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mrspiastri · 2 months ago

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✩ bundle of joy 🍼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, pregnancy, giving birth

wc: 3.7k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Father’s intuition, my love.”

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

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

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

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

🪻🪻🪻

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

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

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

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

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

“Reaching for breakfast?” She deadpanned.

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

“I’m pregnant, not reckless.”

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

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

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

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

“Lando, it’s a tote bag.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Are they pregnancy-safe pickles?”

“Are you hearing yourself?”

He walked over and inspected the label anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🪻🪻🪻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he said proudly.

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

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

“Practice.”

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

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

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

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

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

🪻🪻🪻

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

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

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

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

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

“Still. Just in case. Text me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh God. We’re doomed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, you’re right! Regular it is.”

“Lando!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

“There’s the head,” someone said.

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

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

A baby. Their baby.

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

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

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

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

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

The nurse smiled. “Name?”

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

“Sophia Norris”, Y/N said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No promises,” he grinned.

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

🪻🪻🪻

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

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

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

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

“You doing alright there?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, his face started to crumble.

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

He sniffled aggressively. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not crying.”

“I’m trying not to laugh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he said softly. “We did it.”

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

“Four and a half,” he corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re home,” he whispered.

And they were.

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

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fluff #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #ln4 fluff #ln4 #f1 fluff #f1 driver x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic

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vunblr · 4 months ago

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Terms of Attraction

Pairing: CEO! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Some fluff. Slight Angst. Mutual Pinning. Mention of sexual activities.

Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretary’s dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines aren’t meant to be left uncrossed.

Word Count: 13.2k.

notes: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "CEO AU".

Also, this piece is to participate in Grem's 20 Characters with 20 Questions for 20 Tropes Challenge by @gremlin-girly Using Bucky Barnes' character, "When were you going to tell me about this?" question, and mutual pining trope.

Bucky Barnes never wanted to be here.

He never wanted to be in this office, suit, or life. But fate had a funny way of forcing people into the things they swore they’d never become.

The room was dim since the heavy curtains were drawn shut to block out the midday sun. The only light came from the glow of his monitor, casting long shadows over the polished surface of his desk. He sat hunched over it, resting his forehead against his crossed arms.

A soft sigh broke the silence.

“Again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

“This is the fourth migraine this week,” she continued, with an edge of exasperation. “I’m making you an appointment with a neurologist. You like it or not.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, mixing a scoff and a tired chuckle. “You’re overstepping.”

“Oh, it is not in your best interest to start talking about overstepping,” she shot back, arching a brow. “Want me to make a list? Ten years under you, since you were a manager, mind you. It will take a couple of pages.”

Bucky grunted in response, looking for the right words, but she was already moving, pushing the coffee table aside and clearing a space on the plush carpet.

“Come on,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You have the meeting with Schwarz in forty minutes. You know, the one I had to postpone twice already?”

Yeah. He knew. He just didn’t care.

He stayed put for a second longer, staring at the dark wood of his desk. His head throbbed, and the pressure behind his eyes seemed to crush everything. He could still hear his father’s voice in the back of his head “Headaches? You think I got to where I am by whining about a fucking headache?” but right now, George Barnes could go to hell.

With a slow, resigned sigh, Bucky pushed himself to his feet. He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, rolling his shoulders as he made his way over to the open space she’d cleared. Lowering himself onto the rug, he sprawled out on his back, letting his arms rest loosely at his sides. As the exhaustion dragged him down like quicksand, he closed his heavy-lidded eyes for a moment.

She knelt behind him, pressing her cool fingers into the pressure points at the base of his skull. He tensed on instinct, prepared to anticipate pain, even from something meant to help.

“Jesus,” she muttered, working her thumbs into the knotted muscles of his neck. “You’re tense as concrete again.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, letting her hands do their work. The pain sharpened for a moment before it started to dull, releasing the pressure just enough to make his migraine a little more bearable.

“Speaking of overstepping,” she continued, “you should really hire a professional masseuse, Bucky. Have them come in three times a week and-”

“I don’t want a stranger rubbing me up and down while I’m ass-up and vulnerable on a pansy cot.”

She snorted. “So dramatic.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bother correcting her. If she was talking, it meant she wasn’t hovering with that worried look in her eyes.

She worked his knots, kneading the tension from his neck and shoulders before her fingers traveled upward. With a gentler touch, she started rubbing slow circles into his temples, easing the pressure that had settled deep in his skull.

“Rebecca called, again.” She said casually, but he could hear the warning under her words. “Says you had her bloc-”

“Not now,” he groaned.

She sighed but didn’t stop. “I know you don’t want to, but just meet with the guy for ten minutes, and you’ll get her off your back.”

“I won’t waste even five minutes listening to her new fucktoy ramble about some ‘revolutionary’ idea for industrial inputs,” Bucky muttered. “I know it’s going to be some half-baked high school powerpoint with stock photos and shit. That’s the kind of man she likes to have around.”

She scoffed, still working her fingers against his scalp. “He is cute, though.”

His eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move or say anything right away, but his gaze was locked on her now, sharp, unreadable, and just a little too intense. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the way she said it.

“Is he, now?” His voice came out pretty even, but there was something underneath it. Something edged.

She smirked, unbothered. “Not my type, but I can see why she’s… fond of him.”

His jaw ticked, and he exhaled slowly through his nose before letting his eyes fall shut again, but the tension in his body didn’t relent in the way it had before.

Yeah. The headache wasn’t going anywhere.

Just as he was starting to relax again, the door creaked open without so much as a knock, and a head popped inside: the new intern. The kid was his father’s friend’s grandson or something, which meant he had about three functioning brain cells and the audacity to use them in the worst ways.

“Sorry to interrupt your… erm-”

“Get out,” Bucky muttered, not even opening his eyes.

“But I just wanted to know-”

Bucky sat up so fast that the guy flinched. “Get the fuck out and close that door before I send you to count staple hooks in a basement, kid.”

The intern squeaked, stumbling back before the door shut behind him in a not-very-subtle way.

"Moody, aren’t we?” she sighed, shifting her weight as she sat back on her heels. “You’re still a Sarge at heart, it seems. Poor kid almost pissed his pants.”

His jaw worked slightly at the title, but he ignored it.

“The door is there for a reason. Besides…” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, shifting his gaze away.

He didn’t say what else he was thinking, but didn’t have to. She already knew. The way the intern had found them -he sprawled out on the floor, and she knelt behind him, hands on his body- it was enough to set off the office rumor mill.

“Don’t worry. Even if you don’t get out of your dungeon very often,” she mused, stretching her arms over her head, “you do know there’ve been rumors for a couple of years now, don’t you?”

Bucky turned fully toward her, narrowing his gaze. “What?”

“Come on, like the one where I was sucking your cock on that video call with that Japanese exec from the thermoplastics deal? With the guy watching it all because the camera was badly angled?”

His face twisted, and he waved his hands. “You weren’t even there that-”

“Or, my personal favorite” she continued, “that a window cleaner saw us on full display as you rammed my ass against the glass one afternoon?”

Bucky’s expression darkened into something truly menacing. “Bullshit. The cleaning crew comes on fucking weekends-”

She snorted. “People who gossip don’t care much about facts, Bucky. That’s just how things are.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” he asked with irritation.

She smirked, unfazed. “What for? It’s not like it was going to change anything. And you firing people left and right over some rumor no one even knows where it started… Not a good look.”

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, ready to argue with her, but before he could, she glanced at the clock.

“Ten more minutes, and Schwarz will be here.” Her tone was all business now, but then her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and assessing. “How’s your arm?”

Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line.

She sighed. “That bad, huh? Lemme see.”

“You don’t-”

“I do,” she cut him off, already shifting. “It’s probably one of the things that’s got you so moody lately. And the reason I’ll probably have to send the Germans a very nice basket of goodies after you mistreat their guy.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, but when she just stood there on her knees, arms crossed, waiting, he reluctantly popped open a few buttons of his expensive shirt. As he slid it off his shoulders, the scent of his cologne -warm, woodsy, with an edge of spice- assaulted her senses.

Beneath, he wore a pristine white tank top. And, his bad arm.

Irregular scars marred the skin in a twisted canvas that sprawled up to his shoulder, a reminder of the Syrian shrapnel that had nearly cost him the limb entirely. Inside, a lattice of titanium plates and screws that held together shattered bones and torn muscle.

Bucky exhaled sharply as he rolled his shoulder, feeling the familiar grind of metal and bone, and the fucking pain. Most days, he could push past it. Ignore it. But some days, like today, it devoured him, made everything sharper, his patience thinner, and his temper shorter.

She reached out. He could see the way her gaze softened slightly as she took in the limb, hovering her fingers just above the scars. She was softer, yes, but never pitied him.

He let his head tip back against the edge of the couch, closing his eyes as her hands worked their magic over the worst knots of his upper arm, easing some of the strain. He hated how easy it was for her to do this, to get him. To handle him. It should piss him off. Maybe it did.

But he didn’t tell her to stop.

As she gently rubbed on the offending limb, his mind drifted to the hospital bed, to his suspended arm buried in a mix of cast, pipes, and pulleys.

A bitter taste rose in his throat. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the cold bite of metal restraining his ruined arm, the dull pain buried beneath layers of medication. His mother crumpled at the foot of his hospital bed, clasping her hands in silent prayer. And his father… standing rigid, arms crossed, and a voice edged with finality.

"Well, now that you’ve had your share of independence and adventure, I assume you understand that you are meant to be with us. To serve the family the way we prepared you to."

Not a “You’ll be ok”. Not a “We’re glad you made it home alive”. Just “You’ve learned your lesson.” A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched as he stared at the ceiling, willing the memory away.

Her fingers pressed into a tight knot near his bicep, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled through his nose.

“Where’d you go?” she asked, softly.

His lips parted, with the instinctive lie ready on them -Nowhere-. But when he turned his head to look at her, he caught the way she was watching him, with that usual awareness, so he let out a breath and closed his eyes again. “Nowhere important.”

She hummed and started pulling his shirt back into place, her touch lingering a second too long on him as she smoothed the fabric over his shoulders.

“Well, master,” she teased, the title laced with mockery, “it’s almost time to see the Germans.”

Bucky huffed, dragging his hands down his face before starting to button his shirt. She moved to stand, but before she could, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Firm, warm, just enough pressure to make her breath catch.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She swallowed, willing her face to stay neutral, to ignore the way warmth curled in her stomach at the roughness in his tone.

“You know there’s no need,” she said, carefully measured, as if saying anything more might give too much away.

His grip loosened, and she pulled back, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. If he noticed the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, he didn’t say a word. Once she finished straightening her clothes, she turned on her heel and strode toward the office door.

“I’ll let them in in ten, okay?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder once more before nodding. “Yeah.”

----

She had suspected it wouldn’t go smoothly, but even so, when the heavy wooden door finally clicked open, the Germans’ expressions were unreadable, stern and tense.

She cursed inwardly.

Even if the meeting had been rocky, she hoped they’d at least reached an agreement. Otherwise, in ten minutes, her phone would be ringing with George Barnes on the other end, barking at her because Bucky refused to pick up. And, as always, she’d have to endure his tirade until he inevitably demanded she put his son on the line.

With a sigh, she pulled open a drawer, curling her fingers around a blister pack of Tylenol.

Then, smoothing her expression, she knocked gently on his office door.

A low, muffled groan was the only response she got before she stepped inside.

The sight wasn’t unfamiliar. Bucky sprawled on the couch with his shoes off, covering his face with a cushion like it could somehow block out the world. She knew how this went. If the headache was bad enough, it wouldn’t be long before he was hunched over the bathroom sink, pale and nauseous, cursing under his breath. And, as she suspected, he hadn’t brought anything to help.

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Should I expect a call from Barnes Senior in the next few minutes, or can I focus on other chores?”

Another groan. “I think he won’t call, but who the fuck knows? Nothing’s ever enough for him. Maybe he has a few things to say about the deal, things even a fresh graduate should know.” His voice was thick with irritation, but there was something else underneath. Resignation.

She tsked. “Good thing you don’t listen to him. Much.”

“Hmm.”

She stepped forward, holding up the blister pack between two fingers. “Here. I bring an offering that might change your mood.”

“Whatever it is, leave it on the desk. And don’t give me any calls.”

“Are you really rejecting Tylenol?”

A single half-lidded eye peeked out from behind the cushion, scrutinizing her like she’d just asked him to sign over the company. Then, he muttered, “Fuck, what would I do without you?”

She smirked. “Probably chomp the heads off the few people who still have the balls to speak to you.” She leaned against his desk, watching him sprawl across the couch, with the cushion still covering his face. “Speaking of your stellar social skills,” she said, The signing for the Research & Development Collaboration deal with Prescott got moved from Tuesday to Friday. You still haven’t told me which day you want your plane ticket booked.”

Silence.

She frowned. “Bucky?”

He exhaled sharply against the cushion before finally shifting it just enough to mutter, “About that.”

That tone set off a flicker of suspicion in her chest.

“I know a couple of the board members are going just to play court jesters,” he continued, voice still thick with exhaustion. “But…I want you there.”

Her brows furrowed. “Sorry, what?”

He let the cushion fall away just enough to glance at her. “I want you there.” A beat. “I need you there.”

Something in her stomach twisted. Not at his words -no, she was used to being indispensable- but at the tone he used.

“I need to see-”

“You handle logistics, and you filter out unnecessary conversations. I'd rather not waste my time listening to a bunch of suits trying to kiss my ass. You keep people in check.” He sighed, tilting his head back onto the couch.

She raised a brow. “So you need me as a buffer?”

He shot her a dry look. "I need you to make sure I don’t tell the wrong person to go fuck themselves."

A flicker of something -something warm- stirred in her chest before she pushed it aside.

“Fine. I’ll book my ticket too.” she said, trying to sound unaffected. “But I want juicy compensation for being away from home in non-working hours. And, I won't babysit you the whole trip".

Bucky huffed a laugh, still sprawled on the couch, with the cushion resting against his temple instead of covering his face. “You’ll do it anyway, even when it’s not part of your job.” He gestured vaguely toward the blister of Tylenol still sitting in her hand. “You’re like a mother hen.”

And fuck, how did he like that? How much did he like her, always two steps ahead of him, anticipating his worst moods and dealing with them before they could ruin his day completely? It should drive him insane, how easily she handled him, read him, but instead, he was perfectly fine with it. He craved it.

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “Well, this time mama is getting a compensation, James,” she shot back, drawing out his name like a warning. “Because I had plans for Friday night.”

He schooled his expression, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Yeah? With who?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

Just like that, something in his chest twisted, sharp and possessive.

“Must I remind you that you signed an availability clause two years ago?” His voice was measured, but there was an edge beneath it. “You agreed to be available if the firm needed you.”

If I need you. His eyes seemed to say it, even if he didn’t.

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Wow. This is the first time you’ve ever thrown that in my face. But don’t worry, I don’t need the reminder.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’m pretty sure availability doesn’t mean ownership, Bucky. But it’s fine, I’ll see my godson another day.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the cushion.

Her godson.

He exhaled through his nose, and his voice came out controlled. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “You know, you could’ve just asked nicely instead of throwing corporate fine print at me.”

He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the dull ache still throbbing behind his eyes. “I know.” A pause. His fingers dragged over his temple. “Sorry, I… this is killing me.”

She hesitated for a beat, caught off guard by the unusual admission.

“I’ll approve the extra compensation,” he muttered, reaching for the Tylenol she still hadn’t handed over.

“Nah,” she waved him off. “As you said, it’s already covered in the clause. That’s why my salary was increased in the first place. I was just messing with you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “Not many people can get away with that, you know.”

“Oh, but this mother hen knows she can.” She smirked. “Just a little.”

He huffed, watching as she poured a glass of water and handed him the blister pack.

“None of that scotch after taking these, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, amused despite himself.

She squeezed his good shoulder before heading for the door, and the warmth of her touch persisted where her fingers had pressed against him.

----

The lobby was a mess of tired travelers and frazzled staff, as the storm outside cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wind howled, rattling the glass as Bucky ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “A place with this many stars and a price tag that could feed a small country, and they can’t even keep track of reservations?”

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. “It’s just one night, Bucky.”

He shot her a look. “That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that we’re exhausted, it’s almost midnight, and I’d rather not spend the next hour arguing with the poor guy at the front desk when we both know they’re fully booked because of the storm.” She gestured toward the rain hammering against the glass. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the lobby, in which case, be my guest.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed the key card off the counter with a glare, muttering under his breath as he turned toward the elevator.

She sighed again, following. This was going to be a long night.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching as she took in the room with wide eyes. The Renaissance-style decor, the heavy carved furniture, the ridiculous four-poster bed with actual curtains… it was over the top, even for a place like this.

“Well, this is… something,” she murmured, slowly turning in place before making a beeline for the bathroom.

He heard her sharp inhale, then -God help him- a pleased little hum that was dangerously close to a moan.

His bad mood tempered just a little.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped further inside, glancing at the coffee table stacked with neatly packaged luxury treats. He had no doubt they came with a price tag steep enough to make even him scoff.

She poked her head out from the bathroom, grinning. “You think they’d notice if I just sat in the tub and refused to leave?”

For the first time since the airport delays, he almost smiled. Almost. Then he sat in an oversized armchair. The long flight, the delays, and the cold air outside had worsened the stiffness in his arm.

She eyed him knowingly, arms crossing. “Speaking of the tub, why don’t you take a shower? Or an immersive bath? Heat those bones a little. You’re tensing the arm a lot, you know.”

He seemed to consider it for a second, rolling his shoulder slightly. But then he shook his head. “After you. You’re cold too. Ladies first.”

She arched a brow. “I appreciate the chivalry, but you need it more-”

“All I hear right now is a hen clucking.” He cut her off, smirking as he kicked off his shoes and sank deeper into the chair.

Her eyes narrowed. “Endearing.”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well, since you offered,” she huffed, “I’m going to test the tub. And don’t expect me to be out in less than thirty minutes because I won’t. If you need the bathroom, I don’t know, use a vase or something.” She said as she started to rummage on her suitcase, looking for her nightgown.

Bucky snorted, “So regal, just what this place needs.”

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, she let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped as she finally dropped the facade. Out there, she had to keep up the usual push and pull, the teasing deflections, the confidence that made it seem like sharing a room with him -sharing space with him- was just another minor inconvenience.

But alone in here, she could let herself feel the weight of the situation.

She set her nightgown on the counter, running her hands over the silky fabric before reaching for the faucet. The deep tub groaned as steaming water rushed in, the sound filling the room as she braced herself against the edge of the sink.

This shouldn’t be affecting her so much. It wasn’t the first time they’d traveled together, and it wasn’t even the first time she’d seen him this exhausted, this raw from the day. But something about tonight, about his request for her to be here, about the way his voice softened when he said he needed her there -it’s killing me- stirred something deep and restless inside her.

She swallowed hard and reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them slowly. He didn’t mean it the way she wanted him to. He never did.

She reminded herself of that fact as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, shivering slightly at the rush of cooler air against her skin. Bucky was… Bucky. Intense. Guarded. Possessive, sometimes, in ways he didn’t even realize.

But never hers.

She sighed, pushing down the stupid, persisting ache in her chest as she reached for the zipper of her skirt. This wasn’t new. She’d spent years training herself not to hope for something that wasn’t there. And yet, every now and then, he’d let something slip -a look, a word, a need- and it would take everything in her not to lean into it.

The tub was nearly full now, and the steam curled in soft ribbons toward the mirror. She inhaled deeply, letting the warmth settle over her body, soothing and distracting all at once.

Bucky wasn’t doing any better.

He sat in the oversized armchair, socked feet planted firmly on the carpet, drumming his fingers idly against his knee. The tension in his shoulder hadn’t eased, not even a little. He rolled it again, flinching at the dull throb radiating from his arm.

Maybe he should’ve taken the damn bath first. Maybe the heat would’ve helped more than sitting here, stewing, staring at the closed bathroom door like some lovesick idiot.

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t into him.

He knew that much.

Women who wanted something more -who wanted him- they left hints, like breadcrumbs leading straight to their intentions. He’d seen it a thousand times in the circles he frequented. The way they gravitated toward him, playing coy with soft laughs and lingering looks. Subtle touches under the table, fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. The way they’d beam at the expensive gifts, their smiles slipping the second he showed more interest in his bed than in whatever designer bag they were parading around.

And then there was her.

She didn’t play coy. She didn’t bat her lashes or leave accidental touches to test the waters. Instead, she petted him. Nursed him. Brought him Tylenol like it was her goddamn job -which, technically, it was-. And he liked it. At first, it had been enough, her dependable presence that kept him from losing his mind when everything else was chaos.

But eventually, it wasn’t.

Eventually, he started watching for the crumbs, the hints, waiting for something, anything, that told him she saw him as more than just her boss or her friend.

And he found nothing.

Because a woman who wanted something more wouldn’t massage the knots from his arm like it was second nature, without hesitating, without blinking. Wouldn’t press her fingers into the scarred muscles like she wasn’t touching the part of him that made most people flinch.

He huffed, rubbing his palm over his face.

She was comfortable with him. Too comfortable.

And fuck, it was funny, in a twisted way, how every other woman he’d been with tried not to look at his arm -careful not to let their revulsion show- but she touched it like it was just another part of him.

Because that’s all he was to her. Just another favor.

Nothing more.

----

After exiting the bathroom in her red silk nightgown -a gift from her friends- she thanked her past self for not just throwing in an old cotton camisole.

“Well, I emptied the tub and started filling it again,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “Maybe you should go check the temperature. It’s one of the last things I don’t know about you.” She tried to keep it light, casual.

Bucky stared at her longer than necessary. He had seen her in professional clothes, casual clothes, even bundled up in thick sweaters during late nights at the office, but never in something like this. It wasn’t even that revealing, but the way the silk fell against her body, catching the dim light, made his thoughts go places they shouldn’t.

He forced his gaze away, scoffing.

“Bucky, don’t tell me you didn’t even unpack pajamas.”

“Don’t use ’em,” he said, watching her expression shift.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You’re joking.”

His smirk deepened. “Nope. I’m more of a… natural type of guy.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to suppress a reaction. Interesting.

“Well, I hope you at least brought sweatpants or-”

“Wasn’t supposed to be sharing a room, remember?” He shrugged, stretching out in his chair. “Didn’t think about it. But don’t worry, I still have underwear. Are boxers still scandalous to you?”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “I can manage a slutty pair of boxers, thank you very much”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, turning to his suitcase. He rifled through his things, pulling out the garment in question. “Relax. I was planning on wearing a robe -there are always robes in these places- to protect your maidenhood.” He smirked, but his fingers tightened around the fabric.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck.

“Take the bed. You’ll probably be dead asleep by the time I get out.” He suggested.

“Nonsense.” She waved her hand in a dismissive tome. “That couch is too damn small for you. You take the bed.”

Bucky frowned, standing up straight. “How the fuck could I send you to the couch? It’s irritating that you could even consider me capable of that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t be stubborn, your body-”

His expression darkened, and his voice cut in sharp. “I’m not crippled, doll. I let you play mama all you want, but at the end of the day, I’m a grown man who can sleep on a damn couch without whining like a bitch.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw her expression shift. Surprise, hurt, and something more guarded sliding into place. He had sounded exactly like his father just now, and the realization made his stomach churn. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Just… don’t be stubborn, okay?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

And as soon as he was alone, he cursed himself.

----

As she slipped under the covers, feeling the crisp hotel sheets' cool against her skin, her mind replayed the moment over and over.

The sharpness in his tone. The way his eyes darkened, his jaw set tight like he was bracing for a fight that wasn’t even there. She had only meant to be practical; his body did take more strain, whether he liked it or not. And yet, the way he snapped felt like she had crossed some invisible line she hadn’t even known existed.

She stared at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. I’m not crippled, doll. Had she made him feel like that? She had never pitied him, and he knew it. Bucky was the strongest person she knew, even when he was constantly grumpy and in pain.

Maybe that was why she did it. The taking care of him. Because no one else did. No one else noticed the stiffness in his shoulder after long days hunched on his desk or the way he rubbed at his temple when a migraine was creeping in. People either feared him, admired him, or wanted something from him. But who was actually in his corner, making sure he was okay without expecting anything in return?

Maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe, to him, she was just another person putting him in a box he didn’t want to be in. She had assumed he liked it, the way she doted him, the way she noticed him. But what if, in his mind, it only confirmed that she didn’t see him the way he wanted to be seen?

----

The water lapped at his collarbones as he sank deeper into the tub, letting the heat work through the persistent tension in his muscles. His head tipped back against the cool porcelain, and he closed his eyes.

He shouldn’t have snapped at her. She hadn’t meant anything by it; she never did. She was just looking out for him, the way she always did, and he’d thrown it back in her face like an ungrateful asshole.

With a sigh, he dragged a hand over his face, water dripping from his fingertips and wetting his scruffed face. He wasn’t mad at her, had never been mad at her. He was mad at himself. Mad at the way the frustration curled in his gut over things that weren’t her fault. She didn’t deserve that. He’d make it up to her in the morning. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he would.

----

At 3 a.m., she stirred awake, blinking against the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. Her gaze landed on his silhouette, sitting rigid on the couch, outlined by the streetlights below.

She frowned, pushing the covers aside and padding toward him. “Hey.”

He startled slightly as if he hadn’t heard her coming, too lost in his thoughts. “Hey.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“Rough night?” she asked, quirking a brow, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glanced at her, then quickly averted his gaze. “Yeah.” A beat passed before he exhaled heavily. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Normally, she would’ve brushed it off, waved away his apology like she always did. But this time, she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my tantrums,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before. “Seems like it’s becoming a habit lately, having to apologize for them. But really, doll, I’m sorry.”

Something in her chest softened. It was unfair how easily those simple words soothed the discomfort that had been eating her since their argument. She wanted to reach for him, reassure him. “I know you’re nervou-”

“No.” He cut her off, shaking his head. “I’m nervous and frustrated by this deal, yeah, but that’s not an excuse to be an asshole. At least not with you.” He let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand down his face. “So don’t do that. Don’t… justify me the way my mother did with my father when he beat her up on a weekly basis.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Well, you were kind of an asshole, if that’s what you want to hear.”

He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, but she wasn’t done.

“But you also know we have the kind of relationship where I call you out when that happens. How many times have I told you to fuck off?”

His lips twitched. “Never.”

“Okay, not in those exact words, but you know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass now.”

Bucky bit his lip, letting her continue.

“I know you’ve been working on this deal for over a year. I also know your father’s been breathing down your neck about it, just waiting for you to slip up so he can shove his twisted version of ‘tough love’ down your throat. And on top of that, I know this damn weather is making your arm and shoulder miserable. So, I’m letting it pass. You already apologized; why wouldn’t I accept it?”

His face was unreadable now, all traces of amusement gone as he nursed his glass of scotch.

She quirked a brow, aiming for levity. “Or what? You got some kind of kink? Want to be punished for being a bad boy?”

Bucky choked mid-sip, coughing as the liquor went straight up his nose.

“Oh my God, you do!” she gasped, grinning like she’d just uncovered some deep, dark secret.

“No!” Bucky spluttered, still coughing, his face red as a beet. He barely managed to set his glass down without spilling it.

She knew he was probably telling the truth, but she also knew how easily he embarrassed over certain things, and there was no way she was letting this pass.

“You couldn’t sleep because you were craving a spanking? A little pinching, maybe?” she cooed.

His head snapped toward her, eyes wide with horror. “My God, woman, stop it.”

She smirked. “Tell you what: I’ll stop if you take the bed.”

“I told you I-”

“I’m still taking it too.”

That shut him up. He blinked at her, clearly thrown back.

“It’s so big my whole damn living room could fit on it,” she pointed out. “We can share, so you don’t have to hurt your masculine pride, and mother hen here gets to be happy knowing you’re not miserable on that fancy couch.”

Bucky exhaled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know…”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Tell me one good reason why this is a bad idea. We’re both exhausted, and there’s enough space on that mattress to fit two more people between us.” She raised a brow. “I promise I won’t steal your virtue.” She winked, and he nearly groaned.

Oh, but he wanted her to take it, not his damn virtue, but something else. And that was the problem.

He couldn’t even use the excuse of propriety, he was already sitting there in just his boxers, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him shirtless before. Hell, she’d been massaging his arm and back for years without batting an eye.

So, really, what was he holding onto?

“Will you shut it if I say yes?” he muttered.

“Just for tonight.” She grinned.

----

She climbed into bed, doing her best to act casual, like this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Like she wasn’t hyperaware of the fact that Bucky was standing just a few feet away, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, no robe in sight.

“We have to be there at nine,” she said, adjusting the blankets around her. “So we’ve got, what… maybe four hours of sleep?”

The mattress dipped as he sat down, and she felt the shift beneath her. She told herself not to look. But when he moved to lie down, she turned her head, catching his gaze, and ended up on her side.

He hesitated for a moment before mirroring her, rolling onto his side so they were facing each other in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Even with the shadows softening his features, she could still see it, the stress in his brow, the weight pressing down on him. The doubt.

So she leaped.

Hesitating, she reached across the space between them, palm up. “You’ve got this, Bucky,” she said, in a soft but firm tone. “You’re going to do great.”

His eyes flicked to her hand, and surprise flashed across his face, but it only lasted a second. Without hesitation, he reached out with his scarred hand, wrapping his fingers around hers, and gave a small squeeze. “Thanks.”

----

The deal with Prescott went just as expected, some rough patches here and there, but overall, both sides walked away satisfied.

As requested, she had sorted through the attendees beforehand, making sure Bucky knew exactly who he could afford to ignore and who required his attention. Not that he always followed her lead, but to her surprise, he was in a much better mood than the night before.

Maybe it was the decent night’s sleep. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his nerves, he had handled the negotiations flawlessly. Or maybe it was just that he finally let himself lean on someone for just a little.

Bucky stepped out of the conference room, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension from the negotiations. His gaze landed on her instantly, curled up in one of the lounge chairs, with a coffee cup in her hands, looking perfectly calm. She raised a brow when she noticed him watching her.

“We have a cocktail party tonight,” he announced, coming to stand beside her chair.

She took a sip before answering. “We?”

“Me. The board jesters. A bunch of industrial guys.”

“Right. So, you,” she corrected, setting her cup down.

He huffed. “I want you to come.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Are you sure it’s not just for you and the board members?”

“I’m sure.”

She leaned back, studying him. “Bucky, I don’t exactly have cocktail-party-appropriate clothes lying around.”

He shrugged. “Neither do I.”

That made her snort. “Yeah, somehow, I doubt that.”

“No, really,” he said. “I didn’t pack for this, which means I gotta go get something to impress a bunch of snobs. You might as well come with me.” He caught the hesitation in her body language instantly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “That’s your only reason for doubting, right?”

She exhaled, knowing there was no way to wiggle out of it. “Yeah, that’s the only reason. But…” She opened her mouth, then hesitated. How was she supposed to explain that their budgets were galaxies apart? That the tie he’d pick out probably would cost as much as her monthly groceries?

“But what?” he pressed.

Fuck it.

“But, we are almost at month’s end, and I still have to pay the-”

“Wait. No, no,” he cut in, shaking his head. “I’m not expecting you to buy a fucking dress, doll. The company will.”

She frowned. “Bucky, I don’t think that’s appropriate-”

“I, the director, am the one making you attend this shitty event,” he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Obviously, it’s a company expense that my secretary looks good there, because if she doesn’t, the company image looks bad too.”

She gave him a flat look. “Did you just say I dress poorly in a roundabout way?”

His jaw dropped. “That is not what I said.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Mmhmm.”

Bucky groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just let me do something nice without fighting me on it?”

She sighed. “Fine.”

“Great,” he said, already dialing a number. “We leave in an hour.”

----

The last thing she expected when he said they were going shopping was to find herself standing inside a Prada store. She had anticipated something fancy, sure, but Prada? This was a whole different level. She was almost afraid to breathe too hard, worried she’d somehow stain or break something just by existing.

A perfectly dressed clerk approached them, and the moment the woman’s eyes landed on Bucky, her posture shifted: poised, interested, appreciative. She on the other hand, might as well have been invisible.

“What can I do for you?” the clerk asked, with a voice all smooth with professionalism and something more.

Bucky barely glanced at her. “We need a cocktail dress for her and a suit for me.”

Immediately, the woman waved over a co-worker, passing her off while keeping Bucky’s attention firmly on herself.

“Were you looking for something specific?” the second clerk asked her while signaling her to follow.

“Uh, yeah. I was thinking an empire dress with a V neckline.”

“Let me show you what we have.”

----

After trying on two options that didn’t feel quite right, she slipped into the third dress. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, elegant but not over-the-top, and when she pulled the curtain open, she froze.

Bucky was standing there, dressed in a black suit so well-fitted it might as well have been tailored for him on the spot. His ivory dress shirt contrasted against his sharp features, and there was something about the way he wore the suit -confident and powerful- that made her stare.

What she didn’t realize was that he was staring right back, caught off guard as he discreetly bit at his bottom lip.

“Guess that’s the dress,” he said, his voice just a little rough.

“You think so?” She did a slow spin, letting the fabric swirl around her.

“Definitely.” He managed to say.

She grinned. “Guess that’s the suit?”

He didn’t say anything, just gave her a pleased half-smile that sent warmth curling into her chest.

After purchasing the medium heels and the purse that she tried hard not to think about the cost of, they had lunch at an upscale restaurant.

----

By the time they reached the hotel, she was still reeling a little from the whole shopping trip. The Prada bags felt almost radioactive in her hands, she could barely process the fact that she now owned something so expensive, let alone the fact that Bucky had made the entire thing seem as casual as buying a cup of coffee.

As they approached the front desk, the receptionist greeted them with a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. We have the second room available now if the lady would like to move in.”

Before Bucky could respond, she beat him to it. “Good. Can I take it now?”

“Of course, ma’am,” the receptionist said, eyes flickering to Bucky for a moment, then back to her. “I’ll send someone up to move your belongings.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” she replied quickly, trying to play it off with a small smile. “It’s just a small suitcase and is already upstairs.”

“Very well, ma’am. Please enjoy your stay,” the woman said, giving her the magnetic card.

As the elevator ascended, Bucky crossed his arms and shot her a dry look. "That was fast."

"Huh?" she blinked, shifting the shopping bags in her grip.

"You practically threw yourself over the door card." He chuckled, but there was something almost edgy beneath it.

"Well," she shrugged, "I was supposed to be there from the start, Bucky. Now you won’t have to miss my… how do you call it? Clucking?" She winked.

Bucky scoffed, but his jaw worked like he was trying to stop himself from saying something. And maybe he was. Because the truth was, he would miss it.

He had no business getting used to her presence, to the way she looked after him. But those few hours they’d shared in the same bed? Dreamless. The first time in a long time his mind had given him peace. And now, standing here, the thought of losing that -even just the simple comfort of her being near- felt… wrong.

He glanced at her and found her watching him with an amused tilt of her head. He swallowed down whatever mess of thoughts he was having and shrugged instead. "I’ll survive."

----

The message came through: "Ready?"

She took a breath, smoothing her hands down the dress that still didn’t feel entirely real. "Yeah, coming out now."

Stepping into the hallway, she turned and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Bucky stood there, waiting, a few doors down. The same suit from earlier, yes, but now fully put together. His hair was neatly combed back, his scruff freshly trimmed, and the addition of a sleek watch and cufflinks only added to the devastating effect. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a high-end catalog, the kind of man people turned to look at the moment he entered a room.

Her pulse stuttered.

He caught her staring, but he didn’t call her out for it, probably because he was doing the exact same thing.

She looked stunning. That dress had already been perfect in the store, but now, with her makeup done, her hair styled just so, and the soft glow of the hotel lighting catching on her skin? He was fucking dying to close the space between them, to inhale and find out which perfume she’d chosen tonight. Would it be the one he liked the most?

His eyes briefly dipped to her neckline before he could stop himself, and his traitorous cock twitched in interest. Damn it. He forced his gaze back up, schooling his face into something composed just as she started toward him.

"You look good, sweetheart," he managed to say.

She smirked, sliding her hand into the arm he offered. "You cleaned up good yourself, boss."

----

The ride in the limo was... interesting.

The board members who had come along were in high spirits, congratulating themselves and Bucky on the deal, clinking their glasses of expensive whiskey as they rehashed key moments from the negotiation.

And yet, somehow, she was left out of the conversation entirely.

Not just the business talk, that she understood. She wasn’t part of the board. But even the petty, circumstantial chatter, the kind of polite small talk that people filled silence with, never once included her. It was as if she were just there, a piece of decoration beside Bucky, an accessory rather than a person.

Of course, to them, that’s exactly what she was.

Just his secretary. The one everybody knew he was fucking.

Now, he’d simply taken it a step further and brought her to the cocktail party, dressed up in Prada and heels, just like a good mistress should be.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

He was fully engaged in conversation with the others, discussing projections, potential expansions, and other things that weren’t meant for her ears.

She knew this would happen. The moment he asked her to come, she’d known she’d feel out of place. And yet, some naïve part of her had thought -hoped- it wouldn’t be this bad.

She wasn’t sure why, but something about the way the man across from her kept glancing up from his phone, barely acknowledging her except for those quick, assessing looks, made her stomach turn. His fingers moved smoothly over the screen, typing something, then pausing -another glance, another smirk- before resuming.

She forced herself to sit still, to smooth her dress over her lap, to ignore the creeping feeling at the back of her mind that something about this moment would come back to haunt her.

----

As they stepped into the reception, they blended seamlessly into the elegant crowd. The board members exchanged greetings with familiar faces, shaking hands and making small talk. A few acquaintances took notice of her, flickering their gazes between her and Bucky before curiosity got the better of them.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” one of them asked with a polite smile.

Bucky barely hesitated. “My dutiful secretary.”

There was always a beat after that -just a split second of realization- before the inevitable, knowing oh followed.

If he noticed the shift in people’s expressions, he didn’t show it. Either he was oblivious to it or, more likely, he just didn’t care. He was too used to these circles, to their assumptions, to their judgments. But she felt it. Every curious glance, every subtle flick of the eyes that said, so, he finally brought her along.

At some point, he made a passing joke “Ten years dealing with me, just for that, someone should give her an award,” which earned a few chuckles from the men around him. She mustered a polite smile, but inside, she could already feel the exhaustion creeping in.

She needed a drink. Or a few.

Slipping away, she made her way toward the bar and ordered a Gancia cocktail, sitting in one of the fancy stools.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still deep in conversation when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. His brows furrowed immediately -he wasn’t fond of being touched- but as he turned, his irritation sharpened into something heavier.

His father.

George Barnes stood there, exuding effortless charm as always, but he knew better. He braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Good job, son.”

For a moment, it almost sounded… honest, proud. But then, just as predictably as the sun rising, he leaned in ever so slightly, voice lowering so only Bucky could hear the next part. “You managed not to ruin it.”

Bucky's jaw ticked. But he exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his expression neutral.

George straightened, turning back to the small group with a practiced smile. “Gentlemen, if you don’t oppose, I’d like to steal my son for a moment.” The group murmured their good-natured agreements, stepping aside as the older man clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder again, making his muscles coil with irritation.

"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked, words laced with aggression but softened enough to avoid drawing attention.

His father’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head slightly. "It's a corporate party. Why wouldn’t I be here?"

Bucky’s brow furrowed, and his tone grew colder. "Because it's three states away, and you have no business here."

George chuckled lightly, as if this conversation was little more than a minor inconvenience. "Oh, but you are wrong, I do have business here. I have shares in Prescot & Co. Surprised?"

"In the bare minimum," Bucky replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He took a flute of champagne from a passing waitress, keeping his expression carefully neutral, tightening his grip around the delicate glass as his eyes remained fixed on his father.

George’s lips quirked into something like a smirk, clearly unfazed by the tension. "I know I gave you the industrial input branch to play with, James. And you’ve been doing a decent job. But it’s never bad to be aware of what’s going on there."

Bucky’s gaze flickered momentarily to the crowd around them, trying to gauge how much of this was being overheard. He wasn’t sure if his father’s presence here was meant to make some kind of point or just another round of his usual subtle power moves. Either way, he hated the feeling that his every step was being watched and scrutinized.

"Well, I’m doing just fine without your input," Bucky said, taking a sip of his champagne, trying to sound controlled.

His father’s eyes never left him, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. "Hm, and speaking of knowing what’s going on the firm..." George drawled, glancing toward the bar where she sat. "When were you going to tell me about this?" he asked, with a casual tone but loaded with implication.

Bucky’s body went rigid at the mention of her. His eyes shot toward her, but he quickly masked the tension creeping through his body. "What is it to tell?" he shot back, trying to downplay the situation.

George sighed, like he was explaining something to a child. "Some little birds keep me informed about your affairs on the firm, son. And they’ve been signing songs about you two for years now." His gaze flickered over to her, still perched at the bar, before he looked back at his son with a smug expression.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He could feel the familiar sting of being patronized, and it fueled his growing irritation. He leaned in slightly, keeping his voice calm but laced with the growing sharpness of his frustration. "It’s all bullshit, Dad. Maybe you’ll need to pick better your little spies." He hated the insinuations, the familiar condescension that George always slipped into conversations like these. The man always had a way of making his son feel small, of making everything seem like some petty game.

George didn’t flinch. His smirk only deepened. “Oh, I know about your escapades, James. Those bimbos you dated, the ones you dared to bring home. That last one, Mandy, or Marney...” he waved a hand. “But always, always, the songs about you and that ‘secretary’ of yours remained.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he fought to keep his composure. “Jesus, Dad. It’s my fucking secretary. At this level, it’s like having a work-wife. We never asked or told you anything about Esther in what, forty years working with her?” his voice was tight, defensive.

The old man quirked a brow, looking almost amused. “Exactly.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve been fucking Esther on my desk for the last thirty of those forty years, and no one had said a word or suspected anything. Why? Because I have brains, son.” His expression hardened. “It seems I keep overestimating you, thinking you could mask an office affair as it should be.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

His father smiled. “I know more than you think.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Then you’d know that if we were a thing, I wouldn’t hide her,” he stated in a low but firm tone. “I’d parade her at every opportunity, make damn sure everyone knew she was mine.” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, more like a warning. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”

George scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d be the talk-”

Bucky cut him off with a sharp smile. “Your last name would be the talk. And that’s what concerns you, isn’t it, Father?” His voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it. “But since you know me so well, you already know that I couldn’t care less about the tabloids, your social circle, and, lastly, your opinion on this matter.”

His father’s expression flickered, and something dark flashed in his eyes, but Bucky didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he drew on that well-practiced smile, the kind that could fool any onlooker into thinking this was just a polite conversation between father and son. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode into the crowd, leaving George standing alone in the wake of his words.

----

As she nursed her drink at the bar, she became aware of someone approaching. A tall man with a confident, almost cocky stance settled beside her.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, flagging down the bartender without even glancing at her.

She turned slightly, taking in the sharp suit, the perfectly styled blond hair, the smug air about him. John Walker. She recognized him from a few previous company functions, one of George Barnes’s people. He wasn’t part of Bucky’s branch of the company, but he had enough pull to be a nuisance when he wanted to be.

“Well, here I am,” she replied coolly, lifting her glass to her lips.

John smirked. “Must be nice. Traveling in style, all expenses paid…” His gaze flicked briefly to her dress, then the Prada bag she’d set down by her feet. “Guess it pays to be the boss’s favorite.”

Before she could respond, another voice cut in.

“There you are.”

Bucky.

His presence was commanding. He stepped between them, close enough that John had to shift back, barely masking his irritation. Bucky didn’t acknowledge him, his eyes were only on her.

“I need you to reschedule the Montgomery call for next week, now.” he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue easily. A perfect excuse, a simple reason to pull her away.

She blinked, catching on quickly. “Of course, boss.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, Barnes. You really don’t let her out of your sight, huh?” He took a slow sip of his drink, then added, “You should loosen the leash a little.”

Bucky went still.

It was subtle, the tic on his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides but she could feel the shift in the air.

John had no idea how close he was to getting his teeth knocked in.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a little smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I was just thinking about tightening yours.” His voice was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the threat beneath it.

John’s smirk faltered, but before he could respond, Bucky turned to her and offered his elbow. “Walk with me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

He barely spared Walker another glance as he guided her toward one of the balcony doors. The noise of the party dulled as they stepped outside, and the cool night air contrasted with the heat simmering beneath his skin.

"What did he tell you?" His voice was low and measured, but she knew better. He was seething.

She let out a small sigh. "Ah, just some silly banter we usually have," she tried to deflect, stepping closer to the railing.

Bucky stayed near, and his gaze flicked to hers. “Which consists of…?” he pressed, his voice quieter now but no less sharp.

She sighed, realizing there was no way he was going to let it go. “God, Bucky, it’s just stupid.”

“If it’s stupid, you can tell me.” He pushed.

She hesitated, but under the weight of his stare, she relented. “Some stupid thing about being the boss’s favorite.”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, and the muscle in his jaw ticked again. "That fucking bastard," he muttered. He started to turn back toward the party, and she recognized the intent in his posture. He was going to find Walker and probably, without subtlety, give him a piece of his mind.

She reached out instinctively, wrapping her fingers around his inner elbow. "Don’t you dare cause a scene over some juvenile taunt."

"He disrespected you," Bucky bit out with restrained anger.

She exhaled, trying for humor. "Did he lie? Am I not your favorite employee?"

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “You know what he meant by that.”

She smiled a little. "I do. But I just don’t care, Bucky." Her fingers lightly curled against his arm. "I know who I am and the place I occupy. John Walker’s opinions are not relevant to me."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The place you occupy?"

“Yes. As your secretary, as a friend.” She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the simplest truth. “You and I both know there’s nothing between us. It’s just so stupid. He’s seen the women you associate with; how could he even presume-”

Bucky’s chest did something stupid. He wasn’t sure what, only that it felt tight and hot and made him irrationally irritated. “What kind of women?”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, come on, Bucky. The Vogue cover type.”

Bucky stared at her. “The Vogue cover type?” he echoed, like he was tasting the words and finding them bitter.

She let out a small laugh. “You know what I mean. The ones with the perfect hair, the designer wardrobes, the endless legs-” She gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “The ones people expect a man like you to be with.”

Bucky scoffed. “A man like me?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re rich, successful, powerful, and on top of that, handsome. It’s not exactly shocking that you’d go for-”

Bucky let out a sharp breath. “For what?” he interrupted, voice edged with something dangerously close to frustration. “A goddamn mannequin?”

She blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. “Bucky, that’s the only kind of woman I’ve ever seen enter or exit your office in ten years. The only kind you arrange dates with. The only kind you send flowers to,” she pointed out, her tone laced with incredulity. “Did you never notice a pattern in your partners?”

He said nothing. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He couldn't deny it. Couldn’t, because that was the kind of woman that always approached him. The kind of woman that fit neatly into the world he operated in. The kind of woman he was expected to have perched on his arm. The kind of woman who made sense.

And the kind of woman who was so different from her.

Because he couldn’t dare to be with someone who even resembled her. To be what? A cheap replacement for the luscious body and sharp tongue he really wanted in his bed? No. That would’ve been pathetic. Even for him.

And maybe he was delusional, but he could’ve sworn there was something there, an edge in her voice when she spoke about his so-called type, as if she had already decided for the both of them that they could never be a thing.

And God, he was tired.

So tired of this stupid dance that had lasted years of what-ifs, blurred lines, untold truths, and all the office gossip that never seemed to die.

His patience snapped.

“What, do you think it’s so impossible for us to be something more?”

She froze, and her eyes widened with surprise. “Well, I never perceived anything resembling -um- interest from you,” she stammered.

Bucky let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Do you think I would let anyone touch me the way you do if I didn’t feel something?”

She went speechless for a second, parting her lips, scrambling for an answer. “Well, maybe-”

“No,” he cut her off, low and heated. “And you know it. Tell me one person you’ve seen me with who has that level of intimacy with me. One person who can approach me, who can touch me, who can nurse me like a fucking child and I let them.” His chest rose and fell with the force of his words, the frustration thick in every syllable. “You won’t find anyone.”

Because there was no one else. Only her.

Bucky moved in, crowding her against the cool balcony railing, his body was a wall of heat and tension. His hands weren’t on her -yet- but he was close enough that she could feel his breath, the scent of his cologne mixed with champagne, wrapping around her like a slow burn.

His voice was low, almost rough. “The question here is… do you feel anything else besides ‘friendly’ empathy when you touch me?” His blue eyes were searching, desperate for something he wasn’t sure she could give. “Have you ever wanted this to be something more?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

His jaw flexed, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides like he was barely holding himself back. “Am I the only one who thinks that- fuck.” His head dipped for half a second, as if frustrated with himself, before he looked at her again, with a dark, unreadable gaze. “The only one of us that feels like us could be a thing?”

His words were a shock to her system, leaving the air thick, charged between them. His hands found the railing on either side of her body, bracketing her in without touching her.

And she was also tired, so goddamn tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of thinking about what was proper.

Tired of believing she could be nothing more to him than his dutiful secretary.

Tired of swimming through dates and relationships that, even with effort, never felt fulfilling.

She looked up at him, the man she had spent endless hours working for, hours that seemed to pass in a blink. The man marked by scars, both physical and psychological. The ruthless wolf who ruled a company he never truly wanted, yet refused to let go of. The man who, in the deepest corner of his mind -even if he never admitted it- wanted to be seen by his father.

The man she had learned to read so many years ago, whose moods, silences, and tells she knew by heart.

The man she couldn’t stop caring for because no one else did. Not even himself.

The man she was in love with.

And she couldn’t deny him.

"You are not the only one who feels all of those things," she heard herself say, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She averted her gaze quickly, suddenly aware of the distant noise of voices and clinking glasses behind them. But before she could step away, he leaned in, still caging her against the balcony railing.

Bucky turned his head slightly, scanning their surroundings. There was no one. And fuck if he cared if there was.

His intense gaze snapped back to hers. "Do you mean it?" His voice was low, almost rough. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply and took a fraction of a step back, and his hands ghosted over her arms as if forcing himself to give her space. "Aren’t you feeling pressured right now? By my position? By our… dynamic?"

She scoffed, shaking her head, "You know me well enough to know I don’t let myself be pressured. I think my first week under you made that clear."

A dry chuckle left his lips. "God. You dared to lecture me about not being a servant just for asking for a coffee."

Her lips parted in disbelief. "Oh, don’t you dare play the victim here," she shot back, jabbing a finger lightly against his chest. "You barked at me to walk eight blocks in those fucking heels just because you wanted that petroleum filth they called gourmet espresso. You had five excellent coffee shops between here and there, but no, you had to have that one, which charged you double for dirty water."

Bucky let out a low, amused hum, catching her hand before she could retreat. His grip was firm but soft, and his thumb glided absentmindedly over her knuckles. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

"I thought of firing you on the spot," he admitted, almost reflectively.

Her brows lifted. "Oh, how gracious of you not to."

His smirk deepened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his other hand, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with the rough pad of his thumb.

"But then I realized," he murmured, tilting his head, "I got so fucking turned on when you didn’t cower and spoke your mind."

Her breath caught as his fingers slid back, cupping lightly the base of her neck.

"It’s so goddamn rare," he continued, dipping his voice into something huskier, "to find someone in these circles who actually says what they mean. Who doesn’t just… bend."

His grip tightened at the back of her head, and his fingers fisted in her hair, undoing part of her hairstyle as he tugged just enough to tilt her face up toward his. His pupils were blown wide, dark and consuming, the pale blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the heat behind them.

"But I'd be lying," he murmured, as his breath brushed against her lips, "if I said I haven’t thought about bending you in other… more pleasurable ways."

A tingle ran down her spine, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The heat rushed to her face, completely unaccustomed to this side of him, this raw, unveiled hunger. The daily life they shared, the comfort they had built over years of working side by side, had nothing to do with the way he looked at her now.

Like a predator.

A handsome, fucked-up predator, ready to consume her whole.

And she was going to let him.

Far in the back of her mind, the worries of what this would mean, of the implications of crossing this line, of the scandal and gossip if anyone found them like this, all of it faded into irrelevance. The only thing that mattered was the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his body crowded hers against the railing, and the way his gaze locked her in place like she was something he had no intention of letting slip through his fingers.

She tried to feign a little nonchalance. "Is this your pickup line for fancy cocktail parties? Telling a lady you want to bend her?"

His low chuckle rumbled against her, his amusement laced with something far more dangerous. He didn’t pull away when she tried to call him out. No, he attacked.

"Oh, I think this lady enjoyed it very much," he murmured, brushing the shell of her ear with his lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "The way she squirms under my gaze tells me everything I need to know."

The warmth of his breath made her shiver as his manicured stubble grazed her cheek, rough against the softness of her skin. Strands of his loosened hair tickled under her chin as he slowly turned his face, skimming his lips over hers, just the ghost of a touch, but it set her entire body on fire. Without thinking, she pressed the softest peck to the corner of his mouth.

And that was all it took.

He let go.

To hell with the party. To hell with his father, the endless charade of appearances, and whoever might walk through those balcony doors.

His other hand fisted the fabric at her lower back, yanking her against him as his lips crashed onto hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, deep, possessive, and unrelenting. His expensive suit wrinkled under her desperate grasp as her fingers clawed at his lapels.

Her purse tumbled from her shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when Bucky was pressing her against the railing, caging her in, one large hand tightening its grip on her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.

He kissed her like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else. Like he was sealing something between them, something untold but inevitable. His tongue parted her lips and swallowed the soft gasp that escaped her own.

Her knees weakened, but he was there, securing his grip as if daring gravity to try and take her from him. A deep, satisfied groan vibrated against her mouth as she arched into him, digging her nails into his shoulders.

Without even thinking, he pressed a thick thigh between hers, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.

Bucky felt it, her body’s reaction, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened their hold on him. His grip on her waist grew firmer, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to imprint himself on her, to make sure she felt him everywhere.

"That’s it, doll," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, his lips barely leaving hers as he spoke. "I can feel how much you want this."

His thigh flexed, pressing up against her just right, and she bit down a whimper, tilting back her head against the railing. Bucky took advantage, latching his mouth onto her exposed throat, scraping over the delicate skin with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

Her hands fisted his suit, wrinkling the pristine fabric even further, but he couldn’t care less. Not when she was trembling against him, not when she was letting him take control, letting him push, pull, and claim in ways neither of them had dared to acknowledge before tonight.

His breath was uneven when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his pupils blown wide, hunger and something far more dangerous swirling in that stormy blue. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growled, his grip constricting on her waist as if he might just drag her away.

For a moment, she teetered on the edge of saying yes, of letting him whisk her away and finish what they started. But then reality seeped in: the clinking of glasses, the sound of conversation just beyond the balcony doors, the weight of eyes that could turn at any moment.

She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to press against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. “We… we can’t.”

“Like hell we don’t,” he countered, as he dragged his thigh between hers again. The friction made her bite her lip, shifting her hips instinctively toward him, betraying her resolve.

“Don’t be a brat,” she murmured. “You’re here to make connections, to pretend you give a damn about these people. Not to mention your father’s just waiting for you to slip.”

“I don’t give a fuck-”

“Bucky.” She exhaled, calming herself. “This is good for you. A couple of hours, and then we can go.”

His exhalation was sharp, and his grip faltered for just a second before his forehead came to rest against hers. He felt dejected. She let her fingers trail down his lapels, smoothing out the wrinkles she had put there.

“Honey,” she murmured, softer now, “I want this as much as you do.”

His lips parted, ready to argue, but she pressed a finger to them, shaking her head. “No. You told me you wanted me on this trip as a buffer, to help figure out who you can be a dick to and who you can’t.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Maybe I just wanted you close.”

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it. Instead, she dragged her hands down his arms, squeezing his wrists before stepping back just enough to force some distance. “Shush. I’m doing what I’m supposed to.” She smirked, playful now, tilting her head. “Don’t be stubborn. Be a good boy and talk to those people. We have plenty of time for ourselves once this ends.”

His nostrils flared, and for a second, she thought he might argue. But then, with one last lingering touch along her waist, he huffed a quiet curse and pulled away.

She was right. He knew she was right. But seeing her all disheveled against the railing, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in uneven little gasps, none of it helped his restraint.

Which was exactly why, instead of stepping back into the party like a man with self-control, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward a darker corner of the balcony.

“Bucky! What-”

She barely had time to protest before her back met the cool stone wall, and his body caged hers in, shielding her from view.

“I’m being a good boy,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You failed to perceive how you -and probably I- look right now.” His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, tilting her chin up, and his eyes swept over her face and down her neck, to where her dress was slightly askew from his hands. “We can’t walk back in there looking like two horny teenagers who made out while the adults were talking,” he said, ghosting his lips over her temple, in a teasing but firm tone.

She swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver as his hands roamed her body, smoothing over the wrinkles in her dress and fixing his own tie with a frustrated sigh.

“And whose fault is that?” she muttered, smoothing out the lapels of his suit jacket before reaching lower to straighten the part of his shirt that had somehow come untucked during their little ordeal.

Bucky chuckled, watching her fuss over him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare throw this on me when we both know you were pretty damn excited a minute ago,” he teased.

Her hands stilled, lips parting in protest, only to be cut off by a sharp gasp as one of his hands abandoned its pretense of decorum and slid down to cup her ass, squeezing with deliberate firmness.

She yelped, smacking his chest, but his smirk only widened.

“Now stop being so bossy and help us look mildly demure,” he murmured, all mock innocence, though the way his hand rubbed slowly at her rear said otherwise.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she batted his hand away, not that it did much, considering he was still crowding her against the wall like he had every intention of misbehaving again, and his scent clung to her like a second skin.

“Demure? After what you just pulled?” she scoffed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on her dress. “The nerve you have,” she muttered, running her fingers through her hair, trying futilely to regain some composure.

Bucky chuckled, slow and smug, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as he watched her. “And yet, you let me and enjoyed it. And… you’re still here,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

She exhaled, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “For now.”

His eyes darkened, and his amusement flickered into something deeper as he leaned in, fanning his warm breath against her temple. “For good.”

Taglist: @civilbucky

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

The Alpine McLaren Fiasco

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: The Alpine - McLaren Fiasco…and Felicity Piastri’s hand in it. (Or: why multiple F1 team principals are terrified of Oscar’s wife.) Set in the Summer of 2022.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

The pen in Oscar’s hand felt heavier than it should’ve.

Zak was across the table, nodding. The contract was crisp, the numbers bold. The McLaren badge printed at the top of the page gleamed in the light.

He was about to sign to a Formula One seat.

It should’ve felt like adrenaline. Like fireworks. Like victory.

It was a seat. An opportunity. A shot at doing what he loved.

But Oscar’s thoughts weren’t on the track. They weren’t even on the car.

They were with Felicity. And Bee.

In that too-small apartment in Enstone with the leaky kitchen tap and the one bedroom that doubled as a nursery and an office and a place where Felicity folded laundry between uni assignments.

He thought of how Felicity had taped Bee’s drawings to the side of the fridge because they didn’t have enough wall space.

How she tiptoed around her own life so Oscar could chase his dream.

How she never once complained.

Not when they had to squeeze Bee’s crib into the corner. Not when she had to stack books on the floor because there wasn’t a bookshelf. Not even when the neighbor’s dog barked through Bee’s naps and the heat didn’t work half the winter.

She’d just kissed him good luck each morning and said, "We’ll get through this. We always do."

Oscar looked down at the contract again.

It wasn’t just a deal. It was a door.

A way out. A way forward.

A house with a garden where Bee could run barefoot. A kitchen big enough for Felicity to hum and dance and bake without balancing the baby monitor on top of a stack of unopened mail.

Space. Safety. A future.

He signed.

Zak smiled and shook his hand. Someone said something about celebrating.

But all Oscar could think about was going home.

Not to the apartment — to them.

To Felicity. To Bee.

To tell them that the next chapter had just started. That this dream he’d been chasing — this seat, this opportunity — wasn’t just for him.

It was theirs.

He’d come home with takeout, he decided. From that noodle place Felicity liked, the one too expensive to justify often but always worth it. He’d pick up Bee’s favorite yogurt. And maybe a tiny plant for the windowsill — something green and alive.

Because they’d be moving soon.

Because McLaren wasn’t just a team.

It was the key to building the life he’d promised them.

And for the first time in months, Oscar let himself breathe.

Not for the racing. For home.

The apartment was dark when Oscar slipped through the door. The kind of dark that came with soft exhaustion — not nightfall, just drawn curtains and a tired toddler finally sleeping.

He closed the door gently behind him, careful with the handle so it wouldn’t creak, and toed off his shoes without a sound.

The hallway was cramped, the kind of too-narrow that made it impossible to pass Bee’s drying artwork on the walls without brushing it. The kind of space that didn’t feel like it was built to hold a family — just borrowed time.

It had never been enough.

He found Felicity in the living room. She was sitting on the old sofa, knees tucked to her chest, one of Oscar’s hoodies drowning her frame. The television was on low, but she wasn’t watching it. Just sitting there, staring at the quiet shadows on the floor like they held answers.

She looked up when he walked in, and he saw it — the tired hope in her eyes, and still, she smiled at him.

Oscar walked over slowly and dropped to his knees in front of her, right there on the fraying rug. He reached for her hands, holding them gently in his own.

“It’s done,” he said softly. “It’s McLaren. We signed today.”

Felicity blinked, her breath catching.

“Wait—”

“We’re going,” Oscar said, voice suddenly tight with everything he hadn’t let himself feel. “We’re leaving. No more Enstone. No more trying to squeeze Bee’s cot between the heater and the dresser. No more pretending this place is enough.”

Felicity’s hands trembled in his.

He squeezed them gently. “I’m buying us a house.”

Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“A real one,” Oscar continued, rushing now. “With a garden. And a bathtub that doesn’t leak. A proper bedroom for Bee. A kitchen where you can open both cabinet doors without hitting the fridge.”

Her eyes flooded.

“I want you to have somewhere that’s yours,” Oscar whispered. “I want Bee to grow up with a tree she can climb and space to dance and—and a door that locks properly, for God’s sake.”

A tear slid down Felicity’s cheek.

Oscar leaned forward, forehead resting against her knees.

“I’m sorry it took this long.”

Felicity moved, wordless, and slid off the couch, kneeling in front of him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

He held her like he’d never let go.

“I didn’t mind the small space,” she whispered finally. “I minded you thinking that Bee and I deserved more. That you failed us in some way.”

Oscar’s chest cracked wide open.

“You deserve everything,” he breathed.

Felicity laughed quietly through her tears. “A garden?”

“A garden,” he promised. “With lavender. And a swing for Bee. And enough room for your books and a kitchen table that actually fits all three of us.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at him. Her cheeks were damp, her smile trembling but real.

“I love you,” she said.

He smiled, brushing a thumb across her cheek.

“Good,” he said. “Because I just changed our lives.”

***

The first sign that something was wrong came from the way Oscar closed the door.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

But soft. Measured. Careful.

Felicity looked up from the dining table, where Bee was hunched over her coloring book. The late sun poured gold across the room, catching the faint frown on Oscar’s face like a spotlight.

He dropped his keys in the tray by the door and stood there for a beat too long.

Felicity’s heart sank.

Bee didn’t notice. She was busy sorting her crayons by colors again.

Felicity rose quietly, walked into the hallway, and touched his wrist. “Oscar?”

He looked at her. And just shook his head.

She didn’t press. She just waited.

Eventually, he exhaled — slow and low — and said, “Otmar told me I was driving for Alpine next year.”

Felicity blinked. “I’m sorry — what?”

“In the sim,” Oscar added, still stunned. “In front of some of the engineers. Who didn’t even know.”

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. Not enough to shake. Just enough to sharpen.

“He blindsided you?” she asked.

Oscar nodded. “I didn’t want to make a scene. I just… nodded. Finished the session.”

Finished the session. Of course he had.

Because he was Oscar — calm, controlled, collected to the core. Even when humiliated. Even when put in a position no one that professional should ever be put in.

“And did you explain—?”

“I’ve explained, Felicity,” he said, finally lifting his head. “They knew. My camp told them multiple times we were exploring other options. I said it myself. It was never confirmed. They never had my signature. They just—”

“Claimed you.”

Oscar looked down again.

Felicity’s mouth went tight.

She’d seen it too many times — the way men like that assumed ownership, assumed quiet meant compliant. That saying it out loud made it real. That playing politics in front of others gave them leverage.

Oscar had never played those games.

And now he was paying for it.

“They’re not just trying to control the story,” she said. “They’re trying to corner you. Back you into looking like the villain if you correct it.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the guys. It wasn’t their fault.”

She nodded.

Of course he hadn’t.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t furious.

They’d worked so carefully. So intentionally. The McLaren option hadn’t come from nowhere — it had been months in the making. Every conversation, every clause, every piece of it had been considered and weighed.

This wasn’t immaturity.

This was calculated.

And Alpine had chosen narrative over truth.

Felicity breathed slowly through her nose. “When are we releasing the statement?”

“Today, probably,” Oscar said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Mark’s furious.”

Good, she thought. She wanted him furious.

Because she was fuming.

Felicity could already see how it would play out — the headlines, the noise, the armchair contracts lawyers. The spin.

“You are not unprofessional,” she said, low and steady. “You are not a backstabber. You’ve been measured every step of the way. They underestimated your quiet.”

Oscar’s lips twitched. “That sounds familiar.”

Felicity smiled without warmth. “I’m used to it.”

Bee’s little voice drifted in from the other room. “Mama? Can I have some juice?”

Felicity turned toward the kitchen doorway, then looked back at Oscar.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, reaching out and brushing a hand down his cheek. “We’ve got receipts. We’ve got truth. And we’ve got you.”

Oscar caught her wrist, just for a second. Held it. “Thanks.”

Felicity smiled, this time real and quiet.

“Go say hello to Bee,” she said. “I’ll text Mark and check the contract files again. They wanted a public war, Oscar. They picked the wrong family.”

Oscar stood, kissed the top of her head, and walked to their daughter.

Felicity turned to her laptop and opened the Alpine folder.

Let them come.

Let them try.

She had the facts, the documents, the dates. She had Oscar’s name, signed only where he meant it.

And most of all—

She had no intention of letting anyone turn the man she loved into a villain.

***

The living room was a battlefield of open laptops, phones buzzing, and half-drunk coffee mugs.

Oscar sat hunched on the couch, scrolling furiously through Twitter and official press releases, looking about two seconds away from a full existential crisis.

Felicity sat cross-legged beside him, calm as a storm before the first clap of thunder, flicking through her own phone.

Bee was sleeping in the bedroom, mercifully oblivious to the fact that her father was at the center of a global motorsport meltdown.

Oscar scrubbed his hands through his hair. “This is a mess. This is an actual, full-on mess.”

Felicity hummed noncommittally, tapping something into her notes app.

Oscar looked over, wild-eyed. “Aren’t you freaking out?! Alpine’s posting like I signed a contract with blood and glitter, and McLaren’s playing it cool, and half the grid thinks I’m lying, and—”

Felicity set her phone down neatly on the coffee table and turned to him, entirely serene.

“Oscar,” she said sweetly, “we did everything correctly.”

He blinked. “But—”

“They made promises they couldn’t back up. They leaked information before confirming it. They tried to paint you into a corner because you’re young and polite and they thought you wouldn’t fight back.”

Oscar opened his mouth.

Felicity leaned in, smiling like a wolf in a fairy tale. “But they underestimated you. And they didn’t count on you having a lawyered-up, spite-driven wife who reads contracts for fun.”

As if summoned, the phone rang.

Mark Webber.

Oscar winced and picked up.

"Hey, mate."

The sound of pure exasperation poured through the speaker. "How the bloody hell are you so calm? We’ve got half of Formula 1 Management breathing down our necks, and the internet's lost its mind."

Oscar opened his mouth.

Then Felicity, without looking up, said mildly, “Tell him we’re fine. That Alpine leaked confidential information prematurely. That we have documented evidence of their breach of duty. And that the Contract Recognition Board is going to back us because we're right."

Oscar blinked at her. Then relayed it word for word.

There was a long pause on the other end.

Then Mark said, very slowly, “Is Felicity there?”

Oscar handed the phone over like it was a live grenade.

Felicity took it without blinking. “Hello, Mark.”

“Hi.” A beat. “You’re terrifying.”

Felicity smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

Mark coughed awkwardly. “I mean that in the most complimentary way possible.”

“I know.”

There was another pause.

Then Mark said, almost reverently, “Honestly, between you, me, and the twitter post... I think Alpine’s lawyers should be more scared of you than of McLaren’s entire legal department.”

“That would be the correct assessment,” Felicity said pleasantly. “Would you like me to draft a bullet-point memo for Oscar to quote if anyone gets difficult in interviews?”

There was a stunned pause.

Then, almost meekly: “...Yes, please.”

Felicity grinned. “I'll have it to you in an hour.”

She hung up, handed Oscar his phone back, and sipped her tea like she hadn’t just calmly bent reality to her will.

Oscar stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time all over again.

"You scare Mark Webber."

"And you," Felicity teased.

"Yeah," Oscar said with a soft, dazed smile. "But it's the best kind of scary."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, entirely relaxed. "You’re moving to the right team. You did nothing wrong. And if anyone tries to make you feel otherwise—" she smiled, all teeth, "—we’ll remind them politely."

Oscar stared at her, a little awed. Maybe a little scared.

Felicity sat back and sipped her tea. “We are legally sound. You are moving to a team that actually values you. And if anyone still doubts you after today?”

She smiled wider. Dangerously.

“They can sit on the grass and watch you win from there.”

Oscar blinked.

“...God, I love you.”

Oscar closed his eyes and let out a long breath, tension bleeding out of him.

He had Felicity.

He had Bee.

And somehow, even in the middle of the biggest motorsport drama of the year, that made him feel invincible.

***

The kitchen table had stopped being a place for breakfast weeks ago.

It was now Command Central — home to three laptops, two legal pads, a rainbow of highlighters, half-drunk mugs of coffee, and a folder so thick it had earned its own spot on the chair beside Felicity like an honored guest.

The tabs alone told a story: blue for correspondence, yellow for contracts, pink for press statements, green for legal precedent. She’d chosen the colors late one night while Oscar slept curled around Bee, and something about the order calmed her.

She needed the order.

Because the rest of it was chaos.

The headlines, the speculation, the deliberate noise. And beneath it, the truth — quiet, sharp, waiting to be weaponized.

Felicity clicked open the spreadsheet for the seventh time that morning. It was color-coded, time-stamped, annotated.

July 13 – Verbal confirmation Alpine was “exploring options” July 15 – Email from Oscar’s management to Alpine: “No signed agreement exists” July 22 – Internal Alpine memo leak to press claiming Oscar’s “contractual obligation” August 2 – Alpine public statement: “We have Oscar under contract.” [note: NO contract signed. Cross-reference clause 3.1 of FIA driver agreement terms]

She didn’t even have to read the lines anymore. They were burned into her skull.

Every time someone tweeted about Oscar’s "lack of professionalism," she opened this document. Every time a commentator said he’d "done Alpine dirty," she updated the footnotes. Every time someone mentioned loyalty, she added another timestamp, another receipt, another piece of ammunition.

Because she wasn’t letting them rewrite the story.

Not this time.

Not after everything she’d given up.

Oscar didn’t ask her to take on the case. He’d asked her to let it go.

But Felicity had been letting things go for years.

She let go of her family the day she chose him.

Not in a dramatic, slammed-door kind of way — but in the quiet way that people who love carefully often lose things. They hadn’t approved. Of him. Of the life. Of the risk. They’d said things like “This won’t last” and “He’ll never pick you over the sport.”

They hadn’t seen him at two in the morning, rocking Bee back to sleep when Felicity was too exhausted to lift her head. They hadn’t watched him leave for another test session with aching eyes and a whispered “Thank you for doing this. For letting me try.”

They hadn’t read the letter he wrote her on their wedding day. The one where he said, “Every podium, every contract, every bit of success — it’s all because you believed when no one else did.”

They hadn’t heard how her voice steadied his when the cameras shook him. They hadn’t seen what she’d sacrificed so he could grow.

She’d given up her family. Her country. Her parents. Her safety net.

But she’d never once regretted it.

And now? Now someone was trying to take the man she loved — not with force, but with assumption.

Like he didn’t deserve to choose. Like he should be grateful for whatever scraps they handed down.

Not on her watch.

Felicity pulled out a press release — Alpine’s, dated August — and highlighted a single sentence:

“Oscar is our driver for 2023, as per our agreement.”

Then she opened the corresponding legal file and added a note beneath it:

NO agreement signed. Misrepresentation of contractual status. Possible breach of good faith negotiation standards under FIA governance protocols.

She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t tweet.

She built her case, brick by careful brick.

Oscar would go to that hearing with his team — with Mark, with lawyers, with the truth.

But he’d also go with her preparation. Her structure. Her work.

Because if the world was going to talk about Oscar Piastri, they’d do it based on facts.

Not fiction.

Not noise.

At 1 a.m., Oscar padded in from the bedroom, hair rumpled, Bee’s stuffed frog in one hand.

“Fliss,” he said softly, “come to bed.”

“I’m almost done,” she said, not looking up.

He walked around the table and gently took the pen from her fingers.

“You’ve done enough.”

She looked at him, and for the first time that day, let herself breathe.

“I just don’t want them to get away with it,” she whispered. “With turning you into the villain.”

“They won’t,” he said, crouching beside her chair. “Because I have you.”

That broke something open in her. Not in the fragile way.

In the unshakable, I’d go to war for you kind of way.

“I gave up everything for you,” she said, not as a wound — but a fact. “And I’d do it again. But I won’t watch anyone try to drag you through the mud for having boundaries. For being smart. For knowing your worth.”

Oscar just pulled her into a hug. Held her there. Silent. Certain.

Because that’s what they were.

Not perfect.

But certain.

***

The days stretched long.

Not in the leisurely, golden-summer way. But in that suffocating, gray-laced kind of stretch where everything felt suspended — like someone had pressed pause and forgotten to hit play again.

Oscar’s name was everywhere.

Not in the way drivers dreamed about. Not headlines about timesheets or potential or precision. Not praise for his cornering or racecraft.

No, his name was in the noise. “Contract Chaos.” “Alpine Stunned.” “The Rookie Who Said No.”

Oscar had stopped reading the articles two weeks in. Felicity hadn’t — she’d compiled a spreadsheet.

With sources. And timestamps. And quotes cross-referenced against public statements and private emails.

Oscar didn’t ask how many tabs she had open on her laptop at any given time. He just brought her coffee and kissed her temple before sitting down at his own screen.

Waiting was the hardest part.

They weren’t allowed to say much — not until the CRB hearing. Everything had to be careful. Measured. Legally sound. Which meant there were long, maddening stretches of silence where the world speculated loudly and they just... endured.

Felicity kept things steady. Quiet, but never passive. She chased updates with the precision of someone who’d spent years patching together stability from scraps. She spoke to Mark almost daily. She checked and rechecked contracts until she could quote clauses in her sleep.

Oscar trained. Sim work. Gym. Notes. Repeat.

When he wasn’t on a call with his legal team or being told to “stay calm” for the fifteenth time that week, he was on the floor with Bee, building LEGO cars and pretending none of it touched them.

Some nights, though, after Bee was asleep and the dishes were done, he’d find Felicity on the balcony, a hoodie pulled tight around her shoulders, eyes scanning the sky like the stars might offer answers.

“Do you think they’ll rule in our favor?” he asked one night, joining her.

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she passed him her mug and said, “I think truth doesn’t always win. But paper trails do.”

Oscar huffed a soft laugh, took a sip. “Romantic.”

She bumped her shoulder against his. “You married a realist.”

Oscar wore a navy suit and the most impassive face he could manage to the hearing. He also carried The Folder — the one Mark jokingly called “Felicity’s Sword.”

It was thick. Color-coded. Cross-indexed. Tabbed and terrifying.

The hearing wasn’t dramatic.

There were no shouting matches. No grand revelations. Just sharp questions, crisp answers, and lawyers who underestimated how well-prepared the Piastri side was.

Oscar didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to.

He did — once. When asked to clarify the correspondence timeline.

He pulled out an email, read it aloud, and then pointed out a contradictory press quote from Alpine dated three days after it that Felicity had found.

He didn’t smile.

But Mark did. Like a man watching someone drop a precision-engineered anvil on a house of cards.

The ruling came on a Friday.

Oscar was at the table with Bee on his lap, coloring quietly. Felicity was on speaker with Mark when the email landed.

There was a pause.

Then Mark’s voice: “We won.”

Oscar blinked. “Wait—”

“It’s McLaren. Fully binding. The CRB ruled unanimously. Alpine never had a contract.”

Felicity let out a breath that sounded like it had been waiting in her chest for months. Bee dropped a crayon. Oscar stood, numb with disbelief.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

Mark was already laughing. “Mate, you’re officially a McLaren driver.”

Oscar turned to Felicity.

She was smiling. Not the careful kind — not the one she wore when she was holding things together for everyone else. But a real, wild smile. The kind that said, we did it.

He pulled her into his arms and spun her in the middle of their too-small kitchen. Bee squealed as they bumped into the table.

Felicity clung to him. “We’re free,” she whispered.

Oscar nodded, forehead pressed to hers.

“We’re going home,” he said, meaning McLaren. Meaning out. Meaning forward.

And for the first time since that awful meeting in the sim room, Oscar felt light.

Like gravity had finally let go.

“You’re going to drive orange cars now, Papa?” Bee asked him very seriously.

Oscar smiled, eyes wet. “Yeah, Bumblebee. I am.”

***

The ink was barely dry on the Contract Recognition Board’s official ruling.

McLaren had won.

Oscar Piastri was officially McLaren’s. Alpine was left scrambling to save face. And Zak Brown was feeling the rare, giddy high of a clean, decisive victory — but also the lingering shock at how ruthlessly, brilliantly, and perfectly the whole thing had been handled.

He leaned back in his office chair, rubbing his jaw, still half laughing in disbelief as Mark Webber sat across from him, looking far too relaxed for a man who had just navigated an international legal war.

“Okay,” Zak said finally, throwing his pen down with a clatter. “I need to know.”

Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Know what?”

“Who’s your lawyer?” Zak said, grinning wide. “Because whoever handled this — the paperwork, the contracts, the way you all walked Alpine into a brick wall — they’re a shark. We need someone like that. Seriously. Name your price."

Mark’s mouth twitched, like he was enjoying this far too much.

Zak waited, half-expecting Mark to name some fancy law firm out of London.

Instead, Mark said, perfectly straight-faced: “She’s not a lawyer.”

Zak blinked. “What?”

Mark leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “She’s Oscar’s wife.”

Zak blinked harder. “His wife?”

Mark nodded, looking far too satisfied. “Yep.”

There was a stunned pause.

Zak sat forward slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Wait. Oscar’s married?”

Mark smirked. “He is.”

Zak threw his hands up. “He’s, what, twenty-one?”

“Married,” Mark confirmed cheerfully.

Zak stared at him. “And the woman who just ran circles around Alpine’s legal team is his wife?”

Mark chuckled under his breath. “Felicity. Brilliant, ruthless, scary when she wants to be. She reads contracts for fun."

Zak shook his head slowly, as if trying to reboot his brain. “How have I never heard about her? Or seen a single post, or interview?”

Mark shrugged. “Oscar keeps his family very private. Always has. Protects them like his life depends on it.”

Zak opened his mouth — and Mark, because apparently today wasn’t wild enough already, added, totally casual:

“Oh, and they have a daughter too.”

Zak actually choked. “A what?!”

Mark was openly grinning now. “A little girl. Bee. Two years old. Smart as hell. Already critiques Oscar’s driving sometimes.”

Zak pressed both hands over his face. "Married. With a kid. And somehow still the most put-together twenty-one-year-old on the grid."

Mark laughed. "Told you. Built different."

Zak dropped his hands and let out a long, slow breath. “Jesus. I thought we signed a rookie. Turns out we signed an entire bloody empire."

Mark clapped him on the back as he stood up to leave, grinning like a man who knew exactly what he had delivered to McLaren.

“You’ll thank me later.”

Zak just sat there for a long moment after the door shut, muttering to himself.

“Married. Kid. Legal assassin wife. ...We are so screwed in the next contract negotiation.”And somehow? He couldn’t even be mad about it.

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piyushflip · 2 years ago

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ophernelia · 8 months ago

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🛀🏿 check out the recent episode! | full series

desk area | gua's peg board, hanraja's monitors, novvvas' fig tree, dsco's apple pc, myshunosun's desk, littledica's recycling bin, pierisim's desk chair, cowbuild's rl pillow, simspirationbuilds' nila rug, tilly-tiger's book wall, rubyred's plant

bathroom area | felixandre's sink, sundays' candle extinguisher, lilaccreative's candle, bostyny's lipstick, sixamcc's brush, lana's perfume set, novvvas toothbrush set, sundays' plant, felixandre's mirror, simspiration's walls

~ thank you to all the cc creators!

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beetronics · 1 year ago

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#Rugged Monitors

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pitlanepeach · 12 days ago

Text

The Long Way Home I Interlude

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Tell a friend to tell a friend… she’s backkkkkk. P.S. We’ll pick up Oscar, Harper and baby Clem in the next chapter which will begin our F2 era (forgive me for skipping F3, but we will revisit that era in the future!)

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They started to call it home before they even had the keys.

It was the kind of flat you only ever saw in a glossy magazine or on a Netflix teen drama — all clean lines and warm wood, soft lighting that dimmed with a voice command, floor-to-ceiling windows that turned the city skyline into wallpaper. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a concierge who knew them by name, underground parking, and a leafy park nearby with a duck pond.

It was somewhere in Zone 2 — close enough to the centre for Harper to feel like part of something, far enough out for Oscar to breathe. Within easy driving distance of Silverstone, and surrounded by three coffee shops that all knew Harper's name and her usual: an oat flat white, extra hot, one sugar. Coffee had become a staple since becoming a mum. It was either that or total collapse.

They signed the lease two weeks before Clem's second birthday. Moved in one week after. Harper carried the baby through the door on her hip, while Oscar fumbled with the keys and kept asking, "Are we really doing this?" as though the furniture wouldn't show up in four hours and make it permanent.

Oscar had taken a year out of racing after Clementine was born.

It wasn't a planned decision, and it wasn't one many people understood — least of all the people who'd watched him dominate junior karting and expected him to rise like smoke through the open-wheel ranks. But he'd missed too much school. Missed too many nights, too many hours of Harper crying or trying to make Clementine latch, or just needing someone to keep her upright. And when he was asked — really asked — Are you sure you're not throwing it all away? his answer was always simple.

"She's my baby. Of course I'm sure."

So while others trained and raced and pushed for attention, Oscar Piastri vanished. No interviews, no paddock appearances. Just him, and Harper, and a squishy pink newborn who made the ceiling light look like a disco every time she waved her hands.

They stayed at Haileybury, still just fifteen, turning sixteen. They re-sat their missed GCSEs and passed on the second try. Clementine learned to crawl in the boys' dorm common room. She took her first steps in the school library.

Their friends — Jane and Sam and Matt and Alfie and the rest of that oddball, fiercely loyal circle — became her first family. Clementine had more teenaged godparents than anyone could count. She learned to walk holding onto Oscar's physics notes. She learned to talk sitting in Harper's lap as she typed HTML.

Then came the offer — again. F3. A team ready to take him as soon as he was ready to return. It had been a quiet year in the eyes of the motorsport world — but Oscar came back different. Sharper. More grounded. And far more terrifying behind the wheel.

So they moved into the London flat. Nicole helped decorate — soft colours, baby gates, a kitchen with pale blue cabinets and an American fridge.

Mark handled the other side of Oscar's life. The logistics. Contract offers that just kept getting longer.

Clementine's nursery was a vision board of calm: birchwood cot, pastel cloud decals, a plush rug like walking on cake.

Harper coded the baby monitor app herself — it had the ability to learn and distinguish between Clemmy's cries.

Oscar installed blackout blinds and built a mini bookshelf filled with picture books in three different languages.

They weren't struggling — not the way people expected seventeen-year-old parents to be. Not financially, anyway.

But money never softened the sharp edges of responsibility.

There were still nights where Clementine cried for hours and Harper paced in circles, whispering, 'You're okay, you're okay,' like a mantra she needed to believe herself. There were still moments where Oscar stared at the calendar on the fridge — race dates, interview days, booster shot appointments — and felt panic coil in his chest.

Still, they chose it. Every day. And every day it got a little easier.

In the two years after Clementine was born, the world became a blur of trackside hotel rooms and baby bottles tucked into designer handbags. Harper and Clem travelled with Oscar more often than not — Japan, Italy, Austria, France.

Harper made a rule: in every new country, within three days, she had to learn to order a coffee in the local language.

Oscar made a rule: Clementine got to press the elevator button in every hotel.

They were young. Strange. Wildly out of place sometimes — but a family all the same.

Harper built Oscar's official website from scratch — sleek, scalable, clean UX, dark mode toggle because he was picky. Max Verstappen emailed her after seeing it. (Hey — could you build me something similar?) She said she'd think about it.

She sat her A-levels online. She was already starting to specialise in full-stack development. Her dyscalculia made things hell sometimes — numbers swam on the screen — but she learned how to code by pattern and logic, by rhythm and recursion. She learned how to work with her brain, not against it.

Oscar kept racing. And winning. F4 became F3. Then whispers of F2 began. He got sharper in interviews, more polished for sponsors, more careful around cameras. But at night — when it was just them, limbs tangled on a hotel bed, or Clem snoring softly between them in the cot — he was still that awkward, soft-eyed boy.

They celebrated Clementine's second birthday in a hotel suite in Barcelona with balloons Oscar had blown up and a lopsided cake. They FaceTimed the Haileybury crew. Jane cried. Sam tried to teach Clementine to say fuck.

Later that month, they hung a print in the entryway of their flat. Just one word, in soft gold foil.

Our Home.

Because for all the flights and chaos and podiums and late-night feeds — that's what they were building. Slowly. Quietly. Against every odd and every doubt.

They were seventeen and a half. Young. Exhausted. Occasionally terrified.

But they were a family.

And it was messy, and real, and theirs.

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miolcd · 6 months ago

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#8 inch rugged tablet #8 inch cctv monitor with bnc

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vaginalvr · 1 month ago

Note

OMG reader is a babysitter for JJ and when reid goes and visit her kid he gets babyfever and just wants to creampie her

yes ofc I just got over my pregnancy scare!

cw: baby fever, soft dom!Spencer, oral (f!receiving), unprotected PIV (established relationship), creampie, domestic themes, possessiveness, slight breeding kink, aftercare

REQUESTS OPEN!

JJ was running late, unsurprisingly. A local case had them scrambling to close paperwork, and you were more than happy to help by watching Henry for the evening. He’d just fallen asleep after an exhausting hour of hide-and-seek and story time. His little hand had curled against your shoulder before you laid him gently in his bed, watching his chest rise and fall.

You loved babysitting Henry. He was sweet, polite, and easy. You didn’t mind JJ’s late nights either—her trust in you meant the world.

You were halfway through cleaning up blocks from the living room floor when a knock startled you.

You padded barefoot across the rug and cracked the door open.

“Spencer?”

He gave a soft, sheepish smile and raised a small paper bag. “JJ said you were here tonight. I brought dinner. Thought maybe you hadn’t eaten.”

You blinked at him, touched. “You thought right. Come in.”

He stepped inside, careful not to let the door creak. He looked… different here. Less stiff, more boyish. The cardigan and soft blue dress shirt made him look impossibly cozy. Domestic.

You couldn’t help the flutter in your chest as he looked around JJ’s house, eyes scanning the toys and coloring books scattered on the coffee table.

“She always tells me how much Henry loves you.”

“Really?”

Spencer nodded, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. “He once said you make the best dinosaur roars.”

You laughed, blushing. “That kid has too much dirt on me.”

You sat together on the couch, eating takeout out of plastic containers, the occasional baby monitor buzz drifting from the kitchen. At one point, Spencer’s eyes drifted to the hallway toward Henry’s room.

“Can I… see him? Just for a second?”

You paused, then smiled softly. “Yeah. He’s fast asleep. Come on.”

You led him quietly into the nursery, watching as Spencer leaned into the doorframe and gazed down at the little boy curled up under a blue blanket.

His face changed—eyes softening, mouth parting just slightly. His usual anxious energy had melted into something else entirely. Reverence. Wonder.

“He’s gotten so big,” he murmured. “I remember when he was born.”

You watched him, heart tugging.

“You ever want one?” you whispered.

He looked at you then, and something in his eyes flickered—like you’d flipped a switch he didn’t know he had.

“All the time lately,” he admitted, voice low. “It’s strange. I never used to think about it. But now I can’t stop.”

“Why now?”

He looked back at Henry, then to you, gaze dropping to your lips.

“Maybe because I finally found someone I could see it with.”

Your breath caught. The room was still, heavy with that quiet, loaded confession.

And suddenly you weren’t in the nursery anymore.

—

Back on the couch, neither of you was saying much, tension thick in the air. You could feel his gaze on you as you tucked your legs under yourself, playing absently with the hem of your shirt.

“You’d be a really good dad,” you said softly, glancing at him.

He didn’t smile. Not this time.

“I’d want to do everything right,” he said. “Be present. Be patient. I’d read all the research. Buy the safest crib. Cook every meal from scratch. I’d… hold them on my chest and sing them lullabies in Latin.”

You let out a quiet, breathless laugh. “Of course you would.”

He shifted closer. “But only with someone who’d love them just as much as I do.”

You turned toward him—and he kissed you.

It started soft, but quickly deepened, all the weight of longing pouring into the way his hands cupped your face, how his thumb grazed your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He kissed like a man who’d dreamed of this a hundred times and didn’t want to wake up.

When you gasped against his lips, his hands dropped to your waist, pulling you into his lap. You straddled him, fingers in his hair, heart pounding.

“I can’t stop thinking about you like this,” he whispered. “Here. In this house. Holding a baby. Wearing soft things and calling me home.”

You whimpered, rolling your hips instinctively. “Spencer…”

“I want to see you pregnant,” he groaned, lips dragging down your neck. “Swollen and glowing. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Your panties were soaked.

He slipped his hands under your shirt, fingers trembling slightly as he lifted it over your head. His mouth dropped open when he saw you—bare, flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re perfect.”

His mouth latched onto your breast, sucking gently, tongue flicking your nipple until you whined. Your hips rocked again, pressing against the growing bulge in his slacks.

“Bedroom,” you gasped. “Or we’re not gonna make it.”

You led him down the hall like you belonged there. Maybe you would, one day.

—

JJ’s guest room was small, cozy, and dim. The second the door shut, Spencer had you against it, kissing you like he’d die if he didn’t.

You reached for his belt, but he caught your wrists, guiding you to the bed instead.

“Let me,” he whispered.

You laid back, trembling with need, and watched him undress. His shirt slipped off first—soft chest, pale skin, lean and familiar. He kissed your ankle, then your knee, then your thigh, spreading your legs gently.

“Stay quiet, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Don’t want to wake the baby.”

You nodded frantically as his mouth lowered to your soaked panties, dragging them down your thighs. The first swipe of his tongue was slow, savoring.

You clutched the pillow, biting it to muffle your cry.

He ate you like he meant it. Like your pleasure was a prayer. He licked deep, slow circles, flicking over your clit before sucking it gently into his mouth.

You came with a soft sob, shaking in his arms, and he kissed you through it—whispering praises against your skin.

“So good for me… so beautiful…”

He lined himself up without hesitation, eyes locking with yours.

“Ready?” he asked, stroking the head of his cock through your slick folds.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, Spencer…”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning low when he bottomed out.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he rasped. “So warm… so tight…”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him deeply as he started to move. Each thrust was slow, deliberate—like he wanted you to remember this for the rest of your life.

“I want to fill you up,” he whispered in your ear. “Want to see you dripping with me.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his back.

“You want that too, don’t you?” he asked. “Want to be full of me? Walking around with my baby inside you?”

Your walls fluttered. “Yes—Spencer, yes—”

His pace faltered as he buried himself deep one last time, groaning into your shoulder. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and overwhelming.

He held you through it, hips rocking slowly until you both came down.

—

Later, he stayed pressed against you, hand resting on your belly like he could feel the future there.

“Someday,” he whispered. “If you want.”

You turned to him, brushing hair from his face.

“I think I do.”

He smiled, slow and real. “Then someday, it’ll be ours.”

You kissed him again, and in the next room, Henry stirred—but didn’t wake.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x fem reader

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 3 months ago

Note

I love your Dr Robby fics!! can there be one with a happy ending where Carter/Robby finally get to have a baby with his wife.

The man needs a break!!

The Sound of Her Cry

Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinivitch x Reader

The hospital room was still, save for the faint monitor beeps and the slow rhythm of IV fluids dripping. Late afternoon light spilled through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the blankets that covered you — curled on your side, quiet, waiting.

Dr. Robby paced.

He wasn’t in scrubs for once, just jeans and an old gray t-shirt stretched a bit across the chest. But his pager still sat clipped to his waistband out of habit, and he looked like he hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before.

Because it was happening.

Finally.

After the years of trying. After the two losses. After the nights where you both laid side by side, silent and raw, wondering if your family would ever grow beyond just the two of you.

You shifted with a quiet noise and his head snapped to you instantly.

You smiled, tired, hand resting on your very full belly. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

“I can’t help it,” he said, coming to your side instantly, brushing your hair back. “It’s like—my brain knows we’re close, but my heart’s still waiting for something to go wrong.”

You reached for him, pulling his hand to your cheek. “Hey. It’s okay now. She’s ready.”

“She,” he echoed, quietly in awe. “God, I can’t believe it.”

You looked up at him, misty-eyed. “Believe it, Robby. We’re finally going to meet her.”

The first contraction came hard not long after that. The nurses moved quickly. The OB was called. Your breathing turned sharp, knuckles white against the bedrails as you labored through waves of pain that made your whole body shake.

Robby never left your side.

He whispered through every contraction, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, held your hand so tightly he thought he might bruise — and didn’t care.

And then finally, after what felt like forever…

A cry.

A high, sharp wail that split the room open.

The doctor smiled. “She’s here.”

You sobbed with relief, exhausted and overwhelmed, while Robby let out a laugh that cracked halfway into a cry of his own.

“She’s okay?” you asked.

“She’s perfect,” the nurse confirmed, wrapping the baby and placing her gently into your arms.

Robby hovered beside you, hand on your back, eyes locked on the tiny face blinking up at the world.

“She has your mouth,” you whispered, overwhelmed.

He smiled, voice breaking. “And your eyes.”

You looked up at him, and for the first time in a long, long time, there was no fear, no waiting for the rug to be pulled out. Just light. And hope. And this tiny new life between you.

“Hi,” he whispered to his daughter, brushing a knuckle gently down her soft cheek. “I’m your dad.”

You watched him, heart splitting open in the most beautiful way.

“She’s finally here,” you murmured.

He kissed your forehead, eyes still wet. “Yeah. And so are we.”

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfic #the pitt headcannon #dr robby x reader #dr robby imagine #dr robby fanfic #dr robinavitch #dr robinavitch x reader #dr michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch #noah wyle

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amyzworldds · 3 months ago

Text

Part two: Weight of Words

Masterlist | Part 1

After a wave of online hate and a painful misunderstanding with Seventeen, Y/N locks herself in her vibrant apartment, leaving the 13 boys anxious and restless. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Heavy angst, Fluff, Humor

Y/N sat motionless on her living room floor, surrounded by the vibrant chaos of her personality—pink pillows, green rugs, quirky trinkets—but it felt like a stranger’s space now. Her tears had dried up, hours of crying leaving her empty, eyes red and swollen, staring blankly at nothing. The room was silent, suffocatingly so. Normally, she’d be video-calling the boys, cackling over how they’d never escape her—“You’re stuck with me! New houses, new families, I’ll still haunt you!”—her voice bouncing off the walls. But tonight, the quiet pressed in, a heavy shroud over her shattered confidence. She felt hollow, a shell of the Y/N they’d always known.

The doorbell jolted her, sharp and insistent. She blinked, sluggish, and glanced at the monitor—13 familiar faces crowded her doorstep, their expressions tense. Her heart lurched, but she didn’t move, frozen by the weight of seeing them. Then the knocking started—loud, relentless—her phone buzzing with calls, texts pinging. Seungcheol’s message flashed: “Answer or we bang this door ‘til your neighbors hate us. Open up, Y/N-ah.” The threat wasn’t empty; she knew they’d do it.

She dragged herself up, legs shaky, and cracked the door open, avoiding their eyes. “Hey,” she mumbled, turning fast, shuffling to the kitchen. “I’ll… get water.” Her voice was flat, a flimsy shield. She didn’t want them to see her—puffy eyes, messy hair, the wreck she’d become.

They filed in, the air shifting with their presence, but she kept her back to them, fumbling with glasses. Seungcheol’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Y/N-ah, stop. The manager showed us your text.”

She froze, glass clinking hard against the counter, her breath catching. “What… text?” she croaked, but she knew—“Do I need to leave the group?”—and dread coiled tight in her chest.

“Turn around,” Jeonghan said, softer but firm. “Look at us.”

She didn’t want to—couldn’t—but Hoshi stepped closer, voice trembling with urgency. “Y/N-ah, please. We’re not leaving ‘til you hear us.”

Reluctantly, she turned, eyes on the floor, hands gripping the counter. Seungcheol stepped forward, holding the manager’s phone out, her message glowing accusingly. “This,” he said, voice thick. “You think we want you gone?”

Her lip quivered, but she held it in, staring at her feet. Woozi spoke, sharp with guilt. “You heard us, didn’t you? That day—‘tone it down, act your age.’ You walked in and caught the worst part.”

“We know you misunderstood,” Joshua added, gentle but pained. “You didn’t hear us worrying—freaking out ‘cause the hate was killing you.”

“We didn’t mean change who you are!” Mingyu burst out, stepping closer, voice cracking. “We were scared—scared you’d break under it all!”

She shook her head, voice small. “But you said it—‘lay low, feminine, mature.’ I tried—I toned it down, I acted my age, whatever that means—and they still hate me.” Her eyes lifted, glassy, brimming. “I saw the video—me dodging Jeonghan oppa. They called me fake, a flirt anyway. I can’t win—I’m dragging you down—”

“No!” Seungkwan cut in, loud and fierce. “You’re not dragging us anywhere—you’re us! The bashers? We’ll handle them—screw what they think!”

“You think we want you gone?!” Hoshi yelled, eyes wide, stepping right up to her. “You’re our maknae—our chaos! We’d fall apart without you!”

Tears spilled then, hot and fast, and she couldn’t stop them. “I don’t know what to do!” she sobbed, voice breaking into a wail. “I tried—I changed, I hid, and it’s still not enough! They want me out—say I’m a disgrace, your weak spot—I trained so hard, and they—” She crumpled, hands flying to her face, crying like a child, raw and unfiltered. “I feel so alone—I can’t even be me anymore!”

Seungcheol surged forward, pulling her into his arms, tight and unyielding. “You’re not alone,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “You’re never alone—hear me? We’re right here.”

Jeonghan joined, wrapping around her from the side, voice soft. “We don’t want you different, Y/N-ah. We love you—wild, loud, clingy, all of it.”

“You’re not a disgrace,” Mingyu said, kneeling in front of her, tears in his eyes. “You’re our strength—our heart. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”

She sobbed harder, clinging to Seungcheol, words tumbling out. “I was so scared—you said ‘tone it down,’ and I thought… I thought you were ashamed of me! The hate—it’s everywhere—I can’t escape it!”

“We’re not ashamed,” Jun said, stepping up, voice firm despite the crack. “We were idiots—said it wrong. We wanted to protect you, not change you.”

“We’ll fight the hate,” Hoshi vowed, gripping her shoulder. “Post, call them out—whatever it takes. They don’t get to touch you.”

“You’re not leaving,” Seungkwan said, fierce, wiping his own tears. “Not over this—not ever. You’re stuck with us, got it?”

She nodded, a broken whimper escaping, and Dino piled in, hugging her waist. “You’re our Y/N-ah—our crazy, perfect maknae. No one’s taking you.”

Joshua’s voice was steady, warm. “You don’t have to pretend—not with us, not for anyone. Be you—that’s all we need.”

Her cries softened, trembling against Seungcheol’s chest as the others closed in, a protective circle. “I… I missed you,” she whispered, voice raw. “I didn’t know how to say it—I thought I’d ruin everything.”

“You could never ruin us,” Minghao murmured, ruffling her hair, his voice a lifeline. “You’re our family—cracks and all. We fix this together.”

She looked up, puffy-eyed, surrounded by them—her loud, messy, unshakable oppas—and the weight lifted, just a little. “I’m sorry,” she hiccupped. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Don’t be,” Wonwoo said, squeezing her hand. “Just don’t shut us out again—we can’t lose you.”

“Never,” she promised, a shaky laugh breaking through. “You’re stuck with me haunting you forever.”

“Good,” Hoshi grinned, wiping her tears. “That’s our Y/N.”

They stayed like that—huddled in her colorful chaos—comfort settling over the storm. She cried out her fears, they held her through it, and for the first time in days, the quiet wasn’t suffocating. It was home.

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

Y/N sat nestled in the middle of her living room, still sniffling but steadier now, wrapped in the warmth of her 13 boys. The tears had slowed, her sobs replaced by shaky breaths, their arms and words a cocoon of comfort. She leaned against Seungcheol’s shoulder, Wonwoo hand still squeezing hers, the others sprawled around her like a chaotic guard. The silence wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was soft, safe. Then, a loud, unmistakable growl rumbled from her stomach, cutting through the tender moment like a foghorn.

She froze, eyes widening, then looked up at them, puffy-faced but indignant. “I’m hungry,” she announced, voice small but firm, blinking at their startled faces. “Where’s the food?”

The boys blinked back, caught off guard. “Uh…” Seungcheol started, scratching his neck. “We… didn’t bring any.”

Her jaw dropped, dramatic as ever, and she pulled back, staring at them like they’d committed treason. “What?!” she yelped, voice pitching up. “You didn’t bring food?!”

“We were worried!” Mingyu protested, hands up. “We saw that text and bolted—food wasn��t exactly on our minds!”

“Yeah, Y/N-ah,” Hoshi chimed in, grinning sheepishly. “We were too busy panicking about you leaving us!”

She stomped her foot—full maknae mode—pouting hard, her old spark flickering back. “That’s no excuse!” she wailed, crossing her arms, lips jutting out. “You know I’m sad—you know I’m a mess—and you show up empty-handed?! What kind of members are you?!”

Seungkwan snorted, trying to hide a laugh. “The kind who drove across Seoul at 8 p.m. to save you from yourself!”

“Save me with food!” she shot back, thumping her foot again, her pout deepening into a masterpiece. “I’ve been crying all day—my stomach’s screaming—and you didn’t even grab a ramyeon pack? A chip bag? Anything?!”

Jeonghan chuckled, ruffling her hair. “We thought you needed hugs, not snacks, drama queen.”

“Hugs and snacks!” she corrected, swatting his hand but leaning into it anyway. “I’m starving—I could die right here, and it’d be your fault!”

“Don’t die!” Dino yelped, clutching her arm, half-serious. “We’ll get you food—just don’t faint on us!”

“Too late,” she groaned, flopping back against Seungcheol with a theatrical sigh. “I’m fading… betrayed by my own family… no food, no hope…”

Seungcheol laughed, steadying her. “Alright, alright—calm down, you little monster. We’ll fix it.”

“Fix it now!” she demanded, sitting up, eyes glinting with mock fury. “You can’t just storm in, make me cry more, and not feed me! I deserve ramyeon—spicy ramyeon—and ice cream! And gummies!”

“Gummies too?” Joshua teased, grinning. “You’re pushing it, Y/N-ah.”

“Yes, gummies!” she huffed, pointing at him. “I’ve suffered—suffered!—and you owe me!”

Mingyu smirked, pulling out his phone. “Fine, princess—what’s your order? I’ll get it delivered.”

“Everything,” she declared, arms flailing. “Ramyeon, fried chicken, tteokbokki, ice cream—chocolate, not vanilla, disgusting—gummies, chips—spicy chips, not the lame ones—and soda! Lots of soda!”

“That’s a feast,” Woozi said, raising an eyebrow but smiling. “You’re back to bossing us around already?”

“Damn right,” she sniffed, wiping her nose with a pout. “I’m sad and hungry—you messed up, so you fix it!”

“Okay, okay!” Hoshi laughed, throwing his hands up. “Mingyu, order it—our maknae’s gonna riot if we don’t!”

“On it,” Mingyu said, tapping away. “But if you eat all that, you’re not fitting through the door tomorrow.”

“Then carry me!” she shot back, sticking her tongue out. “You’re tall—use it!”

The room erupted in laughter, the tension melting as her tantrum—dramatic, pouty, pure Y/N—filled the space. Seungcheol grinned, pulling her into a side hug. “There’s our girl—whiny and all.”

“Don’t call me whiny!” she protested, shoving him but snuggling closer. “I’m justified! You starved me!”

“We didn’t starve you,” Jeonghan teased, poking her cheek. “You starved yourself—big difference.”

“Semantics!” she huffed, swatting him again. “You’re all terrible—I should’ve known you’d forget food!”

“We’ll never forget again,” Seungkwan vowed, mock-serious, hand over his heart. “Next time, we’ll bring a buffet!”

“You better!” she grumbled, but a small giggle slipped out, her pout softening. “I’m still mad, though.”

“Mad and cute,” Hoshi said, pinching her cheek ‘til she yelped. “Welcome back, Y/N-ah.”

“Stop it!” she whined, flailing at him, but her smile broke through, bright and real. She looked around—13 goofy, worried, loving faces—and her stomach growled again, loud enough to make them laugh harder.

“Food’s on the way,” Mingyu announced, pocketing his phone. “Fifteen minutes—don’t die ‘til then.”

“I might!” she groaned, flopping onto the floor, arms spread. “Hurry it up, oppa—I’m fading!”

“You’re so dramatic,” Seungcheol chuckled, nudging her with his foot. “But we love it—don’t ever change.”

“Never,” she mumbled, grinning up at him, her old self peeking out, loud and unfiltered. The room buzzed with their banter, sweet and silly, the night turning warm again—food or not, she was home.

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The food had long been devoured at Y/N’s apartment—ramyeon bowls empty, chicken bones scattered, tteokbokki sauce staining the table, and a half-melted tub of chocolate ice cream abandoned after Y/N’s dramatic brain freeze wail. The boys sprawled across her vibrant living room, a battlefield of wrappers and laughter—Hoshi swiping her gummies, Mingyu tipping soda on Seungkwan, who shrieked like a banshee. Y/N was back to her old self—pouty, loud, thumping her feet when DK teased her—but the shadow of hate lingered in their minds, a fight unfinished.

By midnight, they’d cleaned out the snacks, and Y/N dozed off mid-rant about Hoshi’s chopstick fumbles, her head drooping onto Seungcheol’s shoulder. The boys traded looks, the quiet settling heavy. “She’s okay here,” Joshua whispered, smiling softly. “But out there? It’s still a war.”

“She thinks she’s our weak link,” Woozi said, voice low, guilt sharp. “We can’t let that stick.”

Seungcheol nodded, jaw tight. “We shut it down—tonight. All 13 of us.”

“Weverse,” Jeonghan said, pulling out his phone. “Blast the haters—show them she’s ours.”

“With pics!” Hoshi grinned, eyes glinting. “She was a disaster crying—perfect ammo.”

“She’ll murder us,” Mingyu laughed, scrolling his gallery. “Got one—puffy eyes, snot central.”

“Gold,” Seungkwan snickered, leaning in. “She’ll hate it, but it’s peak Y/N.”

They huddled, phones glowing, drafting as Y/N snored softly, oblivious. Seungcheol kicked it off, typing with resolve: “To anyone hating on our Y/N—stop now. She’s our maknae, our sunshine, and you don’t get to tear her down for being her.”

Jeonghan smirked, adding: “She laughs loud, clings hard, cries messy—that’s Y/N, and we love it all. You’ve got no right to judge.”

Hoshi cackled, typing fast: “Chaos queen—keeps us alive with her madness. Hate her? You’re blind—check this!” He attached a photo—Y/N mid-sob, eyes swollen, mouth gaping, tissues jammed up her nose.

“She’ll kill you,” Dino wheezed, laughing. “I’ve got her pouting over food!” He added it—Y/N stomping, cheeks puffed, glaring teary-eyed.

Mingyu grinned, typing: “Weak spot? Nah—she’s our strength. Keeps us laughing when we’re dead. Back off.” His pic—Y/N flailing at Hoshi, mid-tantrum, hair wild.

Seungkwan smirked: “Not fake, not a flirt—just Y/N. Twist it, that’s your problem. We’ll fight for her—always.” His shot—Y/N sprawled, “dying” from hunger, tongue lolling.

Woozi kept it sharp: “She’s not leaving—ever. She’s SEVENTEEN. Deal with it.” His pic—Y/N mid-rant, pointing fiercely, face red.

Joshua softened it: “She’s our light—don’t dim her with hate. We love her loud, goofy chaos—always.” His shot—Y/N giggling, ice cream on her cheek, hugging him.

Minghao stepped in, calm but firm, typing: “She’s real—raw, unfiltered. That’s her power. You don’t get to break it.” His photo—Y/N mid-laugh, sprawled on the couch, soda can tipping in her hand.

Jun grinned, adding: “She’s our wild card—makes every day fun. Hate’s got no place here!” His pic—Y/N fake-wrestling him for the last gummy, her grin huge.

Wonwoo’s voice was quiet, steady: “She’s our spark—don’t snuff it out. We need her, just like this.” His shot—Y/N napping earlier, curled against Seungcheol, a tissue dangling from her fist, peaceful but messy.

Vernon typed coolly: “She’s real—hate’s fake. Let her shine.” His pic—Y/N mid-chip-steal, smirking at Mingyu.

DK laughed, adding: “Her laugh’s our anthem—don’t mute it!” His shot—Y/N fake-sobbing over spilled soda, theatrical as ever.

Dino finished the lineup: “She’s my twin maknae—hands off! We’re 13 plus 1—complete.” His pic—Y/N dangling gummies from her mouth, grinning like a gremlin.

Seungcheol capped it, fierce: “She’s ours—13 of us say so. Hate her, you hate us. Stop—now.” His photo—Y/N asleep now, puffy-faced but calm, nestled against him.

“Post it,” Jeonghan said, grinning. “All 13—complete.”

They hit send in unison, 13 Weverse accounts flaring to life, a goofy, fierce fortress of love. Comments flooded—Carats roaring support, haters reeling—but they ignored it, watching Y/N twitch in her sleep, mumbling something about “ramyeon.”

“She’s gonna lose it over those pics,” Hoshi whispered, stifling a laugh.

“Let her,” Mingyu said, smirking. “She’ll yell, but she’ll feel it.”

“Feel what?” Seungkwan asked, grinning.

“That she’s ours,” Seungcheol said, brushing her hair back. “Exactly how she is.”

“Even when she’s a snotty mess?” Jun teased, nodding at Hoshi’s photo.

“Especially then,” Wonwoo said, a rare smile tugging his lips.

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Overnight, SEVENTEEN’s Weverse post exploded, rocketing to the top of every trending list. The 13 boys’ unified defense of Y/N—complete with her snotty, teary, tantrum-filled photos—lit up the internet. Carats went wild, flooding comments with laughter and love: “Hoshi posting her with tissues up her nose—ICONIC!” “Mingyu’s ‘weak spot? nah’ with her flailing—kings defending their queen!” “This is a real group—13 plus 1, no fakes here!” They booed the haters mercilessly—“Cry more, antis—SEVENTEEN said NOPE!”—and turned the goofy pics into memes, Y/N’s wails and pouts plastered everywhere with captions like “When your members love you but roast you too.” The fandom reveled in it—real, raw, unfiltered Seventeen shining through.

By dawn, it was headline news—“SEVENTEEN Slams Haters in Viral Weverse Post, Defends Maknae Y/N With Hilarious Photos”—every article featuring the boys’ words alongside shots of her mid-cry, mid-tantrum, mid-“dying” from hunger. The tide flipped fast. Netizens who’d bashed her now backpedaled, drowned out by a wave of support. Videos surfaced—Y/N cackling with Mingyu over a spilled drink, pranking Woozi with a water gun, hugging Jeonghan so hard he toppled—proof of her light, her chaos, her heart. Posts multiplied: “She’s not a pick-me—she’s their sunshine,” “This is why SEVENTEEN’s untouchable—real family.” The narrative shifted—her laugh, her wildness, her tears celebrated, not cursed.

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Morning broke at Y/N’s apartment, the boys crashed across her living room—Seungcheol on the couch, Hoshi sprawled on the rug, Mingyu half-off a chair, the rest a tangle of limbs and snores. They’d stayed, too tired to leave after their midnight mission, Y/N tucked into her bed after nodding off mid-ice-cream rant. Then—

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” Her scream shattered the peace, piercing enough to rattle the walls. The boys jolted awake, groaning, blinking as Y/N stormed in, phone in hand, eyes blazing.

“Y/N-ah, what—” Seungcheol started, rubbing his eyes, but she cut him off, waving her phone like a weapon.

“YOU POSTED THESE?!” she shrieked, scrolling through Weverse, her voice hitting operatic heights. “My crying face?! Snot everywhere?! Tissues up my nose?! HOSHI-OPPA, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Hoshi cackled, sitting up. “It’s cute! Look—Carats love it!”

“CUTE?!” she bellowed, stomping her foot. “I look like a gremlin! And you—all of you—put it EVERYWHERE! HEADLINES, OPPA! ‘SEVENTEEN DEFENDS Y/N’—WITH THIS?!?!” She shoved the screen at them—a news article with her wailing, captioned “Maknae’s Tears Win Hearts.”

Mingyu smirked, stretching. “Worked, didn’t it? Haters are gone—fans are obsessed.”

“OBSESSED WITH MY UGLY FACE!” she wailed, flopping onto the couch, dramatic as ever. “I’m complaining all day—you’re all dead to me!”

“Aw, Y/N-ah,” Jeonghan teased, grinning. “You’re alive again—yelling means you’re back.”

“Back to haunt you!” she snapped, pointing at him. “You let them post me looking like a drowned rat!”

“It’s not that bad,” Joshua said, laughing. “You’re adorable—snot and all.”

“ADORABLE?!” she screeched, clutching her head. “I’m a disaster! And now the world thinks it’s AI—I mean, it’s not me, right? That’s not my face!”

“Totally you,” Seungkwan snickered, dodging her swat. “Carats are calling it ‘peak maknae energy.’”

“I hate you all!” she groaned, burying her face in a pillow, muffled. “Why didn’t you use pretty pics? I’m cute sometimes!”

“You’re always cute,” Dino said, patting her back. “Even crying.”

“LIES!” she shouted, popping up, pout in full force. “I’m fixing this—right now!” She grabbed her phone, furiously tapping, muttering, “Stupid oppas—stupid headlines—AI my foot…”

She stormed to her room, slamming the door, and the boys erupted in laughter. “She’s posting,” Woozi said, smirking. “Bet it’s a revenge glow-up.”

Minutes later, her Weverse pinged—Y/N’s post: “Since my members think THESE are okay [screenshots of their pics], here’s the REAL me. News people—USE THESE. That crying mess? AI, not me. I’m pretty, see?!” Attached were her best shots—smiling with coffee, winking in stage makeup, laughing in sunlight—zero snot, all shine.

The boys crowded Seungcheol’s phone, howling. “She’s savage!” Hoshi said, wiping tears. “AI—not her!”

“She’s delusional,” Mingyu laughed. “Those crying pics are 100% her—I took half of ‘em!”

“She’s back-back,” Jun grinned, scrolling Carat replies—“Y/N said NO to the snot pics!” “Queen reclaiming her throne!”

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning back. “Haters are toast, she’s yelling—she’s good.”

“She’ll still kill us,” Minghao said, smirking. “But it’s worth it.”

“Totally,” Wonwoo added, rare grin flashing. “She’s our mess—pretty or not.”

Y/N burst out, still pouting. “You’re all on dish duty for this! And I want more chicken—payback!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Seungcheol saluted, grinning as they groaned. The room buzzed—her tantrum, their laughter, the world flipping to her side. The headlines could keep the tears; she’d claimed her shine, and her 13 members had her back—goofy pics and all.

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an: hello again! I’m trying my best to mention all the members, but I keep losing track—oops! I’m also trying my best to capture their personalities in each dialogue HAHAHAHA! Thank you so much for reading—I hope you enjoy it!🫶🏻

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