Her voice was blunt but uncertain. ‘I’m nervous to look it up in-case weird stuff comes up.”

Lando’s face flushed, and he scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. “Uh, yeah. Totally normal. Second trimester… hormones and all that.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Amelia blinked, surprised by his sudden heat.

Lando shifted closer, cheeks still pink. “I mean, it’s… well, you’re pretty irresistible right now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Irresistible?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. So, uh… we can make you feel better, if you want?”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers. The kiss was soft but full of promise, and Amelia’s heart sped up in that familiar way; equal parts surprise and warmth.

When they parted, Lando grinned sheepishly. “You want to?”

Amelia stared at him. “Yeah. Now. And then again a few more times. And tomorrow morning before we go to the track.”

He stared at her for a beat before he smiled wide, sharp little fangs and all.

—

Amelia lay awake.

Her head rested on Lando’s chest, his hand soft against the curve of her belly. His breathing was slow, steady, familiar. She could feel the faint shift of it under her cheek.

She stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle circles over the sheets.

She hadn’t expected to want him like that. Not with this body — not now, not so much. And yet…

Flashes of the night flickered across her mind like bright sparks.

Lando’s laugh, half-muffled against her neck.

His voice, rough, whispering, “You sure? You’re sure?”

The way he’d kissed the inside of her wrist every time.

Her hoodie halfway off, clumsily caught around her elbows.

The sound she made when he touched her lower back — sharp, surprised.

His thumb brushing gently over her bump, reverent. “Hi, baby,” he’d whispered, “Your mum’s kind of a goddess.”

She blushed in the dark just thinking about it.

But what stuck with her most wasn’t the heat — it was how seen she felt. How known. How safe.

She’d spent most of her life learning to translate herself for the world. She thought that’s what relationships would always have to be — filtering, explaining, shrinking things down.

But with Lando, she had never once had to do that.

He read the pauses in her voice like she would read telemetry. Felt her silences without trying to explain. Met her confusion with patience, not pity. Anticipated the needs she hadn’t even decoded herself yet.

She tilted her head, studying him in the quiet.

She hadn’t just fallen in love with him all those year ago.

She’d grown into love with him — steady, real, elemental.

And somehow, impossibly, he kept giving her more reasons to love him even more.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, so soft he didn’t stir.

Then closed her eyes, finally ready to sleep.

—

The bathroom lights were aggressively bright for how little sleep Amelia had gotten.

She was perched on the closed toilet lid, sleep-shirt inside out, bump resting on her thighs, and a toothbrush in her mouth. Her phone leaned against a half-used roll of toilet paper on the counter, and Pietra’s face filled the screen, already smirking.

“You look like you’ve been run over,” Pietra said with wide eyes.

Amelia spat into the sink. “I had sex for four hours straight last night.”

Pietra choked on her iced coffee. “Good morning, mami.”

Amelia shrugged like she was reporting on tyre deg. “Hormones.”

“Second trimester hitting like DRS on the main straight, huh?”

She nodded seriously. “It’s physiological. There’s blood flow redistribution and heightened sensitivity in—”

“Stop,” Pietra laughed. “You can’t do the engineering breakdown of your sex life.”

Amelia grinned, a little proud. “I definitely can. Do you want to see my graphs?”

“No graphs.Please. No vibes. How’s Lando coping?”

“Hydrated. Exhausted. Still asleep,” she said, brushing through her tangled hair. “He kept making these noises like he couldn’t believe what was happening.”

Pietra chuckled. “Yeah, he’s down bad for you, my girl.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “He, like, kept kissing my wrist.”

“Amelia. Please.”

“No, like he held it and did it twice.”

There was a pause.

Pietra blinked slowly. “That’s so sweet.”

“He made me feel like myself again.” She flushed.

Pietra was quiet, her smile gentler now. “Because you are.”

Amelia nodded once. “He’s also half-worried that our daughter might invent a bathtub wind tunnel.”

“Oh God,” Pietra said, grinning again. “That little girl is going to make him go grey. I hope she cuts up her dolls and builds a diffuser from their severed limbs.”

“She won’t have dolls.” Amelia said dryly. “She’ll have CFD software.” Even though her tone was flat, the twitch of her lips betrayed her joke.

Pietra laughed. Amelia finished tying her hair into a low, slightly messy ponytail. A streak of sunlight cut through the window, warming the tiles beneath her feet.

“I should go,” she said. “Track walk in forty-five minutes.”

“Tell Lando I said ‘well done’.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “No. That’s weird.”

“You love me anyway!”

Amelia ended the call and stared at herself in the mirror for a second.

Messy. Flushed. A little wild-looking.

Entirely herself.

And deeply, deeply loved.

—

The heat shimmered off the asphalt in waves, the whole paddock buzzing with anticipation. Miami was loud, chaotic, full of pastel shirts and bass-heavy DJ sets; but the McLaren garage felt like a storm waiting to break.

Amelia had one hand on Oscar’s halo as he settled into the car. Focused. Calm. Starting fourth on the grid. It was a good starting position, but they both knew it wasn’t going to be an easy climb through the field — if they even managed to keep their position into turn one.

“Conditions are fine. Brakes might take a while to come in. Let the tyres come to you.”

Oscar looked up at her, half-grinning under his visor. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll scream at you over the radio for being annoying and not listening to me.”

He laughed. “As usual.”

She patted the car once, stepped back, and moved to her tiny little thrown-together desk just as Lando passed her on his way to climb into his car. His hand grabbed her back. Their eyes met. He gave her a look; small, private, thrilling. The kind of look that said: I think today is the day.

She nodded once. Just once.

She’d believed in him for years now — since before Sochi, since before he’d even been given the full-time McLaren seat.

He was capable of incredible things. 

—

The first 20 laps were a blur of strategy juggling and telemetry surges. Amelia was locked into Oscar’s race; managing his energy deployment, traffic, undercut threats.

He was driving sharp. But something wasn’t sticking.

A slow pit stop on Lap 32 killed their momentum. They dropped back into traffic. She clenched her jaw, recalculated in seconds, called Plan C.

“Ducky, don’t lose steam. We’re still in this for good points. Head down.”

“Copy,” he said, clipped. Frustrated, but fighting.

But further up the field, Lando was flying.

And then there was the safety car.

Chaos. All improper preparation and garages rushing.

And then Lando exited the pits. And he hadn’t just made up a few positions — he’d taken the lead.

The garage erupted. Amelia nearly stood up from her station. She felt it before the numbers confirmed it — Lando was about to win his first Grand Prix.

She could barely breathe.

—

Oscar crossed the line P6. Solid points. Not what they hoped for, but not failure.

But Lando…

Lando held off Max for the last five laps like his life depended on it. No mistakes. Just pure, blistering pace and nerves of steel.

And then—

“Lando Norris. That’s P1. You are a Formula One race winner!”

Will’s words cracked through the comms.

The garage exploded.

Amelia didn’t move.

She sat frozen, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the console like it would float her back to earth.

He’d done it.

Finally.

No more self-doubt. No more what-ifs.

Lando won.

Her husband, who stayed up with her until 3am looking at ride height data; had won.

And he did it in the car she built for him.

"We did it, Will. Amelia — baby, we did it. We did it!" He said over the radio.  

The first race it was fully her spec — and sure, they’d gotten ‘lucky’ with the safety-car, but luck was insubstantial. His pace said it all.

He’d won. And he’d won by a mile.

—

The moment she found him in Parc Ferme, still helmeted, still breathless, still shocked, she ran.

Not far; just to the holding area, where only a few people were allowed. But she was McLaren’s lead engineer. She was also his wife.

She had every right.

He turned and saw her and the helmet came off in one swoop.

His face was flushed, eyes red-rimmed, disbelieving.

She launched into his arms and he caught her without hesitation, arms around her waist, face buried in her shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I won. I fucking won, baby.”

“I can believe it,” she said, steady and breathless. “I knew it was coming. How long have I told you that this would happen for you? You’ve been driving like a winner all year, Lando.”

He kissed her, fast, messy, barely containing the wild joy in him. “Tell me you saw the move on Max.”

“I saw it. It was amazing.”

He laughed against her neck, giddy and stunned and vibrating with relief. “I did it, Amelia.”

“You did.” She leaned into him, eyes pricking with tears. “I am so, so proud of you. So proud.”

—

They went to a few parties. Smaller ones. Danced together — Lando being celebrated in exactly the way he deserved.

He hadn’t been all to keen on the idea of his visibly pregnancy wife going into the Miami nightclub, but she’d insisted they go. Even just for a little while.

Oscar and Lando stayed close — like bodyguards. Max was no better, hovering, constantly bringing her water. It was sweet. It was nice to still be involved in the celebrations.

His trophy sat on their hotel room table.

Lando was in the shower, singing Queen, completely off-key.

Amelia sat on the bed in one of his t-shirts, one hand on her belly, the other tracing the MCL38-AN etched into the side of the silver.

Their daughter kicked.

She smiled. “Your dad,” she whispered, “is a Formula One race winner.”

—

They touched down just before dawn, Heathrow still hushed in early morning fog. Amelia’s body ached with the kind of deep exhaustion that only adrenaline can leave behind; but her hand never left Lando’s.

He’d won. That wasn’t going to stop echoing in her head any time soon.

By the time they got to his parents’ house, the sky had cracked open with gentle rain. The front door opened before they even rang the doorbell.

His mum pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest. His dad hovered behind, proud and misty-eyed in the quiet way he always was. There were champagne flutes already out in the kitchen, a cake someone had clearly stayed up late decorating — “P1, Finally!” scrawled in sugar icing.

But what caught Amelia off guard was how his mum hugged her too.

Carefully, because of the bump. But tightly. Fully. Without hesitation.

“We were watching,” she said, her voice warm in Amelia’s ear. “I’ve never screamed so loud in my life. He wouldn’t have gotten here without you, you know?”

Amelia blinked. Didn’t know what to say to that. Just squeezed her hand and nodded.

—

Later, in the quiet of Lando’s childhood bedroom, Amelia lay curled into his side beneath soft, over-washed sheets. The walls were still plastered with old racing posters, a few crooked photos of karting days — a little shrine to where it all began.

The trophy was on the dresser.

Not a glass cabinet, not a pedestal. Just… sitting there. Like it belonged next to a lava lamp and a stack of F1 magazines from 2009.

Amelia snorted at the sight of it. “You really just plonked it there?”

“It’s weird, right?” Lando said, his voice drowsy. “Feels like it should be… more. But also not. I don’t know.”

“It’s exactly right,” she said. “It belongs where you started.”

He looked over at her. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then, after a moment, “It’s strange. Everyone talks about how hard it is to get here. To win. To be part of something like this. But nobody tells you how hard it is to… stop. To come down from it. To believe that it’s real.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her closer, hand on her belly. “She’s gonna know,” he said softly. “Our daughter. She’s going to grow up knowing this is possible. Because she’ll have you. And she’ll have me too.”

“You,” Amelia said firmly, “are going to be her favourite person.”

He flushed, kissed her shoulder. “You’re both my favourite.”

—

Breakfast was a chaotic, sweet mess. His younger cousins had come by with orange balloons and mini trophies made of Lego. His grandmother insisted on touching Amelia’s belly and declared, in full authority, that the baby would be born with racing boots on already.

Someone pulled out a bottle of something sparkling, and Lando looked like he might cry for the tenth time in 48 hours.

Amelia stepped outside with her tea, just for a moment. The garden smelled like damp grass and daffodils.

Lando came out after her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nose pressed into her neck.

“We really did it,” he murmured.

“You did.”

“No,” he said. “We.”

She leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

For once, she didn’t argue.

—

The highly sought after private clinic was tucked behind a row of converted barns; all soft wood beams and white walls, the kind of place that smelled faintly of lavender and sterilised plastic. Quiet. Private. No waiting rooms. No fluorescent lights.

It had taken Amelia weeks to agree to in-person visits. Not because she didn’t trust the care, but because the idea of new faces, new spaces, new sounds — it made her skin hum in the wrong way.

But this midwife, Fiona, had been patient. Kind. Spoken to her over the phone like Amelia wasn’t strange or fragile or complicated. Just… herself. And today, for the first time, they were meeting in real life.

Amelia sat in the softly-lit consultation room, sleeves pulled over her knuckles, while Lando leaned back in the chair beside her, fingers loosely linked with hers.

The door opened, and Fiona stepped in; mid-forties maybe, silver at her temples, Doc Martens under a midi skirt. Exuding a calm energy.

“Hello, Amelia,” she said with a small smile. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

Amelia blinked at her. “You don’t sound as tall as you do on the phone.”

Fiona laughed, delighted. “That’s a first. Most people say I sound shorter.”

Lando grinned. “She’s very good at spatial audio. It’s… sort of freaky.”

Amelia elbowed him lightly. “It’s not freaky. It’s useful.”

“I know, baby,” he said, kissing her hair.

Fiona sat, not rushing. Just matching the room to Amelia’s pace.

“Shall we talk through everything slowly?” She offered. “We’ll do the checkup, listen to baby’s heartbeat if you’re feeling up for it — and then talk about next steps. I’ve got your notes printed exactly how you like them. Font size 13, double spaced.”

That surprised a smile out of Amelia. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

—

Fiona talked her through every step before touching her. Let Amelia guide where the Doppler went. Gave her control.

The heartbeat came through — fast and steady and perfect.

Lando stared at the screen like it was made of gold.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s our girl.”

Amelia stared at the graph. “Still sounds like a horse galloping.”

“Strong horse,” Fiona said. “Very healthy.”

They spent another fifteen minutes going over nutrition changes, sleeping positions, birth plans. Fiona never pushed. Never filled silence with filler words. Just waited.

“You’re very good at this,” Amelia said finally. “I don’t like many people.”

Fiona smiled gently. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

—

They stepped back out into the quiet spring air, a softness between them.

Lando opened the car door for her, waiting until she was settled before getting in himself. He looked over at her, one hand finding hers on the armrest.

“I like her,” he said.

“I don’t hate her,” Amelia replied, which was even better.

“You did so well,” he added softly. “I’m really proud of you.”

She glanced at him. “Why?”

“Because I know how much it costs you to do things that feel uncertain,” he said. “And you still showed up for her. For our daughter.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled, caught off guard by the depth in his voice.

“She deserves someone better than me, sometimes,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “She’s getting someone more brilliant, more brave, more herself than anyone could hope for.”

She kissed him. “Okay. Take me to get some chicken, please?”

—

The kitchen was full of soft light and the smell of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. There were too many voices, too many overlapping stories, the occasional clink of cutlery — but somehow, it didn’t overwhelm Amelia the way it usually did. Maybe it was the dimmer switch Lando had installed last year. Maybe it was the way he kept checking in with her from across the room. Or maybe… maybe it was just the peace that came from knowing her daughter was still tucked safe inside her, heartbeat strong.

Dinner was warm.

They passed around the scan print-outs — Lando sliding them carefully across the table. His mum teared up a little at the clearest one, where the outline of a tiny face and curled fingers was visible.

“She’s so beautiful already,” Cisca whispered.

“She looks like an angry shrimp,” Amelia said flatly, which made Adam chuckle into his wine.

“An angry shrimp with a big Norris head,” Lando added.

“Oi,” Adam said. “Watch it.”

“She’s got Amelia’s precision, though,” Lando added, turning the scan toward his dad. “Perfect symmetry in the profile. Look at that jawline. Look.”

“She’s 38 centimetres long, Lando,” Amelia said, eyebrows raised. “She’s still just a smudge.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Let me have this.”

—

Cisca topped up everyone’s water and gently set her glass down. “Have you two thought much about… the birth yet? Or after? What it’ll look like, who you want with you, where?”

Amelia nodded immediately, already sliding her phone from the edge of her placemat. “Yes. I’ve got it all planned.”

She pulled up a bullet-pointed note, clean and colour-coded. “I’ll be labouring at home for as long as is medically safe, with Fiona monitoring. Then transferring to the birth centre — the one with the adjustable light panels and hydrotherapy. I’ve selected a playlist that aligns with optimal relaxation frequencies, and Lando will be coached on pressure-point guidance in case I don’t want verbal input. We’ll have backup bags packed and pre-positioned in the car by Week 37.”

The table went still for a moment. Not unkind. Just… a bit awed.

“And after?” Adam asked gently.

“Fiona will do at-home checks. I’ll be off work technically, but I’ll still be supporting Oscar’s data remotely if we’re out of hospital. I’m going to stay with my mum in Woking. Sleep will be rotational in the first two weeks depending on Lando’s schedule, but my mum had already agreed to step in. Breastfeeding is Plan A, bottle Plan B. I have a spreadsheet.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Cisca reached over the table, her hand warm as it closed gently over Amelia’s. “That all sounds wonderful, my darling. But, and this is only a but, if it doesn’t go exactly the way you’ve planned, don’t panic,” she said. Her voice was soft but certain. “Sometimes babies decide to do things their own way.”

Amelia didn’t flinch from the contact — rare for her. She just looked at Cisca’s hand, and then at her face. “I know that,” she said, a little stiffly. “Logically.”

“But knowing it logically isn’t the same as feeling okay when it happens,” Cisca said gently.

Amelia looked down at the scan photo in front of her. Then quietly, almost like a confession, “I want to do it right. I want her to feel safe from the second she arrives.”

“She will,” Lando said, reaching for her hand under the table. “Because she’ll have you.”

—

The door was already open before they even made it up the path.

“There she is!” Zak’s voice boomed from the hallway as Amelia climbed out of the car, Lando trailing behind with his hand protectively on the small of her back.

Tracey appeared right behind him, dish towel still slung over her shoulder. “Let her breathe, Zak, Jesus.”

Amelia barely had time to blink before she was enveloped in one of her mother’s trademark, over-long hugs — all vanilla perfume and chaotic warmth.

“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Tracey murmured, hands sliding down to press lightly at Amelia’s bump. “My granddaughter’s in there, that’s crazy.”

“She’s the size a watermelon,” Amelia said, dry. “A big watermelon. But still.”

Lando grinned. “Not for long. She’s growing every day.”

Zak clapped a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Still wrapping my head around the fact that you’re gonna be a dad, son.”

“Same,” Lando replied with a breathy laugh.

—

The Browns’ home was bigger than you might expect, but still carried the energy of a family who talked over each other and left laundry on stair banisters. The TV was on in the background playing a re-run of some F1 docuseries, and Zak had already pulled out a bottle of strawberry alcohol-free wine.

“No, Dad,” Amelia said, waving him off. “No bubbles. I’ll get heartburn.”

“I’ve got ginger beer!” Tracey called from the kitchen. “And saltines!”

Amelia drifted toward the fireplace, fingers brushing over old framed photos. There was one of her as a little girl with a screwdriver in one hand. Another of Zak holding her on his shoulders at the Silverstone track.

She stared at that one for a beat too long.

“You okay, kiddo?” Zak asked gently, appearing beside her.

She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just remembering.”

“You’d sit on the garage floor with the brake calipers,” Zak said, fond. “You used to name them.”

“They needed names. They had personalities.”

“You said one was ‘grumpy and over-torqued.’ You were five.”

She let out a tiny laugh.

—

Dinner was loud. American-style pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans drowning in butter. Tracey refilled everyone’s drinks every ten minutes. Zak told old stories about testing sessions Amelia had half-forgotten.

Later, Amelia found a quiet spot in her childhood bedroom, lights dimmed, the duvet still vaguely smelling of fabric softener. Lando leaned against the doorframe, watching her brush her fingers over an old model car she’d built with Zak when she was nine.

“You okay, baby?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m nervous to be staying here again, after having the baby. I wish we could just… have her in Monaco and disappear for a few months.” She frowned. “We didn’t plan our timing very well, did we? You’ll be mid-season, and Oscar won’t have me there, and—“

Lando crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.“Hey. Hey, calm down, baby. I think that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” he murmured. “You’ll want your mum, yeah? She’ll be able to help you adjust without being overbearing.”

She hummed against his chest, her hands closing around his shirt. “What if you’re not here when it happens?”

He was quiet for a beat. “I’ll come home as soon as possible, baby. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to miss a single session.” She said, hotly. “But I want you with me all the time and I can’t have both, can I?”

“No, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He murmured. “It’s fine, baby.”

—

Amelia stood at the edge of the test platform, squinting at the flow viz spread across the prototype floor. She wasn’t officially here to work, just visiting. Just dropping in. Just… checking the numbers. Seeing the model. Touching the damn tunnel wall like it could somehow speak to her.

“It’s still bleeding airflow here,” she muttered to herself, pointing at the front of the floor, just under the bargeboard curve. “Boundary layer’s detaching early.”

“Still better than Ferrari’s design,” someone mumbled behind her.

“Low bar,” she shot back.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers danced automatically across the control screen. Toggling split channel overlays, flipping between computational fluid dynamics layers. She could feel her heartbeat syncing with the faint thrum of the tunnel, her mind slotting into gear like it always had.

Until she felt someone step beside her, too quietly for a regular engineer.

“Amelia,” Oscar said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

She blinked, her brain still five seconds behind in aero-language.

He glanced at the setup, then at her bump, then back to her face. “Did you… sleep at all last night?” He asked.

“I took a nap on Lando’s thigh for twenty-three minutes in the car,” she said.

Oscar huffed. “Very normal. Very healthy.”

She turned back to the airflow sim. “This isn’t right. The adjustment from the Miami spec — it’s throwing off drag balance on the mid-straight.”

“Amelia.”

She didn’t answer this time. Just kept muttering corrections under her breath, lips moving like she was translating a language no one else could see.

Oscar stepped closer, then placed one hand gently on her wrist — not to stop her, just to connect.“You’ve been here for hours. You can come back to this later,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be here without doing something.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “But we’re not racing this week. And you’re allowed to just… exist in this space without trying to fix every tiny issue that you see.”

Amelia looked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut again. He didn’t push. Just stood with her in the quiet hum of the room, solid and calm.

Eventually, she whispered, “My brain’s too loud when I stop.”

“Then let me help you turn the volume down,” Oscar said simply. “C’mon. Let’s go sit by the lake for a bit.”

—

They ended up outside with two mugs of ginger tea that Oscar had somehow convinced catering to let them take out of the dining hall. Amelia sat with her feet up on the bench edge, dress stretched over her bump, breathing slower now.

She watched the fountain spray in silence for a few minutes before saying, “Thanks.”

“For the tea?”

“For not treating me like I’m fragile,” she said. “But also not treating me like I’m a machine.”

Oscar smiled sideways. “You’re a human. A terrifyingly brilliant, data-possessed human. But still.”

She let out a tired laugh and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t tell Lando I had a moment.”

“Alright,” he said. “It’ll stay between us and the ducks.”

She smiled. “My ducky and my ducks — conspiring together. Cute.”

He rolled his eyes.

—

The morning sun hit the Emilia-Romagna pit lane with a sharpness that reminded Amelia of why she loved racing. Clean, brutal light cutting through the lingering coolness of dawn.

She stood just inside the garage, eyes scanning telemetry streams on her iPad, but her mind elsewhere. This was her second-to-last race before maternity leave. A strange mix of accomplishment and anticipation knotted inside her.

Lando caught her eye across the garage, giving a small thumbs-up. She returned the gesture with a faint smile.

Oscar approached, carrying his helmet. “Ready?” He asked.

“Of course I am.”

—

During a quiet moment before qualifying, Amelia slipped out from behind the pit wall to find Lando.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. Just… thinking about how this is all starting to feel a bit too much like a goodbye for my liking.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll hold the fort. You’ll be back before you know it. You don’t need to worry.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. But it feels… weird.”

He held her. Kissed her. “You’ll be fine, baby.”

—

The race was intense. Strategy calls fired rapidly, tyres switching, gaps closing. Amelia’s voice came calm and precise over the radio, guiding Oscar through every corner, every lap.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Oscar finished fourth — solid, but just off the podium. Amelia exhaled, a complex wave of pride and bittersweet acceptance washing over her.

Lando’s race had been even more intense; a nail-biting late charge from Lando, a nail-bitingly close finish between him and Max.

They’d take second.

But she could see it. Hear it.

Her husband had enjoyed winning. And he was hungry for more.

—

Back in the garage, the team gathered around the screens replaying Lando’s brilliant win at Miami — a reminder of the highs to come. Amelia let herself smile, feeling the warmth of the team around her.

Lando slipped an arm around her waist. “Only one more weekend to go,” he murmured.

She leaned into him. “Yeah.”

Tom gave them a nervous smile. “I feel ready to take the reins. Do you think I’m ready?”

“As ready as you could possibly be.” Amelia told him.

Oscar laughed a bit. “I feel like I’m being passed between my divorced parents.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous, ducky.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[girlgenius1111]

learning curve part 4

alexia putellas x reader [& r's nephew] will has a better day at school, and r continues to spiral. alexia tries to help. will takes a rough fall at the park. angst & fluff!

—

Will’s backpack thumped against his back as he sprinted towards you and Alexia. Your girlfriend had insisted on joining you in picking Will up for school, just as concerned as you were about him having another bad day. He zoomed towards the two of you, and just as you were about to bend down and open your arms for him, he called Alexia’s name, his gaze fixed on her. 

“Ale, Ale I did it!” He shouted excitedly, leaping into her arms as she lifted him into the air. “I made a friend!” 

“Of course you did!” Alexia replied. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Will beamed, squirming in Alexia’s arms as he reached for you. You smiled back, brushing off the anxiety you were now feeling wash over you in favor of holding Will tight against you. 

“So proud of you.” You echoed, more than relieved at the difference in how Will had come out of school today versus the day before. 

“His name is Jordi, and he’s 5 like me and he likes dinosaurs! And he only speaks Spanish and-and Cat-a-lan but I used my Spanish words and asked him to be my friend and he said si! And si means yes!” Will rambled, once again squirming, this time to be let down. You placed him on the ground and he reached for both your hand and Alexia’s, still rambling away about Jordi and his cool blue shoes

You and Alexia exchanged amused glances, starting in the direction of the car. Will was practically skipping in between the two of you, until Alexia asked a question. 

“Mi niño, did you understand your teacher more?” 

At this, Will’s forehead crinkled, and his skipping slowed to a walk. “No. She talks really fast. And I only know some of the words she says.” 

“That’s okay! It’ll take time to adjust.” You reassured him. “The important thing is that you try your best.” 

“Sí, cariño. And maybe speaking more Spanish at home could help?” Alexia added, opening the back passenger door and lifting Will into his seat. You watched as she buckled him in, at how her brows furrowed in concentration and how she raised a hand to try to smooth the messy way his hair sat. There was a glint in her eye as she shut the door and chastly kissed you on the lips, a glint that told you she had an idea. 

—

Will had been exhausted from his day at school, falling asleep on the couch even as he insisted he didn’t need a nap. Less than twenty minutes after you tucked him in under a blanket on the couch with a snack, he was out cold. You’d retreated to the bedroom to fold laundry, and to try to get your emotions under control.

It wasn’t that you were bothered that Will and Alexia were bonding, not at all. It made your heart melt, made everything feel warm in a way you’d never experienced before. Alexia was perfect, everything you could have ever asked for in a partner you were raising a child with. There was just something… something about how easily Alexia loved that made you doubt yourself. Alexia was whole, and you were…well,  if not broken, missing a piece. What she’d grown up with, you’d never experienced. She knew family, and you didn’t. And you weren’t sure how you could be enough for Will when you didn’t know how to be a part of a family. 

“Mi amor?” 

You jumped, dropping the shirt you were trying to fold back on the bed. You turned, finding Alexia standing in the doorway, her face twisted with concern. She moved closer, reaching for you. 

“What’s up?” Forcing a smile, you allowed your girlfriend to grab one of your hands and cradle your cheek with the other. 

Alexia didn’t reply right away, her eyes flitting over your face as she studied you. “Are you okay? You seem… I don’t know, something seems off.” 

You allowed yourself to lean into her, pressing your face into the cozy sweatshirt she was wearing. She wrapped her arms around you, kissing the side of your head a few times. 

“I’m okay. I think I’m just trying to adjust.” 

Alexia hummed her understanding, her hug still tight as she spoke. “That is understandable, completely. It is a lot.” 

“I’m just so… so worried about him and all of this and–” 

“Tia?” You and Alexia broke apart, finding Will in the doorway where Alexia had been standing just moments ago. 

He had woken, apparently,  now shuffling adorably into your bedroom where you and Alexia stood. He was sleepy, rubbing his eye with his fist. 

“Hi bud,” You smiled, feeling Alexia’s eyes on you even as you crouched down to Will’s level and opened your arms. He moved closer, stopping just short of giving you a hug. 

“What’s for dinner?” He wondered. 

You laughed, standing and ruffling his hair. “I’m not sure–”

“Dinner will be here in a little bit.” Alexia interrupted, winking at you mysteriously and  heading back out to the living room. 

Will looked at you, confused, and you shrugged, moving to follow Alexia. 

Alexia’s idea entered the house with a flurry of activity, both Eli and Alba carrying two bags each, containing what you assumed to be dinner. 

Alexia lifted Will into her arms, the boy growing a bit shy as she reminded him to say hello. You greeted Eli and Alba, too, grabbing some of the bags and leading them into the kitchen. 

“Sorry about the mess, I would have cleaned, but Ale didn’t tell me anyone was coming.” The kitchen wasn’t really messy, but it wasn’t clean enough to meet your standards for guests. 

Eli tutted, unloading several dishes from one of the bags as Alba disappeared into the living room. “I told her to tell you! She does not listen, she never has. Anyway, mija, it is not messy in here, do not give it another thought.” 

You smiled at her gratefully, allowing her to pull you into a hug. Eli was a good hugger, made you feel relaxed in a way you normally didn’t when you had guests over. Whatever she’d brought with her smelled incredible, and you weren’t sure you could put into words how relieved you were to not have to worry about cooking dinner.  

“Tia!” Will shouted from the living room, his voice much too loud for the indoors but he sounded so excited you didn't mind. 

“Go!” Eli encouraged, gently pushing you in the direction of the living room. It always amazed you, how overwhelmingly kind Eli always was to you. She’d been that way from the first time she’d met you, and it had all clicked, that day. Alexia was the kind, perfect person she was because of the people that had raised her. Eli treated you like her own even when you and Alexia had just gotten together, and now, she was bringing dinner and doting over Will like he was her own, too. 

Walking into the living room, a small stuffed dinosaur was waved in your direction, Will skipping around excitedly with his new toy in hand. “Tia! Look what Alba got me!” 

Unlike the first time he’d met Alexia’s family, Will was already completely out of his shell, the quiet shy version of your nephew nowhere to be seen. Alexia and Alba were sitting on the sofa next to each other, sporting matching grins and you couldn’t help but think about how much they looked alike. The same smile, the same eyes, the same mannerisms. It reminded you of Leo, of how everyone always asked if you were twins. Pushing away the pang of hurt at the reminder, you bent down to get a closer look at Will’s new toy. 

“Wow! That’s so cool, buddy. Did you say thank you?” 

Will nodded, his brown hair flopping onto his forehead as he did so. 

“He said thank you in Spanish.” Alexia said proudly. 

“I did! Alba said she’ll help me with my Spanish, Tia!” Will informed you, grabbing your sleeve and pulling on it as if he couldn’t contain his excitement. He looked so genuinely happy, you could have cried. You settled instead on giving Alba a meaningful look and mouthing thank you. Alba just nodded, gesturing to her sister next to her, and you knew then what Alexia’s plan had been all along. Alba was a teacher, could help Will with his Spanish much more effectively than either of you could. Your girlfriend… was one of the most thoughtful, intentional, and kind people you’d ever met, and as you returned her smile, too, you made a note to tell her so later. 

Alexia gestured you over to her as Alba headed into the kitchen to help her mother, but you hesitated. 

“I should help your Mami–” 

“No! You two stay right in there!” Eli shouted from the kitchen. 

Alexia shook her head fondly, wrapping an arm around you as you joined her on the couch. 

“Next time you invite people over, tell me in advance.” You murmured, barely audible as you felt Alexia tense next to you. 

“Sí, of course. Sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise but I should have told you. I will not do it again.” She promised, squeezing you closer to her and pressing a kiss into your hair. 

“Thank you.” For whatever reason, you hadn't been very mad at Alexia to begin with, recognizing that she’d just been trying to do something nice to take some of the pressure off you for an evening. You knew that, and you believed her when she said she wouldn’t do it again. 

The house felt so full of life and love, it was easy to let your mind wander to dinner alone with Leo at the kitchen table. He’d always tried his best to cook if no one else was doing it. He also always made sure you ate your vegetables, even when he was just a few years older than you and hated them just as much.  

Alexia nudged you, and you forced the memories away, following her gaze over to your nephew. Will was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, just admiring his new dinosaur. 

“He is so sweet.” Alexia murmured, pulling you in closer to her as you both watched him. You hummed your agreement, marvelling at how excited he was over another plush dinosaur. He already had dozens, but he treated each new one like a special, one of a kind, toy. Will was so thoughtful, and though you knew it didn’t make much sense given the short time he’d been living here, you liked to think of it as bits of Alexia rubbing off on him. 

“The sweetest, most wonderful boy.” You replied, gesturing Will closer as he looked up and blushed, realizing you were talking about him. He brought his dinosaur over, leaning into you as you kissed the top of his head. 

“Does your new friend have a name?” You asked, and Will gasped, realizing he hadn’t, in fact, named it yet. 

“It has to be a good one. What about… Albert?” Alexia suggested, her lip twitching as she imagined her sister’s dismay at the name. Will didn’t dignify that idea with a response, which made you almost laugh. 

The small boy looked intently at the stuffed animal for a moment, staring into its eyes as if waiting for it to say something. Finally, he looked up with a grin, squishing the dinosaur to his chest in a hug. 

“Franklin!” Will said excitedly. “His name is Franklin.” 

“Franklin!” Alba cheered, appearing and holding out her hand for Will to take. “Un nombre perfecto. Do you want to help me set the table?” 

“Yeah!” Will replied, getting to his feet and grabbing Alba’s hand. You and Alexia watched incredulously, as he normally dragged his feet and complained when he had to set the table. 

“Now, cari, what do we need for dinner?” 

“Umm… we need… platos!” 

As Will and Alba around the corner and into the kitchen, you leaned further into your girlfriend, inhaling deeply. 

“She’s so sweet to do this. And your Mami bringing dinner. I just… they’re so thoughtful. They didn’t have to do all this.” 

Alexia frowned, tucking your hair behind your ear and tilting your face in her direction. “Of course they did. This is what family does, amor.” 

Something about the way your girlfriend was looking at you, like she couldn’t understand how you didn’t understand. This is what family does. You weren’t sure what a family did or didn’t do because you’d never really had one. Mortifyingly, your eyes began to sting with tears and you tried to stand, blinking rapidly. 

“Hey, hey, come back.” Alexia insisted, tugging on your hand until you sat back down next to her. “What is it?” 

You sighed, your chest feeling tight, and Alexia’s concern only seemed to grow, her eyebrows pulling together and her lips pursing. 

“I’m just not used to this. Having people that care.” You explained shakily, your voice breaking. It was a massive understatement, but you weren’t sure how to put everything else into words. The midfielder frowned further, her thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. You leaned into her hand, into her comfort, even though you weren’t sure you were worth it. 

“Well, you will need to get used to it. Because they care, and I care. You have a family, both you and Will have a family.” Alexia insisted, her voice so earnest you could have cried again. Instead you just buried your face in her neck, feeling her arms snake around your back and hold you tight. 

Alexia was always so convincing, your fears and anxieties almost all went away. Almost. 

—

Alexia could understand that you needed some time to yourself. It made sense; the transition from living in a relatively quiet house with just her was quite different from living with a 5 year old. As Will got more comfortable, he grew more energetic and loud, and it was a lot to adjust to. You’d seemed on edge all morning; something was clearly off, and Alexia assumed you just needed time alone, in the quiet. 

So, with a soft kiss to your cheek, Alexia informed you that she was taking Will to the park for an hour, and she wanted you to relax while she was gone. 

Alexia was right. Something was off. But the issue wasn’t that you needed time to yourself. You were… drowning in insecurity and doubt. It had been lingering in the background ever since Will came to live with you, but in the past 24 hours it had grabbed you by the throat. You didn’t want to feel the way you felt; you didn’t want to be jealous of your girlfriend who was just being an incredible person and treating your nephew as if he was her own. 

But here you were. Fighting back tears as you curled up on the couch, thinking about how you were failing. Alexia was the only thing keeping you and Will afloat. You weren’t enough, and you weren’t sure how you ever thought you could be. Alexia knew love and family and warmth, and those were all things you’d only gotten a glimpse of as you’d grown up. You’d learned independence, learned to be quiet. You’d learned not to show weakness, to push your feelings down until they exploded. 

What came naturally to Alexia was not instinctual for you. When Will cried, you never really knew what to say. When he refused to eat his vegetables, you didn’t know how to get him to eat them. When he’d had a nightmare, you hadn’t even woken up. Alexia had. Alexia always knew what to say and what to do. It made sense that Alexia was better at this than you, but it wasn’t fair to Will that he was stuck with one functional, emotionally intelligent adult, and you. 

You weren’t sure how to be better for him, how to be what he needed. You weren’t sure what you’d done to deserve Alexia in your life. Most of all, you weren’t sure how to keep going when you were so confident that you were doing everything completely and entirely wrong. 

Wallowing in self pity on the couch for an hour seemed like the best possible option, though, given the circumstances. At least with Will safely with Alexia, you could be sure you wouldn’t mess anything up. 

Alexia, meanwhile, was trying to decide whether or not she could still do the monkey bars at the playground. She was pretty sure her feet would touch the ground, but if she bent her knees… it might be possible. Watching a kid play at the park was pretty boring, it turned out. She kept an eye on Will as her mind wandered, his soft blue quarter zip making him easy to spot. She’d found herself really enjoying buying him the most adorable clothes. 

With little nikes, small sweatshirts, and everything in between filling his closet, Will had more than enough choice in his wardrobe. He always seemed to gravitate to the softer things, which is how he found himself a quarter zip that was all soft and cuddly on the outside. He thought it made his hugs better. 

Will was an only child, and pretty independent as a result. He could entertain himself, play by himself and be completely content with just his imagination to keep him company. He’d darted up the stairs of the playset as soon as Alexia had let go of his hand, already imagining the wood chips under his feet as hot lava and the other kids as monsters. But then, a rather tall ‘monster’ bumped into him right at the top of the stairs, and sent Will tumbling down into the ‘hot lava’. 

With a yelp, Will landed in the wood chips in a heap. Alexia saw the whole thing from her spot on the bench next to the playset, yet she forced herself to remain frozen for a moment, waiting to see if Will would pop up uninjured. 

When he did sit up, though, he was cradling his arm close to his chest, tears already beginning to stream down his cheeks as he looked around frantically for help. 

“Alexia!” He cried, ignoring the hurried apologies of the boy that had pushed him and the stares of the other kids that had stopped to stare. Alexia was off her bench in a heartbeat, sprinting across the playground to the small boy. 

“Hey, hey, I’m here. You’re okay.” Alexia soothed, crouching down next to him, hands hovering anxiously over his small body. “Tell me what hurts.” 

“My-my arm.” Will sobbed, turning his whole body away from Alexia when she reached out to take a look. “Don’t touch! I want my Tia!” 

Alexia was practically frozen with fear. Did she call you? Her Mami? An ambulance? The military? She didn’t know how bad this was, didn’t know how to help Will when he was so insistent that she not touch him. The poor kid was hysterical, gasping for breath in between his cries. Alexia forced herself to focus; she could call you in a moment. Right now, she was the only one here and that meant she had to know what to do. There was no other option. 

“Cariño, look at me.” Alexia instructed softly. Will peaked at her, still warily holding his arm close to his chest. “I will not touch it, bebé, I promise. I just want you to look at me and try to take a deep breath, vale?” 

Will hesitated, but the frantic feeling in his chest, like he couldn’t get enough air in, made him turn further towards Alexia. He did as she instructed, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Then another. And another. Slowly, his chest stopped stuttering and he didn’t feel so scared anymore. Alexia was with him; there was nothing to be scared of. 

“Hurts.” He whimpered, allowing Alexia to gently brush the tears of his cheeks with her thumbs. 

“I know it does. You’re being so brave, so so brave. Can you let me see your arm, sweetheart?” 

Will frowned, leaning away from her once more. “No. Don’t touch.” 

Alexia suppressed a sigh. Though she wanted to scoop him into her arms and head straight home, or maybe to the hospital, she didn’t. “I don’t have to touch it–”

“No.” Will cried stubbornly. “I want my Tia.” 

Though the tears had never really stopped, Alexia could see them gathering in the boy’s eyes rapidly once again. The park was only a block away from home. 

“Okay, bebé. Should I call your Tia and have her come here? Or should we go to her?” 

Will didn’t even think about it, sniffling as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Wanna go home, please.” 

Nodding, Alexia got to her feet, wincing at the feeling of woodchips falling from where they’d embedded themselves in her skin. She had no idea how she was going to get Will home when he wouldn’t let her touch him, but as soon as he got to his feet, his face paled. Silently, pleadingly, he lifted his good arm and looked up at Alexia. She didn’t hesitate, carefully lifting him, taking care to keep his injured arm away from her body, so it wouldn’t be jostled or bumped. She’d taken a single step in the direction of home before Will gave a soft cry at the movement. It was going to be a long walk home. 

—

Alexia’s text was brief. 

Will fell, hurt his arm. Bringing him home. Might need a doctor. 

Brief, yet sent a chill down your spine and a wave of anxiety washing over you. The park wasn’t far, and you hadn’t seen the text right away, so Alexia should be arriving with Will… any minute. Sure enough, you could hear his loud sobs from down the hall as soon as the elevator doors opened. You rushed to the door, throwing it open just as Alexia turned the corner, awkwardly holding a very squirmy Will in her arms. The fluorescent lighting of the hall made both Alexia and Will look oddly pale, though that could have just been the situation. 

“Tia! I want my Tia!” Will whimpered, still holding his arm close to his body even as he tried to escape Alexia’s grasp. Your heart was racing as you took in the scene in front of you, panic and fear like you’d never felt it before squeezing your chest. 

In the time it had taken for Alexia to walk from the park back to your building and up to the apartment, Will’s pain had seemed to only increase, every step torture as she fought back tears of her own. Every step, every cry from Will was tearing at her heart. 

“She’s right here, cariño.” Alexia promised, walking closer and carefully placing Will into your outstretched arms. You were careful not to bump his arm, and he curled into you immediately. His small body shook with sobs as you carried him back into the apartment. 

“It hurts, Tia, it hurts.” 

“I know, baby. You’re being so brave.” 

You settled on the couch with him sideways on your lap, his tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. Completely at a loss of what to do, you looked helplessly at your girlfriend. Somehow, though, she seemed more panicked than you, wringing her hands together as she sat on the edge of the wooden coffee table. 

“Okay. Okay,” you said, trying to calm yourself and your nephew down. Leaning back you tilted Will’s face up to face you. His eyes were red and puffy, her lip quivering sadly as he cried. “Can I see your arm, Will?” 

Very hesitantly, Will nodded, finally extending his arm away from his chest. His hand was trembling, but there was no obvious bruising or swelling, no odd bumps that would indicate he’d broken something. Alexia leaned closer, until her head was almost bumping into yours. You waited until she was done studying Will’s arm, and she looked up at you. No words were needed for you to know Alexia had come to the same conclusion that you had. 

“Can you wiggle all your fingers for me?” Will did as you asked, moving his fingers and then rotating his wrist. There was only a small wince as he did so, but his range of motion seemed completely fine. 

“I don’t think it’s broken, bud.” You declared. 

Will sniffled. “It doesn’t feel broken,” he said weakly. You and Alexia smiled at him, Alexia’s hand gently running through his hair as he leaned in closer to rest his head against your chest. 

“Does it still hurt a lot? Or does it feel better now?” Alexia asked. 

“Better.” 

At this, you finally relaxed, letting out a deep sigh. “I’m so glad. That was pretty scary, huh?” 

Will nodded into you, his hand grabbing a fistfull of your shirt. He seemed so small in that moment, and the feeling to protect this little boy was so strong you could have fallen over. You held him tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“But you’re okay now. We’ve got you, buddy.” 

Alexia hummed her agreement, tucking a blanket around Will as he relaxed into you, his eyes fluttering shut. It was no surprise the day had tired him out, and you were more than happy to act as a pillow for him if it meant he wasn’t in pain and he wasn’t crying any more. Alexia slid onto the couch, pulling you into her as Will began to drift off.

It was only an hour later, once Will had completely fallen asleep in your arms, that you had a second to breathe and think. Alexia’s chest rose and fell rhythmically and you allowed it to calm you, with your body reclined back into hers. Her breath was warm against your ear, one of her hands gently rubbing up and down Will’s back. 

“He just wanted you.” She murmured finally. The sun was about to dip below the horizon, a soft orange light washing over the room, making the moment feel even cozier. You were fighting sleep yourself when Alexia spoke, but you turned your head slightly, confused. “When he got hurt. He just wanted you. All the way from the playground back here, he just wanted you, amor.” 

You weren’t really sure what to do with that, or what her point was. It made you feel better, at least, that Will had wanted you, not that you were happy he’d gotten hurt. But you didn’t understand what Alexia was trying to get you to see, especially because you hadn’t your insecurities with her. 

She seemed to sense your confusion, kissing your temple gently. “He loves you. You are so important to him, and you are doing a great job. You must be, if he relies on you so much, no? When he was hurt and scared, he wanted you to make him feel safe. He needs you.” 

You felt a tear slide down your cheek as you took in her words, letting your head fall back onto her shoulder. Alexia could read you like a book, and you shouldn’t have been surprised to know that she’d known what was going on in your head all along. That’s what made her such a perfect partner to do this with, you supposed. Will loved her, yes. But she loved you, too, and she always knew what you needed to hear. 

“Thank you.” You whispered back finally. It was stark, the contrast between how you’d felt before Will and Ale had arrived home to now. With Will soundly asleep in your arms, and Alexia holding you close to her, everything felt less overwhelming. 

Laying there, watching the sun set over the city, everything felt an inch easier. Step by step, Alexia had said that the day you brought Will home. One day at a time. With your family.

—

:) have a few more thoughts for this series but i'd love to hear whatever you're thinking. i hope you enjoyed 🫶🏻

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

He takes you on a trip...

The moment you stepped out of the vehicle and into the dense forest, you already knew this was going to be a disaster. The damp earth, the looming trees, the distant sounds of God-knows-what skittering through the underbrush—it all set your nerves on edge.

You crossed your arms, glaring at Simon, who stood beside you, looking completely at ease. His gear was strapped perfectly, his stance relaxed. This was his world. Not yours.

"Tell me again," you grumbled, "why am I here?"

"Team bonding, love," Simon said smoothly, adjusting his backpack. His mask was pulled up just enough for you to see the smirk playing on his lips. "Figured you'd enjoy a little adventure."

"Simon, I hate camping," you reminded him, swatting at a mosquito that dared to get close. "And I hate everything that lives out here. The second I see a spider, I'm done."

He chuckled, clearly entertained by your misery. "Oh, you're adorable when you're grumpy."

You shot him a glare, but it only made his smirk widen. He handed you a small backpack. "C'mon, we’ve got ground to cover before nightfall."

You groaned but followed him, reluctantly weaving through the trees. Every snapped twig made you flinch, every shadow between the trees made your mind conjure up the worst possibilities. Simon, on the other hand, was completely in his element.

After what felt like forever, you finally reached the so-called "campsite"—which, to your horror, was just an empty clearing with no actual shelter.

"Where’s the cabin?" you asked, dread pooling in your stomach.

Simon arched a brow. "Cabin?"

"Yes, cabin. Y'know, four walls, a roof, a door to keep nature outside?"

He shook his head, amused. "You really think I’d bring you all the way out here for that?"

You threw your hands up. "I thought 'survival training' meant, like... learning cool skills. Not suffering in the wilderness overnight!"

Simon laughed, setting down his bag and beginning to set up camp. "This is learning cool skills. And suffering builds character."

You huffed and plopped down onto a nearby log, arms crossed.

"Aw, don’t pout," he teased, coming up behind you. His hands rested on your shoulders, thumbs kneading the tense muscles there. "You’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you."

You wanted to be mad, but damn it, he was warm, solid, and now his lips were brushing the side of your neck.

"That won’t work on me," you muttered, but you didn’t push him away.

"No?" His voice dropped, rough and teasing. "Not even if I do this?"

He nipped at your earlobe, hands slowly sliding down your arms, his breath hot against your skin. Your body betrayed you, a small shiver running down your spine.

You sighed. "You're so annoying."

"But you love it," he murmured, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw.

Your frustration at the whole situation was starting to melt, replaced by a different kind of heat. You turned in his arms, meeting his gaze—dark, knowing, and full of mischief.

"You’re gonna have to make this trip very worth it, Riley," you murmured, gripping the front of his vest and pulling him closer.

He chuckled, his lips hovering just above yours. "Oh, love, you have no idea."

Simon’s lips brushed against yours, teasing, barely touching, making you chase after him. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing—dangling relief in front of you just to pull away at the last second.

“You’re still mad at me?” he murmured, voice low, rumbling in his chest.

You narrowed your eyes. “Furious.”

“Mm.” His hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “That’s a shame… Thought you’d be grateful I brought you out here. Just you, me, and all this privacy.”

You huffed, your fingers gripping the straps of his tactical vest. “Privacy for what, exactly? Freezing our asses off in the dirt?”

Simon chuckled, that deep, gravelly sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Well, I was thinking something a little warmer.” His hands slipped lower, fingertips grazing the curve of your hips. “Something to keep your mind off all the creepy crawlies you hate so much.”

Your pulse quickened. Even with the cool evening air settling in, his body was hot against yours, solid, unmovable. He had that look in his eyes—the one that told you he was enjoying every second of this game.

You licked your lips, eyes flicking to his. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”

Simon smirked. In a swift motion, he hooked an arm under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, making you squeak in surprise.

“Simon!”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence as he carried you toward the tent he’d just set up. “Can’t have my girl sitting out in the cold, can I?”

He stepped inside, setting you down onto the sleeping bag with an ease that had no right to be that attractive. The tent was just big enough for the two of you, the space close, intimate.

You looked up at him, your breath catching as he shrugged off his vest and unzipped his jacket, revealing the black shirt underneath that clung to his broad chest. His mask was still in place, but his eyes - dark, hungry - never left yours.

Then, slowly, he knelt between your legs.

Your heart pounded. “You’re really trying to make me forget how much I hate camping, aren’t you?”

Simon smirked. “That depends.” His hands slid up your thighs, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Is it working?”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling low in your belly.

“…Maybe.”

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours, teasing you once more.

“Good,” he murmured, voice rough. “Because I plan on keeping you very occupied all night, love.”

The night had been hot in more ways than one, and despite your initial hatred for camping, Simon had done a damn good job making you forget where you were. His touch, his voice, the way he took his time breaking you down under him - all of it had left you breathless, tangled in each other until exhaustion finally claimed you both.

Now, as morning broke, the tent was bathed in soft, golden light. You stirred first, the crisp morning air slipping through the small opening in the tent, cooling your overheated skin. Simon was still asleep beside you, an arm draped possessively over your waist, his body warm against yours.

Careful not to wake him, you slipped out of the tent, stretching as you took in the view.

And damn, it was beautiful.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the treetops, casting the sky in brilliant shades of orange, pink, and gold. Mist curled along the forest floor, and for the first time since arriving, you actually felt a sense of peace. Maybe - maybe - this whole survival trip wasn’t the worst idea after all.

With a satisfied sigh, you grabbed the small camping stove Simon had packed and started making coffee, the rich scent filling the crisp air. You wrapped your hands around the warm mug, enjoying the view, letting yourself bask in the peaceful aftermath of last night.

And then.

Something moved.

You felt it before you saw it - a slight rustling near your feet. A shadow skittering at the edge of your vision.

You froze.

Slowly, your eyes flicked downward.

There, just inches from your bare feet, was an enormous, hairy-legged spawn of Satan itself - a spider the size of your goddamn palm.

You screamed.

The coffee mug hit the ground with a thud as you launched yourself backward, scrambling toward the tent. “*SIMON!*”

A second later, the tent flap whipped open, and a very bare Simon burst out, looking every bit like a man ready to murder someone. His knife was already in his hand, his sleep-roughened voice sharp. “What?! What is it?!”

You pointed frantically at the eight-legged demon scuttling across the dirt. “*THAT!*”

Simon blinked. Then he looked at you. Then back at the spider.

And the bastard laughed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He ran a hand down his face, sighing before moving toward the spider with absolutely no urgency. With a swift flick, he nudged it away with the tip of his boot, sending it skittering back into the woods. “Drama queen.”

Your heart was still pounding. “That thing wanted me dead, Simon.”

He smirked, stepping closer, his bare chest distracting you from your fury. “Nah, think it just wanted your coffee.”

You shoved at him weakly, still shaken. “Not funny.”

Simon only chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. He was warm, solid, and far too smug for your liking. “Thought I wore you out too much to be screaming first thing in the morning.” His lips brushed your ear, teasing. “Nice to know you’ve still got energy, love.”

You huffed but melted into his hold anyway, burying your face in his chest. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get you another coffee before you start crying over bugs again.”

You sighed, letting him guide you back to the fire, already regretting every life decision that led you to this moment.

Camping was officially back on your shit list.

But, damn it… he made it worth it.

[miraclewoozi]

SPECTACLE. -j.ww

in which your new boyfriend, wonwoo, doesn't give a crap about his expensive eyewear.

pairing : wonwoo x fem!reader. content : smut. pwp. tags under the cut. MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT. w/c : 2.7k. notes : yeah i kinda. went insane over this idea. so. bon appetite to you, and also to wonwoo ? i guess.

content + smut tags : established - but new - relationship. making out. FACE SITTING. impact play? (one gentle butt slap). the shenanigans are on a couch if that matters, i don't know. reader is a little shy about doing it. PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything.

Wonwoo looks flushed when he pulls away from where he’s been kissing and nipping at the side of your neck, hair stuck up in every direction thanks to your tugging fingers and your gentle guidance to help him find your sweet spots. His lips are pink and a little plumped. His glasses are steaming up, sitting halfway down the bridge of his nose, and every slightly heavier breath he takes makes his broad chest rise and fall where it’s pressed wholly against yours.

You can’t help yourself from leaning forward into another kiss; he’s completely irresistible. Maybe the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. And while this isn’t really news to you, the dynamic of your relationship with him shifted a month or so ago and you’re still getting used to the privilege of seeing him this close up. 

He’s still adjusting too, if the way he groans directly into your mouth, hands groping harder at the curve of your ass as you shuffle in his lap is anything to judge by. Still learning, still figuring you out. But – and this is how you know what you’re building here might be the real deal – even when it’s clumsy, and when you knock teeth while you’re kissing and burst into slightly pained giggles, or when things accidentally slip out of place while you’re getting steamy… everything Wonwoo does makes your spine tingle. Makes your stomach flip. Makes your core throb. 

Even when it doesn’t always work? It makes sense, and it’s perfect, and losing yourself in the way his lips caress and worship yours is so damn easy when he murmurs your praises just for letting him do this in the first place.

“Will you do something for me?” He asks after a small forever, pulling back just far enough that he's not breathing up your nose. His hands have made their way under your – his – hoodie now and he’s grazing his fingers over your ribs, tickling enough to make you whimper, not enough for you to want to swat him away.

You think you’d give him the world if he asked for it in that deep, rough voice he adopts when things start heading in this direction. The moon too. Shit, if you could get a lasso around the sun and bring it closer to keep him warm, you’d do that as well. So, whatever his little request is now, you know you’re going to agree; resting your hands on his shoulders (finally leaving his gorgeous hair alone), you lean back from him and nod your head.

“Anything,” you say. You’re certain that you feel his cock twitch in his sweatpants where it’s pressed against the inside of your thigh, but you’re not quite sure why. 

It makes you feel hot, though. More-so when he bites back a grin, lips curling in that adorable way. It feels greatly unfair that you can’t swoop down right this second to kiss him again, and again, and again; as painful as it is though, you do exercise enough grace to wait for him to come out with it.

“Get up,” he says softly, dropping his hands down your sides and squeezing at your hips once. 

You do as he asks and move off his lap, sitting on the other side of the couch; he doesn’t say anything else as he stands up himself, pulls his hoodie off over his head and tosses it to one side before sinking all the way down to the floor. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t see you. He shuffles into place with his back against the edge of the seat and only once he’s comfortable does he turn to look at you over one shoulder, grinning brilliantly.

“Okay,” he says, bending his knees and planting his heels into the floor. “Come here.”

You stand up off the cushions now and look down at him for a second, wondering what on Earth is going through his mind, but you know better than to start questioning his strange ideas. Especially when he’s in this sort of a mood. You step over him, one foot either side of his hips, and start to drop down too, but he puts a hand on each of your knees and stops you before you’re in his lap once again.

“No,” Wonwoo says, shaking his head. His hands then make their way to the backs of your thighs and he pushes forwards, trying to guide you where he wants you. Your knees bend of their own accord and press against the couch on both sides of his head. “Like this.”

You don’t exactly freeze up, but it is as if you forget how to control all of your muscles for a second. The ones in your legs seem to turn to jelly and you know it’s only because the sofa is currently taking a portion of your weight that you don’t buckle completely and fall onto the top of his head. The ones in your face give you a slack-jawed, wide-eyed, unblinking expression. 

Your abdominal muscles tighten and your cunt flutters at what you’re sure he’s trying to suggest, the rush of wetness you feel only worsened by the intensity in his eyes as he tips his head back and looks at you.

“Please?” He asks, all sweet but deep and rough at the same time. 

“Are you s–?” You start to ask. 

Wonwoo clicks his tongue at you and tries to encourage you further onto the couch to prove his point. “Yes,” he says, nodding eagerly. 

And then, just so you really can’t mistake what he's asking for–

“I want you to sit on my face.”

Your entire body heats up at how bluntly he says it. You squeeze your eyes shut and bite the inside of your cheek so that you don’t accidentally laugh with the nerves already trying to burst out of your tummy. 

It’s not that you don’t want to. If you had a penny for every time you’d thought about him giving himself up for your pleasure this way, you’d be rich. You do. You’re going a little crazy just imagining how good it’s going to feel. 

It’s just that him being so bold about it has you feeling shy, and that’s never happened to you before. You’re at a loss. You’re totally stumped.

When you open your eyes again and look down at him, Wonwoo is just as earnest and hungry for you as he was a few seconds ago. If anything, it’s as if he wants it more. It’s without a doubt the hottest thing you’ve ever seen and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re nodding at him; his fingers start to drag up and down the backs of your thighs happily, before they hook under the waistband of your shorts and gently make that first little pull.

“If you don’t like it, we can stop,” he says to you, only pulling them all the way down when you start to help him. They get tossed over to the side to join his hoodie after you step out of them. His eyes glance to the panties you’re wearing – the last barrier, the final thing keeping him from what he’s so desperate for – before he looks back at your face and flashes you a smile. “Just tell me, okay?”

“It’s not that,” you laugh softly, taking off your own jumper and throwing it onto the pile. Wonwoo groans at the sight of you; you roll your eyes at him. “You just… took me by surprise.”

“Good,” he sighs, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and letting you settle onto your knees in position over his mouth, pressing his fingers into the top of your thigh. 

The first soft press of his lips over your panties makes you gasp and you hold a little tighter onto the back cushions as you look down at him. His eyes are closed already as he breathes your heady scent in, deep enough to hopefully stain his lungs, enough that he’ll never get rid of it, that he’ll be able to carry you everywhere he goes. 

But Wonwoo’s closed eyes aren’t the only thing you notice between your thighs and a soft laugh replaces the pleased sounds already spilling from your lips. One hand drops down to where he's settled and your fingers brush against his temple as they try to pinch at one side of his glasses. He looks affronted when he catches your gaze.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, gently moving your hand away. 

You tilt your head at him. “Your glasses,” you prompt, moving to reach for them again. His fingers curl around your wrist and he shoves your hand into his hair instead, rubbing the tip of his nose against the inside of your thigh.

“I want to keep them on,” he tells you.

“What if they break?”

“Don’t care,” he hums, kissing his way back towards your covered pussy. “I’ll buy a new pair. I just wanna see you.”

You swallow at this and decide that you’re definitely not going to try and change his mind, instead choosing to tilt your head back and let his skilled tongue work you up through your underwear. It’s a mess of arousal and spit and they’re soaked, translucent, clinging to you by the time he’s frustrated with them; frankly, so are you, and it's a relief when he concludes that enough is enough.

“Baby,” he groans as he pulls your underwear to one side and has to crane his neck up to lick the flat of his tongue in a stripe up your slit. You whine, the cool air and his hot breaths a menacing mix of sensations, but you don’t have the sense to respond; one soft slap of his hand against your ass makes you look back down at him, though, and you’re met with dark eyes, flushed cheeks and a practically frenzied Wonwoo in the space between your hips. Your sweet, softly spoken boyfriend is nowhere to be found.

“I said, sit.”

His strong arm tugs you down and your knees slide against the cushions, bringing your pussy even closer to his face, literally forcing you to rest against his lips. He chuckles triumphantly and buries his tongue between your folds, tasting you so much more legitimately than before. The way he loves – straight from the source, the spring. You feel him prod at your hole and your walls clench around what he gives you – barely just the tip, but it’s enough to have you reeling already, and when his other arm hooks around your other thigh, when he starts to move you back and forth, you take very little convincing to start to rock your hips down against him on your own.

“Oh,” you whimper as his lips seal around your clit and he sucks at it once, giving a few experimental flicks of his tongue at the same time. The hand in his hair tightens immediately and Wonwoo groans with you still in his mouth, sending delicious vibrations through your sensitive nerves and making you gush onto his chin. 

“So fucking pretty like this,” he tells you, stroking his thumb over your waist. “Might be my new favourite view.”

He keeps lapping at you teasingly, testing circles and sideways motions, precise swipes, long drags; every subtle change as he tries to find what makes you scream in this position draws a different sound from your throat. He tenses the muscle and fucks your dribbling hole with it while encouraging you to move enough forward that his nose bumps against your clit with every jerky rock of your hips. You’re grinding faster, now, pressing down against his mouth harder, caring less by the second about whether his glasses are actually going to break in two. Besides, the way he drinks you down tells you that he could do this for a week straight without getting tired; he doesn’t want you to stop, or slow down, or ease up. He wants more. And if you’re too shy to give it to him, he’ll just take, take, take.

“Just– oh, fuck,” you gasp as his tongue finds your clit again and he laps at it with so much zeal that he could rival your favourite vibrator. “Just like that–”

Both of his hands grasp you tighter, squeezing and massaging and kneading at your soft skin as you chase your high on his pretty face. His eyes are tightly closed in his own rapture, and you hope that he won’t blame you for wanting him to open them; your hand pulls harshly at his hair again, hard enough to make him cringe, enough to make him stop for just a second before he sees how wound-up you look. You try to pull off from him a little, at least enough for him to catch a couple of breaths, but Wonwoo captures your pussy between his lips before you even hear him inhale.

“You– you wanted to s—see me,” you stutter out as the fire starts to catch and you feel warmth and ecstasy start to build at your core. “Fuck– ah–”

So he does. With big, hungry eyes, Wonwoo watches as you hurtle towards oblivion, as you writhe and squirm and grind down against his ardent mouth.

He sends you crashing over the edge with a wet sob, your own eyes closing now as you see stars in the darkness and ride your high out on his still-moving tongue. There are tears on your cheeks before you can do anything about it. Your walls spasm around nothing. He barely slows, taking back enough pressure so that your pleasure doesn’t turn to pain. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t even blink until you’re out the other side of your climax, though.

When your pants start to die down and you’re twitching to get away from him, so sensitive that even his tiny kisses make you shudder, Wonwoo drops his head back down to the pillows and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. You don’t have the strength to move yet, still reeling, still too floaty to try for any level of coordination, but he doesn’t mind. Your swollen, glistening pussy right over his face is something he'd pay millions to see.

“Didn’t even break the glasses,” you laugh weakly once your voice decides to come back to you. 

“Mm,” Wonwoo hums, sliding them off his nose and inspecting them. He ‘tsk’s before putting them back on. They’re steamed at the edges and a little smeary now, and he surely can’t actually see that clearly through them. He obviously doesn’t care. “That’s not good enough.”

“Huh?” you ask, moving carefully so as not to plant your knee into his jaw but still trying to bring your legs together so that you can sit to one side. He isn't having it, though, and slowly shuffles up onto his knees, turns around to face you and lays his fingers on one of your ankles, wasting no time in trying to pry your legs apart again.

“That’s. Not. Good. Enough,” he repeats, using his other hand to palm himself over the fabric of his sweatpants. The tent in them would be comical if it weren’t for the animalistic look in his eyes; there’s nothing laughable about the way he’s looking at you right now, though.

“So what are we gonna do about it?” You ask, opening back up for him and not hiding how you stare as he rips his shirt off over his head. Then, he slides his fingertips up the inside of your calf, to your knee, down your thigh… he drags them over the lips of your pussy and collects a little of your slick on them before bringing his hand to his lips and sucking it clean.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he tells you, groaning at your sweet taste as if he wasn’t just drowning in it a minute and a half ago. He lowers himself until he's once more level with your cunt and guides both of your legs over his shoulders, smirking up at your expectant face. “Maybe try to squeeze your thighs a little more this time. See if that does the trick.”

thank you so much for reading!! i hope u enjoyed this hehe. as always, likes, reblogs, replies, feedback and asks are always super appreciated.<3

[girl-celestial]

The Governess

PART I OF III

ARTHUR MORGAN X FEMALE READER, eventual smut. 2k+ words. mdni

content warnings: eventual smut. period-accurate class divide, period-accurate attitudes, emotional dependency, possessive language

READ IT ALL ON AO3

The Braithwaites hired a quiet little governess. Arthur wasn’t meant to notice her, but he did. Now every trip to the manor pulls him in deeper, past duty and reason, toward something he knows he can’t have.

THE horse’s hooves thudded low and heavy against the damp dirt path, muffled by Spanish moss and morning mist. Arthur adjusted his hat against the sun rising lazy over the swamplands, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and something sweeter—magnolia, maybe. Or rot. It was the kind of smell that lingered.

The Braithwaite place loomed in the distance, its white columns catching the light. Grand, in the way old money always was—too proud to die, too mean to fade. Arthur had been sent to talk, or threaten, or flatter. Dutch hadn’t exactly said which. And maybe it didn’t matter. Talking down here was always just a slower way of aiming a gun.

He rolled a cigarette with one hand as he rode, eyes scanning the tree line, senses prickling despite the stillness. Gang business, sure, but down here, everything felt like it could turn to blood real quick. He was only meant to ride in, say what Dutch needed said, and get out before the swamp air stuck to his lungs. Arthur had never liked the Braithwaite place—too quiet, too proud, too wrapped up in old money and the ghosts it bred.

But as his horse clopped down the gravel path toward the manor, something off to the side pulled his attention.

You.

You weren’t dressed like them—none of the silk or shine the Braithwaite women liked to hide behind. Just a soft-colored dress, worn at the edges, clinging a little from the morning damp. Your hair wasn’t fussed over either, half-pinned and tugged loose by the breeze. But somehow, that made you stand out more. You were real. You breathed like the rest of the world.

You were with the children, standing apart from them but watching with a distant kind of care. Not a mother, not a servant. Something in between. There was something calm in your posture, practiced, like you'd learned long ago how to go unnoticed. Arthur didn’t know who you were, but he could already tell you didn’t belong here any more than he did.

A strange kind of curiosity flickered in his chest. Not the usual kind he had for a stranger. This was quieter. Like something about you was already pulling on a part of him he didn’t let many people touch.

You looked up and saw him.

Your heart gave the smallest flutter when your eyes met his. You hadn’t even realized someone was approaching, not until the shift in the wind seemed to announce him. He didn’t look like a man from the manor either—worn coat, rough hands, that slow, steady weight in his gaze. You didn’t know who he was, but the way he looked at you made the world go quiet for just a second.

He tipped his hat, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, you smiled.

Not wide—just a small, careful curve of your lips. A little polite. A little uncertain. A little curious. You didn’t smile much around here. Certainly not to strangers. But something about him didn’t feel dangerous. Or maybe it did, but not to you.

And then he rode on.

You turned back to the children, but your thoughts didn’t quite follow. Not right away.

—

Arthur didn’t care for the way the man spoke—all slow words and sugar-coating around threats. It was the kind of voice that made you feel like something was crawling up your spine. The Braithwaites were always dressed in civility, but you didn’t have to dig far to find the rot. Moonshine was the word that kept coming up—moving it, protecting it, selling it where it didn’t belong. Dutch wanted in. The Braithwaites wanted leverage. Arthur wanted out of the house.

And maybe—though he wouldn’t say it aloud—he wanted to see you again.

The meeting dragged on. Arthur didn’t sit. He barely spoke. Just listened and nodded where needed, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he was counting exits. Eventually, the cousin poured himself another drink and waved toward the hallway. “We’ll send word when we’ve decided. I’m sure Dutch is used to waiting.”

Arthur tipped his hat without smiling. “He ain’t.”

As he stepped out into the hallway, the air shifted.

He heard your voice before he saw you—soft, low, just outside the parlor door. Not sweet in that practiced way rich women spoke, but steady. Real. Like you didn’t have to try to be kind.

Then you stepped into view, half-bent as you guided one of the children forward by the shoulder, murmuring something about wiping their face before they bothered Miss Catherine. You looked up, and there he was—standing in the hallway like he'd been waiting for something, even if he didn’t know what.

Your breath caught.

His presence filled the space in that quiet, undeniable way. He didn’t speak right away—just met your eyes and gave you a look that felt different this time. Like he recognized you now. Like he saw something in you that went deeper than before.

And you felt it too.

You’d only caught a glimpse of him before, just long enough to wonder. But now, standing this close, you saw the rough hands, the tired eyes, the way his gaze softened for a fraction of a second when it settled on you.

"Ma'am," he said, quiet.

You swallowed. "You're not one of them."

It slipped out before you meant it to. And for a second, you were sure you’d overstepped—that he'd frown or walk away or remind you where you stood in this house.

But Arthur just huffed a breath through his nose—something like a laugh. He looked past you for a second, then back again, meeting your eyes in that steady way that had already stayed with you longer than it should have.

"Neither are you."

The words hit softer than you expected—not an accusation, not a question. Just fact.

Your breath caught again, held for a moment you didn’t know how to name. He saw it in you. That edge, that loneliness. The way you lived here without ever quite being part of it.

“No,” you said. “I’m not.”

Your voice was calm, but there was something under it—a quiet confession neither of you needed to name.

Arthur looked past you for a beat, then back again. "Didn't think so. You don’t wear the place like they do."

You gave a small smile. “Meaning what?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You ain’t dressed up in diamonds and spite.”

That pulled a quiet laugh out of you. The first real one in days. "Well. I do my best."

His mouth curved just slightly, like he was letting himself enjoy the sound. You hesitated, glancing down the hall where the children had gone. You should’ve followed. But you stayed.

“You here for something bad?” you asked, voice soft but steady.

Arthur met your eyes, and for a second he didn’t answer. Then, honest as it came: “Maybe. Ain’t sure yet.”

You nodded like you understood. Even if you didn’t.

“I should go,” you said, though neither of you moved.

He nodded once. “I won’t keep you.”

But you lingered. Just a second longer.

“You got a name?” you asked, before turning.

“Arthur.”

You gave a quiet nod, tucking his name somewhere inside you like it meant something already.

And then, because it felt like you had to say it—or maybe because it felt too easy not to—you said, “Don’t let this place ruin you.”

Arthur’s brows lifted a little, but he didn’t laugh this time. “I’ll try not to.”

You walked away first.

He watched until you were gone.

—

Over the next few days, Arthur rode in and out of Braithwaite Manor more often than he needed to.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Dutch’s dealings with the family were dragging out—more talk of moonshine, hidden routes, old favors nobody wanted to say out loud. Arthur wasn’t one for drawn-out conversations, but he kept showing up. Said it was business. Said it was about keeping things smooth.

But the truth was quieter, simpler.

He kept coming back because of you.

It didn’t start as anything. Just a glance. A look exchanged in a quiet hallway. A conversation that stuck longer than it should have. But after that, you were the first thing he looked for every time his boots hit the front steps.

He didn’t talk to you every time. Sometimes all he got was a glance. Sometimes nothing. But he watched for you all the same.

And when he saw you—just a flicker of a dress, or a whisper of your voice in the corridor—he stayed longer than he had to.

He told himself he was being careful. That the Braithwaites were snakes and he needed to know the lay of the land.

But deep down, he knew better.

You were the reason.

The sky had slipped into the soft blues and purples of evening, the air cooling but still thick with the day’s heat. Lanterns glowed at the corners of the manor, flickering gently like the house was holding its breath.

You stepped out alone, book in hand, your shoes quiet against the stone. The children were tucked in, the halls momentarily still. You hadn’t expected to see anyone.

But he was there.

Arthur Morgan, leaning just beside the steps near the carriage rail, his coat dusted from the road, hat low over his brow. The porch light lit the edges of him, sharp cheekbones catching the gold. He looked more like something pulled from a story than a man standing on your side of the house.

You stopped, before you even thought about it.

“You keep showin’ up,” you said, tone lighter than your chest felt.

Arthur lifted his gaze, slow and deliberate. “Maybe I like the company.”

You tilted your head, skeptical but not unfriendly. “Pretty bold thing to say to someone who hasn’t even told you her name.”

That smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—crooked, faint, but real.

“Don’t need a name to know you’re the only person around here worth lookin’ at.”

Your breath hitched. It was too honest, too unguarded, and it rattled something deep in your ribs. You opened your mouth—to scold, maybe, or smile, or walk away—but then he stepped forward.

He didn’t crowd you. But he reached out, and before you could react, his hand wrapped gently around your arm. He tugged—not hard, just enough to draw you closer. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the tension in the air.

He didn’t touch beyond that. Didn’t need to.

“I see you, you know,” he murmured. “You act like you’re just part of the house, like you’re meant to blend in. But you don’t. You walk different. Hold yourself different. And none of them even notice.”

You froze, breath catching in your throat. His eyes lingered on you—steady, focused. His voice was low enough to feel more than hear.

“You work too hard,” he added, softer. “Bet no one tells you that.”

Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your eyes flicked up to his, and your voice came out quieter than you expected. “You don’t talk like the others.”

Arthur smiled again, but slower this time, like he wasn’t used to hearing that. “That a good thing?”

You were just about to answer—something dry, something teasing—when the voice came from behind.

“Miss.”

Your entire body tensed.

Arthur’s hand dropped at once, but it didn’t matter. The moment was already over.

Mr. Braithwaite stood a few steps behind, posture iron-straight, his face unreadable in the dark—except for his eyes, which burned cold.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

“Inside,” he muttered. “Before you ruin what little place you’ve made for yourself here.”

You froze, shame flashing hot across your skin—not because you believed him, but because Arthur was still standing there, hearing every word. And because it was said like a warning, not just to you, but about you.

Arthur didn’t speak. His face was still, but his gaze hadn’t moved from yours.

“She wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong,” he said eventually, voice low.

Braithwaite’s tone didn’t change. “She was doing enough.”

You turned before he could say more, before Arthur could, too. You didn’t want to give either of them the chance to see what you were feeling.

But inside the house, up the steps, and behind your closed door—that place you were so close to ruining—you still felt the ghost of his fingers against your skin.

And for the first time in a long while, you wondered if losing your place might be worth it.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

"You make me so angry sometimes. And you make me love you all the time." Frankie Morales

Angry Confessions ❤️‍😠

bio : this story is part of the Angry Confessions series (you can still be a part of it)

requested by : anon , thank you!

warnings: going to a bar, beer, one pushy guy, nervous reaction, argument

That guy at the bar shouldn't have been staring at you like that. From the very beginning, when you walked in there in that dress of yours that showed off all your curves, his eyes were glued to you. Frankie could see it perfectly and that was what pissed him off the most, because he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

You were his friend, very close, and this was your traditional go-to bar for a few beers. Nothing more than beer, music, a little flirting - everything within reason.

Frankie loved these evenings, although he felt like he had an emotional hangover afterwards. You'd known each other for a long time. Ups and downs, good days and bad. "You should marry a woman like that." Santi had told him that once when you were at his barbecue. He was probably right, but what if Morales didn't have an ounce of courage to finally go on a real date with you.

And now this guy. 

He was slippery and Frankie absolutely didn't trust him. And even though he tried to keep an eye on you the entire time, he eventually had to leave his post and go to the bathroom. The guy took advantage of that. 

He appeared next to you almost silently, took Frankie's place and immediately ordered you a drink. He couldn't have been very observant, because he certainly didn't notice the discouragement on your face, but you didn't say anything anyway.

You quickly learned that his name was Brad and that he was a car dealer. Brad complimented your outfit and appearance, cracked a few jokes, and his hand fell casually on the armrest behind you.

A moment later the music changed and Brad asked you to dance, at which point Frankie found you. He stopped in his tracks. Hands were on your hips, someone was whispering something in your ear, and you even smiled. Frankie felt anger rising inside him.

In an instant, he appeared next to you and brutally slapped the man's hands away from your body, then grabbed your arm, said a dry "We're leaving," and pulled you towards the exit. At the last moment, you grabbed your bag.

The cold air didn’t help him at all as he headed towards his pickup truck, and he didn’t look at you until he opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said dryly.

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow. He leaned against the door, adjusting his baseball cap with his other hand. “No?” he repeated after you.

You folded your arms across your chest and glared at him defiantly. “No. I’m not getting in until you tell me what that even meant.”

You saw Frankie’s brown eyes darken and he tensed, but you refused to give in. Brad might not be the dream come true, but you weren’t going to marry him, you were just dancing.

“That guy’s been staring at you since the beginning.” Frankie finally snapped. “Since you walked in.”

“So what? That’s wrong?”

He snorted. “Is that why you wore that dress? So all the guys would stare at you and drool? Fuck! Do you… Do you even know what his intentions were?”

You looked at him as if you were seeing him for the first time in your life. “You’re going in the wrong direction, Francisco.” You said warningly, pointing your finger at him. “I didn’t think you’d think that about me. I can wear whatever I want, and besides, you told me today that you liked my dress.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point!”

“What’s the point then?!” You raised your voice too. “I don’t have a boyfriend! I can meet someone, right?”

“What do you know about him?”

“His name is Brad and he sells cars.” You answered honestly.

“Brad? Brad?!” Frankie burst out laughing. "What kind of name is that?!"

You stepped closer and nudged him in the broad chest. "I want to remind you that your friends call you Catfish."

You glared at each other. You were sure that Frankie would slam the door and leave you alone in this parking lot, or push you inside. He was bigger than you and would do it without much problem.

You finally pulled away and took a deep breath. "What's wrong with you?" you asked. "Sometimes you act weird and I don't know what to think about it. Am I doing something wrong?"

It was only after a long moment that he shook his head. "No, it's not like that."

"So tell me what's going on?"

He took a deep breath. You were sure Frankie was about to explode again, and that after this exchange, there’d be nothing left to salvage from your relationship. But when he opened his mouth, what you heard surprised you.

“Sometimes you piss me off so much. And you make me love you all the time. Like, all the time,” he blurted out. “The way you ruffle my hair, the way you steal my shirts and then they end up smelling like you… The way you argue so hard to get your way, even over the dumbest things—and then it turns out I was right. You drive me crazy because… I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. And when I saw you with that guy, I got mad because… that was our night. And I really love our nights.”

You were silent. His words hit you so hard that you couldn't say a word. You sucked in a breath, trying to hold back your tears.

"That explains a lot," you said with great difficulty. "That really explains a lot..."

You didn't say anything else. Frankie lost his strength, as if this confession had completely exhausted him. He knew he had fucked up. How could you look at him the way you used to after everything? Nothing could take those words back, and he really wanted to do that.

"Frankie..." your quiet voice tore him from his thoughts, he looked at you uncertainly. "You can't talk to me like that and expect that..."

"I don't expect anything, hermosa," he interrupted you. "A woman like you could never be with a guy like me."

You frowned. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Look at yourself, then at me. We can be friends, but nothing more. Although I think that won't work out for us now..."

"Jesus, Francisco!" you groaned. “Shut up!”

You walked up to him so fast that he stumbled back and hit his back against the car as your body pressed against his. A warm hand grabbed his neck and the other tangled in his hair, pulling his face to yours. You kissed him hard, almost painfully. But when Frankie grabbed you hard around the waist, you knew - you weren’t wrong. He kissed you back with such passion that his hat fell off his head. But it didn’t matter, it was just you, your lips, your closeness.

“Sometimes you’re a complete idiot, Morales.” You mumbled.

“But your idiot, right?”

“Only mine.”

[itsreallynotriri]

A regulus x chubby ravenclaw reader female x serverus Snape story please

Hidden in plain sight

Y/N has always struggled with insecurity, convinced that someone like Regulus Black could never notice her. Little does she know, he hasn’t stopped talking about her for weeks.

requested by misskity1912-blog

Regulus Black x Chubby Fem! reader

words: 944

warning: mentions of insecurity

note: I'm not familiar with Severus so it will take some time before I can start writing about him <3

masterlist, regulus masterlist

Y/N stood in front of the mirror in her dormitory, adjusting the hem of her robes as she stared at her reflection. Her hands unconsciously smoothed over the fabric, trying to hide the curves she had never quite learned to love. No matter how often she wanted to remind herself that beauty wasn’t defined by a single body type, the lingering insecurities whispered otherwise.

She turned slightly, frowning at her side profile. She envied the girls who seemed effortlessly graceful, the ones whose uniforms fit just right, whose confidence seemed so natural. She pulled at the fabric of her robes as if that would somehow change the way she looked, but nothing ever did. With a quiet sigh, she let her hands drop and turned away from the mirror, shaking off the nagging thoughts. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like anyone was paying attention to her, least of all Regulus Black.

Still, as she made her way down to the Great Hall, her heart clenched at the thought of him, impossibly elegant and untouchable.

Y/N sat at the Ravenclaw table, absently poking at her breakfast as she half-listened to her housemates discussing their plans for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. It wasn’t as if she had any plans of her own—she rarely did. While she loved the idea of going, wandering through the cobbled streets with someone special, she knew that particular dream was unattainable.

Because that someone special was Regulus Black.

And Regulus Black was impossibly out of reach.

She had harbored a deep, quiet crush on the Slytherin for years. He was everything she was not—elegant, poised, respected. Meanwhile, she was the chubby Ravenclaw who kept to herself, more at home in the library than at social gatherings. She was always hyperaware of her appearance, tugging at the edges of her robes or crossing her arms over her stomach, trying to take up less space. The idea of him ever noticing her was laughable, and yet, she couldn’t stop herself from stealing glances at him across the Great Hall, allowing her mind to entertain impossible daydreams.

Little did she know that, at that very moment, Regulus Black was sitting at the Slytherin table, going on and on about her.

“She’s brilliant,” Regulus said, absently twirling his spoon in his porridge. “I saw her answering Slughorn’s question yesterday before he even finished asking it. And she was right. Of course, she was right. She always is.”

Barty groaned, dropping his head onto the table. “Merlin, not again.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “You’ve been talking about Y/N for weeks. Either do something about it or shut up.”

Pandora, always the most patient of the group, smiled encouragingly. “You should ask her to Hogsmeade, Regulus. She doesn’t seem to have any plans.”

Regulus hesitated, suddenly feeling very exposed. “She wouldn’t say yes.”

“How would you know?” Evan asked, exasperated. “It’s not like you’ve tried.”

“She’s never shown any interest in me,” Regulus admitted, suddenly feeling foolish for all the time he’d spent admiring her from a distance. “She’s intelligent, kind, beautiful—why would she waste her time on me?”

Barty nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. “You are Regulus Black. You have people practically lining up for the chance to go to Hogsmeade with you. Stop being an idiot and just ask her.”

Regulus pursed his lips. The idea of being rejected by Y/N was enough to make his stomach twist, but his friends’ words lingered in his mind. Maybe… maybe they were right.

Y/N sat alone in the courtyard, bundled in her robes as she read a book, the crisp autumn air nipping at her cheeks. The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, and most students had already retreated indoors, but she found the quiet comforting. It was easier to exist in the world of books than in reality where she was invisible to the person she liked most.

She was so lost in her reading that she didn’t hear footsteps approaching until a shadow fell over her pages. Glancing up, she nearly dropped her book when she saw Regulus Black standing before her, hands in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.

Her heart leaped into her throat. “Oh. Um—hi?”

Regulus cleared his throat, shifting to his feet. “Hi.”

An awkward silence stretched between them, and Y/N struggled to understand what was happening. Was he lost? Did he need help with something? Had she done something wrong?

“I—” Regulus exhaled sharply, looking more nervous than she’d ever seen him. “Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

Y/N blinked, sure she had misheard him. “What?”

Regulus’ jaw tightened as if he were bracing for impact. “Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me?”

Her mind reeled. This had to be a joke, some kind of cruel prank. There was no way he—Regulus Black—was asking her out. Her stomach twisted with familiar self-doubt.

“Me?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you sure?”

Regulus frowned slightly. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “I just… I don’t really seem like your type.”

Regulus’ gaze softened as he took a step closer. “You’re exactly my type.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. “I’d like that.”

Relief washed over Regulus’ face, and for the first time, he allowed himself to truly smile at her. “Good.”

As he walked away, promising to meet her in the entrance hall on Saturday, Y/N watched him go, her heart thudding wildly in her chest.

Maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong about being out of his reach.

[twilightakiishi]

FEED ON MY DESPERATION — C. TAKIISHI

cw: fluff. gn! reader. mention of sex but no sex. implied poly with endochika. synopsis: what romance looks like with takiishi; the first kiss you share and how he's grown fond of you without you really knowing. wc: 1.1k.

chika takiishi takes your breath away in the most mundane of moments. he doesn’t really understand it. 

when you’re standing near him and you catch a glimpse of the way the light reflects off his cheekbone and the curve of his upper lip, you get a quick side eye from him. he huffs under your stare that bores into him out of his peripheral. 

you just don’t look away. so he meets your gaze, expectantly. what do you want. 

a smile twitches at the corner of your lips. he’s learned to communicate more softly with you— still in a way that caters to someone who doesn’t care much for speaking, but with a newfound curiosity. it’s his own selfish desire to know why you are intrigued by him. interest is interest, you think. take it or leave it. 

slowly, you lift a hand to his jaw. his eyes follow it carefully, staying locked onto it for a few moments before his brow twitches, unsettling gaze once again falling on yours. 

your eyes flicker between his to gauge his reaction— chika isn’t so used to random displays of affection. it’s surprising that he even allows you to share his space. the last thing you want is to scare him off, and that means doing everything thoughtfully. however, sometimes, in an effort to give him time to adjust to something, you end up being brushed off by his impatience. 

a tense of his jaw and a twitch of his brow, and he’s turning his head, returning his attention to the broken clasp of his earring endo told him to stop touching an hour ago. (he breaks things in his impatience, whether he’s trying or not. it’s the reason it broke and the reason he can’t fix it.)

a lot of your relationship with takiishi is hit or miss. you are learning him as he is learning you. there is bound to be rejection. so you sigh, returning to your side of the couch and picking up your book, as both of you sit in each other’s company. it’s enough. 

the next morning, endo sweeps into the kitchen to say goodbye before heading to the gym. takiishi watches curiously from behind the counter as you reach out to pull endo’s face down to your level, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. you feel eyes burning into you as endo giggles, pulling away to give you a proper kiss. 

takiishi’s eye twitches, unbeknownst to you as he chews his waffle. he notices that the way you held his jaw the afternoon before is the exact way you hold endo now, but you waited much less time to lean in. as soon as endo is out the door, he pipes up. 

“you wanted to kiss me yesterday.”

you turn to face him. “i did.”

“you hesitated.”

“i wasn’t sure you would be comfortable with it.”

he blinks. “we have sex.”

you stifle a laugh. he isn’t intending to make a joke, and it’s all the more amusing to you. 

“yes, but a kiss is a different type of intimacy that i know you aren’t accustomed to. endo craves that kind of attention, so i don’t hesitate with him.”

he stares at you as he takes another bite. you can see the gears turning in his brain as he chews again. you sip your coffee and stare back, leaning against the counter as you wait for his response. it may never come. you know this. 

and then he stands, tendrils of hair swinging as he moves. the light streaming in from the kitchen window sets him aglow, little particles of dust in the air rising like embers around his figure. in two short strides, he’s in front of you, a lock of red and yellow loosely falling over his shoulder as he leans in.

his lips are syrup sweet and enticing, encouraging your tongue to glide over his bottom lip. you don’t see the way his own hand hesitates to come up to your jaw, but it does. with much less gentleness than you, but what matters is that it does. 

takiishi’s been mimicking you, you’ve noticed. in the way that a robot or an alien would collect data, he copies; tries to understand by following your lead before he decides it’s not exactly his style. so his fingertips trail down until his palm wraps around the base of your throat, thumb resting in the dip of your collarbone. you’re warm where his other fingers rest over your pulse, and he squeezes ever so slightly. 

chika’s found that his favorite part of physical affection is the feeling of another being alive. the sound of a beating heart, warm panted breaths, the steady thrum of pulse points scattered around your body. he especially enjoys when he is the source of these bodily responses, but he’s still getting used to you being the cause of them for him. 

he remembers the way it felt the first time his heart beat for you. 

his body betrayed him— gut writhing and skin broken out into goosebumps under a gaze with intensity that could rival his own. 

the day will never come that he’d admit it, and it took months for him to accept what it was. but it’s why he never kicks you out when you show up, lets you sit a few feet away from him while you both do your own thing. it’s why he even seeks you out on days that endo drives him up a wall— your presence is peaceful, comforting, welcomed. 

you’ve communicated so much to him without words, learning the complexities of him day by day. like the way you’re touching him now, the way you’ve discovered he likes— hands gently pressed to his lower back, because he feels caged in with arms around his neck and the distance between your bodies with a hand to his chest irks him. 

you nip at his bottom lip, sweet and sticky, remembering the way he recoiled the first time you ever tried it. the memory of his expression– completely bewildered, defenses up– flashes in your mind, and you can’t help but smile. the two of you have come so far since then; sharing a random kiss in the middle of the kitchen for the first time, partly initiated by chika. 

the thought increases your heart rate, and he notices the instant your breath grows more shallow. his calloused hand moves down to sweep over your chest, stilling at the sensation he’s grown so fond of. takiishi pulls back, taking in the way you pant through parted, glistening lips. 

“just do what you want.” like you always have. his hair covers his face when he turns away, murmuring his own declaration of love, “I don’t mind.”

dividers by cafekitsune ! <3

[weskerslefthand]

can i ask please a wesker x reader, where reader is a long time co-worker of his and suddenly when he finds out she's dating someone he gets MAD to enchant her and make reader his?

all the wesker scenarios in my head are finally coming in handy :P

You had worked alongside Albert Wesker for yearslong enough to understand his cold efficiency, his calculated demeanor, and the way his piercing red gaze seemed to strip away every layer of pretense. He was never one for unnecessary attachments, and you had learned to mirror his professionalism.

At least, that’s what you thought.

But then, something changed.

It started as a simple conversation in the lab, an offhand comment you hadn’t even considered significant.

“I won’t be available this weekend,” you had told him absentmindedly, adjusting your gloves as you examined the latest samples.

His gaze flickered toward you. “Busy?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I have a date.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that thickened the air, suffocating the sterile hum of the lab equipment. You glanced up at him, expecting the usual indifference, but instead, his jaw was set in a way you had never seen before. The fingers of his gloved hand twitched slightly, as if suppressing the urge to crush something in his grasp.

“A date,” he echoed, voice low and deliberate. “And who, may I ask, is this unfortunate individual?”

You raised a brow. “Unfortunate? Wesker, it’s not a crime to have a personal life.”

He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you. “You’re mistaken, dear,” he said smoothly, voice tinged with something almost dangerous. “It is when that personal life involves… distractions.”

You scoffed. “It’s not a distraction. I’m allowed to have a life outside of work.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if barely keeping his patience in check. “And yet, after all these years, you decide now to entangle yourself with someone.”

You frowned. “What are you getting at?”

His gloved hand lifted, just barely grazing your jawline before his fingers traced downward, stopping at the hollow of your throat. A calculated move one that made your pulse stutter.

“I expected better from you,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that you felt the heat of his breath. “From all we’ve built together. And yet, you choose someone… insignificant?”

A shiver ran down your spine. “Why does it bother you so much?”

His lips curved into something unreadable—half smirk, half sneer. “Because I do not share what is mine.”

Your breath caught. His?

Before you could process, he tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils had thinned to slits, the intensity of his crimson irises almost hypnotic.

“I will not let some outsider steal what belongs by my side,” he murmured, voice silky and commanding. “And if you need convincing…” He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “…I will make you see that no one else is worthy of you but me.”

The Next Day

It was subtle at first.

Your boyfriend (bf/n) had called, his usual warm tone edged with unease.

“Hey, something weird happened at work today,” he said. “The security team said my credentials were flagged. They wouldn’t tell me why, just that someone higher up had a ‘concern.’”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s odd…”

“I know, right? And then I got an email saying my application for the research grant was rejected. But it was a guaranteed approval yesterday. It doesn’t make sense.”

You tried to reassure him, but the call left a pit in your stomach.

And then the next day, he canceled your date.

“Sorry, I just things are hectic. I need to sort everything out.”

You knew when someone was making excuses.

Something was wrong.

It didn’t take long to confirm your suspicions.

In the dim lighting of the facility’s underground corridors, you cornered the one person who could make someone disappear without a trace.

“You did something,” you accused, voice low but sharp.

Wesker barely looked up from the report in his hand. “I do many things.”

“(Bf/n).” You stepped closer, glare burning into him. “His security credentials. His research. His job. You’re sabotaging him.”

Now, he did look up. His lips twitched into a smirk, but his eyes were cold. “I merely ensured that a liability was dealt with accordingly.”

“He is not a liability,” you snapped. “He had nothing to do with you!”

His eyes darkened. “You’re mistaken again,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “Everything that concerns you, concerns me.”

Your heart pounded as he closed the space between you, backing you against the cold steel wall of the corridor. He lifted a hand, palm resting flat against the metal beside your head, effectively caging you in.

“You chose to entertain a meaningless dalliance,” he continued, voice rich with condescension. “And I chose to eliminate it.”

Anger flared in your chest. “You don’t get to decide who I”

Gloved fingers traced your cheek, silencing you with a feather-light touch.

“I decide everything,” he corrected, crimson eyes gleaming. “You should have known that by now.”

You swallowed hard, torn between fury and something far more dangerous. His presence was suffocating, intoxicating commanding.

A slow, deliberate smirk spread across his lips.

“You seem tense,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Perhaps I should remedy that.”

You stiffened as his other hand found your wrist, fingers curling around it with calculated ease. Not rough. Not forceful. Just enough pressure to remind you exactly who he was who he had always been.

“You said you had a date this weekend,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I believe you still do.”

Your breath hitched. “Wesker ”

“I insist.”

The finality in his tone sent a chill down your spine.

A date. On his terms.

He stepped back, releasing you from the cage of his arms, though the weight of his presence still lingered.

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said smoothly, turning on his heel. “Wear something… appropriate.”

And just like that, he walked away leaving you breathless, furious, and undeniably ensnared in his game.

[lvnleah]

this is a really long request ess t so feel free to ignore lol

Reader got pregnant young and drunk so has a young daughter and works in a pub. Alessia has been going to pub since joining arsenal bc it’s cozy and near her house and they met. They become close friends (they're in LOVE with each other but are kind of oblivious to eachother), everytime she has a chance Alessia spends time with R and R daughter, always always together, they're basically a married couple with a kid, to the point Alessias lockscreen is a picture of the 3 of them but she never told anyone about the pub and or R and her daughter (who basically grew up with less around, loves her like her other mum) because she wants to protect them. One day the arsenal girls ask her where she always goes, andl she takes them to the pub. At the pub less is nervous and when the girls ask her what is wrong she see a creepy man bothering R, when he touches her she goes mad, shocking everyone including herself when she punches him. Girls are shocked bc they saw sweet Alessia punching someone and they now know about her and R. Team learn more about R and her daughter and after meeting for good reader and daughter and see how they behave, they help Alessia finally confess her feelings. 💗💗

Finding home | Alessia Russo

I truly love this so thank you for the idea anon!

word count: 2.4k | masterlist

You hadn’t expected much when you clocked into your shift at the pub that evening. It was another long night ahead, and the buzz of conversation mingled with the clinking of glasses had already settled into a steady rhythm. At 25, you had your life together—or as together as it could be.

You had Daisy, your bright, energetic 4-year-old daughter, who was your world. You’d gotten pregnant at 21, and while those early days had been overwhelming, you found a way to cope. Between work and raising Daisy, you had a routine, a flow to your days.

Then one night she walked in—Alessia. She caught your attention the second she stepped through the door. You didn’t know who she was at the time. Just another customer. But something about her stood out. Maybe it was the way she smiled, that soft, genuine curve of her lips, or how her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, filled with warmth even though you hadn’t exchanged more than a hello.

“Hi,” she said, leaning on the counter, her voice soft but steady. “I’m new to the area.”

You found yourself smiling back, something about her putting you at ease. “Welcome. What can I get you?”

You didn’t know it then, but that was the start of everything.

Over the next few weeks, Alessia became a regular at the pub. It didn’t take long for the two of you to become close. She’d just moved to the area, having signed with Arsenal, and though she was adjusting to her new life, she always found her way back to the pub. Back to you.

There was something natural about the way you two clicked. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and before long, you were hanging out outside of work. Coffee here, a walk there. Soon, she’d met Daisy, and the bond between the three of you grew quickly. Alessia had a way with Daisy, a knack for making her laugh in that full-belly kind of way that made your heart swell.

You weren’t blind to how you felt about Alessia. The way your heart quickened when she smiled at you, how your day brightened when you saw her name pop up on your phone. You knew, deep down, that you were in love with her. And you could tell Alessia felt the same. But neither of you ever said it. The fear of ruining what you had, of stepping over that invisible line, kept you both silent.

A year passed, and nothing had really changed—yet everything had. You were 26 now, Alessia 25, and Daisy, who had just turned 5, had started to call Alessia her “other mum” to other people. She adored Alessia, clinging to her whenever she was around, and you couldn’t blame her. Alessia made you both feel seen and cared for.

Movie nights with Alessia and Daisy had quickly become a tradition, a cosy ritual that the three of you looked forward to at the end of a long week. Tonight was no different.

Daisy, ever the ball of energy, was bouncing around the living room in her pyjamas, clutching her favourite stuffed animal while you set up the film. You smiled to yourself, watching her dance around in excitement. The movie didn’t really matter—Daisy rarely stayed still long enough to watch the entire thing—but it was the atmosphere that counted.

Alessia sat on the couch, her long legs stretched out as she tried to corral Daisy. “C’mere, munchkin!” she called, laughing when Daisy climbed up onto her lap with a dramatic sigh.

You grabbed the bowl of popcorn and settled in on the other side of the couch, the warm weight of the evening wrapping around the three of you like a blanket. Alessia leaned in slightly, close enough that your arms brushed, and Daisy nestled herself between you both, already giggling at something on the screen.

As the movie started, Daisy squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable between you and Alessia. “What’s this one called again?” she asked, her wide eyes flicking between you both.

“It’s Moana, remember?” Alessia answered, gently brushing a strand of Daisy’s hair out of her face. “We’ve watched it, like, ten times already.”

Daisy giggled, snuggling closer to Alessia. “Oh yeah! I like when she sings. You know, like this—” She cleared her throat dramatically before belting out, “I am Moana!” with as much enthusiasm as her little lungs could muster.

Alessia laughed, looking over at you with that familiar playful smile. “She’s a natural, don’t you think?”

You grinned, nodding. “Definitely. We might have a future superstar on our hands.”

Daisy giggled. “I’m gonna be just like Moana when I grow up. Right, Lessi?”

Alessia leaned down, her eyes twinkling as she whispered conspiratorially, “I think you’re already cooler than Moana.”

Daisy’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Alessia said with a wink. “Moana’s brave, but I bet she couldn’t dribble a football like you.”

Daisy giggled, delighted by the compliment. “You’re right! I’m better!” Then, after a moment, she asked, “Can we play football tomorrow? You can show me more tricks?”

“Of course,” Alessia replied, her voice soft. “I’ll teach you anything you want. You’re gonna be a pro in no time.”

Daisy seemed to consider this for a moment, then added, “And after football, can we have ice cream?”

Alessia glanced at you, raising an eyebrow as if asking for permission. You shrugged, smiling. “If you both behave.”

“Yessss!” Daisy pumped her fist, clearly excited about tomorrow’s plans.

As the movie continued, Daisy asked a hundred questions, as usual. “Why is the ocean magic? Can we go to the ocean tomorrow too?” she asked, leaning back against Alessia.

Alessia smiled, amused by Daisy’s endless curiosity. “We’ll have to see how far we can get after football and ice cream. It might be a bit too cold for the ocean though, we might have to stick to swimming.”

“Yay!” Daisy cheered, then turned to you. “Mummy, can we bring Lessi to swimming lessons with us?”

You exchanged a glance with Alessia, feeling your heart warm at how easily Daisy wove her into your lives. “Of course, we can, Dais.”

With that, Daisy seemed satisfied, and her questions quieted down as she nestled into Alessia’s side. Alessia wrapped an arm around her, keeping her close, and shot you a soft, affectionate smile.

“Guess I’m stuck with you two, huh?” she whispered teasingly.

You chuckled, nudging her gently. “You know you love it.”

“I really do,” she murmured, her voice so quiet you almost missed it, but the warmth in her eyes said enough.

You noticed how effortlessly Alessia fit into your life. She wasn’t just a guest here; she belonged. The way she held Daisy’s hand when a particularly suspenseful scene came on, or how she absentmindedly passed you the popcorn—every movement, every glance, felt like home.

Daisy, always the chatterbox, kept turning to ask questions about the movie, and Alessia, ever patient, answered each one as though it was the most important thing in the world. It was moments like this that made your heart swell.

Halfway through the movie, Daisy had curled up against Alessia’s chest, her eyes drooping with sleep. Alessia shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and you caught the soft look in her eyes as she glanced down at Daisy. There was so much love in that look, so much tenderness that it made your breath catch.

You had become something of an old married couple, without ever defining what “you” were. There were stolen glances, playful touches, and inside jokes that only the two of you understood. You were always together, practically inseparable, and people around you began to notice.

Some of Alessia’s friends had caught on—Lotte had met you early on and was one of the few who knew the whole story. But others had only heard bits and pieces about a girl Alessia had met. She never mentioned your name or Daisy.

It was a Thursday night when Alessia brought some of her teammates to the pub. You didn’t know at first, of course. You were busy behind the bar, moving from one customer to the next, keeping up with orders. But when you glanced up, there they were, a group of them gathered at a table near the back. Alessia sat with them, looking slightly nervous, which wasn’t like her.

You could see her teammates chatting away, curious glances occasionally directed toward you. You wondered what she’d told them, if anything. Lotte caught your eye and waved, but the others didn’t seem to recognize you.

As the night went on, Alessia seemed more on edge. You noticed it in the way her eyes kept darting toward the bar, like she was checking on you. Then it happened. A man, one of the regulars you weren’t too fond of, had sidled up next to you at the bar, clearly a little too drunk. He’d been making comments all night, none of which sat well with you, but you’d brushed them off, used to dealing with that kind of thing. But when he reached out and touched your arm, something in the air shifted.

Before you could even react, Alessia was out of her seat. The sound of her voice, usually so soft, was sharp and commanding as she stormed over, eyes blazing.

“Get your hands off her,” she practically growled, her voice louder than you’d ever heard it.

The pub went silent. Everyone turned to watch as Alessia squared up to the man, her entire demeanour transformed. The sweet, gentle Alessia you knew was gone, replaced by someone fiercely protective, someone who wasn’t going to let anyone cross a line with you.

The man, clearly startled by her sudden outburst, backed off quickly, muttering an apology before slinking away. Alessia stood there for a moment, chest heaving, as if even she couldn’t believe what had just happened. Her teammates were wide-eyed, jaws practically on the floor. They had never seen her like that before.

When Alessia finally turned back to you, her expression softened instantly, concerned replacing the anger that had flared up moments before. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost tentative.

You nodded, still a little shocked yourself. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Alessia took a breath, running a hand through her hair as her teammates approached, clearly wanting answers. Lotte had a knowing smile on her face, but the others looked confused and curious.

“Everything okay?” Beth asked, glancing between the two of you.

Alessia hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine. Just… protecting what’s important.”

It was then that she turned to introduce you properly to the team. “This is her,” Alessia said, her voice softer again, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “This is who I’ve been telling you about.”

You smiled awkwardly as the girls greeted you, and slowly the tension eased. They asked questions, mostly about how long you’d known each other, and how you met. But eventually, the conversation shifted to Daisy, and the smiles around the table grew warmer when they learned about your little girl.

By the end of the night, you weren’t just a mystery anymore. You were a part of Alessia’s world, just like she was a part of yours.

A few weeks had passed since the incident at the pub. Alessia had returned to her usual self, although there was a noticeable change in the way her teammates interacted with you now—warmer, more knowing. It felt like they saw you not just as a friend of Alessia’s, but as someone who was clearly important to her.

You hadn’t brought up what had happened, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, but it lingered in the back of your mind. Alessia’s protectiveness, her intensity that night—it had stirred something deep within you. You knew there was more to your relationship than just friendship, but neither of you had ever found the right moment to say it out loud.

That was, until one evening.

Alessia had just come back from training, and you were at home, tidying up after dinner with Daisy. The door swung open, and she stepped in, looking slightly flustered. Her hair was still damp from a quick post-training shower.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, turning toward her, sensing that something was on her mind.

She hesitated for a second before crossing the room in a few strides, stopping right in front of you. Her hands reached out, resting gently on your hands, and she took a deep breath.

“I need to ask you something,” she said, her voice steady but laced with a hint of nerves.

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden seriousness. “Okay…”

Alessia bit her lip, “The girls—they’ve been telling me to just… say something. To stop being scared. And they’re right. I can’t keep pretending like this isn’t real.”

Your heart started to race. You had a feeling where this was going, but you didn’t dare assume.

“I love you,” she finally said, the words spilling out all at once. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time now, and I know you probably already know that, but I just… I needed to say it. I don’t want to be just friends anymore. I want to be with you, for real.”

Your breath caught in your throat as the weight of her words settled over you. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, too overwhelmed by the flood of emotions.

“Alessia…” you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes as you took in the sincerity in her expression.

She squeezed your hands gently as if to steady herself. “So, will you be my girlfriend? Officially?”

A smile broke across your face, and you nodded, barely able to get the words out. “Yes. Yes, of course, I will.”

Before you could say anything else, Alessia pulled you into a kiss. Her hand rested on the small of your back as the kiss deepened. It was something you’d been craving for a long time.

When you finally pulled back, Alessia was smiling “I can’t believe it took me this long,” she murmured.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Honestly, I was waiting for you to figure it out. I was too scared.”

Alessia laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Well, I’m glad I finally did.”

Just then, a sleepy voice from the doorway interrupted the moment.

“Mummy? Lessi? What’s happening?” Daisy rubbed her eyes, clearly having woken up from a nap.

Alessia crouched down to Daisy’s level, her smile widening. “Guess what, Daisy? Your mum and I… we’re officially together now.”

Daisy blinked, processing the information. Then, with a huge grin, she ran over and hugged Alessia around the neck. “Yay! Does that mean we can be a family now?”

You exchanged a tender look with Alessia before nodding. “Yeah, Dais. We already are a family.”

[charmed-quill]

Burrow Bound// B.W x Reade Epilogue

authors note at end.

originally requested by @littlegreenteacup

summary: Y/N, an American half-blood witch newly arrived in Muggle London, stumbles into the warmth of the Weasley brothers after a serendipitous meeting in Diagon Alley. Drawn into their world, she finds herself at the Burrow more often than not. Meanwhile, Bill Weasley is learning to navigate life as a single father, relying on his mother’s help to care for Victoire. Though their worlds orbit each other, Y/N and Bill’s paths never seem to align—until one evening when fate finally draws them together. Will it be the start of a love story, or will they be left with nothing but heartache?

Last Chapter

word count: 650

5 years later

The bustling platform of 9 ¾ buzzed with the sounds of families saying goodbye, steam hissing from the scarlet train, and excited chatter from children eager for the year ahead. Y/N stood with her hand protectively resting on her rounded belly, her other hand clutching Bill’s tightly as they watched Victoire look around in excitement.

“Do we have everything?” Y/N asked for the third time, her voice tinged with nervous excitement. “Her robes, her wand, her potions kit—”

“She has everything, love,” Bill reassured her with a soft chuckle, squeezing her hand. “We’ve gone over the list more times than Professor McGonagall checks her schedules.”

Victoire rolled her eyes but smiled, her blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “Mum, I’m fine,” she said, her voice filled with both affection and exasperation. “I’ve got everything.”

Y/N knelt slightly, wincing as her growing belly made it a little harder than it used to be. She adjusted the clasp on Victoire’s cloak, brushing a stray curl from her face. “I know you do, sweetheart. I’m just—” She swallowed, her voice trembling. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Victoire’s confidence faltered for a moment, and she threw her arms around Y/N in a tight hug. “I’ll miss you too, Mum,” she murmured. “But I’ll write every week, I promise.”

“Every week,” Y/N echoed, blinking rapidly to hold back her tears. “And you’d better tell me everything—your classes, your friends, everything.”

“I will,” Victoire promised, her smile wide and reassuring. She turned to Bill, who crouched down to meet her eye level.

“You remember what I told you, right?” Bill asked, his voice calm and steady.

“Be brave and be kind,” Victoire said, nodding earnestly.

“That’s my girl,” Bill said, pulling her into a quick hug.

As the final call for boarding echoed through the platform, her curls bouncing as she hurried toward the train. She stopped at the door, turning to wave furiously. Y/N and Bill waved back, their smiles wide despite the ache of letting her go.

The train’s whistle blew, and the engine hissed as it began to pull away. Victoire leaned out of the window, waving until she was out of sight.

Y/N kept waving long after the train disappeared, her chest tightening with a mix of pride and sadness. When she finally lowered her hand, she blinked rapidly, her vision blurred by tears.

“Are you crying?” Bill asked, his tone teasing but affectionate, a soft smirk playing on his lips.

“No!” Y/N sniffled, dabbing at her cheeks. “It’s the pregnancy hormones. I’m fine.”

Bill laughed, pulling her into his side and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Of course, it’s the hormones,” he teased gently, though his own eyes were suspiciously glassy. “Not because you’re sending our little girl off to Hogwarts for the first time.”

Y/N tilted her head up to him, her lips curving into a smile despite her tears. “I mean, maybe a little. But mostly hormones.”

Bill laughed again, the sound deep and warm as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Come on,” he said, steering her gently toward the exit. “Let’s get you home before those hormones start making you cry about something else—like how many socks the baby will need.”

Y/N laughed, leaning into him as they walked off the platform together. “For the record, you can never have too many socks,” she said lightly, her hand brushing over her belly.

“Noted,” Bill replied, a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced back at the now-empty tracks. “Victoire’s going to have an amazing time.”

“She will,” Y/N agreed, her heart full as they stepped back onto the bustling muggle platformq “And so will we.”

With that, they Disapparated home, ready to face their next adventure together.

tagged: @navs-bhat @neenieweenie @buendiabebeta

a/n: Thank You 💕

Wow, where do I even begin? Writing this fic has been such an incredible journey, and I genuinely couldn’t have done it without all of you who read, liked, reblogged, commented, and sent me messages of encouragement along the way. Your excitement, your insights kept me going through all of this story.

A special thank you to my amazing mutual, @littlegreenteacup for requesting this fic in the first place and being one of its biggest supporters. Your vision for this story was perfect, and I hope I did it justice.

To everyone who stuck with me through Bill and Y/N’s ups and downs (and all that delicious tension 👀), thank you for letting me share this little slice of their world with you.

This story is as much yours as it is mine, and I hope it brought you the same joy and squeals of happiness it brought me while writing it.

You’re all the best, and I love you to the moon and back. 🖤✨

Love, MJ

p.s, keep an eye out for a bonus chapter coming out soon...

[greenandsorrow]

Dale's presence - sexual & beyond

headcanons that live in my head rent free

Beware, it's giving body horror and could make certain audiences uncomfortable. I've also given Daley some OCD qualities inspired by something I read by @crimsonxcloverr at some point, if I'm not mistaken?

I'm aware that just because we met a character through horror doesn't necessarily mean I have to keep the genre in my fanfiction, but... Let me live my early Summerween and keep the disturbing vibe going ✨

Hygiene

Clean in a ritualistic way. Not casually clean.

Scrubbed.

The kind of guy who probably bleaches his skin, who uses scented products obsessively -but not always the right ones.

Lavender-scented hand soap for his groin.

Baby powder under his arms.

Lip gloss near his nipples.

He doesn't smell like a man (whatever they thought that was supposed to mean in the 70's).

He smells like a dead woman's vanity drawer.

He brushes his teeth too hard. You can see the pink foam sometimes.

There's a travel-sized mouthwash bottle in every coat/jacket he owns.

His towels are always damp. He washes compulsively, but never lets anything dry fully.

Shaved?

Mostly.

His groin is almost hairless, shaved too close, probably irritated. The kind of skin that gets red bumps because he doesn't moisturize properly.

But he tries. God, he tries.

He wants to be pretty down there. He wants to be acceptable.

But it may come out as obsessive, not sexy.

You might see a little blood from razor nicks.

His thighs are also smooth but raw-looking. Razor burn.

His ass is shaved too, but badly -he can't reach everything, not really. There's a kind of vulnerability in that.

He won't let you see him before he preps.

You'll never know what he looks like without trying.

His cock <3

Thick, curved down slightly, pale, with sudden color when hard.

Up close?

The head is angry, like it's not supposed to feel this good.

The shaft looks wrong in contrast with the smoothness of the rest of him. Violent.

Veiny and too warm, like it's burning him from the inside out.

When he cums, it hits his stomach in thick stripes. He shudders like it's painful.

The kind of man who might name it. Or talk to it.

Fem Behavior??

He adjusts his wig with perfect, dainty fingers (right before choking you).

He whimpers when he enters you, but his eyes stay wide open, unblinking.

He kisses like he's never learned how, like he's mimicking porn or a movie he might have watched too many times.

He tries to sound sweet, but his voice switches midsentence -soft and high one second, guttural and manly the next.

It's like he's possessed by different people.

And he likes it that way.

He paints his nails from time to time. Always chipped.

He tucks sometimes, but only when it's not for sex. When it is, he wants to be looked at.

Tender (but not quite right)

After sex, he doesn't cuddle.

He hovers. Close enough to feel your breath on his face.

He watches you like he's memorizing the moment in case he never gets to do it again.

Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear. Carefully. Like he's repositioning one of his dolls.

He murmurs strange things to your skin. Not sweet-nothings.

"You were made for me."

"I'll keep you."

"This is the cleanest I've ever felt."

He doesn't sleep after sex.

You might wake up to him smiling faintly, like he's dreaming while awake.

He wants to be loved, but only in pieces. He doesn't believe in wholes anymore.

my masterlist

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Divider by @thecutestgrotto.