#sharp-snapshot

[kaurwreck]

curious to know why you like gin so much!

Gin is a teenage girl sage king. She personifies love without ego and is also an ambush predator. She is divine grace if divine grace were an assassin with peach scented lotion. She thinks the urban legend that cherry blossoms are so pretty because they feed on bodies buried beneath them is neat. She chose hell, and transcends it.

Metanarratively, she is the archetypal Mary conceptualized by Ryunosuke Akutagawa in Man of the West:

We sense a bit of Mary in all women. Perhaps in all men, too.... In fact, one could say that we feel a bit of Mary in the fires burning in the hearth or in the vegetables fresh from the field, or in an unglazed pot or solidly built chair. Mary is not the one who is eternally feminine. She is the one who eternally protects us. After all, as the mother of Christ, Mary spent her life traversing the "vale of tears." And yet, she lived with great fortitude. In her life, one finds worldly wisdom, folly, and virtue.

...

[People] have had to take lessons from Mary, more so than Christ, to find the way that leads to peace.

Gin is clever, decisive, perceptive, poised, and impish. She loves her older brother. She likes lace and florals and gourmand scents and play aggression. She reflects rippling, concurrent shades of black, gray, and white (e.g., when her eyes are black, she wears gray, when her eyes are gray, she wears her black hair down like a veil; depending on the context, she is either dressed or masked in white). She's quick to blush.

I like Gin so much because she's Gin.

[kodachrome-net]

Monks and Zombie, Chicago, June 2014

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

yea youve fucking disappointed her babe

[wolvietxt]

𝓣HIN 𝓦ALLS.

pairing : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : injury detail (hardly), hurt/comfort, fluff, light angst, neighbour!frank, sensitive reader, no use of y/n summary : you’ve been dealing with a noisy neighbor for weeks, constantly hearing grunts, gun cleaning, and the occasional heavy sigh through the walls. one night, you hear him groan in pain, followed by a loud thud. you knock on his door, only to find frank castle bleeding out on his floor. wc : 2.1k a/n : neighbour!frank idea from @agirlcandream84 thank you so much i adore your neighbour!frank💕 also i wanna make this a little snapshot series lmk if any of you have any ideas

the first time you noticed your neighbor, it wasn’t because of anything he said. it was because of the sounds.  

deep grunts, the metallic clicks of a gun being cleaned, the occasional heavy sigh that made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t want to think about. at first, you tried to ignore it - people made noise, it was an apartment, thin walls weren’t exactly a rare struggle. but after the third night in a row of hearing the same steady rhythm of deep, measured breathing and the scrape of metal, you started to feel a little unnerved.   

he was quiet in the hallways, never said much more than a rough “hey” when you crossed paths. but you noticed things - like the way he never seemed to make eye contact, like he was used to keeping his head down. or how he always smelled like gunpowder and something a little like blood, a little like sweat.   

still, he wasn’t the worst neighbor you could have. he wasn’t throwing parties or blasting music, wasn’t yelling on the phone at odd hours. but there was something about the way his presence filled the silence between you that made you feel hyper-aware of every sound he made. it didn’t help that you were sensitive - jumpy at loud noises, easily overwhelmed when things got too chaotic. so every scrape, every sigh, every muttered curse in that low, gravelly voice of his sent a shiver down your spine.  

you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.  

until tonight.  

you’d been curled up on your couch, a blanket pulled up to your chin, trying to block out the world with some mindless tv when you heard it - something heavier than usual. a groan, low and rough, followed by a sharp curse. then a thud.   

your stomach twisted.  

for a second, you told yourself to ignore it. it wasn’t your business. but then silence stretched out on the other side of the wall, a kind of stillness that felt wrong. you hesitated for all of two seconds before you were up, hurrying to your front door. your fingers trembled as you knocked.  

no response.  

you knocked again, harder this time.  

“hello?” your voice came out softer than you wanted, barely above a whisper. “are you okay?”  

nothing.  

your heart was hammering as you reached for the doorknob, finding it unlocked. you barely pushed the door open before the smell of blood hit you, sharp and metallic.  

and there he was.  

your neighbor - frank, you remembered hearing someone call him once - was sprawled on the floor, blood seeping through his shirt, his face pale. his breathing was uneven, rough. panic surged through you, your throat tightening.   

“oh my god,” you gasped, dropping to your knees beside him. your hands hovered over him uselessly. “you - you’re bleeding, you’re - ”  

his eyes cracked open, dark and heavy-lidded, scanning you with something slow and unreadable.  

“shit,” he muttered, voice thick with pain. “you shouldn’t be here.”  

but you weren’t listening. your hands were already moving, pressing against the wound even as your eyes burned with unshed tears.  

“you need help,” you choked out. “i - I don’t know what to do, should i call someone? an ambulance - ”  

his hand shot out, gripping your wrist - not rough, but firm.  

“no hospitals,” he ground out.  

you swallowed, chest tight.  

“then - then what do i do?”  

his gaze softened, just a fraction.  

“just stay,” he rasped. “just - keep pressure. don’t go.”  

and even though your hands were shaking and your eyes were threatening to spill over, you nodded.  

your fingers trembled as you pressed harder against the wound, the warmth of his blood seeping through your hands. you sniffled, trying to keep yourself from completely breaking down, but your chest felt too tight, too full of panic.   

“i - i don’t know what i’m doing,” you whispered, voice shaking. “i don’t - i’m not a doctor, i can’t - ”  

“hey.” his voice was rough, but softer now, like he could hear the way your breathing was getting uneven. like he could tell you were a second away from losing it. “you’re doin’ fine. just keep pressure on it.”   

his hand was still on your wrist, warm despite how much blood he was losing. his thumb brushed over your skin, barely there, but the little touch sent a different kind of shiver through you. your brain felt scrambled, like you couldn’t focus on anything except the way he was looking at you now - less sharp, less closed off. like he was seeing you for the first time, really seeing you.   

you swallowed hard, nodding even though your eyes were wet, even though you felt like you were about to burst into tears any second.   

“okay,” you murmured. “okay.”   

you kept pressing down, watching the way his jaw clenched, his breathing rough as he tried not to react. he was tough - you knew that just from the way he carried himself, from the way he never seemed phased by anything. but he was hurt now, bleeding, and the sight of him like this made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to handle.   

“what happened?” you asked, voice small.   

he exhaled slowly, blinking up at the ceiling. “got into it with the wrong people.”  

you bit your lip, your fingers twitching where they rested against his stomach. you wanted to ask more, wanted to know what exactly he meant by that, but something about the way he said it told you not to push.   

instead, you focused on keeping pressure on the wound, on the way his breathing evened out just a little under your touch. your own breathing was still unsteady, but he wasn’t looking at you like you were weak. he wasn’t rolling his eyes at how easily you teared up or how your voice trembled when you spoke.  

he just looked... tired. and something else, something softer.  

“you always this jumpy?” he asked after a beat, his voice quieter now.   

your cheeks burned. you tried to wipe at your face with your shoulder, embarrassed at how quickly you’d teared up.   

“sorry,” you mumbled. “i just - i get overwhelmed easily.”  

he hummed, like that made sense to him. his fingers flexed against your wrist again, and you weren’t sure if he even realized he was still holding onto you.   

“s’nothing to apologize for,” he muttered. “just didn’t peg you for the type to come runnin’ to help a guy like me.”   

your brows furrowed. “what’s that supposed to mean?”  

he sighed, closing his eyes for a second. “means i ain’t exactly good company.”  

you frowned at that. you might not have known him well, but you knew enough to know that he kept to himself, that he didn’t bother anyone. sure, he was intimidating - quiet, intense, the kind of person who felt larger than life even when he wasn’t saying a word - but he’d never given you a reason to be afraid of him.  

“that’s not true,” you said before you could stop yourself.   

his eyes opened again, locking onto yours. for a second, it felt like you’d said too much. like you were pushing into something he wasn’t ready to talk about. but then his expression shifted, something in his face relaxing.   

he didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you for a long moment before exhaling through his nose.  

“you got a name?” he asked finally.  

your lips parted in surprise. “you - you don’t know my name?”  

“never asked,” he said simply.   

you blinked at him. you’d lived next door to each other for months. all this time, you thought he just didn’t care to acknowledge you, but now you weren’t so sure.   

“it’s - ” your voice caught, your heart still racing, and for some reason, that made you want to cry all over again. “it’s okay if you don’t want to talk right now,” you said instead, shaking your head. “you should be resting.”   

he watched you for a second longer before huffing out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.   

“crybaby,” he muttered, but it wasn’t mean. wasn’t teasing.   

your face burned again. “am not,” you said weakly, sniffling.   

he smirked, just a little. “sure, sweetheart.”   

your stomach flipped. you didn’t know if it was from the nickname or the fact that he was still bleeding under your hands, but either way, you were feeling way too much at once.  

you looked away, trying to get yourself under control.  

“you should probably get stitched up, right?” you murmured. “have you got a first aid kit?”  

he nodded toward the bathroom. you hesitated, biting your lip, not wanting to take your hands off the wound.  

like he could sense your hesitation, his fingers curled a little tighter around your wrist.  

“i’ll be fine,” he said. “go on, sweetheart.”  

your stomach flipped again. you swallowed hard and nodded, moving quickly toward the bathroom.   

as you rummaged through the cabinet, your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. this was insane. you were in way over your head. but when you came back and saw the way his gaze softened just a little when he saw you again, you knew one thing for sure. you weren’t going anywhere.

you worked as quickly as you could, hands still shaking as you set the first aid kit down beside him. his blood was everywhere - on his shirt, his skin, your hands. the sight of it made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to focus.  

frank watched you, quiet and steady, even as you fumbled with the supplies. he was still pale, but there was something almost amused in his expression, like he could tell how hard you were trying to hold it together.  

“you done this before?” he asked, voice low.  

you swallowed, shaking your head. “no.”  

his lips twitched, just barely. “figured.”  

your face burned. “you - you don’t have to be mean,” you mumbled, grabbing the antiseptic.   

“ain’t bein’ mean,” he said, and the way he said it made your breath catch. “just think it’s real sweet, you tryin’ so hard.”  

your chest felt too full. you bit your lip, blinking rapidly as you poured the antiseptic onto a cotton pad.   

“i think… this is supposed to hurt. right? it looks like it’s gonna hurt, frank, i don’t know if - ,” you started, unaware of the fact you were beginning to ramble.   

he grunted, cutting you off. “been through worse, sweetheart.”  

your face was still hot as you pressed the pad to the wound, and he tensed beneath your touch, muscles going rigid. you winced, sniffling despite yourself.  

“sorry,” you whispered.   

he exhaled through his nose. “told you, you don’t gotta - ”  

“i do,” you cut in, voice soft but firm. “i do, frank.”  

his expression shifted at that, something unreadable passing over his face. but he didn’t argue. you kept going, hands as steady as you could make them, cleaning the wound and prepping the needle. you hesitated before threading it, biting your lip hard.  

“you sure about no hospital?”  

“positive.”  

you swallowed. “okay.”   

he stayed quiet as you stitched him up, but his hand rested lightly against your knee, his fingers curling slightly whenever you pulled the thread through. it was grounding, in a way - like he was the one keeping you steady, even though he was the one bleeding all over the place.  

by the time you finished, your body was thrumming with nerves, exhaustion, something else you didn’t know how to name. you sat back on your heels, exhaling shakily.  

“all done,” you murmured. “you should rest.”  

frank huffed. “don’t need to be fussed over.”  

your face scrunched up. “you were literally bleeding out on the floor,” you argued, sniffling. “let me fuss.”  

he looked at you, long and hard, before sighing through his nose.  

“fine,” he muttered.   

you moved to stand, but before you could, his hand closed around your wrist again, stopping you.   

your heart skipped.  

“thank you,” he said, quieter this time. like it was hard for him to say, but he meant it.  

your throat tightened. “you’re welcome.”  

he didn’t let go.  

you swallowed, eyes darting to his fingers around your wrist, then back up to his face.  

“i should - um, clean up,” you whispered.  

his grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away.  

“stay,” he murmured instead. “just for a bit.”  

your breath caught.  

he wasn’t looking at you now, but you could see it in the way his jaw was tense, the way his fingers flexed just slightly like he was waiting for you to pull away. like he expected you to.  

but you didn’t.  

“okay,” you whispered, settling back down beside him.   

his shoulders relaxed just a little. his fingers brushed against your wrist one last time before letting go, and you knew, somehow, that this was only the beginning.

ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc, @erospecies

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[shellshocklove]

snapshot | old man!logan

pairing/AU: old man!logan howlett x female!reader

summary: short on money for rent, your joke about starting an only fans account, to earn some extra cash, goes over logan's head. but when an accident with charles puts your life in danger, logan takes you up on your offer.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! friends with benefits vibes who are also idiots in love, implied age gap, swearing, mentions and drinking of alcohol, use of pet names, logan's a bit of a grumpy dick, sex work, logan can't use a phone, logan can carry reader but he's also extremely strong, smut, praise kink, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), dom!logan, logan's got a dirty mouth, a little dacryphilia, sloppy blow job, facial, cum play, no use of y/n

a/n: a little disclaimer. i actually have no idea how OF work i only read the wikipedia page, so i've taken some liberties with it to fit it with the plot lol. the idea for the reader as charles' caretaker is inspired by @joelsgoldrush's fic never is a promise <- incredible fic that everyone should read! and also a big thank you to @guiltyasdave for all the encouragement on this fic!! <333 happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The coffee tasted sour on his tongue as he waited, engine running on empty, but the whiskey kept his throat warm. Behind the apartment complex the sun crawled up the horizon and split the the dark asphalt in pieces with streaks of blinding sunlight. The street lights shut off just as you walked out, the rickety door slamming shut behind you.

Watching you round the front of the limousine Logan pulled his seat forward, his rough hand grabbing the wheel as his left foot tapped impatiently on the footrest. A tickle in his throat had him greet you with a cough, and he brought his fist to his mouth.

"Morning to you too," you said, voice laced with sarcasm.

"Don't fuckin' slam the door like that– I've told you a thousand times," Logan grunted back and put the car in drive.

This was routine at this point. He picked you up in the morning after driving all night, and dropped you off again in the evening before he started his shift. Employing you took a large wad of cash out of his pocket, but at least he didn't have to worry about Charles being taken care of. You weren't a registered nurse or anything, not someone who'd had all the right references and education, but you needed money and didn't ask questions, and that had been perfect for Logan. He'd hired you about a year ago, and everything after had been routine.

When you didn't say anything back, only shifted your weight in the seat and leaned your head against the window, it pulled at something inside Logan. He couldn't deny you were a beautiful woman. He liked the way your nose curved, how soft your skin felt against his cheek every time you'd given him a reluctant hug, and he liked the way you smelled. It was primal, and in another life Logan would've had you in his bed already, but in this life, Logan was done with beautiful women.

Still early enough for the roads to be empty, Logan pushed the speed limit as he waited for you to speak – to finally say something trivial like you did every morning – some song you'd just discovered, or the plot twist in the reality program you watched every night, or how they were out of your favorite yogurt at the grocery store. He'd reply with a grunt, or with nothing at all, just letting you talk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan noticed how you picked at the skin around your nails, and when the sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, he heaved a heavy sigh.

"What's wrong with you?" he grumbled. A lilt of annoyance coated the words, and Logan hated how your silence had affected him. His harsh tone didn't seem to bother you, and the realization cut like a knife; biting down, Logan's jaw clenched.

"It's nothing."

Logan had to hold back the scoff he wanted to let out, "Clearly it's somethin', kid."

Finally, a reaction out of you. Pushing yourself to sit up straight, you let out a sigh as you turned your head to look at him. "My landlord raised my rent again… I'm thinking about how I'm gonna pay rent this month. I'm gonna be a few hundred bucks short," you told him.

Oh.

Gripping the wheel a little tighter, Logan couldn't help himself from asking, "You tellin' me you're quittin'?"

He couldn't blame you, he thought he paid you a fair wage, but it seemed that everything had gotten more and more expensive lately. The rides had been few and far between and the tank of gas didn't take him as far anymore. The weekends kept him afloat, along with bachelor and bachelorette parties, prom nights, and knuckleheaded business men too fancy to drive a regular cab to the airport. Had it not been for Charles' medication he'd give you a raise. Logan wasn't stupid, he knew he couldn't do this without you.

"No," you shook your head, "I wouldn't do that to Charles."

But you'd do it to me, Logan thought and let the words unsaid hang in the air between you as he pulled onto the dirt road leading to the smelting plant.

"I'll figure something out," you said, before a smirk teased over your face, that smile breaking forth the old you hidden behind this morning's melancholia. "Maybe I should start an Only Fans or something," you laughed.

"What's that?" Logan grunted, too focused on keeping his foot soft on the brake and avoiding the potholes to hear your joking lilt.

"Only Fans?" you questioned, one eyebrow raised in surprise before your eyes softened at the corners. "It's a social media platform for porn," you explained, "It's subscription based so you make an account and people pay a monthly subscription to see your content."

Porn?

Slowing down to a stop outside the gate, Logan put the limousine in park, the engine still humming.

"And how's that gonna help you pay rent?" Logan wondered, turning slightly in his seat to finally get a good look at you.

You were quiet for a second, eyes searching his face before the sound of a distant train had you looking away, almost bashful. "It's ridiculous," you muttered, "I don't have anyone to do it with anyway."

Before Logan could cough up an answer your hand found the passenger door, and a gust of sharp desert air seeped in. "I'll figure out the rent somehow… Sleep well, Logan," you told him, a wistful smile coating your features, before you climbed out the limousine and opened the gate. His eyes stayed glued to you as he drove past you, flicking to watch you close the gate after him in the rearview mirror. When you headed for the tank without your usual wave, a frown pulled at his face.

Stepping out of the limousine, Logan watched you leave, watched the way your hips swayed with new interest. Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, he found his flask – desperate to quench this fresh thirst with the last sip of burning alcohol, smoothing his dry throat. 

The cold coffee left a brown splatter as he discarded it; the coffee seeped into the sand. Inside the steeled walls he now called 'home' reeked of dust, like stepping into an antique shop, and Logan couldn't hold back his cough. Walking deeper into the plant with heavy steps, the old trinkets and equipment told a story of time passed.

So much time had passed.

Hanging his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs Logan started working the small buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before tossing it gently over the ironing board. Food would have to wait, he already knew the fridge wasn't stocked. Instead, he found the bottle of whiskey he'd left on the table, grabbing it by the neck before he took a large swig.

The whiskey helped, at least that's what he told himself, but his senses never dulled enough and the weight never got any easier. Sitting down heavy on the bed, Logan drank long and hard, but he couldn't keep his thoughts from trailing to you and what you’d muttered. I don't have anyone to do it with anyway.

What was it you'd called it? Just Fans? No, that wasn't right… Only Fans.

Logan remembered the first tape he ever saw; it had been the 70s, a summer in California, at some party he'd been forced to by a beautiful woman. The tape had been projected onto a wall in the living room, like background noise no one paid attention to. It had been lewd and obnoxious, but no one had seemed to mind, high as kites and drunk as skunks. Soon, Logan hadn't minded either, whisking away the woman to make his own private porn in one of the bedrooms.

Behind the woven fabric of his slacks, his cock twitched at the thought, but it wasn't the porn playing at the party, or the memory of the woman he'd fucked that filled his mind, it was you. 

It was innocent at first; the way your front teeth nibbled on your bottom lip as you pondered your next move in a game of chess opposite Charles, how your eyes sparkled under the low streetlights as he drove you home at the end of the day, and how your perfume had filled the limousine and clung to his skin that one time you'd left your jacket in the passenger seat. His hand came down to rub over the growing bulge in his pants, soothing the growing ache with a hard press, pulling a rumbling moan from his chest. 

Soon the innocent memories of you turned to filth. Logan's mind filled with images of you underneath him, his cock buried balls deep in your wet cunt as you withered for him. Then, as quickly as the first image had come, another took its place: of you on your knees with your mouth stuffed with his cock, gagging around him and swallowing him down like a good girl.

With each rubbing press to his cock, Logan couldn't shake the rolling images of you. It was wrong, never had he thought about you like that, never had he wanted to think of you like that, but once he'd started, he couldn't stop.

Working his fingers, it was almost instinctual as they moved to undo the button of his pants. His hand dug into his front, large hand palming himself with hard presses, as his cock hardened. Trailing his fingers upwards, stopping right above the elastic band of his underwear, his hand so close to wrapping around himself, a hint of shame pulled him out of the gutter.

He shouldn’t think about you like that.

Pulling away, like he'd burnt his hand, Logan let out a deep grumbling sigh. Leaning back on both hands, he let his head fall back as he squeezed his eyes shut. In his pants his cock throbbed with need. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, so long since he'd felt the velvet walls of a tight cunt wrapped around him, too long since he'd felt like he wasn't a monster, if only for a few blissful seconds.

Bringing the neck of the whiskey bottle to his mouth, Logan drowned his need in  temporary numbness, focusing instead on how the warmth filled his chest and dulled every ache. Falling back with a heavy bounce, he nursed the bottle in the crook of his thick arm, letting his eyes fall shut.

Logan couldn't remember the last time he wasn't tired, couldn't remember when his body didn't ache with every move. His veins bled through with rust and alcohol, and he hoped the latter made the corrosion run smoother.

His eyes fluttered shut, and the same flashing images filled the darkness. Years of fighting, years of killing, all the people he'd lost. It was the same show every night, and every night it tore a piece of him away, of his joy.

The bottom of the whiskey bottle clanked sharply as it hit the floor and a cough got stuck in his throat. It ripped and jerked in his chest, and he keeled over himself, fighting against it. When his head hit the pillow again, his eyes didn't fall shut, they trailed the walls, found the holes of blinding daylight seeping in through the holes in the corrugated metal sheets, and his thoughts found you again.

Curiosity got the best of him, and a hand dug into the back pocket of his pants for his phone. The small icons and text blended together as the screen lit up his face. When Logan held the phone a little further away the screen only got blurrier. With an exasperated sigh, he sat up, his body protesting as he grabbed his suit jacket off the dining chair, digging into the inner pocket for his new glasses.

Slumping down in the chair, his glasses resting at the tip of his nose, he tapped at his phone. He rarely used the thing outside of work, but suddenly he tapped at something that made it speak to him.

"I'm sorry I didn't quite get that," his phone said.

"Hello?" Logan spoke back.

Again his phone lit up and the voice answered. "Hello, what can I help you with?"

"What is Only Fans?"

……..

Fitting a brittle leaf between your thumb and pointer finger, you studied Charles' plants. The table always looked a mess after he'd tended to them, dirt spilled onto the table and tools thrown haphazardly about. Cupping your hand, you brushed the dirt into your hand, and discarded it into a pot you thought needed it.

Flicking your wrist, you looked at the time again. It was getting late. Usually by this time, Logan would have you halfway home already. Resorting to cleaning up the tools, you decided to give him half an hour before you'd start looking for him. He never slept in, although you could clearly see he needed it. 

Logan wasn't a man to show weakness, not to anybody, rather, he showed his teeth, barking and fighting against you or anyone who dared speak to him. It had intimidated you at first, and you'd held your tongue, afraid he'd bite your head off, but in time you'd come to realize that his gruff demeanor was just that, a façade. 

Charles on the other hand, senile and more and more forgetful, was the opposite of his son. On good days he beat you at chess while he told you stories about 'the good ol' days'. His imagination was vast, telling stories about the X-Men like he knew them, like he'd been a part of them, and especially by nightfall his stories would become even wilder. He'd tell you about his 'abilities', how he could read minds. He'd tell stories about Logan too, tragic ones, that if it hadn't been for the stack of comics you'd found, you would've almost said they were true.

Finding the chair by Charles' bed, you watched him deep in sleep. A heaviness could be felt in your chest as you thought about how his good and lucid days had seemed to get fewer and fewer lately. You found yourself having the same conversations with him, and once again today, he didn't want to get out of bed, telling you his head hurt. 

You wished you knew more of his condition, but Logan wouldn't tell you anything other than that Charles suffered from seizures, and if he didn't get his medication the consequences would be great. The way Logan had said it to you, his voice sharp and strict, it sounded serious, and in the year you'd taken care of Charles, you'd been diligent with his medication. Not once had you experienced a seizure with him.

Reaching over him, your palm found Charles' cheek. Stroking your hand lightly over his face, you felt the prickling stubble against your skin. His comment earlier about his head, had you worried. Logan usually supplied you with Charles' medication – from where you didn't know – there hadn't been any doctor's visits or health checks from what you could recall.

Maybe Logan didn't have insurance? It was your only explanation, a reason for why he'd found a more creative way of caring for his father. 

In a way you respected it, hacked an unknowing crack in Logan’s harsh façade– he cared. Only respect didn’t keep you from wanting Logan to tell you more, to open up, but wringing out more than a grunt from him was difficult. Instead, you made sure to let him know when you were running low on the pills and injections, and usually by the next day he'd hand over a new bottle. 

Stroking over Charles’ cheek, another chill of nervousness ran up your back where a worry tugged at your neck. 

Yesterday, after a week had passed since you'd asked Logan for more medication. He’d told you not to worry, that he’d have the pills soon, but running so low you'd had to resort to rationing Charles' doses.

Pulling back your hand, your eyes found your watch again, but before you could register the time, Charles stirred beside you. Then, an excruciating blinding pain permeated through your body. It rang in your ears and had your body shaking in agony, but at the same time you couldn't move. You wanted to scream, let out the pain that froze you to the chair, but no noise came out. When your vision started to go foggy, you thought that this must be what dying was like, but never would you have thought dying would feel this painful.

Through the ringing in your ears, a heavy creak of the tank door could be heard– or was it a trick your brain played on you in your last moments? Like the broad figure moving closer, slowly, too slowly, like it walked through water. You couldn't see who it was, but you didn't have too. Surely, your brain showing you Logan in your last moments, must've been a trick. The figure hovered over Charles, maybe it feasted on him first, reaped his soul as an appetizer before it would have you.

And just as quickly as the pain had taken you, the pain stopped.

Heaving for breath, your body fell forward, it was like the air couldn't fill your lungs quick enough. Two large palms cupped your cheek, tilting your head to Logan's frowning face. If you didn't know better you thought he looked scared.

"You okay?" he barked, your head rolling in his hands, "Hey! Bub, look at me."

You found the strength to nod your head, but Logan seemed far from convinced. He swiped his thumb over your cupid's bow, a flash of red coating his thumb and his face turned to stone, his frown so deep it looked chiseled.

Then he moved with an uncharacteristic haste, hiking you up in his arms and carrying you out of the tank. Closing your eyes, you tried to put your brain back together the way it used to be, but everything felt scrambled. When your back hit the soft mattress of a bed, you finally opened them.

Over you, Logan's large form hovered. He said something to you, but you only registered his mouth moving, your eyes glued to his pink soft lips, and your vision cleared completely.

"Drink this," he ordered, shoving a glass of water in your hands, and just like that your hearing had snapped back. "'m gonna go check on Charles– don't fucking move."

With no energy left in your body, you wouldn't dream of it. Logan watched you take a careful sip, the water lukewarm, before he left you in what you finally realized was his bed. The first sip nourished your dry throat, like you’d walked for miles in the desert without tasting as much as a drop. Surging forward, you chugged the rest of the water before you fell back against his pillow, clutching the glass in the crook of your elbow.

The smell of him on his sheets overwhelmed your weakened mind; a deep heady smell with a warmth to it, woven through with the heaviness of man. It soothed your mushy muscles, helping release the tension in your body.

The time passed differently now, fast and slow at the same time, and after an eternity and a second Logan was back. The weight of him where he sat down at the edge of the bed, had your whole body tipping towards him. His large palm found your cheek again, the rough pads of his fingers soothing over the skin.

"You doin' okay?" he asked, his deep voice filtering through a hint of worry.

"W-what happened to him– to m-me?" you managed to croak out.

Logan's heavy hand didn't move away when the furrow between his eyebrows deepened, the one that seemed to be a permanent feature on his face.

"He had a seizure," he told you, like it was obvious, taking the glass of water from your hands,

He must've caught the way your face turned, the confusion that flitted across it, one that spelled 'seizures don't affect other people'.

"Listen," he started, drawing back his hand, "There’s no other way of explainin' it to you other than tellin' you that all those stories he's told you about him– about me… they're all true."

The frown that deepened over your face at his words, must've challenged the permanent one over Logan's face. "W-what? The stories about the X-Men?"

"Yes, the X-Men– Is he talkin' a hole through your head about anything else?"

"No, but… there aren't any more mutants."

"Not new ones,” he sighed, “But we're old, sweetheart– the last there is." His voice went quieter and quieter as he spoke, a hint of sadness eating the words, before his palm found your cheek again. "You see… Charles he's a very powerful mutant, and years ago he started a school for mutants–"

"–I know all of that already Logan– he told me," you cut him off, "I never believed him, I thought he was just confused– the stories they–"

"–I know, bub," this time he cut you off, but he let the next words linger on his tongue. Drawing back his hand, his eyes found the wall behind the bed. "I never meant for you to get hurt– it's my fault. If he gets his medication he's fine, but… you ain't the only one who's a few hundred dollars short– it's been a slow month."

Before you had a chance to reply, Logan rose on his feet. "The seizures messes with your brain, so get some rest. I'm gonna get his medication, and I'll wake ya in the mornin'." Logan didn't wait for you to protest before he grabbed the car keys off the table, and left you alone in his bed. 

Outside the moon climbed the sky, and the new darkness, along with your scrambled brain, had your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier.

……..

"Wake up, sweetheart."

Logan's gruff voice pulled you from a dreamless sleep; a sleep like you'd just closed your eyes. Blinking, your heavy eyelids pulled shut just as quickly as you'd opened them, leaving you with a snapshot of Logan's body hovering over you. You hummed, sleep coating your brain, while your body felt like you'd put it through the wringer at the gym.

"It's mornin'."

You tried again, blinking your eyes open with more success. Logan's black suit jacket was nowhere to be seen, instead he adorned a white tank top. Letting your gaze roll over him, you noticed the scars etched into his skin, so many scattered up and down his strong arms, and suddenly the memories of last night filtered back into your brain.

"Logan," you whispered so low even you weren't sure you’d heard it.

"I'm takin' you home, alright? I'll watch him today," he told you.

When Logan told you something, he meant it. Leaving you in his bed, it was like a replay of last night as he grabbed the car keys and black suit jacket off the table. 

Slowly, you sat up and leaned on your elbows, letting the world spin for a minute. Your clothes from yesterday clung to your skin, and you felt both cold and sweaty as you got out of bed.

With each step you took every muscle ached, but somehow you managed to walk out the door. The burning light of the morning sun blinded you, and with one hand raised you shielded your eyes from the harshness while you walked closer to the humming impatient motor of Logan's limousine. Just as you'd sunk into the leather seat and managed to shut the door behind you, Logan stepped on the gas, and the smelting plant vanished in the rearview window. 

When you'd finally left the dirt road behind and hit the highway, you cracked the window ever so slightly – the morning air blowing away the last of your tiredness. The closer you got to the city, the more your stomach growled. You hadn't had a thing to eat since lunch yesterday, the aftermath of Charles’ seizure knocking you out before dinner– you needed something to eat.

"Can we stop here?" you asked and pointed at a sign advertising a diner off the next exit.

"I'm drivin' you home," Logan replied, his eyes glued to the road.

"Logan, please, I'm starving," you begged with a pout.

A beat passed, his fingers tapping over the wheel as he weighed his options, then his eyes found yours where they lingered. Staring back, you didn't know what to do. Logan wasn't a man that said yes, he liked things done his way. You bit down on your bottom lip, showing off your front teeth like a silent 'please' written over your face, and Logan huffed.

The loud buzz of conversation hit you first when you stepped into the packed diner, Logan in tow. Waiters ran back and forth between the booths lining the windows, taking breakfast orders and pouring coffee, and at the sound of the bell as the door swung shut behind you, one of them looked up at you.

"Seat yourselves," she said with a smile as golden as the syrup poured over hotcakes, "I'll be with you in a jiffy."

Walking deeper into the diner, you found an empty booth in a quiet corner. Logan seemed pleased, never too keen on people, and after what you'd come to know after last night, you could understand his hesitation.

Logan. The Wolverine.

You remembered the comics from when you were a kid, remembered this one kid in your class in elementary school that had been obsessed with them, reading every issue and Wolverine had been his favorite. He was a scientist now, last you heard, and here you sat opposite the comic character himself.

"Mornin', what can I get you guys?" the waitress asked, pulling up to your table.

"Um," you grabbed at the laminated menu in front of you, your eyes scanning over the breakfast items. Everything looked good, your stomach growling loud as you took in the pictures, but then again you didn't think you'd ever been this hungry before.

"Just coffee f'me, ma'am," Logan grunted.

"Could I get a stack of the blueberry pancakes… and a coffee for me too, please?" you ordered, watching the waitress with the name tag 'Stacy' write down your order.

"That'll be all for you guys this morning?" she smiled.

"Yes, thank you," you returned her smile.

"Alright, I'll be back in a second with your coffees."

While you waited for your pancakes, Logan wasn't much company. He sipped his coffee, black and piping hot, as he leaned against the corner of the booth, legs spread wide, watching the people coming and going. In the silence between you, you decided to study him while you sipped your own coffee. He must've felt your gaze over him, from the way he clenched his jaw, but he never turned his head to look at you, instead he let you look.

When your pancakes finally arrived, you dug in immediately. Fresh, hot and deliciously pillow-y and soft, it was the best thing you'd had in a while. The blueberries weren't too sweet, cutting through the sweetness of the pancakes with a tangy taste, while the bitter taste of your coffee woke you up and filled you with new energy.

"So," Logan suddenly spoke up, almost making the piece of pancake you were chewing on go down the wrong pipe. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I'm having the worst hangover in human history," you joked, "But better now after some food and caffeine."

Logan only hummed, turning his head back to people watching as you ate your pancakes. His silence had a frown work over your features when you placed your knife and fork down to sip on your coffee. He'd been so quiet all morning, which in truth wasn't new, but there was something about him now, something about the way his scowl dug a little deeper into his skin that had you asking:

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothin'," he answered, curt and to the point.

"Clearly it's something," you pried with a tilt of your head.

Another beat passed, before he leaned forward, a cough getting stuck in his throat. It sounded worse than it was, he'd told you once. So, you sipped your coffee, your eyes flitting away like you needed to give him privacy.

"I've been thinkin' about your proposal," he finally said, and you felt your eyebrows pull together in a frown.

"Wait?" your eyes found his, "What proposal?"

"About that subscription thing– the porn," he waved his hand, and leaned back again.

"Only Fans?" you asked, keeping your voice low, "It was just a joke, Logan."

"Well, maybe it's an idea for the both of us. I need money for Charles' medication, and you need money for rent– it'll just be us earnin' a little extra on the side, a win-win situation."

Letting his words sink in, you mulled over his idea in your brain. It wasn't like you weren't attracted to Logan, in truth, you'd wanted him to fuck you for a while now, but it had only been a fantasy, one to conjure forth late at night when you slipped your hand into your panties. To have it become a reality, served up by Logan himself on a silver platter, you'd never imagined.

How could you say no?

"Okay," you said, your voice breathy as what you'd just agreed to settled in your stomach. Having a little more cash in your account every month wouldn't hurt, and getting dick regularly sounded just as nice, it had been too long. "I'm in."

Logan only replied with a curt nod accompanied by an approving grunt, "Now eat your pancakes so we can get goin'."

………

"Cold feet?"

With the limousine parked outside your apartment building, a week's worth of anticipation came to a head. You and Logan hadn't really talked much in the days passed since the diner; Logan's main interest more in you feeling better after experiencing Charles' powers for the first time. He'd let you have a few days off, to heal up, to which you'd taken the opportunity to do some research and set up an Only Fans profile. Currently it was blank, but tonight that would change.

"No," you shook your head, telling true. "You?" you asked, turning in your seat to face Logan.

Logan eyes darted across your face. He never looked at you like that, and for a moment the oddity of the situation, of what you were about to do, settled in your stomach.

"No," Logan finally decided, and reached for the door handle, “Let’s get it over with before it gets too late.”

At his movement, you reached forward and grabbed his forearm, "Wait!"

With a grunt, Logan turned. "What?" he asked, his eyes settling on you with an eyebrow raised.

"I-I have an idea," you told him, and you didn't know why you stumbled over your words. With your hand still wrapped around his arm, his eyes fell to your touch, lingering before they found yours again.

"I was thinking–" you started, retracing your hand, "Well actually… I just restarted taking birth control and I wanted to settle into it before we have sex, so I thought maybe– if you want to of course," you rambled.

"Spit it out, bub, I ain't got all night," Logan cut you off.

"I thought maybe I could suck you off– here in the limo," you 'spat' out your suggestion, your front teeth immediately coming down to bully your bottom lip.

"You want to suck my cock… here?" he repeated. Leaning back in his seat, you didn't know if he spread his legs on purpose, or if he unconsciously drew your eyes to the bulge hidden behind his slacks.

"Yeah, I mean…" you shrugged, "I thought it could be hot? Like something that people would want to see?"

"Right," Logan hummed, reminded of the invisible audience, and reached for the key in the ignition.

Leaving your apartment building in the rearview mirror, Logan searched for a more secluded place to park. The windows in the back of the limousine were tinted, impossible to look into, but you didn't want to take the risk of getting caught. After finding an empty parking lot, backing up and occupying a more private space in the back corner, Logan guided you around the limousine with a hand resting gently over the small of your back. Climbing into the back with you, his broad form filled the space.

Inside, he'd turned on the lights, the colors slowly fading in and out and casting soft shadows across his features. The leather creaked as he sat down, his spread legs already inviting you to slot between. A fleeting feeling of nervousness tickled in your tummy, the reality of what you were about to do washing over you like a wave on a stormy ocean.

Logan watched you from his seat, a picture of sin in his suit, as he slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and fished out his glasses. His jacket fit snugly over his wide shoulders and he'd undone the top buttons where you could glimpse curling chest hair. The way he looked at you through the glasses, eyes dark and curious, had a warmth of arousal starting to pool in the core of yourself.

Clearing your throat, you spoke up, "I was thinking I could set my phone up here–" you pointed to the space between the leather seats and the window. "And then you could use your phone and film me?"

After a little bit of fiddling to get your phone to stay upright, you turned to Logan, your phone capturing your slow walk towards him. He sat with his legs spread wide, his large palms resting on either side of his thighs. When you reached for the hem of your shirt, his finger twitched, digging into the leather, and a toothy smile spread over your features.

Tossing your shirt you sunk to your knees and slotted between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, you held his gaze as you sat pretty for him, fanning out the skirt you'd worn specifically for today. He reached for his phone and pressed record when you curled your hands behind your back to undo the clasp of your bra, capturing your bare chest.

The air nipped at your exposed skin, making goosebumps ripple over your skin. Looking up at Logan, his eyes burned against your skin where he took in your breasts, his eyes glided over your bare skin for the first time and soothed out the bubbling nerves that had been brewing. When your eyes caught on the tent growing in his pants, you had to restrain yourself from surging forward, your mouth already watering at the thought of tasting him for the first time – of your wet dreams becoming a reality.

"S'pretty," he murmured, voice deep and guttural, soaked in arousal.

He cupped your cheek gently, the rough pad of his thumb skating over your skin bringing with it a calming safety. Your eyelashes fluttered as you tilted your head into his hand, desperate to feel more of the weathered skin of his hand against your body.

"Y'sure you want this, sweetheart?" he asked.

Opening your eyes, you held his gaze. "Yes, please," you nodded in his large palm, "It's the only thing I've thought about all day." And it was the truth.

"Shit, baby," he groaned in response, dragging his hand down your neck to rest heavy over the top of your breasts. "S'that so?"

Gathering your hands in your lap, you nodded slowly, your teeth caught on your bottom lip as his hand brushed over your right breast. "Thought of how you'd taste," you confessed, the phone in his hand forgotten as you focused entirely on Logan.

"Yeah?" he prompted. One knuckle brushed over your hardened nipples, pulling a quiet whimper from you– pleased he leaned back, "Take off my belt, then."

Bouncing on your knees, you leaned forward on his command, and pulled the leather belt from its loops. You did it slowly, tilting your head upwards to catch his eyes through the glasses. He helped you with the zipper, making you watch as he dragged it down.

With your eyes fixed on his hand you noticed three barely healed scars between every knuckle, and you remembered who Logan really was. The Wolverine. He caught you looking, and his hand tightened into a fist, tightening it for a beat before he relaxed it over his thigh. Leaning forward, you placed a soft kiss over his knuckles, and his hand dug into his thigh.

"Sweetheart," he breathed out, his voice strained.

In the depths of your chest you felt a pinch, a tiny stab in your heart that felt too real, too personal for what you were about to do. Willing it away, you leaned back on your ankles instead, your hands dipping into the waistband of his pants to pull down his slacks. Lifting his hips to help you ease them down, a quiet grunt escaped him, a deep sound that traveled down your spine and pooled in your core.

Behind the soft cotton of his underwear the firm hard line of his cock strained against the fabric. The sight of him, large and heavy, and hidden, had your eyes widening with lust, and a slickness soiling the gusset of your panties.

"You want my cock, don't you sweetheart?" he coaxed, his free hand finding your jaw where he cupped it, squeezing your cheeks together.

"Y-yes," you breathed out, your smile straining against his grip before you dropped your mouth open, showing him your tongue.

"There you go, baby– good girl," he praised, pressing his thumb down on your tongue and rubbing the saliva around. A soft moan caught in your throat at the praise, and behind the camera Logan's eyes darkened at his new discovery.

Wrapping both your hands around his wrist, you held his hand in place as you closed your lips around him. Slowly, you moved your head, up and down, up and down, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on his thumb like you would his cock. Logan's eyes were intense behind his glasses, his jaw clenching tight while he stared into your own.

"Such a filthy little thing f'me– so desperate for my cock down your throat you'll suck anything, ain't that right?"

A choked moan escaped you; they way he talked to you adding fuel to the fire in your core. Between the seam of your cunt you ached, wet arousal dripping into your soiled panties. He must've watched the way you melted for him, your brain turning to mush in front of him, because when he pulled his hand away, he laughed. A deep guttural thing from the depth of his chest.

"C'mon little angel," he tapped at your cheek, "Let's put you out of your misery."

Clouded in arousal, your brain stalled at the nickname, and you felt a new gush of arousal spill between the seam of your cunt. Logan's nostrils flared and a wild darkness settled over his face.

Shifting on your knees, you leaned forward to palm him through his underwear. Making sure to flick your eyes up at him (and the camera), you dragged your finger up and down gently, seductively, before you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his clothed length. Above you, Logan sucked in a breath, his free hand coming down to pet your head and press your face firmly against his bulge.

You couldn't help but breathe him in. Breathe in the heady deep scent of man, cheap whiskey and cigars – the unique scent of Logan. When you let out the softest little sigh, you felt him twitch against you, and quickly his hand on your head traveled down to the back of your neck where he pulled you back with a harsh yank.

You yelped.

"No more teasin'–" he reprimanded and let go of you, "Be a good little angel and make me come."

Logan leaned back into the leather, his body relaxed and inviting with one hand still occupied with filming you. Watching the deep furrow forming between his brows, and the way his eyes burned your face through his glasses, you could tell he wanted to take control, make you do what he wanted.

With a curling smile, knowing full and well you had the upper hand with one of his hands occupied, you slipped your eager hands into the elastic waistband of his underwear and tugged.

A wild and wiry patch of graying hair met you first, and you felt a flock of eagerness flutter in your stomach. Tugging the fabric down slowly, you made a show of revealing just an inch at a time. When you finally reached the end of him, you felt the wet head of him graze your cheek, leaving a streak of precum, as it sprung free.

His hard cock bopped heavily in front your face, and you felt your eyes widen at his size. He was big. The hefty length of him cushioned against his balls hanging heavy over the band of his underwear. Reaching a shaky hand forward you took him in your hand for the first time and familiarized yourself with the thick weight of him. With your other hand you traced the thick veins that lined the girth of him, memorizing every ridge and freckle before coming up to thumb at the fat tip where a pearl of wetness beaded.

A mix of awe and uncertainty pooled in your chest. How in the hell were you gonna fit all of him down your throat?

"'s okay, angel," he cooed, his heavy hand back to stroke over your head. His touch soothed you, a rhythmic warmth that shed all your insecurities.

With a content sigh you leaned forward and parted your lips to press a soft kiss to the leaking tip, pulling a "There you go, good girl, open your mouth f'me," from Logan. Urged on by his praise, you got a little braver. Flattening your tongue against him you started with a few gentle, teasing licks to the tip, your tongue dipping into the slit to taste him in earnest.

Above you, a groan rumbled in Logan's chest, a sound that had you eagerly taking more of him in your mouth. Suckling carefully on the fat tip, you let your tongue tease the underside of him, humming in content when you felt him harden even more in your hands.

Letting the excess spit run down the length of him, it pooled over your hands where they struggled to wrap around the thick girth. Slick sounds came from your hands when you started to move them over the soft skin, coating him fully in your saliva with every tug.

"Shit, bub, y'look so fuckin' good around my cock," Logan's voice vibrated from his chest, "But y'can take it deeper, can't you? Take that big cock down your throat?"

Well, you would certainly try.

Your knees dug into the carpeted floor of the limousine, pressing a deep pattern into your skin. Popping off his cock, you sat up a little more and shifted your weight. Looking up at him through your lashes, you were reminded of the camera pointed at you. Looking straight down the barrel of his phone you sunk down further on his cock.

Dropping your jaw, you felt your lips stretch as his hefty cock filled your throat. All too quickly the head of him kissed the back of your throat and you had to fight your gag reflex. Pulling off with a gasp, your eyes widened as you looked up at him.

"It's so big," you told him, both of your slicked hands jerking him in a slow rhythm.

"I know, angel," he cooed, his thumb running over your cheek. Leaning forward again, you placed a soft kiss to the fat head, and he hissed, "Too big f'you?"

"No," you shook your head, smearing the head from one corner of your mouth to the other, spreading the precum leaking onto your lips, and humming at the taste of him. "It's perfect– taste so perfect," you said through a pillowy kiss to the head.

With a buck of his hips, he pushed back into your eager mouth, slipping the fat head through your swollen lips and into your flexed throat, "That's it– right where it belongs, huh?"

Fitting him as deep as you could down your throat you felt dizzy with desire, an almost overwhelming feeling; the smell of him so close, how he filled your mouth and made your jaw ache. When your nose pressed into the grayed patch of wiry hair at the base of his cock, you spluttered with need, spit soaking the length of him as you came off him with a cough.

In an instance, Logan was on you, his free hand petting your cheek as he searched your eyes, "You okay?" I wouldn't be until after, when you edited the video that you'd realize he'd dropped the phone, focusing only on you in that moment.

"Yes," you replied, looking into his eyes with a toothy smile, "I want more– I want your cum."

"Fuck," he hissed, letting go of your cheek and leaning back into the leather seat, pointing his phone at you, "Go on."

Fitting him back down your throat again, you got lost in it as you found a rhythm. With a hand stationed at the base, you bobbed your head, letting your tongue dance over the length. More saliva dripped down and pooled over your hand, slicking up his pubes. It was messy, and hot, sticky and wet. Above you, Logan muttered praises between grunts and moans, encouraging you to take him deeper and deeper.

Feeling your throat loosen with every bob of your head, you pushed down and swallowed around him. Your eyelashes fluttered as you gagged and coughed, tears starting to prickle from your eyes, but you were determined to please him– to make him feel good.

When his hand came down to wrap around your throat, his thumb skating over your neck to feel himself, your eyes rolled back in your head in pleasure – the sight of you making Logan let out a deep growl. He kept the hand clasped around your throat as he started to buck his hips, feeding you his cock in small lazy thrusts.

"Right there, angel, so fuckin' good f'me… my good girl– choke on it," he mumbled.

You hummed around him at the praise, the vibrations pulling another deep moan from him. Fucking your face, bubbling spit trickled out the corner of your lips, soaking him and the coarse hair on his balls where they slapped heavy against your chin. Slipping a hand between your thighs, you couldn't help but touch yourself through your underwear – the white cotton translucent and drenched with your arousal.

Chasing his high, Logan's thrusts started to come quicker. More and more saliva overflowed, dripping down your bare chest and slicking you up in depravity. The grip Logan had around his phone was lazy, but he made sure to capture the way the shifting colors of the low limousine light gleamed over your slicked up chest.

"Such a good fuckin' throat–" he growled, squeezing around your throat as he pushed himself as deep as he could. Your nose brushed the wiry patch of his pubic hair, and you felt yourself start to gag around him as your lungs squeezed and throat tightened. He kept you down as you spluttered and swallowed around the length of him, and when the edges of the world started to blur he pulled you off with a jerk.

Gasping for air and filling your lungs with lost breaths, the hand Logan had wrapped around your neck was now pushing your own hand away to wrap around himself. The tears on your cheek mixed with the strings of saliva on your chin, as you looked up at him through fluttering lashes. Watching him stroke his cock, your eyes widened with interest as you shifted on your knees to sit up straighter.

His hard cock pulsated and throbbed with need as he stroked. Up and down you watched his hand; watched how beads of precum drooled over his fingers, mixing with your saliva before it dripped down onto your chest. A primal feeling came over you – an urge so strong to taste him come undone and claim you as his.

"Please," you begged, the fat head ghosting against your lips with every jerk, "come for me, please– wanna taste you so badly."

Logan's grunts and growls grew deeper and wilder as he stroked himself faster. "Look at me, angel," he ordered, and when your eyes locked with his, combined with a final hard stroke, he aimed the wet tip towards your face and came hard.

The first pump of his sticky warm seed, made you flinch before a smile widened and you leaned closer. Dropping your mouth open, he came all over your face, coating your cheeks, your nose, and forehead. Thumbing at the tip, he aimed at your waiting mouth to squeeze out the last few drops, and he finally let you taste him.

Wrapping your lips around the head, you suckled around him through content hums. You were covered in his cum, claimed, feeling the sticky seed drip down the bridge of your nose. You loved the way he tasted, salty and bitter, like Logan.

When the feeling of your tongue dancing over his sensitive head became too much, he pulled away with a hiss. His phone was still aimed at your face, and a little more clear-headed he filmed the aftermath of his orgasm closer.

"Even prettier with my cum on your face, angel," he said, letting his finger drag over your skin to collect his cum.

Pretty.

"Thank you," you whispered, your throat hoarse as he fed you his cum.

You hummed around his finger as he cleaned you up, making sure not a single drop would go to waste, and when he was pleased with his work after you'd shown him your empty tongue, he cupped your cheek.

"Good little angel," he told you with a pad, and pressed the stop button on his phone.

Back at your apartment the buzz of the excitement of the night lingered as you replayed the scene on your computer. You thought about Logan, about where he was and who might sit in the seat where you'd sucked him off only hours earlier. You thought about how filthy his mouth had been, and how much it had turned you on. And lastly, you thought about how you couldn't wait to see him again, and for him to finally fuck you.

Editing the video together, the last thing you did before you fell asleep was upload. Logan had taken a photo of your hand over his clothed cock before he'd left you, a picture that was now set as your profile picture. All tuckered out, you closed your computer and fell back against your pillows, dreaming of the smell of leather and cheap whiskey.

James & Angel ✨👼 📍 Texas subscribers: 15,478

1 post: "cute girl gives older limousine driver a sloppy blowjob"

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hopefully this was okay? i have concepts of a part 2 lol so please don't ask for it. instead, a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and/or tell me what you'd comment under james' & angel's first video! my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[ink-and-dagger]

What if Astrid find a pic of young Silco by accident hehhehehehhehehehehhe

Snapshot

A Drink With Me ficlet

870 words || Established relationship || Silco x Astrid (but can be read as gen f!reader) || SFW but suggestive || MDNI

“Oh my Gods.”

“What?”

“Oh. My Gods.”

Time has stripped the photograph between your fingers of its glossy sheen and has left the edges blunt and frayed, but you would recognise those features anywhere; no less sharp nor striking through the faded sepia.

“This is you.”

It had slipped from between two ledgers as you’d perused Silco’s bookshelves – an activity more to entertain your idle hands than a genuine search for reading material. The image itself is simple and candid: A young man, seemingly oblivious to the fact his portrait is being taken, sat at a familiar bar, with eyes downcast toward a spread of papers.

That same man looks up at you now from a very similar spread of papers. “What is?”

“This.” You drift over to his desk and perch on its edge, all the while unable to tear your gaze from the photo in your hands. The pitch dark hair swept back into a low bun. The familiar strays – the same ones that even now will always be the first to escape any styling under the combing of agitated fingers – falling forward into his face, only far longer and thicker than you’re used to. His skin, unblemished and smooth, save for the chronic furrow between his brows – etched there long before time and tragedy ravaged the rest.

Silco hums absently; an indication that he acknowledges your discovery but finds little interest in it. You can imagine the man in the photograph making the exact same noise, were someone to distract him from his paperwork for a reason he deemed benign. You flip the photo over. No date.

“How old are you here?”

Silco exhales through his nose, places his pen down with a pointed clack, and extends his hand wordlessly toward you.

“Hah! Do you think I’m wet behind the ears?” you hold the photograph out of his reach, “You can tell just fine from over there thank you very much.”

He cuts you a scathing glance, before leaning forward in his chair with a foreboding creak to peer more closely at the image. His scarred lips purse slightly in thought.

“Mid–late twenties. I can’t say for certain.”

“You were hot.”

“Were?”

“Were and are,” you coo, reclining backwards over the desk into his space, one elbow pitched on his paperwork to hold your weight whilst you flap the photograph in front of his face, “Can I keep this?”

“For what reason?”

“Dirty ones.”

“Hardly necessary,” Silco says, the very corner of his mouth creasing upwards as he catches your wrist to halt your photo-flapping, “You have access to the real thing.”

“True, true, and you can be sure I’ll continue taking advantage of that.” You grin, shoving your captured, photo-wielding arm a little closer to him in emphasis, “But right now I’m talking about some alone time with this guy.”

Silco scoffs under his breath and releases your wrist. You twist onto your front, weight propped on both elbows as you admire the photograph in your grip. You trace a finger down the slender throat of the man in the photo, over the generous wedge of chest exposed by his open crimson collar.

“D’you think he’d notice me? If I came into that bar?”

“Oh I’m certain he would.”

“Yeah?” You lift your gaze from the man in the photo to the one before you – as equally breathtaking. More so. You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “What line would he use?”

Silco hums, low and thoughtful, leaning forward in his chair, closing in on your space. He picks up his abandoned pen, briefly twirling the implement until it’s poised between his elegant fingers like a cigarette. Nib safely facing his own palm.

“After downing the dregs of his drink for courage... he would have approached you.”

With sensual tenderness, he brushes the barrel of his pen along your cheek, warmed metal against warmer skin. Catching at the curve of your jawline, and tracing over your pulse in a way that makes it fumble a beat.

“Cast his gaze over each of your pretty, pretty features. One by one,” he murmurs, slowly drawing the end of the pen down your jugular, down the slope of your collar bone, to leisurely trail through the cut of your cleavage. The corner of your mouth hooks up. The warmth low in your belly coils a little tighter.

“He would have leaned in close,” Silco whispers, demonstrating just so, “Close enough that you’d almost taste the whiskey on his breath.”

Blunt metal drags a purposeful line up your throat, and your lips part softly as he tilts your face toward his with the barrel of his pen flat and firm beneath your chin.

“And asked you – very nicely – to stop leaning on his paperwork.”

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek while Silco’s dual eyes sizzle with smug mirth. It’d be unthinkable, really – to forfeit either one for the sake of a matching pair.

You straighten and push off his desk, hips swaying as you saunter over to the bedroom with the photograph in hand.

“Well,” you say, pausing in the threshold and turning to him with a smirk, “If you need us, you know where we’ll be.”

[bearforcecaptions]

I always wished I had a neighbor more like me. Living here felt like I was trapped behind glass — close enough to see everyone, but never quite part of it. Most people kept their distance. And the one person who didn’t? My neighbor across the street — a massive, musclebound military guy who stomped around in full gear like he was still on active duty. Always shouting into his phone, working out in the driveway. We had nothing in common. I barely even waved hello.

One night, feeling lonelier than usual, I muttered under my breath, "I just wish I had a neighbor more like me." I didn’t think anything of it. Just a passing thought. But the world must’ve been listening.

When I woke up, everything was wrong.

First thing I noticed was the weight of the dog tags clinking against my chest. I sat up, disoriented, and the bed creaked under my heavier frame. I looked down — I was wearing only a pair of tight black boxer briefs. And my body... Thick, heavy muscles bulged under my skin, veins tracing over biceps the size of softballs. My stomach was a carved six-pack, my legs like stone columns. Tattoos wrapped around my shoulders and arms — sharp black ink I didn’t remember getting.

I opened my mouth to shout, to ask what was happening — but instead, out came a calm, deep voice: "Situation normal. Good to go." I clamped my hand over my mouth, heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn’t right.

I stumbled out of bed — bare feet slapping the floor — and nearly tripped over a neatly stacked pile of folded camo fatigues. I rushed to the bathroom, gripping the doorframe like it might disappear.

The man staring back at me in the mirror was a stranger. Square-jawed, military haircut, a body like it was carved from granite. Hardened, disciplined. Unshakable. My hands — thick, calloused — shook slightly, but my face stayed stoic, calm, trained. I had to get help.

I yanked on a tight olive-green T-shirt, fatigues, and boots waiting by the door. Everything fit perfectly, like it had been tailored for this new, monstrous body. I bolted outside, desperate to find some scrap of normalcy.

That’s when I saw him. My neighbor. Standing by his truck, grinning wide, like we’d been friends for years.

"Mornin', brother!" he barked, striding over and clapping a heavy hand on my back. I tried to say something casual, anything — but my body snapped to attention, and I barked back, "Mornin', Sergeant! Outstanding day for PT!"

No. No no no. Inside, I was screaming. But on the surface, I was steady, confident, every word crisp like I’d practiced it my whole life.

We talked — about gear, training regimens, upcoming drills — and I just kept playing along, answering perfectly, even laughing when he cracked a joke about "those soft new recruits." At one point, I heard myself say, "Woke up at 0500 hours, got my warm-up set in before chow," — like it was the most natural thing in the world. 5 a.m., I corrected silently. Normal people say 5 a.m. But my mouth would never betray the facade.

"Come on, brother, we’re late for base," he barked, tossing a duffel into the truck. Without hesitation, I grabbed my own — somehow packed and ready — and climbed in.

The base was real. The ID around my neck scanned at the checkpoint. Guards waved me through. Nobody questioned it. We spent the day side-by-side, yelling commands, demonstrating lifts, pushing trembling recruits through brutal obstacle courses. And somehow, everything I needed to know was just there — drilled into me like muscle memory I never actually earned. Every command, every drill, every reprimand rolled off my tongue with perfect authority. And somewhere deep inside, the real me — the scared, confused version — shrank further and further down, screaming silently into the void.

That night, back in my strange, hyper-organized house, I tried to process it all. Photos covered the walls — snapshots of me and my neighbor on deployments, at competitions, at ceremonies. Awards lined the shelves. My inbox was full of congratulatory messages on recent promotions. My memories — my real ones — felt like faint shadows compared to the heavy, real weight of this new life.

The world believed this was who I'd always been. The world demanded I believe it too.

And no matter how much I panicked inside, no matter how much I begged for the old life back, my mouth only said, "Yes, sir." "Roger that." "Mission accomplished."

I guess my wish had come true. I wasn’t alone anymore. I had my best friend. My squad. My calling.

And deep down, under all the tattoos, the muscle, the discipline, the pride, the old me still existed. Still thrashing, still trying to surface.

But each day, that voice grew a little fainter. Each day, it got a little easier to lace up my boots, square my shoulders, and drive out to base. Adapt and overcome. That’s the mission now.

[buckysleftbicep]

private gallery 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, sexting, phone/video sex, masturbation (m & f), oral sex (f rec), rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie

summary: sexting while he’s on a mission seemed like a good idea, until bucky comes home early and fucks you like he’s been counting the days.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: hi loves! i love the idea of phone sex / sexting, i think it's pretty hot, and here's my take on bucky doing just that! i hope you enjoy it! love you guys and please stay safe out there!

It started with Bucky's shirt.

One of his old ones, soft from too many washes, black faded to charcoal, sleeves loose enough to slip past your elbows. It hung just a little too long on you, clinging in places and bagging in others, but it still made you feel close to him.

Safe.

Like he was there in the room with you, instead of halfway across the world on some mission that wasn’t quite classified but still distant enough to keep him mostly off the grid.

You hadn’t meant to send anything. You really hadn’t. You were just curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath a throw blanket, nursing a mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

The lights were low, the silence thick, and your phone screen glowed faintly in the dark as you scrolled thumb dragging slow over your camera roll until you landed on the last photo the two of you had taken before he left.

It was a simple one. His chin tucked over your shoulder, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, his arm slung lazily around your waist like he always had to be touching you, which was true.

Your smile was soft. Lazy. Your eyes half-lidded, hair messy from bed. It had been two weeks since that photo. Two long, aching weeks.

He still texted you, when he could.

Little things.

A quick “miss you” before lights out. A blurry image of the skyline, always from strange places. A half-joking voice note once where he said, “They’ve got me living off protein bars. Save me leftovers,” like he wasn’t out there risking his life for something you weren’t even allowed to ask about.

But the replies came slowly, and they were always short—just enough to let you breathe, but never enough to fill the space he left behind.

And it was that space—the hollow of it, the need—that made you do it.

You lifted your phone again, shifted your weight where you sat, and tugged the hem of his shirt just far enough down your thighs to frame the shot.

Your knees were drawn up, one bare shoulder exposed, your smile caught halfway between innocent and deliberate. It wasn’t explicit. Not even close. But it felt like something—a tease, a thread you knew he’d pull if you gave him the chance.

You didn’t overthink it. Just typed:

“Still smells like you.”

And hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

Then you tossed your phone aside like it burned.

Your heart was pounding. You weren’t even sure why.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you in less. Hell, he’d kissed every inch of your skin. Touched you in ways that still made your legs tremble if you thought about it long enough.

But this was different. The distance made everything charged. Every word, every image. And something about that photo—about the softness of it, the suggestion felt like more than just missing him. It felt like wanting him.

You tried not to think about it as you got ready for bed. You left your phone face-down on the nightstand, buried your face in his pillow, and told yourself not to obsess.

But in the morning, the reply was waiting for you.

Two words.

“Fuck. Baby.”

You sat up too fast, stomach flipping, and opened the photo he’d attached.

His boots were kicked up against a wall of stacked sandbags. The sun was low, desert light bleeding gold across the sky, casting long shadows across the terrain.

You could only see the lower half of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble on his throat, the faint tension in his parted lips. It was so him, and so not him, like a snapshot of something private, pulled from a world you didn’t belong to.

Beneath it:

“I miss you like hell.”

You stared at the screen for a long moment, then tucked the phone against your chest and exhaled.

It didn’t stop there.

A few days later, you sent a shot from bed. Nothing scandalous—just the soft tangle of your legs under half-kicked sheets, one bare thigh caught in golden morning light. The caption was short. Flippant, almost:

“Too much space without you here.”

Another from the bathroom—mirror fogged, droplets still clinging to your skin. Only your collarbone and the curve of your neck visible, hair wet, mouth parted like you’d been mid-sigh. You typed:

“Shower’s not the same without you.”

And hit send before your brain could stop your fingers.

Then you panicked. Tossed your phone across the bed, buried your face in your hands and groaned into the quiet.

What the hell were you doing?

He didn’t reply for hours.

But when he did?

“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You swallowed. Your pulse throbbed low and slow in your belly.

A few hours later, just three more words:

“Show me more.”

And that was when it shifted.

The line between playful and needy started to blur—not all at once, but gradually. Incrementally. Like dipping your toes into warm water and not realising how deep you’ve gone until you’re sinking.

You found yourself leaning into it. Subtle provocations. A bite of fruit caught on camera, lips parted just enough. A sleepy video of you stretching in bed, the hem of your shorts sliding higher than necessary.

You weren’t posing, exactly. But you knew what you were doing.

You left him a voice memo once, late at night—soft laughter curling at the edges, his name whispered like a secret. Breathless. Wanting. He replied with a single line.

“Play that again. Slower.”

The escalation was inevitable.

One night, you propped your phone against a pillow and hit record. Ten seconds. That’s all. Just your hand, sliding low across your stomach, dipping below the band of your sleep shorts.

You didn’t touch yourself. Not really. But the implication was there—the slow exhale, the tension in your muscles, the camera cutting out just before anything too much.

You didn’t write a caption.

You didn’t need to.

He left you on read for an entire day.

When he finally replied, it was a photo—his hand, gloved, twisted tight in a white bedsheet. You stared at it for longer than you should’ve, pulse hammering behind your ribs, and saw the words beneath it.

“I don’t have the words for what you’re doing to me princess”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You laid in the center of your bed, one hand between your thighs, too wound up to find relief. It wasn’t about the tension—not really.

It was him. Or rather, the absence of him.

You didn’t want the release if it wasn’t his hands, his voice in your ear. You wanted the weight of his body pinning yours to the mattress, the rasp of his breath when he lost control. The look he gave you when he was so far gone in you, he forgot how to be quiet.

By the third week, it wasn’t even teasing anymore.

You were in a tank top and soft shorts, sprawled across your bed. The cotton rode low on your hips, one hand resting just beneath the waistband, fingers grazing bare skin. You took the photo slow. Deliberate. Soft lighting. Warm shadows.

You looked at the camera like you knew what it would do to him.

The caption?

“Can’t stop thinking about you.”

You didn’t expect a response right away, but it came quicker than anything before.

A voice note.

You hesitated—thumb hovering over the play button.

Bucky’s voice was rough. Lower than usual. Just a little frayed at the edges.

“Don’t send that kind of shit unless you want me jerking off to it in the middle of a barrack full of mercs.”

You froze. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then, after a beat—quieter, deeper:

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you either.”

You didn’t send anything else that night.

You couldn’t.

You were already curled around the pillow he used to sleep on, heart pounding, thighs pressed tight, your body wound up with no place to go. You didn’t come—not properly—but you hovered close. Just enough to feel it ache in your bones.

The next morning, your phone lit up.

Call me tonight, when you’re alone

You stared at the message for a full minute, thumbs poised. Then, without thinking, you typed:

“Been waiting for you to ask.”

You hovered over the message, thought about deleting it. But you didn’t. You let it fly.

No reply came.

But just before midnight, your phone buzzed. The screen lit up with his name, and the words:

Incoming Video Call.

Your heart stuttered. Your breath hitched.

And you answered.

The screen lit your face with soft, flickering blue, catching on the curve of your cheekbone, the hollow of your throat. You hadn’t moved since the call came in.

The phone vibrated once in your hand and you stared at his name on the screen like it might vanish if you blinked too hard. And then you picked up—not thinking, not breathing—just hitting accept because you couldn’t not.

And suddenly, he was there.

The image was a little grainy. The lighting was bad—shadows cutting across his face in places, harsh fluorescents glowing behind him. But none of it mattered.

Because even through that poor connection and a scratched front camera, Bucky still looked devastating. Like he’d walked straight out of your memories and into your bedroom. His hair was pushed back, his jaw dusted in scruff, a faint glisten of sweat still clinging to the side of his neck.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

Just those two words. But they wrapped around your spine and tugged hard.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You’d prepared for this—half-expected it after the last few days—but somehow you still felt caught off guard.

Because this version of him, this present Bucky, this heavy-lidded, shirt-stretching, arm-tensing Bucky was a living weapon, and you were entirely unarmed.

His gaze dropped slowly. His mouth curled just a little.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You glanced down, smoothing your palm over the fabric like you’d forgotten. The neckline hung off your shoulder. The hem brushed the tops of your thighs. “I just missed you.”

He chuckled softly, but it was breathless. “Fuck, you look good in it.”

You didn’t respond. Not verbally. You just shifted your legs slightly, enough to show the bare stretch of skin where the shirt stopped and your thighs began. His eyes tracked it instantly.

“You’ve been torturing me,” he muttered, voice pitched low now, almost reverent. “All those pictures. All those fucking videos. And now this.”

You tilted your head, letting the shirt slip just a little further down your arm. “Thought you could use a reminder of what you're missing.”

His eyes burned. “Take it off.”

Your chest rose sharply.

He didn’t growl it, he didn’t snap. He just said it—low, intent, like he needed it more than breath.

You peeled it off slowly, fingers curling into the hem, lifting the worn cotton inch by inch until your bare skin caught the light. You pulled it over your head and let it fall behind you, leaving you in nothing but your panties—soft and thin and dark with the heat that had been building through the day.

His breath hitched audibly through the mic.

“Fuck. You’re even prettier than I remember.”

You smiled. “Your turn.”

He didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up to reveal that perfect stretch of hard stomach and the dark trail leading below his waistband.

His abs flexed as he pulled the fabric over his head, tossing it off-camera. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly as it dropped back to his thigh, and your thighs squeezed together instinctively.

“You wet already?” he asked, eyes dragging over you like he was memorising it.

You bit your lip. “You wanna see?”

He groaned. “Show me, baby. Please.”

You shifted onto your back, propping the phone just right so he could see your whole body. Your hand drifted down, fingers hooking the edge of your underwear, dragging it slowly to the side until your pussy was bare and glistening in the soft glow of your bedside lamp.

His breath caught. You watched him exhale like he’d just been punched in the gut.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he muttered. “Look at that mess.”

“I made it thinking about you,” you said softly. “Thinking about your fingers. Your mouth. The way you fuck me when you’re too worked up to talk.”

His hand was moving already. Just slow strokes at first, under the waistband of his sweats, but you could see the outline of him—thick and heavy and aching—and when he tugged them down, your mouth actually parted.

“No boxers?” you asked, a breathy tease.

“Didn’t need ‘em,” he said, eyes glued to the screen. “Knew I wouldn’t last long.”

Your fingers moved to your clit, slow circles at first, dragging slick over swollen nerves. You moaned quietly, hips tilting into your own touch as you kept your eyes locked on his face. He was jerking himself now—long, firm strokes, the head flushed and leaking as he tightened his grip.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice shaking. “All fucking mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed. “Always.”

He swore again, his free hand bracing against his thigh as he fucked into his fist, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether to slow down or come apart.

“Spread wider for me,” he demanded, breath hitching. “Let me see how wet you are.”

You obeyed—lifting one knee, baring yourself fully for him. He made a sound then, dark and ragged.

“Fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I want you to cum with me.”

Your fingers moved faster now, circling, pressing. You were soaked—obscene sounds rising between your thighs as your pleasure climbed. Your hips rolled helplessly into the motion, breath coming in short gasps.

You couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. You were close — embarrassingly close—the pressure in your core wound tight, ready to snap.

“Say my name when you come,” he gritted out. “I want it in your mouth when you fall apart.”

“Bucky,” you moaned. “Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck—”

He was right behind you.

You cried out his name as your orgasm tore through you—sharp and fast and deep—your body arching, thighs trembling, pleasure blinding and raw.

You barely had time to breathe before you heard it—the low grunt, the curse, the slick sound of him spilling over his hand as his eyes fluttered and jaw locked.

“Shit. Fuck. You’re perfect,” he gasped. “Perfect.”

When it faded, you lay there panting, spent, legs still twitching. He mirrored you—head tipped back, chest heaving, hand slick where it rested on his stomach.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

And then he looked at you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “I miss you James."

“I know,” he said softly. “I miss you too.”

You pulled his shirt back on, the fabric warm from your skin. Bucky smiled, eyes soft now.

“Keep wearing it,” he murmured. “Until I can pull it off you for real.”

“You better hurry home, Barnes.”

“I will,” he said. “First chance I get.”

It was close to 2 am when you heard a knock on your bedroom door, you opened the door without thinking, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

You hadn’t expected him this early, hadn’t dared to believe he could really be home. And yet, Bucky stood there in the dim hallway light, silent and eyes dark, his chest rising like he’d sprinted the last block just to get to you.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He just stepped inside, slammed the door with one hand, and grabbed you like a man starved.

His mouth was on yours before the lock clicked. Hot, hungry, no prelude. Just teeth and breath and weeks of desperation, his tongue claimed yours, kissing you like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a snarl of lust and longing wrapped in salt and spit and the sound of you gasping his name.

You tugged at his jacket, fumbling the sleeves as he walked you backwards. His hands slid down your spine, possessive and certain, gripping like he needed to confirm you were real.

When the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, he broke the kiss long enough to lift you. Your back thudded against the wall as his hands slipped under your shirt, dragging it up and off like he was tearing away the weeks that had kept him from you.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

You managed a shaky breath. “Didn’t bother.”

His groan was low, a dark rumble in his chest. “Fucking perfect.”

He didn’t waste time. He dropped you on the mattress, eyes drinking in every inch of your bare skin as you lay sprawled across the sheets.

You reached for his belt, fingers eager, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head. His grip wasn’t tight, just firm enough to hold.

“Don’t,” he said, his gaze sharp, locked to yours. “Let me look at you.”

And he did.

His eyes moved slowly, reverently. Taking in every line, every shadow. Your nipples peaked under the weight of his stare, your thighs shifting restlessly where they parted for him. He stepped back, stripped off his shirt with one pull, then dropped his pants and boxers in a single motion.

He was already hard, thick and flushed and heavy against his stomach, and you reached again without thinking.

“No,” he growled, batting your hand away. “Spread your legs.”

You obeyed, legs falling open, your skin flushed and aching. He dropped to his knees between them, hands gripping your thighs, and dragged you closer to the edge of the bed.

His mouth was on you before you could take a breath. One long, hot lick that made your back arch off the mattress.

He moaned into your pussy, the sound guttural and needy. “Jesus, baby. You taste like a fucking dream.”

You fisted the sheets, thighs trembling as his tongue circled your clit, slow and unrelenting. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you pinned as he devoured you. No teasing, just his mouth working you open like he could undo the time you’d spent apart with every stroke of his tongue.

You cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth, sharp and tight and perfect. Your thighs shook, your breath stuttered, your entire body burning from the inside out.

“Thought about this every night,” he muttered, dragging his tongue down, slipping it into you with obscene ease. “Thought about how wet you’d be. How you’d taste after driving me crazy for weeks.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, already so close it hurt. “I’m gonna—”

He pulled back. Just like that. Leaving you throbbing, breathless.

You whimpered, hips chasing him. “Why—?”

He stood. His cock glistened with precum, flushed dark and twitching. He grabbed himself and stroked once, eyes still on you.

“Turn over.”

You rolled onto your stomach and pushed up onto your hands, arching your back as you felt him behind you. His hands gripped your hips, spread you wider. He dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick, then slid inside with one deep, brutal thrust.

You cried out, nails clawing at the sheets.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just started fucking you like he owned you. The slap of his hips echoed in the room, his grunts raw and low, breath punching out of him with every thrust.

“This what you wanted?” he snarled. “Sending me those fucking videos? Making me jerk off in some goddamn bunker?”

You moaned, the sound wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back so your spine arched for him. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, Bucky.”

“That’s right,” he gritted out. “Fucking mine.”

His flesh hand landed hard on your ass, the slap stinging and sharp, making your whole body jolt. You cried out, and it sent you over the edge. You came with a scream, muscles clenching tight around him, body shaking as pleasure ripped through you.

He fucked you through it, rhythm breaking, hips stuttering. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and deep, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself with your name on his lips.

He collapsed over you, breath hot against your neck, arms caging you in. Sweat cooled on your skin, and your heart raced in time with his.

Slowly, he pulled out, hands gentle now, dragging over your waist, your thighs, like he didn’t want to stop touching. You turned onto your side and he followed, pulling you into him, arms wrapped tight around your body like he was afraid you might disappear.

He kissed your shoulder, softer now. “If I knew I’d be coming back to this,” he murmured against your skin, “I’d tell Val to put me on more missions.”

You turned your head with a tired glare, swatting his chest. “Don’t you dare.”

He grinned, “Kidding princess,"

But his arm only tightened around you, and your fingers stayed tangled with his as the quiet settled between you—soft, spent, and just enough.

a/n: have a great day my darlings! ❤️ please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoyed it!

[snail-day]

With All My Heart, Will You Be Mine?

Sum: Happy Valentine's Day!

Yan! Yakuza Gojo x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Kidnapping, Medical Horror, Graphic violence/torture, Terminal Illness (Reader), Blood, Gore, Dubcon kisses, Masturbation (Gojo), Manipulation, Forced Surgery, mentions of murder. MDNI

WC: 5.8k

A/n: Thank you 💖 anon for feeding me yummy ideas, lots of smoochies for you. You will receive my kidney for Valentine's day, keep it safe, use it for school! MWAH!

Really, truly - Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight? Absolutely. Intrigue at first sight? Happens all the time. But love? The heart-pounding, palm-sweating, head-spinning kind that made fools of otherwise rational men? No.

He was a romantic, sure, but not delusional.

And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a dingy little house in Tokyo, meant to be handling business like the good little Yakuza heir he was, only to be hit with something so absurd, so world-altering, so utterly ridiculous that it left him breathless.

And on Valentine’s Day, no less.

It was almost poetic, if not for the fact that he should have been spending his evening hunting for buy-one-get-one-free desserts, maybe stuffing his face with something obscenely sweet, letting powdered sugar melt on his tongue instead of dealing with this nonsense.

Instead, he was here, wasting time on a pathetic excuse of a man who had made one too many promises and delivered on exactly none.

The debtor knelt before him, flanked by two of his men, the poor bastard's shoulders hunched, his body shaking so violently that the faint sound of his teeth chattering filled the otherwise silent room.

Satoru sighed, rolling his shoulders, letting his hands flex, testing the weight of his own strength. A simple knockout, maybe - if the guy was lucky. If he wasn’t, well, there were other ways to collect.

If you can’t pay up, surely your organs can.

His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles shifting beneath his skin, ready to land a single, decisive blow. His arm swung back, muscles tensing, the force behind it measured yet lethal.

He missed.

His knuckles cut through empty space.

The Gojo Satoru, who never missed, whose strikes always found their target with effortless precision, had missed.

Something lurched inside him. Something sharp, something foreign, something completely uninvited. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his chest seizing up with a feeling that sent his pulse stammering, erratic.

The air in the room shifted, charged, like static clinging to his skin, humming beneath his fingertips, curling tight around his throat like an invisible wire. His breath hitched, a sharp, unexpected inhale that felt too much, too rapid, too overwhelming.

His body, his very existence, felt like it had been shoved off balance.

And all because of a picture frame.

A broken one, at that. Glass shards, littered the floor, glinting under the dim overhead light. His gaze flickered downward, catching the jagged fragments scattered like slivers of ice against the worn wooden planks.

And nestled between them, half-buried beneath the wreckage, was you.

His fingers twitched.

His chest ached.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, forcing himself to move slowly, as if rushing might break the spell of this moment. His gaze briefly flickered toward Ijichi, who stood stiffly near the door, face pale, fingers twitching at his sleeves.

Satoru ignored him, poor Ijichi's silent pleas to please get this over with. Instead, he bent down, his long, gloved fingers ghosting over the broken glass before carefully lifting the frame from the mess. His movements were strangely reverent, cautious in a way that had nothing to do with avoiding injury and everything to do with the image trapped behind the cracked glass.

You.

Oh.

His throat tightened.

A snapshot of softness. A moment of warmth and light and everything gentle in a world that had only ever been sharp edges and raw violence to him. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the frame over, gloved knuckles brushing against the broken glass, the sting of tiny cuts breaking through the protective barrier. Satoru barely noticed. The world had already tilted.

His breath came faster, shallower, something hot and unfamiliar crawling up his spine. His face felt warm. Too warm. Heat bloomed beneath his skin, creeping up from his chest, spilling up the curve of his throat, flushing the tips of his ears. His pulse—normally steady, untouchable—stammered, then slammed against his ribs, hammering like a war drum inside him.

His brain wasn’t working, actually Satoru's entire body was doing things it shouldn’t be doing. The way his fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like something precious, something irreplaceable, something already his.

And then—before he could stop himself—

He giggled.

A soft, breathless little sound, slipped past his soft pink lips without his permission, without his control. The feeling was utterly foreign to him, so completely out of place in this bloodstained room, that even the lackeys flinched.

The debtor—poor bastard, still kneeling, still hoping for mercy—dared to look up. His breath stuttered, a trembling, desperate sound escaping his lips when he caught the sight of Satoru, hunched over the picture frame, grinning like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

And then, in a panic-stricken voice, hoarse and broken, he begged.

“T-That’s my daughter,” he gasped, voice cracking, his entire body lurching forward before the men at his sides yanked him back into place. “P-Please! Please, don’t - d-don’t hurt her, please!”

Satoru stilled for a few beats. His long fingers twitched against the frame, his grip tightening just slightly. Slowly, he raised his gaze, sharp blue eyes gleaming, amusement flickering beneath something far, far more dangerous., a fool in love.

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, Satoru let out another breathless, giddy laugh.

“Oh,” he murmured, his voice a shade too light, a whisper too smooth. “Your daughter?” tilting his head, lips parting slightly, like he was tasting the words, rolling them around on his tongue just to see how they felt. Satoru's pulse was still racing, breathing still felt too fast, face still burned.

What a beautiful feeling. Love was truly a beautiful thing, he was a fool for thinking overwise. His lips curved into a lazy, lovesick smile. A slow exhale left him as he traced his thumb over the crack in the glass.

“What a lucky man you are,” Satoru mused, voice warm, teasing, almost affectionate. “To have someone so precious.”

Satoru's fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like he could sink it into himself, steal you away, make you his. Careless to the shards of glass pressing themselves into his shirt, sodden with blood.

And then, with a soft, almost dreamy sigh, he whispered into the room -

“Oh, I think I’m in love.”

The debtor was still babbling, breath coming in ragged little gasps, his face pale and sweat-slicked, as if he expected Gojo to snap him in half at any second.

Poor guy.

Satoru’s expression shifted the sharp gleam in his eyes melting into something lighter, dreamier. His lips curled into a soft, almost fond smile, the heat still high on his cheeks as he turned his attention back to the trembling man kneeling before him.

A soft chuckle left him - light, airy, amused.

"I think we got the wrong guy, Ijichi-san," he mused, voice kept casual, lilting as if discussing the weather. Ijichi stiffened from his place near the door, blinking rapidly behind his fogged-up glasses, clearly unsure whether to be relieved or terrified. Still kneeling, leaned in just slightly, one gloved hand reaching out to cup the debtor’s jaw.

The man flinched hard.

His entire body shuddered, a choked sound spilling from his lips, but Satoru’s touch was shockingly gentle - a stark contrast to the raw strength curled beneath his fingers. His thumb stroked slowly along the man’s cheek, a featherlight touch, almost affectionate as if comforting a dear old friend.

Then - he patted his cheek. Soft. Reassuring. And yet, something far, far worse than a punch.

Because Gojo Satoru was smiling.

Not his usual cocky smirk, not the smug little grin of a man who enjoyed toying with his prey - but something softer.

Something warm.

Something that didn’t belong in a bloodstained room.

His head tilted slightly, bright blue eyes twinkling, the blush still lingering across his pale skin as he murmured, voice dipped in unsettling fondness -

"My apologies, father-in-law."

The debtor let out a broken sob.

The room was silent, tense, like everyone was waiting to see if their boss had finally snapped. He swallowed hard, forcing down the giddy little laugh bubbling up his throat. He needed to—no, he had to—figure this out. He had to figure you out.

Satoru was still thinking about you, even during his long day of hard work. Ah, he should be charging your rent for invading his mind like this!

The poor businessman in front of him wailed, body jerking violently against the restraints, but Satoru barely acknowledged it. He twirled the bloodied pliers between his fingers, splattering droplets of red onto the floor, his mind elsewhere.

“You guys ever been in love?”

The lackeys standing near the wall exchanged uneasy glances.

“U-uh… boss?”

Satoru hummed softly, affectionately as if he hadn’t just ripped a nail from the man’s hand a second ago. He turned to one of the lackeys, holding up the pliers like a microphone.

“Be honest with me. What’s the best way to impress a girl?”

Silence.

Even the poor bastard tied to the chair stopped whimpering. The loan sharks shifted uncomfortably, like they weren’t sure if this was a trick question.

Gojo sighed, tapping the pliers against his chin. Careless to the blood staining his pale skin.

“See, I’m thinking flowers - girls like flowers, right? But that feels so… normal.” Voice coming out light, thoughtful, as if he were discussing dessert options instead of dating strategies while actively torturing someone.

A lackey gulped. “Uh… I-I guess girls like grand gestures?”

Satoru’s head snapped up. Oh. Ohhh. That was good. That was so good. Satoru's grin stretched wider, his body practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s what I was thinking too! Maybe I could make a little event out of it.” He flexed his fingers around the pliers before suddenly plunging them back into the man’s hand, gripping tight around another nail. The man wailed, body convulsing, but Satoru just clicked his tongue.

“Stay still, I’m having a moment here.”

He wrenched the pliers back with an almost theatrical flourish, watching as the nail came free, dripping red. He turned it between his fingers, examining it as he continued, “Like, I could just show up and say, ‘Hi, I’m your new boyfriend,’ but I dunno… that lacks finesse, don’t you think?”

Another lackey hesitated. “Uh… maybe you should… get to know her first?”

Satoru gasped. Ohhh. His fingers twitched, his pulse spiking, excitement crawling up his spine. “That’s a great idea! I should do some research. Find out what she likes, where she goes, who she spends time with - ”

He sighed dreamily, resting his chin on his gloved palm, pliers still in his grasp. “Ahh, this is so exciting. Who knew I’d find love on Valentine’s Day?”

The lackeys exchanged horrified glances.

The man in the chair sobbed.

Gojo barely noticed.

He was too busy imagining what kind of flowers you’d like.

Like any devoted future husband, he did his research.

By the time he finally stepped out of the shower after his long, excruciatingly confusing day—one he would rather you never know about—he had already started planning.

Steam curled in lazy ribbons around the dimly lit bathroom, clinging to the warm air like a ghost of the heat that had soaked into his skin. Water dripped from his snow-white damp hair, collecting in cool rivulets as they rolled down the sculpted lines of his collarbone, tracing the dip of his spine before vanishing into the plush towel slung around his waist. The overhead light flickered faintly against the condensation beading along the mirror, his reflection hazy and unfocused.

Satoru dragged a hand through his messy, damp white locks, pushing them back from his forehead, his fingers catching briefly on stubborn strands. He let out a slow breath, watching as the fogged-up mirror distorted his image, his usually sharp features blurred at the edges. For a moment, he simply stared, tilting his head slightly, his glowing blue eyes piercing through the humidity with an intensity that felt foreign, even to him.

His face felt… different.

He knew himself, had spent years looking at this very reflection - at the striking symmetry of his features, the lazy curve of his mouth, the effortless charm that had always drawn people in. But now? Now there was something wrong.

Or maybe something right.

His cheeks were warm, a soft flush spreading across his pale skin, settling stubbornly beneath his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. His lips—usually curled in an easy smirk, something smug and sharp-edged—felt softer, stretched into a stupid, giddy smile that he couldn’t seem to wipe off.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless, barely contained energy coiling under his skin. He could feel the uneven rhythm of his own pulse, the unsteady way it hammered against his ribs - too fast, too eager, like something wild and untamed.

A shaky laugh slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, and immediately pressed his knuckles against his mouth, trying to stifle the ridiculous giggle that threatened to bubble up again.

Oh, what the fuck was this?

His stomach clenched - not in discomfort, not in anger, not in anything he could name. The feeling felt like being electrocuted. It felt like a freefall, plummeting into something dark and bottomless, with no hope of stopping. His chest ached, a tight pull between his ribs, something raw and desperate.

This wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this was normal.

Satoru’s fingers curled into the edge of the sink, gripping the cold marble, but it did nothing to steady him. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the haze filling his head, thick and suffocating. He needed to focus.

His smirk twitched, wavering for just a second before solidifying again, as he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was here in the first place.

He had a plan.

Of course, he already knew he’d have to privatize a lot of your information. It wasn’t safe for someone as delicate, as beautiful as you to be left unprotected.

A beauty like you? Out in the open?

Far too dangerous.

You were just waiting to be taken, waiting for someone less deserving to snatch you up before he had the chance to make you his. The very thought sent an ugly, seething heat curling low in his stomach, his jaw tightening at the idea of someone else even thinking they had the right to look at you.

And then there was your father. Reckless. Stupid. Careless. Gambling away money, selling away your future with every thoughtless bet. If someone had to pay for his mistakes, it wouldn’t be you. It wouldn’t ever be you.

Satoru sighed, wiping the condensation from the mirror with the heel of his palm, only for it to fog up again seconds later. The humidity clung to him, soaking into his flushed skin as his gaze flickered toward the glow of his phone screen.

His research was proving… interesting.

His body froze.

The warmth in his chest twisted, coiling tighter, tighter, tighter, something sharp lodging itself behind his ribs. His breath caught, his fingers tightening around the cold marble of the sink.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The words didn’t change.

Waitlisted for a heart transplant.

His stomach dropped.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his vision blurring, as if the letters themselves were somehow wrong, as if seeing them enough times could make them disappear, could make them not real.

His throat was dry, the earlier lightheaded giddiness evaporating, replaced by something heavy and unfamiliar.

A slow breath, shaky and uneven, pushed past his lips.

Then another.

His heart stuttered.

Then picked up again, pounding, throbbing, screaming against his ribs with a force that almost hurt.

His lungs felt tight.

This—this wasn’t—

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

His stomach twisted violently, sickening nausea curling through him as he forced himself to swallow, his fingers digging into the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

He could fix this.

Of course, he could.

It was so simple.

Well.

He could just give you his.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His own ridiculous, hopelessly lovesick heart—wasn’t it already yours?

Wasn’t it already beating for you, racing every time he thought about you?

He wanted you to have it.

Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t that be romantic?

A tremor ran through his shoulders, something between a laugh and a shaky exhale, his body shuddering under the weight of the thought. He grinned, wide and almost delirious, his fingers drumming absently against the counter, a restless, frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

Oh.

Different blood types.

The air seized in his lungs.

An awful thing, really. A tragedy. A fucking crime.

It would have been the greatest honor - to have his very own heart inside your body, keeping you alive, keeping you safe, ensuring that he was always with you, always the one keeping you beating.

His grip on the counter tightened, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool mirror. His stupid, desperate, lovesick heart was still hammering, pounding so hard it hurt, and—

And he just knew.

No one else could have you.

You were his.

And if fate wasn’t going to let him keep you safe the way he wanted, then— - He’d just find another way.

A soft, breathless giggle slipped from his lips.

It was almost sweet.

Oh.

Oh, he loved this.

You were going to love him too.

Satoru wasn’t sure how he ended up here, standing in the soft glow of your hospital room, arms full of entirely too many roses, pretending he didn’t just spend weeks memorizing everything about you.

This was supposed to be casual. A natural, effortless, totally normal meeting where he charmed his way into your life like it was meant to be. And it was meant to be, of course - he already decided that long before you even knew his name.

But none of his meticulous planning, none of the hours of preparation, none of it prepared him for this.

Because now that he was actually standing in front of you, he could feel his carefully constructed mask cracking at the edges.

And it was all your fault.

You blinked up at him, your wide, curious gaze unraveling him completely. Even in your frailty—IV drips, hospital gown, the telltale exhaustion clinging to your frame—you still managed to look like the single most perfect thing he had ever seen.

Then, it happened.

A smile.

A soft, hesitant little thing, warm enough to make his knees feel weak.

And then - the monitor.

The steady beep, beep, beep of your heart rate suddenly spiked, an unmistakable, rapid rhythm filling the otherwise quiet room.

Satoru’s breath hitched.

Oh.

The realization crashed into him like a freight train.

Your heart was racing.

Because of him.

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the roses tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate stems, the thorns pricking at his skin, he barely noticed. His own heartbeat had gone completely wild, hammering so loudly against his ribs that he was sure the entire hospital could hear it.

Heat rushed to his face, a creeping blush crawling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his entire body betraying him. He could feel it, the warmth spreading under his skin, the dizzying, giddy sensation that made him want to scream into the nearest pillow.

You were flustered over him.

Him.

Gojo Satoru.

A helpless, breathless giggle bubbled up in his throat before he could stop it, and he barely managed to cover it with a light cough, turning his head slightly as if that would somehow hide the absolute mess he was becoming.

He had to pull it together.

His entire existence led up to this moment, and he would not be the reason he messed it up.

Clearing his throat, schooled his expression into something softer, gentler, the perfect image of a man who had no idea what was happening.

"Ah," he started, voice almost too smooth, though there was an undeniable waver at the edges. He made a show of looking down at the roses, adjusting his grip as if suddenly realizing he was still holding them. "I… didn’t expect anyone to be here."

Your lips parted, the faintest hint of surprise flitting across your features. He wanted to frame the moment, keep it forever.

He forced himself to keep talking, keep lying, before his knees actually gave out, even if they did, he'd crawl to you, rest his head on your lap - He'd be your dog if you'd just ask.

“It seems the room has already been cleared a while ago,” he continued, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “I used to leave roses here for my mother.”

The words left his mouth too easily, even as his pulse refused to slow down. Satoru's fingers twitched, gripping the flowers just a little too tight because you were still looking at him like that.

Like you wanted him to stay.

And that damn monitor -

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Each sharp little sound sent heat straight to his face. He could feel it, the way his blush deepened, the way it spread down his neck, his body completely betraying him in real time.

You liked him.

You were crushing on him.

You were falling for him.

Satoru had to physically stop himself from grinning like a lunatic. He had to bite the inside of his cheek, had to tighten his grip on the bouquet, had to plant his feet firmly on the ground because he swore to god if he let go of his restraint for even a second, he would throw himself at you and never let go.

This was dangerous.

You were dangerous.

Because he had barely even spoken yet, and you were already his.

And oh, you had no idea what that meant for you.

His stomach did another awful, fluttery thing, his entire world tilting as he dared to meet your gaze again.

“Would it be alright… if I left these here?” he asked, voice lower, smoother, betraying absolutely none of the chaos screaming inside him.

You nodded, still watching him with soft, wide eyes, and Satoru had to bite back a whimper. His stomach twisted, something fluttering, tightening - something unbearable and all-consuming. He had barely spoken to you, and yet, here you were, already accepting him, already letting him into your space. It was almost too much. Almost devastating.

He placed the roses carefully on the side table, arranging them with precision, as if they were an offering, as if their placement mattered more than anything else in the world. His fingers lingered on the petals, smoothing them down, before he finally, reluctantly, stepped back.

Your gaze was still on him. Soft. Trusting. Beautiful.

Operation: True Love had been enacted.

And it didn’t stop there.

It had become routine. Every morning, without fail, he made sure you had your favorite coffee in your hands before the sun had fully risen. Even on the nights when sleep barely kissed his eyes, when exhaustion tugged at his limbs, when his body ached from handling the scum that threatened the delicate world he was building for you, he always stopped by that little café.

It was such a simple thing, really - just a cup of coffee. But for Satoru, it was a symbol of devotion. Every single action, no matter how small, was done with you in mind. He memorized your schedule, your favorite flavors, the way you liked it just a little sweeter when you were feeling under the weather. He took a sip of it each time before handing it to you, just to be certain that it was decaffeinated, that your already delicate heart wouldn’t be forced to work harder than it needed to.

He had memorized everything about your condition, studied every prescription bottle by your bedside, traced his fingers over the labels when you weren’t looking, committing them all to memory. He knew your dosages, your restrictions, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when the medication began to wear off.

That was why, when the first drop of coffee hit his tongue that morning, he knew instantly that something was wrong.

The perfect order wasn’t right.

The bitterness was too strong, the warmth that settled in his stomach too telling. He pulled the cup away from his lips and stared at it, Satoru's mind running over the implications. The barista had switched it - either through incompetence or indifference, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

If he had been careless if he had handed it to you without checking if your poor little heart had struggled against the caffeine -

His hands began to shake, a slow, curling fury unfurling in his gut. The weight of what could have happened, of what he almost allowed to happen, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him. His fingers curled around the coffee cup, the lid creaking under the pressure as he slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself.

This wasn’t just a mistake.

This was a threat.

Satoru's grip on the cup remained eerily calm as he turned and walked back to the counter, each step measured, deliberate. His head tilted slightly, a soft, almost playful smile curving at his lips as he met the eyes of the barista who had handed him the drink. The poor fool didn’t even realize what they had done.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, voice light, almost teasing, like he was about to share a secret. “Quick question.”

The barista looked up, confused, but obliging. “Uh, yeah?”

Satoru took another slow step forward, resting his arms against the counter as he leaned in slightly. Bright blue eyes studied the poor barista, carefully, searching for a flicker of remorse, of understanding, but all he saw was ignorance.

That wouldn’t do.

A wider smile traced his lips, tilting his head as if in thought. “Tell me,” he said, voice still honey-smooth, still light as air, as if he wasn’t seething beneath the surface. “Do you know what happens when a heart stops beating?”

There was a pause.

A hesitation.

The barista blinked, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Uh - ”

Satoru didn’t wait for an answer.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the barista’s wrist before they even had a chance to flinch. He pulled them forward with terrifying ease, dragging them halfway over the counter, ignoring the startled gasps of the people around him. His grip tightened, just enough to feel the fragile bones beneath his fingers shift under the pressure, just enough to send a message.

He could hear the barista's pulse, feel the steady rhythm beneath their skin.

Pathetic excuse of a life.

“You see,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against their skin, “a little thing like caffeine doesn’t seem like much, does it? Just a tiny mistake.”

The barista let out a whimper, their free hand scrambling against the countertop, desperate to pull away.

Satoru grinned.

“But when the person drinking it has a heart that’s already struggling?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Well… then it’s a problem.”

He pressed down, just a little.

Just enough for something to pop.

The barista screamed.

Satoru sighed, shaking his head. “You almost killed someone very, very special to me,” he mused, watching the way their face twisted in agony. “And that makes me so sad.”

His fingers flexed.

The wrist in his hand gave way with a sickening crack.

The barista’s shriek pierced the air, loud and raw, but the café remained still.

No one moved.

No one ever did.

Satoru leaned in, crystalline eyes manic, lips just inches away from their ear, and whispered, soft as silk, “Do you know what that means?”

Their sobs were answer enough.

The next morning, Satoru entered your hospital room as if nothing had happened. The coffee was warm in his hands, a perfect balance of sweetness and warmth, exactly the way you liked it. You were just beginning to stir, your soft hands rubbing at your sleepy eyes, body curled up under the thick blankets.

You looked so sweet, so untouched by the world, that for a moment, he felt like he was burning alive. The moment your eyes landed on him, you smiled, slow and shy, and Satoru swore he felt his heart explode.

“Good morning, dumpling,” he greeted, sick with love, drowning in it, choking on it. You blinked up at him, looking so grateful, so happy, as you took the coffee from his hands.

He watched as you took a sip, watched as you sighed contentedly, watched as your heart monitor picked up just a little.

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The world around him faded, the memory of bloodied hands, broken screams, the useless little stumps where the barista’s fingers used to be all vanishing in the wake of your soft, wide eyes.

Nothing else mattered.

Not when you were safe.

Not when he was the one keeping you that way.

You still didn’t know.

But soon, you would.

He was waiting for the perfect moment - something grand, something special. Something that would tie you to him forever.

He loved watching over you.

He loved the way your eyelids would flutter, lashes casting delicate shadows against your cheeks as the medication coaxed you into sleep. He loved the way you’d sigh - soft, breathy little noises, so unaware, so vulnerable, your fingers curling instinctively against his sleeve as if you knew you belonged there.

And maybe you did.

Because this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Pressed into him, into his warmth, trusting and unguarded. His perfect little angel, unknowingly tucking yourself into the arms of the only man in the world who could love you properly.

You didn’t know what he had done to make sure you were safe.

Didn’t know how many hands he had taken, how many screams he had silenced, how many unworthy bastards had been erased for so much as looking at you too long.

Didn’t know how many times he had sat here, in this exact position, staring at the fragile line of your throat, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, watching the way your lips parted slightly as you exhaled.

Didn’t know how much it hurt to love you like this.

Because it did hurt.

It ached.

It burned, it devoured, it twisted inside him like something feral, something unsatisfied.

You were so small in his arms. So delicate.

And yet, his love for you was so enormous, so all-consuming, that sometimes he felt like he would crush you under the weight of it.

Every time your fingers twitched against him, every time your body relaxed, every time you made those tiny, sleepy noises, something inside him curled tight, so tight, too tight.

It was adoration.

It was devotion.

It was worship.

And yet, beneath that softness, beneath the aching love, there was something else.

Something darker.

Something needy.

Something filthy.

Because sometimes, when your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, when your lips parted just slightly when your warm, sleepy body curled into his, something unbearable coiled in his stomach, something starved and desperate, something that made him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The heat would pool low in his abdomen, coiling hot, tight, a restless hunger, a pressure that made his breath come faster, shallower.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that you were so sweet, so trusting, so untouchable - and yet, your body fit against his so perfectly.

It wasn’t fair that you were right here, so warm, so soft, so completely his—but he couldn’t touch.

Couldn’t have.

Not yet.

Not the way he wanted to.

Not the way he needed to.

And God—God, what an awful man he was.

What a disgusting, depraved, vile creature he had become.

He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.

You were pure, delicate, untouched.

You needed protection.

You needed his care.

And yet, his traitorous body was already reacting, already stiffening, already pressing painfully against the fabric of his slacks, already begging for relief.

The feel was humiliating, sickening.

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself to stop - Satoru couldn’t.

Couldn’t because you were so fucking beautiful. Because you were so fucking his. Because even long after he had gently laid you back against your pillows, even after he had stroked the soft strands of your hair away from your face, even after he had kissed your forehead so gently, so reverently, he still felt that sickening vile feeling, the pressure of his hardened cock against his slacks. That unbearable heat, that sickening desire, the overwhelming need to relieve the pressure before it drove him insane.

So he would excuse himself.

With the calmest smile, with the gentlest voice, he would whisper, "Sleep well, sugar."

Then Satoru would slip out of the room and head straight to the hospital restroom.

Lock the door.

Pull out his phone.

And scroll through the hundreds of photos he had taken of you.

Some were from your walks in the park, when you were strong enough to leave the hospital, your face turned toward the sunlight, your soft laughter trapped in still frames, preserved just for him.

Others were taken without your knowledge, stolen moments when you were distracted when your lips were pursed in thought, when your fingers played with the frayed edge of your hospital bracelet, when you gazed out the window with that distant, dreamy look.

And God, his angel, his girl, his everything -

With shaking hands, he would unbuckle his belt, slide his hand into his pants, stroking himself to the images of you, barely able to breathe, biting his own lip to silence the pathetic little noises threatening to escape.

It felt so wrong.

So dirty.

So perfect.

And when he was finished, hot and sticky, Satoru would take a moment to look at your photo, his release streaked across your delicate face, your soft smile, your innocent little eyes. Then, with trembling fingers, he would draw tiny hearts in the filth, circling your cheeks, tracing the outline of your lips.

Soon he will be able to be a bit more selfish, to feel those pretty lips of yours wrapped around his cock, be able to coo at you to take more into your mouth, to feel the swirl of your tongue around his hardened length.

Oh, Satoru couldn't help but feel his heart pound against his chest at the idea of your sweet warm cunt wrapped around him, he'd be so gentle. Take his sweet time, he knew he had to be gentle, you were a sick little thing. Should he cockwarm you first? Get you used to him? Get you used to feeling so full, to the stretch, to the feeling of having him deep inside you.

Fuck looks like he has to give it another go, you little minx. Raiding his thoughts as always - a slight giggle escaped his throat before he began to stroke himself once again.

Satoru had made sure you both were exclusive, ensured your father understood that no other man would come near you. Because when he finally was able to confess his undying love, when he finally gave you everything, the action would be in a way that you would never forget.

A grand gesture.

A symbol of his devotion.

And as Valentine’s Day approached, everything was falling into place.

Because love wasn’t just words. The notion wasn’t fleeting, wasn’t something to be given halfheartedly. Love, real love, demanded sacrifice. And he - he was willing to give you everything. Even if it meant murdering an innocent individual, claiming the poor saint had wronged the clan. Because he had found the perfect match for your heart transplant, a saint of a person, someone who had never smoked, never drank, never told a single lie. Someone pure, untouched by vice, someone worthy of becoming a part of you. Someone perfect, just for you, so you both could live your lives together.

Because a love like this? It was eternal.

And you would love him.

And you would be his, forever.

No one would take you away from him.

Not even death.

Not even fate.

Satoru had never known love like this how it had seeped into his veins like poison, sweet and consuming, twisting around his heart until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. You had become his everything, the reason for his existence, the reason he woke up each morning, the reason he killed, the reason he breathed.

And now—now, you were here.

Laid out on the pristine white sheets of the underground medical table he had so carefully prepared, your delicate wrists bound with silk restraints, not to hurt you, but to keep you from thrashing, from making mistakes, from delaying the inevitable.

Because you were scared.

And that was killing him.

His sweet girl, his delicate little princess, his angel, was crying because of him.

Satoru's breath hitched, vision blurring with tears, and before he could stop himself, a choked sob tore from his throat. His fingers trembled as he cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing frantically over your damp skin, trying to wipe away the pain.

"No, no, no, my love - please, please don’t cry." His voice cracked, wavering between soft pleas and manic devotion, his lips quivering as he leaned down, pressing frantic kisses against your damp cheeks. He licked away your tears, swallowed your little whimpers, inhaled your soft, hiccuped breaths as if he could consume your fear and turn it into love.

His fingers stroked your hair, tracing the curve of your face, his touch tender, adoring, desperate.

“I can’t take this, sunshine. You’re breaking my heart.”

A shaky giggle slipped through his sobs, his fingers still trailing down the curve of your jaw, tapping gently against your chin like he was teasing you like this was just another one of his games.

His hands slid behind him, reaching for the small, heart-shaped box he had placed so carefully beside your bed. Satoru's breath hitched, fingers trembling not with nerves, but with sheer, dizzying excitement as he held it between you both. His tear-streaked face lit up, his lips parting into an eager, breathless grin despite the shattered, desperate look in his eyes.

This was it.

The ultimate proof of his love.

His grand gesture.

His devotion, laid bare before you.

The soft velvet of the box rubbed against your trembling fingertips as he guided it into your hands. Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. You didn’t want to open it.

You didn’t want to see what was inside.

But Satoru - was watching you so closely, his radiant, unearthly blue eyes brimming with an intensity that demanded you obey. So, with numb fingers, you lifted the lid.

Your stomach lurched.

The room spun. The sharp, metallic scent of blood curled into your nostrils, thick and suffocating, coating the back of your throat, making your body convulse in disgust.

A heart.

A real, human heart. The flesh was still fresh, still glistening, nestled inside the plush velvet like a grotesque, bloody jewel. Thin, severed arteries dangled from the muscle, the tissue dark, rich, and far too real.

Your breath hitched in a choked, wet gasp.

The air rushed out of your lungs, your vision narrowing as cold, paralyzing horror wrapped around you. Your fingers trembled violently, nearly dropping the box, your hands refusing to function, refusing to believe what they were holding.

No.

No, no, no -

You could feel your heartbeat slamming against your ribs, erratic, uneven, weak. You could feel the sting of tears welling up, blurring your vision, pooling in your lashes as you tried—desperately tried—to make sense of the unthinkable.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to wrench yourself away, shove the box back into his hands, throw it, crush it, anything—

But you couldn’t move.

Your body refused.

Terror had turned your limbs to dead weight, keeping you frozen as if one wrong move might make this nightmare even worse.

Satoru tilted his head, watching you. That flicker in your eyes.

Horror.

Fear.

Rejection.

His grin faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

That look shattered something inside him. Satoru's breath caught, his smile wavering at the edges as his fingers twitched, his entire body stilling. For the first time in his entire, untouchable life, Gojo Satoru felt small. Like a child who had spent days, weeks, months crafting the perfect gift, only for it to be thrown away before his eyes.

A slow, breathy laugh fell from his lips - unsteady, cracked at the edges, but still so devoted.

“Aww, baby,” he whispered, tilting his head, his fingers tracing the side of your wrist, thumb dragging over your rapid, panicked pulse.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His voice was soft, teasing - but his grip on you was tight. The air grew heavier and thicker, the scent of blood still hanging between you like perfume.

You wanted to move.

You wanted to run.

But his fingers curled tighter around your wrist, and those crystal-clear, feverishly bright blue eyes locked onto yours, swimming with something too deep, too raw, too unhinged for you to break away.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

His voice was gentle, cooing, like he was humoring you, like you were simply being shy, overwhelmed, unsure of how to accept such an important gift. His free hand reached out, brushing your trembling hair away from your face, tucking a stray strand behind your ear.

“I mean, I did all this for you,” he murmured, voice feigning innocence, his lips curving into something softer, something that might have been mistaken for genuine hurt if it weren’t for the twisted madness shimmering beneath it.

His fingers slid down, grazing your cheek before resting against your collarbone, pressing - just slightly. Feeling the erratic flutter of your weak little heart, the heart he was so desperate to protect.

The heart that could have failed you at any moment.

The heart that was soon to be replaced.

"I went through so much trouble," he continued, his voice quieter, sadder, fraying at the edges. "Just to make sure you’d be okay, sped up the process even, to make sure we can be together."

A tremor ran through his shoulders, his lips parting like he was about to say something more, but instead, he only let out a soft, shuddering exhale. His princess was rejecting his love.

But he had to be strong.

He had to be brave.

For you.

And so, he forced himself to smile, to press another kiss to your forehead, to whisper sweet nothings into your skin, even as his heart shattered.

"I promise, my love, it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing."

Satoru's soft lips hovered over your ear, his voice a trembling whisper, thick with the kind of love that could ruin a man.

"And when you wake up, you’ll be all better." His fingers trailed over the silk restraints, his touch lingering against your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

Everything was going to be okay.

You were just scared.

You loved him too.

Major heart surgery is a scary thing. You’re just scared.

And if the doctor made a mistake - if you so much as whimpered in pain, if there was a single second where you suffered, where the operation was anything less than perfect -

Well.

There was a reason he had a backup doctor waiting in the next room.

A little extra insurance.

Because nothing could go wrong.

Everything had to be perfect for you. His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him, pressing a lingering, feverish kiss to your trembling lips - a kiss full of devotion, of desperation, of a love so strong it had become a sickness.

His heart raced, his breath shaky, uneven, manic.

And then, in a voice so soft, so full of adoring madness, he whispered against your lips -

"Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart."

As the medication in the IV lulled your eyes to sleep, all you could feel were soft kisses - featherlight, desperate, pressed against your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your lips.

A lover’s touch.

A farewell.

[kodachrome-net]

Watching the Eclipse, Northbrook, Illinois, August 2017

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Epilogue

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

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

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

2025

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

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

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

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

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

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

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

I was wrong.

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

And then there’s the focus.

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

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

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

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

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

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

Enough to make me leave.

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

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

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

But I hadn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

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

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

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

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

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

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

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

I just get to be.

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

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

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

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

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

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

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

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

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

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

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

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

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

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

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

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

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

@/racecarrebel

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

@/sarcasticengineer

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

@/cartoonkid420

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

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

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

@/indylewis

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

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

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

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

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

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

@/AnnieAnalyst

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

@/samliverygoat

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday. 

November 7th – Her father’s birthday. 

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

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day. 

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

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

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

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stared at him. 

And at their small, wondrous girl. 

A year old. 

—

Seventeen Years Later

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

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

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

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

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

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

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

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

I will always be in your corner. 

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

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

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

The balcony door was already ajar.

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

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

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

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

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

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

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

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

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

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

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

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

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

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

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

— 

2025

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

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

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

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

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

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

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

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

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

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

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

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

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

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

Precision. Patience. Courage.

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

In the garage, she never played favourites.

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

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

And Amelia?

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

Something vaster.

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

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

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

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

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

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

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

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

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

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

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

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

But normal never did much to soothe her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

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

“Ow—shit—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect. 

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

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

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

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

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

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

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

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

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

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

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

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

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

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

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

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

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

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

Her daddy.

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

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

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

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

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

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

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

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

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

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

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

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

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

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

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

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

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

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

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

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

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

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

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

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

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

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

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

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

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

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

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

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

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

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

—

202X 

He did it.

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

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

He’d done it.

World Champion.

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

Amelia.

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

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

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

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

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

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

Just him.

Lando.

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

The world spun again.

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

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

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

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

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

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

@/formulawivesclub

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

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

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

@/maxverstappen1

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

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

— 

202X

Final lap.

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

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

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

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

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

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

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

Silence.

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

“You did it,” she corrected.

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

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

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

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

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

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

He met her halfway. 

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

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

“I never doubted you.”

—

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

No words.

Just… pride. 

—

2028 

It started with coffee.

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

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

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

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

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

Love you forever,

— Lando

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” Lando said.

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

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

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

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

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

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

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

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

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

“This week.” He said. 

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.” 

—

Lunch came after.

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

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

Just them.

—

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

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

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

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

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

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

“I love you more.”

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

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

—

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

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

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

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

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

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

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

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

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

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

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

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

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

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

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

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

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

Lando waited.

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

She took it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

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

—

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

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

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

— 

2033

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

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

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

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

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

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

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

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

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

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

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

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

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box. 

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.” 

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

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

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her. 

—

2034

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

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

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

“In here,” she called calmly.

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

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

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

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

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

There was a pause.

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

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

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

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

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

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

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

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

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

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

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

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

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

He spun her around like she weighed nothing. 

Amelia smiled as she watched them. 

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

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

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

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

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

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

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

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

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

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

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

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

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

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

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

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

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

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

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

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

She’s Ada Norris.

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

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

—

2035

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

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

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

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

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

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

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

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

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

Sienna would be fine.

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

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

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

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

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

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

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

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew. 

They had each other. They had their home. 

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

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

[chromehoney]

“YOU MINES,” chap 1, texts.

olderman!smoke x younger!sassy!black!fem reader.

synopsis: smoke told himself he wasn’t interested in no woman after he got divorced, but once he got his dark brown eyes on you.. his thought changed. and knew he needed you.

Smoke had seen her before—once at the corner store, twice outside his cousin Sammie’s little recording studio. Thick thighs and glossier lips than any sermon should allow, attitude rolled up in a sundress and a mean ass strut. She was the type to cuss out a man just for breathing near her car too long, then wink when you backed off. Dangerous in the way only a brat with body and bite could be. He never asked her name. Just took mental snapshots like a pervert and kept it pushing. Until Sammie decided to throw that damn pool party.

Smoke didn’t even wanna be there. Sun too hot, kids too loud, Bluetooth speaker blasting new trap over old R&B. But then she came through the backyard gate wearing a two-piece that looked like it had been painted on, skin glistening like God had oiled her up Himself, and all that irritation turned into something else. Something low and heavy that settled right behind his zipper.

She had on big hoop earrings, slick lip gloss, a see-through cover-up that did absolutely nothing, and when she dipped into the pool, ass first, his mouth went dry like a prayer lost in wind.

So he waited. Watched her sip Casamigos and sass Sammie’s homeboys, ass perched on the edge of a pool float like she knew what kind of show she was giving.

Then, when the sun dipped low and folks started rolling blunts and ordering pizza, Smoke slid up beside her with a red solo cup and a smirk. His chains glinting. Chest exposed. Cigar smoke curling out from his lips like he didn’t care about her little “I got a man” spiel.

“You always look this good when you disrespectin’ people’s peace?” he asked. She didn’t even look at him. Just sipped. “I got a man.” Smoke raised a brow. “I ain’t ask who you go home to. I asked about the goodness.”

“Still not your business, grandpa.” He chuckled. “You call me grandpa, but I’m the one got your knees twitchin’ every time I lick my lips.” She did glance at him then. Sharp. Saucy. “Boy, if I give you my number, will you shut up?”

“Not a chance,” he grinned. “But you’ll give it to me anyway.”bShe stared. Hard. Then sighed like he was an inconvenience she secretly liked and typed her number into his phone. “Don’t text me dumb shit. And don’t act surprised if I don’t respond. I’m with somebody.”

“Happily?” Smoke asked, mouth twitching.bShe scoffed, twisting her face like he said something nasty. “Mind ya business, smoke signal.” But when she walked away, hips swaying, she didn’t take her number back. And that was all the green light Smoke needed. The next couple of weeks were cat-and-mouse. She played hard. He played harder.

Smoke: What you doin?

[ ♡ ]: Literally layin’ on my man chest. Leave me alone.

Smoke: He know you textin me?

[ ♡ ]: you got dementia or sum? or are you just old? well we know you old so i guess what im asking is are you slow??? cause you keep pursuing me when you know i gots me a man already. that’s kinda slow don’t you think?

Smoke: Neither. Just a problem I’m tryin’ to fix. You.

Sometimes she wouldn’t respond for a day. Sometimes she’d FaceTime him late, hair tied up and voice all sleepy, actin’ like it was an accident. Then hang up quick. Smoke knew what she was doin’. So when he saw her at that restaurant, sitting with some corny ass man in a salmon polo and bootcut jeans, he snapped.

He didn’t give himself time to think.

As soon as that man stood to go to the bathroom, Smoke got up from his own table, crossed the floor like judgment day on a deadline, and pulled her right out of her seat.

“Smoke?! What the fuck—”

He had her in the women’s bathroom, door locked, body against tile before she could protest again.

“You outta your mind,” she hissed. “Draggin’ me in here like—”

“Like what?” he snarled, voice dark with heat. “Like you mine? ‘Cause that’s what you been actin’ like. Textin’ me at midnight, wearin’ dresses like that, and sittin’ here with a bitch-ass man like I ain’t watchin’ you give away my seat.”

“You got me out here lookin’ stupid, ma,” he growled, stepping in so close her breath hitched. “Havin’ me text you, dream about you, damn near obsess over you—while you sittin’ across some weak-ass nigga like he worth your time?”

“I told you—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you told me,” he barked, getting in her face. “Your mouth sayin’ ‘I’m with somebody,’ but your pussy probably drippin’ just lookin’ at me.” She scoffed before shaking her head and saying “You delusional.” “Nah, baby,” he whispered, brushing his nose against her jaw. “I’m the cure.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

The sound of her panties tearing made her suck in a breath. He threw one of her legs over his shoulder and kissed her inner thigh slow. Then he dove in.

No tease. No sweet start. He ate her like punishment—rough, messy, and focused. “Oh my God, Smoke—” “Shut up,” he growled between strokes of his tongue. “Let me work.” His mouth wrapped around her clit while two thick fingers slid into her. She grabbed his hair, but it only egged him on. His beard was soaked. Her thighs trembled.

She came once—so hard her voice broke—and he didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her stop.

He slowed his tongue, flicked, licked deep. Worked her back up. Sucked her until she was moaning in high-pitched gasps, begging with her eyes. “Mmm… this pussy so soft,” he muttered between licks, “actin’ like it belong to someone else, but this shit was made for me.” She moaned just from his words, When the second orgasm hit, her whole body arched, nearly sliding down the wall.

“Thaaaat’s it,” he whispered, licking his lips. “Look at that… two fuckin’ times. Ain’t even touched my dick yet.” She whimpered, eyes glassy, lips parted. Only then did he stand, licking his lips, eyes heavy with lust.“Now,” he said, voice low and dark, “turn around.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before he spun her around and bent her over the counter. Her cheek hit the mirror, fogging the glass with every pant. He pulled himself free and pushed in slow, making sure she felt every inch.

“Fuck…” he groaned, head dropping to her shoulder. “So damn tight. Greedy little pussy. Been waitin’ for me.” Her nails raked down his back. “Shut up and fuck me—” “Oh, I’m gon’ do more than that.”

His hips rolled, deep and slow at first, then sharp and mean. Her hands braced against the mirror, her moans echoing through the bathroom. “Bet he don’t fuck you like this,” Smoke rasped, biting her shoulder. “Bet he don’t fill you like this.”

“Y-you’re so cocky—” “You like me cocky. You want a man who make you cry from dick.” He pulled out just to watch her drip, then slammed back in, hands gripping her thighs like possession. Each thrust hit like a promise.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he whispered against her throat. “Not after this. Not after you squirted.” She moaned and nodded at his words, after a few more thrusts they found themselves both cunning together in harmony as moans and whines fell out of their mouths. Smoke thrusted deep inside her a few more times to make sure his seed was planted deeeep inside her,

Once he pull out, he put himself back into his pants and pulled up her panties. Whispering praises into her ears as he did so. He smiled at the state she was in, her ass looked wrecked. And he loved every second of it. “Cmon mama, let’s go tell this nigga youn need his ass no more.” She lightly nodded, completely out of it but complying to what he said.

She looked disheveled. Eyes glassy, dress rumpled, lipgloss gone. They walked out together. Smoke smoothed her hair down with a smug hand. She stopped in front of the dude waiting at her booth. “I… uh—” she looked back at Smoke, who just tilted his head, daring her.

“I’m not with you no more,” she said softly.

The man blinked. “Wait, what?” She didn’t answer. Just grabbed her purse, ignored the confusion on his face, and followed Smoke out with her head bowed—but a tiny smirk pulling at her lips.

….THREE WEEKS LATER.

They’d been out on six dates. Three ended in car sex. Two in her apartment. One in the back of a restaurant kitchen where he made her bite down on his wallet to stay quiet.

Now they sat on a rooftop at sunset. She had on a soft yellow dress that looked like it was made of petals. Smoke watched her sip wine and talk shit about everyone she didn’t like. She was laughing when she suddenly went quiet.

“Tell me about her.” He looked over. “Who?”

“Your ex. Annie.” He sighed. “She was strong. Kinda a little crazy like you. Loved hard. But I was gone a lot. Years. I used to disappear on business, disappear into shadows. Thought she’d always wait. She didn’t.” She nodded. Sipped. “You gonna do that to me?”

Smoke leaned in, resting his heavy hand on her thigh.

“That was a long time ago, a different world, a different era. I wasn’t as mature as I am now mama. Youn gotta worry bout nothing like that. I’m not goin’ nowhere.” She hummed before tilting her head. “Promise?” “I don’t make promises,” he said, tracing the edge of her wine glass with one finger, “but I do claim what’s mine.”

She squinted. “So I’m yours?”

He grinned, gold tooth glinting. “I already proved it. You walkin’ funny for three days after I ate you in a public bathroom, remember?” She blushed. Then smirked. “Yeah. You do got good memory. Maybe you don’t got dementia after all.”

Smoke leaned over and kissed her—slow and deep, like he could taste every bratty word she ever said and still crave the next one.

Because no matter how stubborn she acted…

She was his.

And Smoke? He wasn’t lettin’ her go.

ooo chile i need me a smoke in my life idc idc idc!!!! he so fine like . like omg. i’d let him ruin me , whatever he want whenever he wanttttt. anywaysss , @cremeful for the older man!smoke idea, (i fucking loved those fics omg.)

@kodaswrld & @cursed-carmine for the dividers!

btw, “AT THE SAME DAMN TIME” chapter two should be out soon. i will be tagging everyone whom asked to be tagged!!! which speaking of , if you’d like to be on my tag list just in general, not just in certain fics. tell me inna comments.

ignore errors. i do not proof read, & never will.

[miyasmagnolias]

𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 '𝐞𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 ✶.°

miya atsumu x f!reader

you get to know osamu and suna more at atsumu's first game of the season. meanwhile, atsumu subjects you to a very public display of affection.

part nine of the in close quarters series, a friends-to-lovers college AU featuring you, atsumu, and the ten months you spend living together senior year.

"Hi! Are you Suna?"

The young man standing in the middle of the busy courtyard glanced up at you from his phone, his hazel eyes seemingly unaffected by the thousands of rowdy college students, families, and local volleyball fans buzzing around you.

"You’re a good guesser," he said by way of greeting, pocketing his phone and extending his hand out for a shake. His gaze flicked down to your outfit as he asked, "You're Y/N, I'm assuming?"

"How could you tell?" you drawled, gesturing to Atsumu's oversized jersey currently swallowing you whole. You had tried pairing it with your favorite denim shorts and a belt, but it didn't excuse the fact that it was three sizes too large on you.

He huffed. "Did Atsumu put you up to this?"

"He said it was important to wear school colors, which, to be fair, I don't really own," you explained matter-of-factly. It didn't stop you from rolling your eyes. "But if you ask me, I think he just likes the idea of a girl wearing his jersey."

"That sounds more like it," Suna agreed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. "How are you liking it, living with a Miya?"

You sucked in a sharp breath and readjusted the strap of your book bag. "Well, my living room floor is covered in gym socks, and all my leftovers magically disappear, but other than that, I can't complain."

"Ha." Something like amusement flashed across his hazel eyes as he said, "Atsumu was right — you really are funny."

Before you could open your mouth to respond, a light hand brushed against your shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late," Osamu said, still in his Onigiri Miya hat and shirt. He extended his arm out to give you a half-hug. "There was a huge line over at the restaurant. Y/N, I see you've met my roommate Suna already."

"Sure did," you said, returning the hug with a warm smile. He smelled faintly of rice and umami sauce. "We were just talking about how lovely it is living with a Miya twin."

"Lovely, huh? I'm sure our ma would beg to differ, but I'm flattered," he said with a laugh. He gestured to the entrance of your university's multi-million-dollar events center and asked, "Shall we?"

The three of you wove in and out of the crowd, chatting animatedly amongst yourselves as you went through security, scanned your tickets, and entered the venue. You learned that Suna double-majored in psychology and sociology at the college across town and competed for a regional men's volleyball team in his free time. You also learned that he had played with the twins all three years of high school.

"Really?" you asked, your eyes wide as you navigated the ground floor of the arena. "You must be really used to them bickering, then."

"Something like that," he said, scrolling through his Google Photos until he landed on a snapshot from nearly six years ago. Osamu had Atsumu pinned to the ground, their teenaged faces contorted in anger as they brawled on the floor of the Inarizaki gymnasium.

"Oh my god," you laughed, staring at the blurry photo in amazement. "Isn't this the fight that got them both suspended?"

"Don't remind me," Osamu groaned.

Your eyes gleamed in amusement as you said, "You both look so young in this photo. Like two baby goats going head-to-head."

"Trust me, with the way Atsumu was actin' that day, you'd've thought he was a feral hyena," his brother murmured. "How was he this mornin'? Nervous at all?"

"A little bit, though he wouldn't admit it," you said, recalling how he'd acted before leaving the apartment earlier that day. He'd downed the last of his energy drink and slung his gym bag over a shoulder, the music in his AirPods loud enough for you to hear.

"Ya got everything ya need?" he'd asked you skittishly, shoving each of his feet into his Asics. "Yer ticket, Osamu and Suna's numbers?"

"Yes! We promised to meet outside of the arena at five-thirty," you said, handing him his water bottle. "It's me who should be asking you that, though. You doing okay?"

"Oh, yeah. This ain't my first rodeo," he reassured you, though his brown eyes conveyed something heavier. More solemn. "Besides, I'm feelin' much better after last night."

"That's good," you said, smiling softly. You could tell by the tension in his shoulders and jaw that he still had a lot on his mind, though.

Atsumu hit the pause button on his EDM track and asked, "Any last words of encouragement?"

You hummed to yourself, scouring your brain for the most perfect, proverbial thing to say. After a moment, you placed your hands on his shoulders, looked him dead in the eye, and said, "Don't fuck this up."

Atsumu nearly choked on his laughter. Your eyes glinted at the way his shoulders loosened up ever-so-slightly.

"I'm just kidding," you said warmly. "Give 'em hell, Atsumu."

He didn't know what it was — the use of his given name, or the pure conviction in which you'd said it — but he felt your words strike against his heart like a match. He grabbed your hand and pressed a quick kiss to the inside of your palm.

"I will," he murmured into your soft skin.

Your cheeks now burned at the memory — the way his lips had grazed your palm like it was the most natural thing in the world. You chalked it up to his affectionate, overtly flirtatious personality, unwilling to entertain the idea that it might have meant anything more.

But as you replayed the moment over and over again, you couldn't help but wish that it had.

"You guys go ahead!" you told Osamu and Suna when you reached your seating portal. "I'ma grab a drink before I head in. Do either of you want anything?"

"A beer would be nice," Osamu suggested.

Suna nodded in agreement. "Thanks, Y/N. Let us know how much we owe you.”

"Oh, don't worry about it! This one's on me," you said with a wave of your hand, jogging toward the concessions stand before either of them could argue. "I'll meet you in there!"

The smell of popcorn and nachos flooded your senses as you waited in line, the sheer energy of the arena potent enough to make your bones vibrate. A small part of you wondered what Atsumu was feeling right this very moment. Was he intimidated at all by this enormous stadium, the thousands of people that had shown up to watch him play? Or did he thrive off of their attention? Their excitement — their praise?

It's my first game since my coach kicked me off the team for a month, he'd told you last night, the warm light of your bedside lamp curving gently over his strained expression. So there's a lot at stake.

He'd been through a lot this past year, you'd realized — a break-up, a forced hiatus from volleyball. An onslaught of self-doubts he'd never fully admitted to but wore on his sleeve nonetheless. You hoped he wasn't thinking too deeply about all of that now. Even if he was, you silently prayed he wasn't burdened by it.

"Excuse me," you said once you'd reached the front row of the stadium, balancing three open cans of Asahi in your arms. You gestured over to where Osamu and Suna were sitting. "I think my seat is right over there."

The two young women in the seats next to yours shot you the dirtiest looks as they stood from their folding seats to let you in. Taken aback by their cold reactions, you awkwardly shuffled past them and plopped into the seat between Osamu and Suna.

"Is it just me, or are the girls sitting beside us kinda rude?" you asked under your breath as they relieved you of their drinks.

"That's not even the worst of 'em," Osamu said. "One time, a whole swarm of 'em came into the restaurant just to ask me where Atsumu lived. While askin' for my number."

"No," you gasped.

"The ones who pay premium to sit in the front row of games are especially bad," Suna added, taking a swig of his beer.

"What if they find where we live?" you asked, watching out the corner of your eye as the two women posed for a selfie in their matching game-day outfits. "I can't defend myself against a group of raging fans!"

"Maybe ya can hit 'em over the head with all those big novels ya read," Osamu chuckled.

"Seriously, who brings The Picture of Dorian Gray to a volleyball game?" Suna asked, peeking into your open book bag.

"I don't know!" you said, shooing him away like a gnat. "Aren't there half-times? Time-outs? I can sneak a chapter in here and there."

"Dear lord." Suna shook his head in amusement.

"Yer just as brainy as Tsumu says ya are," Osamu laughed.

For the second time that evening, you were stunned by the thought of Atsumu talking about you when you weren't around. What other kinds of things did he say about you? How else had he described you to the people he grew up with?

Before you could further dwell on those questions, the lights to the stadium dimmed, sending the crowd into complete hysterics as the announcer welcomed everyone to the first home game of the season. You watched in awe as a professionally-shot video of the men's volleyball team flashed across the jumbotron to the beat of a popular rap song, the series of graphics, b-roll, and spike shots sending an unexpected chill down your spine.

"Now announcing your starting lineup!" the announcer boomed once the video had concluded. "Number one, Aran Ojiro..."

"We went to high school with him, too," Suna filled you in as the team's captain jogged onto the court. "Super sweet guy."

"Number two, Sakusa Kiyoomi..."

"Dear lord," your murmured under your breath. "Are all volleyball players this tall?"

Osamu snorted. "Don't ya live with one?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think they all came like that — "

"Number five, Miya Atsumu!"

The retort died on your lips as the one person you came here to see emerged from the shadows of the stadium tunnel. The crowd erupted as he tilted his face towards the spotlight.

For a brief second, your breath caught in your throat.

He looked good in a jersey. Really good.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that everyone in here probably thought so, too.

The next several minutes droned on as the rest of the players were introduced, national anthems were sung, and the coin toss determined which team would serve first. All the while, you couldn't stop watching him — the way his bleached hair had been pushed back into a quiff, the way his eyes stared down the opponent with a cold, calculated expression. It was fascinating to see him so focused, so different from his usual self.

As if he could feel your eyes on him, Atsumu pried his gaze from the other team, scanned the first few stands of the arena, and spotted you.

You swore something like relief flickered across his brown eyes.

From the court below, Atsumu felt like he was on the verge of cardiac arrest.

"You alright?" Aran had asked him in the tunnel before the player introductions, ever the observant team captain. His voice was strangely calm compared to the booming cheers of the audience just several feet away from them.

"Yeah! Peachy keen," Atsumu breathed, jumping on his feet a couple of times to get his blood circulating. It did nothing to rid himself of the nerves now prickling down his arms and into his hands. Is this what an anxiety attack felt like? Like his limbs were made of television static?

Beside him, Aran gave him a knowing, if not mildly exasperated look.

"You don't need to pretend around me, you know. Just because you never freaked out before games in high school doesn't mean you aren't allowed to now."

At that, Atsumu gave his teammate a surprised double-take. Aran merely smiled at him and clapped him on the back reassuringly.

"We never doubted you, you know," Aran reminded him. "Even while you were gone, we never did."

Atsumu's lips drew themselves into a thin line as he huffed, quietly, "Can't say the same for myself."

Aran's expression softened. "Well, that's what teammates are for, right? To have your back — even when you don't have your own?"

Before Atsumu could respond, Aran's name was called by the stadium announcer, sending him jogging out the tunnel to the sound of thunderous applause.

It was wholly unlike Atsumu to panic before a game. But then again, he wasn't the same player as he was last season. In fact, as he emerged from the tunnel two minutes later to the crowd's ear-splitting cheers, all he could think about was the shit that kept him up at night. The break-up. The move out. The month-long volleyball hiatus. The grief of it all clawed at him, threatened to swallow him whole. And he didn't know what to do about it.

Ears now ringing from the panic, Atsumu desperately searched the crowd for something — anything — to ground him.

That's when he saw you.

Smushed between his twin brother and childhood friend in a jersey three sizes too large. Looking at him like he was the only other person in the arena.

Smiling at him gently, as if to repeat the same words you'd told him earlier that day.

Give 'em hell, Atsumu.

Slowly, he felt his shoulders relax, his jaw unclench. The static subsided, if only for a moment.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the game. Meanwhile, the university band played a roaring anthem as he approached the baseline to serve. His teammates guarded the back of their heads as Atsumu seized the ball and steadied himself.

He willed himself to concentrate, to tap into the same strength he'd relied on countless of times before. He lifted his free hand and — like a conductor — silenced the band with a mere snap of his fist.

His heartbeat hammered in his ears. He took a deep breath.

Then, before he could fully process it, he launched himself forwards and served.

The ball sliced through the air and struck the back zone of the opposing side.

The arena came alive.

You blinked as the sounds of rambunctious applause filled your ears, the opposing team mirroring your stunned expression as they shook off Atsumu's service ace and reassumed their defensive stance. Meanwhile, the women beside you went completely ballistic.

"Nice serve!" they squealed in perfect unison. Suna winced at the timbre of their voices.

"Have ya ever seen Tsumu play before?" Osamu asked amidst all the chaos.

You shook your head, still trying to process what the hell you just saw. Osamu merely chuckled and folded his arms across his chest.

"Trust me — ya ain't seen nothin' yet."

And you hadn't. In fact, as the game carried on in full swing, you began to realize just how big a deal Miya Atsumu really was. You'd gotten glimpses of his notoriety here and there — had sensed it like a pulse buried just beneath his skin. But here, on this court, he was completely untethered. Confident. Alive.

You now understood the gravity of what this game meant to Atsumu — and how deeply it had hurt when it was taken away from him.

From that moment onward, you cheered as hard as you could.

Toward the end of the second set, the closer of the two women leaned over Suna and tapped you on the knee.

"Excuse me," she said, perfectly comfortable invading his personal space. She smacked her spearmint gum and asked, "Where did you get your jersey?"

"Uh," you laughed, your gaze bouncing from her insistent expression to Suna's flat one. You pointed at your roommate on the court and said, "I got it from him."

The woman's eyes traced the direction of your finger before eventually landing on Atsumu, who was currently in a time out huddle with his teammates. She barked out in laughter as if you'd just delivered the funniest joke she'd ever heard.

"Yeah, right," she drawled, returning to her friend without so much as another word. Your shoulders shook with laughter as she did so.

"Jesus. Tough crowd."

Beside you, Suna massaged the inner corners of his eyes and said, "Next time, we're sitting in the nosebleeds."

The referee blew his whistle, sending both teams back onto the court for perhaps the last time of the night. Atsumu's teammates had taken the first set and were now one point away from taking the second, the expressions on their faces hungry, restless. Determined to win.

Sakusa tossed the ball high and served, the opposing libero diving to receive it. You held your breath as the entire court burst into motion, eyes locked on Atsumu as he set each ball like a a sniper taking aim. Each move was calculated, sharp. Fueled by brute force. Your pulse spiked watching his prowess unfold.

The rally continued, each player growing weary, more erratic with their movements. But Atsumu never relented.

You knew he was crazy — you had no doubt about it. But as he sprinted cross-court to pull off the lowest set you'd ever seen, you were suddenly convinced he was clinically insane.

Engaging every muscle in his legs, Atsumu aligned the set perfectly and launched the ball across the court. It cut through the air, connected with Aran's open palm, and slammed into the back zone of the opposing side.

The whistle blew. The crowd erupted. Players on both sides collapsed in exhaustion.

Your team had won.

The next several seconds passed by in a blur. You, heart bursting with pride as you stood up in the front row of the arena and cheered. Osamu and Suna, smirking proudly as they followed suit.

And Atsumu, who — now sprinting toward you at full speed — hoisted himself over the court-side barrier to plant a sweaty kiss on your right cheek.

Your eyes widened as he landed back on his feet and beamed up at you, his smile bright enough to make your face grow hot in embarrassment. The entire row stood still as your brain blew a fuse.

Did he just...?

He winked at you, turned on his heel, and jogged back to shake the hands of the opposing team.

Meanwhile, the two women's jaws were practically on the floor.

Osamu and Suna burst out laughing.

"Excuse me, Miss Librarian," Atsumu teased as he approached you sitting at the pub bar after the game. "Can I buy ya a drink?"

You looked up from your copy of Dorian Gray, having snuck away from the post-game celebration on the outdoor patio to finish the last chapter of your assigned reading.

"Hey, you," you said with a smile, bookmarking your page and bringing Atsumu in for a bear hug. He had since changed out of his sweaty uniform and was now sporting a stylish button-up and jeans, his bangs still swept up and out of his face. It suited him, you thought as he slid into the seat next to yours. Brought out his eyes.

"Congratulations on your big win today," you said after he'd ordered you both drinks. "I didn't know you could move like that."

"Thank ya, thank ya. Did ya see that last set I did for Aran?"

"You mean the one where your ass nearly split out of your shorts?" you teased. "Hard to miss it. I saw it in-person, on the jumbotron, and all over my Twitter feed after the game."

"What can I say? I got an ass for ESPN," Atsumu said with a grin. You rolled your eyes, though a laugh tumbled out of you. His expression softened as he said, "Thanks for comin' to support me today. It means a lot."

"Of course," you said as the bartender brought you your drinks — a whisky sour for Atsumu, and a strawberry margarita for you. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

He sipped the foam off the top of his cocktail and asked, "Does this mean I get to go to one of yer dance showcases now?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," you guffawed. "Those aren't nearly as large of a production as a flashy volleyball game."

"Well, that doesn't matter. Invite me," Atsumu reassured you, something like admiration flashing across his brown eyes. "I wanna be there for ya, too."

You were grateful for the dim lights in the pub bar as you blushed for what felt like the millionth time that day.

"Okay," you said, nodding. "I'll be sure to invite you to the next one."

The rowdy revelries of the men's volleyball team seeped in from the outside, filling the comfortable silence between you as you drank. The two shots of tequila from your margarita warmed your belly as you asked, "Were you nervous at all?"

"During the game? A lil' bit, yeah."

"Well, for what it's worth, it didn't show," you said, mimicking the way he'd snapped his fist closed at the beginning of each serve. Atsumu laughed at your dramatic impression of him, dimples deepening on either side of his lips.

"Trust me, I was," he promised. In fact, he didn't know what he would've done if he hadn't spotted you in the crowd. Hadn’t remembered all the ways you'd shown up for him in the past year. Ever since he’d moved in, you had cared for him so deeply — talking him down from his self-doubt, bringing him food when he least expected it. Making him laugh when no one else would.

He couldn't just let all that kindness go to waste.

So he decided he'd give it everything he got — and that the win didn't matter so long as he made you proud.

Of course, he couldn't just admit any of that to you. Instead, he took a long sip of his cocktail and said, "Course, there was no need to be nervous once I saw ya cheesin' at me from the stands."

"Yeah, right," you chuckled, licking the Tajín off the rim of your glass.

"I'm serious! Yer my good luck charm." Lowering his voice, he added, "Ya look real cute wearin' my jersey, too."

Amused, you said, "Well, your diehard fans certainly didn't think so. They looked like they wanted to rip my head off the entire game."

Atsumu tsked in annoyance. "Are ya kiddin' me? Did they say anythin' mean to ya?"

"Trust me, it wasn't that big a deal. In fact, I think they bothered Suna more than they did me," you reassured him with a laugh. He gave you a distrustful glance in return.

"Well, still. I'm sorry. Anyone who isn't a fan of ya isn't a fan of me — and I mean that."

"Well, that's very noble of you," you drawled, finishing off the last of your drink as the door to the back patio swung open. "I'm just glad no one's staring daggers at me anymore."

"...I wouldn't relax so soon if I were you," Suna warned, coming up beside you with a beer glass in one hand and his phone in the other. He angled his screen so the two of you could see the video he'd pulled up on his Twitter feed.

Your expression slowly fell as a ten-second clip of Atsumu hoisting himself up to kiss you on the cheek looped over and over again — the number of likes and reposts ticking steadily upward with each passing second.

"What are y'all doin' in here?" Osamu asked, joining the three of you not a moment later. His eyes latched onto the video. "Oh, shit."

Mortified, you snatched the phone out of Suna's hands and scrolled down to the comments section. It didn't help the panic now rising in your chest.

Omg who is she??

I thought he had another girlfriend tho? Did I miss something?

I don't know who she is, but I'm jealous.

"Oh god," you breathed, your stomach dropping at that last comment. You stared at the three boys hovering around you and asked, "I'm gonna have to learn how to fight, aren't I?"

At that, Atsumu looked wholeheartedly confused. Meanwhile, Suna handed you your copy of Dorian Gray and said, "You may wanna use this, then."

Osamu laughed so hard he nearly cried.

@miyasmagnolias, 2025

[aryaryxoxo]

Tsukishima Kei who can breeze through the toughest math equations, finish his homework in record time, and effortlessly juggle volleyball with his schoolwork. Yet, despite all of his talents, there's one thing he can't stand: you.

Tsukishima Kei who doesn’t get irritated easily, finds even Hinata and Kageyama’s shenanigans a joke compared to the irritation he feels when you flash that smirk after surpassing him by just one point. In that moment, an unspoken rivalry ignites between you two, an unspoken agreement to surpass each other in every way, shape, and form possible.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who usually just skims through material before a quiz, now finds himself sitting deep in his chair, solving equation after equation. Every second counts if he wants to wipe that smirk off your face. And when his focus starts to slip, all it takes is one glance at your online status—still awake, still grinding—to push him to keep going. Though, really, why are you still awake at 2:30 in the morning?

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who strutted into the classroom, pride practically radiating off him, confident he could finally take you down. And he did. He cherished the disbelief look you threw at him when he scored a perfect 100 and you sat one point behind at 99. He tucked that memory away, cherishing the rare victory like a prize. 

But his triumph was short-lived. Because not even a day later, Ma'am Aki threw a surprise quiz—and you aced it without missing a beat, flashing him a smug little smile that sent irritation in his chest.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who usually found P.E. class mind-numbingly boring compared to the brutal training Coach Ukai put them through, turned around to you, ready to throw a snide remark your way. But the words caught in his throat when he saw you blinking rapidly, struggling to keep your eyes open, sweat trailing down your face.

He could feel your unease from where he stood, and something uncomfortable twisted in his chest. He clicked his tongue, masking the sudden rush of concern with a scowl.

"Don't push yourself if you can't handle it, idiot," he muttered, sharper than he meant to sound.

But even as he turned away, he found himself glancing back—just to make sure you were still standing.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who was unfortunately forced to partner up with you, now found himself hunched over his desk, studying and making plans on how to present the material. Of course, you wouldn’t make it easy.

Every discussion turned into a battlefield—clashing ideas, sharp glares, and way more energy spent finding new insults to throw at each other than actually planning the project. 

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who stood in your living room, hovering awkwardly. You prohibit him from seeing your bedroom, you could already imagine the mockery if he saw what it looked like. Tsukishima liked to imagine it to be bubblegum pink with ponies or something equally embarrassing.

You both needed to pull an all-nighter for the presentation, and with the library closing at 6 PM, you both decided (mostly you, really) to stay at your place.

He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the photos that decorated the walls. Each one was a snapshot of a memory, some recent, some from when you were a child. What caught his attention the most was the way your smile hadn’t changed, not even a little. It was the same smile he saw now—genuine, carefree. Don’t ask him why he noticed it. He didn’t have an answer.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who sat there, pretending to reread his notes for the presentation, but in reality, his eyes kept drifting toward you. You looked worried, biting your lip, your leg bouncing up and down in a restless rhythm. He tried to ignore it—tried to focus on anything else—but the longer he watched, the more it got under his skin.

Finally, with an irritated sigh, he muttered, "Are you worried or something?" You glanced at him, startled, before nodding.

"Yeah," you admitted softly, and for a moment, Tsukishima was caught off guard by how small your voice sounded. But he quickly recomposed himself, clearing his throat to mask the shift in his expression. 

Grabbing his bag, he pulled out a squished ball, handing it to you without a second thought.

"Here," he muttered, his voice a little sharper than usual, "It’ll help you with your nerves."

You blinked, surprised by the gesture. Tsukihima Kei is not the type to let others use his stuff, but he was already turning away, pretending like it wasn’t a big deal.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who was starting to like your presence, found that it made his unsteady and noisy thoughts turn quiet. It unsettled him, but he would swear on his mother’s future grave that he didn’t have feelings for you. When Nishinoya and Tanaka started teasing him, joking about him getting soft toward his rival, he shot them a glare that immediately silenced them—he couldn’t let anyone find out that your presence was starting to mean more to him than he’d ever admit.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who found himself irritated, but not by you—no, it was the prick stumbling right in front of you, confessing and nervously asking if you could meet him at the school’s rooftop. Tsukishima’s irritation flared up as he watched, his jaw tightening. He didn’t even realize how much it bothered him until now. The nerve of him, confessing to you in front of others. You didn’t want that, you’d told him once, on one of those days when you were forced into close proximity with each other.

He almost wanted to step in, but for some reason, he stayed silent, the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who ignored you for two weeks because of that. He knew it was a dick move to just shut you out, but he couldn’t bring himself to find out if you accepted the guy’s confession. Now, he realized he had feelings for you, but of course, it was too late. 

“Don’t forget to invite your friends, or family to your game tomorrow, okay?” Coach Ukai said, standing up from his chair with a grin. “As much as you need good sleep and proper nutrition, you also need moral support.” 

The boys stood up as well, and Nishinoya, with eyes practically filled with hearts, shot a teasing grin at Tsukishima.

 “Ooo, Tsukishima, are you going to invite Y/N?” he asked, his voice dripping with mischief. “No,” Tsukishima replied, his voice deadpan.  “Why not?!” Tanaka chimed in, clearly eager for an explanation. Tsukishima just looked at both of them, gave a small bow, and walked off without saying another word. “Rude!” both yelled in unison, watching him leave.

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who, instead of turning left toward his street, found himself turning right, walking toward your front door. He stood there, waiting patiently for you to open. When you finally did, his eyes met yours—really met yours, after avoiding you for weeks. He took a deep breath, his usual sarcasm missing, and simply uttered six words.

“Can you go to my game?”

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei whose leg bounced up and down in a restless rhythm, a clear sign of his nervousness. But it wasn’t the game that had him on edge—it was the fact that he still hadn’t seen you. After asking you to come to his game, he just left. He didn’t even wait for your response. He’d ignored you for so long that it would be acceptable if you didn’t show up. Still, he hoped. And the nerves… they were unlike anything he’d felt before, especially not because of someone.

Then he looked up again, catching sight of you excusing yourself, you found an empty spot beside his brother. You were holding a sign, and as you turned to the court, you found his eyes. A smile spread across your face—the kind that made his heart skip. You raised the sign high, the words clearly visible:

“ONE POINT, ONE WIN, YOU’VE GOT THIS! TSUKISHIMA KEI”

His face remained impassive, but as he watched, that smile of yours lingered in his mind. The faintest twitch appeared at the corner of his lips, the start of a smile. 

Academic Rival Tsukishima Kei who stood in line with his teammates, each of them waiting to receive their awards. They had won. Tsukishima’s block gave them the one point they needed to secure their spot in nationals. As he took his medal, he glanced at you. In that moment, you met his gaze and gave him that smile—the one that made everything else fade away. He realized, as he stood there with his medal, that he had won twice that day: nationals, and you.

He silently thanked the heavens for that 99/100 score.

...

a/n — i freaking love tsukishima kei,,,,hes my first hubby!! this been sitting in my drafts for so long, I'm so happy I can finally post it haha

Warnings — grammatical errors

[sirfrogsworth]

This man just loves shooting movies on "hard mode."

The 15 perf, 70mm film he uses is pretty special. In very limited circumstances, it can have the same detail as an 80 megapixel medium format camera. Roughly 12K if you average out the sharpness of the lens (the center is sharper).

It's gotta be the lowest speed film and on a tripod and *nothing* can be moving and there has to be plenty of light and the lens needs to be sharp enough to resolve that much detail and the air cannot be too moist or dusty... but yeah, sure... theoretically you can get a tiny circle in the center of the frame to be 18K. With the entire frame averaging out to be 12K.

And as you watch that 12K image on a 100 foot IMAX screen you can say to yourself, "Cillian Murphy should really try a pore cleanser."

But Nolan *rarely* uses it under those ideal conditions. So he is mostly preserving the resolution of the grain structure.

I know people go to movies to admire the high-resolution film grain structure. Right? Any grain nerds reading this?

So why is he doing this?

There is the "film look" that is a bit of a cheat code to reduce the need for extensive color grading. People just like the look of film. It has a nostalgic aesthetic that gives us comfort. All of the films of my childhood were on film. All of my childhood photos were on film.

But you can get film without film.

They have developed workflows that emulate film to a near-imperceptible level. There are filmvestigators who think they can always tell. But if it is close enough that only a few specially trained people can see the difference, it is imperceptible.

You can also hack digital to be film. Dune 2 took the digital footage and exposed it onto film and then scanned it back to digital.

Looked great.

Looked like film.

So he doesn't need to do this to get the film look.

WHY? What else could compel him to go through this considerable bother to capture his movie?

I could make an argument for gradients.

Any large format is going to capture very nice gradations. Gradations are probably the most underrated aspect of image quality. People get obsessed with Ks and megapixels, but 1080p is enough detail for most people.

Whereas having one color smoothly transition into another color is a very subtle thing that gives our brain an aesthetic buzz. It's that thing that makes people go, "Oh wow, you must have a really nice camera." It's that subconscious element in photos that helps differentiate snapshot from art.

This iPhone photo is great.

It is amazing this can be captured by a phone.

But a large format image just hits different.

And you can't always put your finger on why.

I mean, the why is because a professional photographer took the photo. (Unless that is one of those dentists with a Hasselblad.)

But if you account for the skill of the photographer, what else makes the photo special?

I think it is the gradients. The megapixels are nice. The color science is nice. But the way those tones just seamlessly shift into each other makes my brain tingle.

But the Arri 65 digital cinema camera is also large format. It has nicer lenses that weren't designed before the 90s. It doesn't cost thousands of dollars just to develop a few minutes of footage. It has more dynamic range. It can do the buttery smooth gradients. It weighs an entire 2-year-old child less than IMAX cameras.

And you don't need 4 dudes to deliver the movie to the projectionist.

And unless Christopher had them develop a silent IMAX camera, I guess all of the dialogue is going to be recorded in post.

I mean, IMAX claims they made them "30% quieter."

Which is a bit like when I inquired about an $8,000 treatment and explained that I had 0 money and the doctor offered me a 30% coupon.

So whyyyyyy?

It's heavy. It's loud. It doesn't offer better image quality.

I think it is just because film is cool and he doesn't want it to die.

I wish he would stop saying unscientific things about the magical 15/70mm film and just say "Because it is fucking cool."

I'm sold. That works for me.

By using the most extreme film camera, he brings attention to the use of film. He inspires people to learn about it and maybe even use it in their personal photography. (Film photography is very popular right now.) And he makes other big Hollywood directors think they can manage the pain in the ass of film as well.

I'm glad Nolan is this stubborn and willing to take on the challenges of using the heaviest and loudest cameras in existence.

The large format quality is good enough that it will be preserved well. We won't have a Star Wars crisis where people are trying to stitch together degraded 40 year old film to make sure Han shot first.

An 18K scan of IMAX will stand the test of time.

That doesn't mean IMAX is 18K or any other K.

The Ks don't matter! Stop talking about 18K! All you reddit r/IMAX nerds need to calm down about the Ks.

Talk about them sweet, sweet gradients.

Film is a variable resolution medium. If it is dark and you are using a Russian lens from the 50s, you might be getting 3K IMAX. You could have one scene from two angles be completely different resolutions. It's fine. No one is complaining that a movie isn't Kenough.

The only thing "scanned in 18K" means is that all of the detail will be well preserved, including that sexy grain structure.

Nice.