#this is a second time i made a presentation of him

[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.

[ysaefinn]

Knight!Suguru x bratty!royal!reader

Okay then, I hear you loud and clear.

Sit with me and think of a royal reader that is the middle ground. Scheming but there's definitely a generous amount of attitude for spice. A brat.

But oh does it work wonders for you, most times. Leaning on a hip, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like whatever outrageous demands you've just made were your god given right, yours just as the crown. The harsh flashing light reflecting off your jewels works like a brain-melting hypnosis. "Yes, your highness!" "But of course, your highness!" "As you please your highness!" Ah- Music to your ears. The world at the palm of your hand.

Hmmm but only most times. Your knight seems to be immune to your spell.

Suguru has made it crystal clear the very first time you tried pulling one of your trusty reliable tricks.

Hands on your hips, rolling your eyes, and teasing him about being 'Oh so cruel' and 'not knowing how to have fun' when he stood between you and the kitchen window you tried sneaking out of in the middle of the night. Unmoving like a brick wall with a polite little smile that could melt gold on his undeniably handsome features– one you wouldn't say you could confidently read. The moonlight contouring his beastly build.

He looks like a big bad hound watching over the gates, his no was as polite as can be, but it was absolute. –Alright then change of strategy–

Batting your eyelashes. One delicate finger slowly creeps up his chest. His breath visibly hitches and he looks almost enamored, clearly lost in the attention. Great! Time to go for the kill! You get on your tippy toes, faces mere inches away from each other. And with the sweetest tone you could muster, you begin "Won't you let me get my way just this once?" A second, another, Suguru is heavily breathing then he... smiles-! Wider than he usually would before placing a big arm over the small of your back. Perfect! He's definitely in your pocket no–OhHuh?! With a swift move, he throws you over his shoulder and starts making his way to your sleeping chambers. "Nice try, but I'm afraid I can't overlook this in particular. Their majesties' orders, I'm very sorry Your Highness. It's quite late after all, we wouldn't want you to miss out on any sleep, now would we?"

Un-be-lievable. Absolutely outrageous. But you swear the heat and redness of your face were results of being caught off guard, nothing much!

It's quite frustrating really. Seems you've met your match. But if anything, it just clears your doubts. From the moment you shook hands with your newly appointed guard do– body guard –ever so thoughtfully appointed by the Monarch–You figured that he won't be so willing to join your endless collection of marionettes. It makes your eye twitch really. You've always been the child who threw tantrums when your noble playmates wouldn't hand over their toys despite having mountains of trinkets already. He is an exception, the enemy of absolute control. A threat, but one that you can't deny is very very enticing.

He wouldn't flat out tell you to act right of course! Perish the thought, he was but a servant! You hold the cards! You are the hand that swings the sword! But he'll find ways. He's very indulging and sweet –it honestly feels sincere– but his messages are received nonetheless.

A sweet gentle smile always present as he tuts and politely reminds you to cut your lady in waiting some slack. To go easy on your maids for misplacing one of your countless rings. To turn a blind eye on the very miniscule alteration made to your breakfast. Maybe he oversteps every now and then. A weird look; a raised eyebrow; a little snicker. The most he has ever gone was playfully threatening to 'tell your father how bad you were being if you kept acting up' not like the king isn't at the palm of your hand as well. But still.

Audacious.

It's like his heart is armored as well!! Why doesn't he listen? Why doesn't anything work? Everyone else is mindlessly dancing to your tune so you know for a fact you haven't lost your magic just yet. What's so different about this man? How does he not only manage to stay untouched but also leave a clear mark on you back?

You almost want to obey, to be good, maybe you'll even get a reward if you let yourself fall into his arms. What if he lets you run your hands over his strong arms and feel up his firm body you've always been so curious about? What if you get the chance to touch his long gorgeous inky hair? What if he lets you doze off on his soft ches-

...

This cannot be happening.

Seems it can though. It didn't take you too long to recognize the longing look in his eyes, clear boundaries were never set, blurred lines were his gateway, and you knew love when you saw it. Before you know it you were inviting him to spend the night with you almost on the daily, kissing him on empty halls, pressing your entire body against him while holding his bicepts during your walks in the garden, he'd hold you in his lap under the shade of tree deep in the woods away from prying eyes, pluck fresh fruit off the trees and hand freed them to you slice by dutiful slice, he replaces your heavy crowns with lighter softer alternatives made with flowers.

He even promised to marry you.

Lovers or not, he will always be your knight. And you were his to serve, his to protect.

And his to correct, on occasion.

It was his fault really. This was bound to happen eventually. Nothing is set in stone and the crown heir must prove themselves worthy –Something you excelled at. It was something he admired you for, truly! You're clever, very aware of your strengths and use them to your advantage, the perfect leader, he loved you for it...just not now.

A shiny carriage from the west arrives early in the morning. Out emerges a new shiny toy, a prince gift wrapped in silks and gold –you always loved shiny. The royal foreigner makes his way not to your father, not your mother, but directly to you. And Suguru might be a brute good-for-nothing soldier, but it doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together, this is the suitor your parents have chosen for you. The firstborn prince of esteemed royal birth, from a country that is nothing to scoff at, of course, this is happening. A marriage of convenience to strengthen the bonds between the nations someting something the fishing industry isn't what it used to–Oh piss off.

Suguru is right at your side when the obnoxiously sparkling man finally comes to a stop before you, he is right there beside you when he holds your gloved hand and places a kiss at your knuckles, and he is right there when you –without missing a beat– giggle at the gesture and bat your lashes right back at him.

Suguru's body freezes, then his jaw clenches and snaps back to place and he can't help but snarl.

Guard dog. One in dire need of a leash.

He knows you have no choice but to play along, he knows that you marrying another man is the most likely outcome. But he is selfish enough not to care, he wants to pull you close by the waist, tuck you underneath his chin and send the envoy back to wherever he came from. He is your knight, and you are just as much his. It wouldn't have been a problem if this were only one of your many masterful performances, he wouldn't have minded much. What you have with Suguru was real, not a business move, not a transaction.

But it still itches at his core.

No matter how many times you reassure him that it was all fake, no matter how many times he pins you the walls of your room and makes you repeat declarations of love, no matter how much you promise that you'll get rid of the foreign prince, that you'll get in your father's head, that you'll do something, anything. Suguru is still very much bothered.

It's never enough, nothing puts him at ease. Every time you finish a conversation with a kiss to his forehead and walk away to be with that other man, it feels as if Suguru's wounds were stitched without taking away all of the cancer. It never mattered whether it was real or not. Suguru is a selfish man, and a greedier lover.

And you came to find this out after an incredibly inappropriate night of wine and poetry with your supposed future husband.

Come on. You were pushing it at this point. How could you think he wouldn't be feining to claw into your newest toy by now?

But poor you. Couldn't have been caught at a worse time. Frustrated from having to shush an aggressive snarling attack dog on an almost daily basis and being a little tipsy from the alcohol, clearly having forgotten your manners near the empty bottles of wine before coming back to your real man, you waste no time tearing into him about how whiny and needy he has been, how he has no basis to any of these accusations he's throwing around so carelessly, how it shouldn't even bother him this much anyway as he is nothing but a servant to you, and that he should to act like one.

His to protect. His to serve. His to correct.

So...act like a servant? Your word is law, Your Highness!

You don't know how or when exactly you found yourself pinned to the wall with your wrists tightly held together and dwarfed by one big hand, while the other tightly grips your tummy keeping you frozen in place.

"W-what do you think you're doing-?!" "Act like one, huh?" He moves to kiss you all messy and rough, for the first time in weeks, undoing all the progress that pest may think he had made.

He pulls away leaving you warm and needy.

"S-Suguru I'm–"

"Be quiet" he snaps, yet he doesn't raise his voice, he sounds calm and controlled, but Oh so betrayed. You've possibly done irreversible damage to the man who adores you most."You've said enough, listen to me very closely" his glaring hurts so good this is a new side of him you aren't too guilty you lured out of the shadows. "Whether or not you'd like to admit it. I am your man." It sounds more like a judge's verdict than a knight's oath.

"I'm not one of your little toys. I'm your husband" and it sounds so right, you didn't know how much you needed to hear it.

"But sure. I'll indulge you, Your Highness." but this felt like a slap to the face in all honesty, you worked really hard to get him to use your name, the title was only a little bit between the two of you at this point, but he has never said it with more venom than now.

"I'll act like your knight once more, and teach you some manners."

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Obsidian [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds (The Void) x reader

wc: 3k

summary: Bob loves you, but he’s trapped by his own fears and silence. Void, the shadow of his pain, confronts you with the burden he carries—leaving you scared and unsure of what comes next.

warnings: complex emotional themes, mental health struggles, ambiguous supernatural presence, mentions of intense psychological tension, choking (not in the good way, lol) mild language, no explicit violence or sexual content.

masterlist part 1 part 3

Wait for a part three (and final) titled "cobalt" soon with the resolution of this focusing on Bob!

Several days had passed since that night with Sentry, but the memory of it had not faded.

Sometimes it returned in the form of a fleeting image: the liquid gold of his eyes, the contained weight of his gaze, the impossible calm he'd brought with him. Other times, it returned as an awkward silence between Bob and you. One neither of you could name, but one that felt more present than any conversation.

You hadn't mentioned anything to him and had tried, as best you could, to maintain a normal demeanor around Bob. The conversation with his alter ego wasn't something he was aware of, so bringing up the fact that he was in love with you would have felt strange and invasive. Of course, as the days went by, you began to notice tiny actions that hid in the everyday and revealed the feeling.

Sentry wasn't lying when he told you Bob was watching you all the time. Not in a stalker way, of course, but the truth is you'd caught him staring at you more than once when he thought you were distracted.

At times, it even seemed like he avoided you. You thought maybe he didn't know how to handle his affection, which was why he preferred to stay quiet and distant. But little by little, you gained ground. After discovering that he seemed more shy in groups, the times you approached him were often alone, usually to talk about trivial matters.

Some days, you were kind enough to leave a treat in the cupboard for when he had a sweet tooth. You made his tea, shared your meal, or helped him with chores.

However, his signals were too confusing. One day he was laughing with you, chatting like never before, his eyes shining with joy. The next, he barely said hello to you in the morning, spending all day in his room, and his glances seemed to carry reproach rather than tenderness. You couldn't tell what was going on in his head, or why his ambivalent behavior toward you, but you were trying your best. To be patient. To wait for him to be ready, as the golden boy had said.

On one of those afternoons, you didn't expect anything to be different. You were sitting on the floor, one leg tucked under you and the other stretched out, while you idly flipped through a report you'd found on the table.

Bucky was on the couch, lying sideways, one leg dangling over the edge. He held a steaming mug and spoke leisurely, with the raspy voice of someone who'd spent the day giving orders.

“…and when we opened the door, the guy was eating cereal. With a half-assembled rocket launcher on the table. As if that were the most normal thing in the world.”

“Cereal?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Cereal. With banana. And without milk.”

“That’s his real crime.”

“The real crime was him pointing the spoon at me like it was a gun.”

Your laugh was instant, clean, so natural that John—who had just walked in with a bottle of water and a towel over his shoulders—stopped for a second to listen.

“What are you two laughing about?”

“Bucky tells me about a weird guy with a rocket launcher and…”

“Cereal,” John finished, tossing the towel over a chair.

“You were with him, weren’t you?”

The soldier nodded.

“Bucky froze when he saw it. I thought the guy had brained him out.”

“I was just processing the scene,” Bucky defended himself, smiling. “Sometimes it’s harder when there’s no blood. It confuses me.”

“And what did you do?” you asked John.

“I took the spoon away. I offered him oatmeal. And I handcuffed him.”

You laughed again, louder now. You leaned your forehead against your bent knee, still laughing, and when you looked up, Bucky was already staring at you. Not in a stuffy, awkward way. Just… attentive. As if watching your laughter was something worth memorizing.

“You should let me go with you sometime,” you said. “Sounds like fun.”

“You wouldn’t survive,” John murmured, with a half smile.

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Because you'd befriend the cereal guy before we could arrest him.”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Bucky added. “She has that look that says, ‘I’m listening to you, but I’m really analyzing your weaknesses.’”

“What I have is a good memory,” you replied in a mocking tone, “And a high threshold for human stupidity.”

John laughed and plopped down on the couch next to you. He offered you the bottle, which you accepted without hesitation. Bucky gave you a knowing look.

“You see? That’s why we want you around. You have a tactical spirit.”

“And because you're small. Everyone makes the mistake of dismissing you as a threat,” John added.

“That’s true,” you said, raising the bottle in a toast. “My real secret weapon.”

Bucky chuckled softly, more to himself. Then, in a quieter tone, not intending to be overheard by everyone, he said:

“It’s weird talking to you. I don’t usually laugh like this with anyone.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, smiling softly.

“You should do it more often. Even if it’s not with me.”

He looked down for a second, almost blushing.

And across the room, Bob turned the page. Again. Without having read the previous one.

He didn't look directly at you or participate in the conversation, but he felt everything. The natural flow of your laughter with them. The ease with which Bucky made you let your guard down. The way John touched your arm to emphasize a joke.

He wanted to get closer, but the more he thought about the idea, the more absurd it seemed. It wasn't that any of the three of you were doing anything wrong, it was just... you being yourselves. You could speak calmly, fluently, as if you didn't even have to think about what you were saying. Bucky was a more than experienced super soldier. Walker was another super soldier, although younger, a little more charismatic than his partner. And you seemed happy listening to them. Admiring them.

After a while, you noticed Bob get up from his seat, put his book on the table, and walk toward the hallway. You thought it was strange.

You would have liked to follow him, even without knowing the reasons for his departure, but you thought maybe he wanted to be alone. You never suspected anything had bothered him. There was no reason to think so.

When night fell, things got complicated.

Lying in your bed, you felt restless. At first, it was mild, as if the air in your room had thickened. You'd tried to distract yourself by reading, scrolling through something on your phone, or simply wasting time between empty notifications, but you couldn't focus. You felt a subtle buzzing, like static electricity seeping into the edges of your thoughts. The room was silent, and yet, something vibrated in the air as if you weren't alone.

You convinced yourself it was exhaustion. You tried to sleep, but when you couldn't, you resorted to some insomnia pills that had been forgotten in a drawer on your counter. It took you almost an hour to fall asleep.

It was in the middle of the night that you felt an abrupt change in the atmosphere. You woke up without warning, your chest tight with a surge of fear. Then you saw it.

It wasn't an apparition, nor a clear voice. It was a presence. Cold, like a shadow creeping under a door. Like an absence so absolute it ended up being more tangible than any body. You didn't know if you had closed your eyes for a moment or if the room had darkened on its own, but something in you recognized the energy before your mind could name it.

The room had no open doors, but it didn't matter. Because Void didn't just walk in. He flooded in. Sneaking into your room the same way he did into your mind: stealthily, without asking any kind of permission.

“Who’s there?” you stammered.

The question was awkward. You already knew the answer.

“You still pretend not to know.”

The voice sounded deep, not guttural or monstrous… but soft, too soft. Like torn silk.

“You’re not here,” you whispered. “I must be dreaming. You… can’t.”

“But here I am.” A pause. Then, more slowly: “Like all the thoughts he tries to bury.”

You felt it then. The oppression. The way the air seemed to lean in one direction, as if something invisible was breathing with you. Your skin prickled.

"What do you want?"

“Nothing. Why do you always think I come here for something?” A shadow darker than darkness itself moved across the wall, as if testing the limits of space. “I just came to see you. To understand what’s so special about the thing that keeps me contained.”

“Bob…”

“No. I’m not Bob. He has nothing to do with this.”

For a moment, the shadow moved closer to the edge of the bed, as if it could materialize, but still refused to take shape. You breathed heavily.

"He's sick with you."

"Don't say that."

“Why not? Because it makes it sound… twisted? Like loving you hurts him.” He laughed. It was a hollow sound. “Well, yes. It does.”

You stood there silently, unsure whether to move, whether to speak. Void continued.

“He looks at you as if you were an unattainable promise. As if simply getting close to you is a betrayal of what he believes you deserve. And yet… he can't help it.”

“I’ve never asked him for anything,” you replied. “I don’t… I’m not doing it to hurt him.”

“I know. That’s why it hurts more.”

You felt the mattress give way. Not because of the weight of anything corporeal, but because of the way the darkness seemed to thicken. As if a faceless presence were sitting next to you.

“I saw you laugh today. With them.”

He didn't say their names. He didn't have to. That's when Bob's withdrawal made sense in your head.

“So easy, so comfortable. Dazzled. As if you were part of their world. As if they understood you.”

“They are my friends.”

"Of course."

The sarcasm was palpable.

A shudder ran through you as you felt him closer. Not physically, but… emotionally. Breaking through an invisible barrier you didn't even know you had.

“He loves you, you know?”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“And why not? Because I'm not him, right? Because you're uncomfortable with the truth coming from a monster.”

A silence.

“Do you think he’s the only victim in all of this? No. He represses. He holds back. He keeps quiet. But all of it… everything he can’t tell you, everything he won’t allow himself to feel, he throws at me. Every thought that shames him, every desire that makes him hate himself, every image of you in his head that he can’t shake off—I carry it.”

Suddenly, you heard his low voice, even closer. That calmness in his speech hurt more than a scream.

"And you know what the worst part is? He does it without guilt. As if I don't feel anything. As if I'm just a pit to dump everything that breaks him. All the shit he can't deal with."

You swore you felt his gaze. But not like Bob's. Never like Bob's.

“I hear everything. I feel everything. He just looks down. But inside, he's screaming. And those screams, he leaves them for me. While he smiles at you, he vomits his guilt at me.”

There's a pause, as if measuring how much more he can let go without breaking.

“Every time he tells himself he doesn't have the right to touch you. Every time he imagines what it would be like to touch you, to kiss you, to have you... and then hates himself for wanting it. Every time he punishes himself for feeling what he feels. He throws it at me. He forces it on me.”

A shadow slid up your arm. You didn't feel a hand, but you did feel a slight chill, as if something were barely gliding over your skin. It wasn't lascivious. It was… analytical.

“And having you here, in front of me, I see you so soft… so alive.”

A shiver ran through your entire body.

“You can’t touch me”

“What if I don’t want to touch you?” his raspy voice spoke. “What if I just want to understand why he thinks he can’t have you?”

You turned toward the void. There was no face. But you felt it as close as if it were breathing on you.

“Why are you angry?”

“Because I exist for him. Because he breaks himself in two so he doesn't love you too much… and yet he loves you more than he can bear.”

A long, uncomfortable silence.

“And you don’t do anything. You just smile. You speak softly to him. As if it doesn’t hurt. As if he could stand it.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

You were sincere. First, Sentry came to tell you to love him back, and now Void came, scolding you that any attempt to do so was only hurting Bob.

“Maybe nothing. But what if I told you that every time you talk to him, you make me stronger?”

His words slid like blades wrapped in velvet.

“Because you can’t love a man who hates himself.”

And then you felt it. The shadows rose. Like invisible fingers, like branches of smoke that lightly tangled around your arms, your waist, your hips. He was touching you—if you could even call it that—in the way only a lover is allowed to. You couldn't pull away; you didn't know if it was out of fear or because, in some sick way, his caresses were enjoyable.

An inexplicable force compelled you to lie back on the mattress so he could continue exploring you. You felt those fingers—cold and sharp—ride over the soft flesh of your breasts, covered by your pajama top. It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a strong, hard… possessive one.

You held back a moan, one that would have revealed both pleasure and fear, as you felt his presence near your warm core; he spread your legs wildly, gripping your thighs just enough to tease, but not satisfy.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this? Not the pleasure. The stillness. The silence of your body breathing next to his. And knowing it won’t be real is what shapes me.”

There was silence. Then you felt as if he were breathing against your lips.

“He likes you,” the raspy, thick voice made you shiver. “But I need you.”

You were unable to say anything. His hands, still planted firmly on your body, began tracing the curves of your sides up your chest. They ended at your neck. They didn't hurt at first. But they chilled you. And then... they began to squeeze.

"What are you doing?"

Your question went unanswered. A second later, you began to breathe heavily. His presence surrounded you. The invisible hands weren't physical, but they choked you just the same. Not out of force. Out of guilt.

Desperate, you raised both hands to try to free yourself from his grasp, but it was useless. It wasn't something you could touch; it was beyond the tangible. The pressure seemed to come from within, as if your throat were closing on its own.

"Stop…"

“Are you scared now?” his voice softened, as if he truly regretted something. The lack of air made you close your eyes. “It’s not you I want to suffocate. It’s hunger. It’s myself.”

He confessed in your ear. You wanted to ask him to stop, but there wasn't enough air left to form a sentence.

“But you are so close…”

The whisper dissolved into the air like smoke, and then the silence became absolute. Not the silence of a still room, but the silence of an abyss containing all the unspoken things.

The shadows did not retreat.

The cold wasn't just on the surface anymore: it was inside you, spreading through your ribs like a dark tide that was slowly draining you. It wasn't painful. It was worse. It was the sensation of being sucked in.

There was no face. There was no breath. But you could feel his desperation enveloping everything.

The pressure on your throat fluctuated. It wasn't constant, as if he were hesitating. As if every attempt to pull away from you only dragged him deeper into his need to have you near.

Your numb fingers tried to find something to hold on to. A corner of the mattress, the seam of the sheet, anything. But there was no anchor possible when emptiness was what sustained you.

Soon the suffocation, though not complete, became constant. Air came in drips and drips. Your body began to give in to fatigue. And you couldn't even process the situation enough to feel afraid of dying.

It was right there, at that edge, that you felt him stop. The shadows flickered. As if on that last line, where only surrender or destruction remained, he didn't know which to choose.

Then he let you go.

Your breathing returned suddenly, raspy, clumsy, wet with tears you didn't remember shedding. Your hands trembled. And he was still there. Not moving.

The shadow seemed hunched. Surrendered. You might even say resigned.

“He’ll wake up again without knowing I was here,” you suddenly heard. It had become just the echo of a voice in the room again. “But you… you won’t forget.”

He stood there for a few more seconds, wavering, suspended between shadow and reality. Then he began to fade away little by little, like smoke carried by an invisible breeze. The cold in the room gradually dissipated, but the emptiness it left behind continued to throb in your chest, deeper than any visible wound.

You were left alone, trembling, tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks. Fear tangled with worry, and although silence returned, his presence continued to pierce your mind.

You didn't know what would happen to Bob, or what part of him had been trapped in that darkness that now seemed to have visited you. But you did know that, for the first time, you felt more lost than ever.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan @wtfhasmy-lifecometo @calzone-d @jessyimpala @p34ch-tr33 @meiluu

[c4tluver02]

party mishaps

wc: 3.2k

summary: You and Steve go to Tommy's party, it's fun and you two have a a great time. That is until a drink is spilt on you and Steve gets flashbacks from the last time this happened.

cw: r wearing a bra, r being shorter than Steve, drinking, partying, being drunk, hurt/comfort, slight fight (so small barely), happy ending, fluffff

When Steve told you about the party happening tonight you immediately agreed to going. It would be the first outing you have as a couple. 

Of course people knew you were dating, and it wasn't like you hid it from the world. Anyone who walked past you could tell you were dating– Steve always had an arm around you  or a hand shoved in your back pocket. 

But for the people who see you around school, the girls who talk behind your back about how Steve used to be, it meant something. Because you would be able to finally show off how strong you and Steve are. The relationship being somewhat new but solid nonetheless. 

You knew about his past relationships, how the meaningless sex made him feel, what Nancy did to him. None of it was lost on you, the things Steve has had to put up with. 

That's why when he calls you asking you to come over you do. And when it’s just you and him in his empty house he finally starts to feel warm. Like the feeling of another being is bringing him back to life. What once was a house with bones is now filled with a heart and soul, something it severely lacked without you. 

And when it’s late at night, your legs are tangled with his, he finally asks. This party he wants you to attend would be hosted by Tommy and Carol so you wouldn't be alone. You think he knows that's barely a selling point, not really friends with them, but still him letting you know was nice to hear. 

Steve doesn't really go to parties anymore, and for him to ask you to come felt like a big step. You know Steve, if you aren't into it he has no problem leaving. Plus it would be nice to have a fun night out with him, one that involves you getting into a cute outfit and hearing compliments on how pretty you look.

–

As you got ready for the party you heard Steve open the door, his keys make a loud noise when they hit the glass bowl. 

“Baby?” His voice booms even louder.

“M’upstairs!” 

The staircase is just as loud, the old wood creaks with every step he takes. 

“I just talked to Tommy, apparently people are already getting there, whatever happened to being fashionably late?” He stops at your door with a hip pop and a hand to rest there. 

You are putting on a necklace in front of your mirror but your hair keeps getting in the way, making it hard.

“Want help?” 

“Please.” You give him the necklace as you lift up your hair. Once he clasps it together he gives your shoulder a small kiss. 

Your outfit consisted of a tank top and a jean skirt, not wanting to be too uncomfortable but still look presentable. Anything that shows you legs will have Steve begging for you so it’s a win either way. 

“You look really pretty.” He says as he gives you a full look up and down. He’s leaning against your bed frame and you won't lie he looks even better. 

“Thank you” You turn around giving him a long awaited kiss. “Are you ready to go?” You never do your lipstick until you’re in Steve's car for this very reason. 

“Yeah, let's go.” His hand gives your hand a small squeeze before you turn to walk towards the door.

Steve opens the car door for you like the gentleman he is, and even gives you another kiss once you’re settled in with your seatbelt on. You can see him stare at your legs for a split second. 

“You feeling some Beatles or maybe Madonna?” You ask sorting through his many tapes. He’s already getting into the driver's seat as you ask.

“Whatever you want honey, it’s not too far away.” His hand is already on your thigh. 

Despite his comment about the distance his humming to the songs is loud. Long fingers drumming against your warm thigh, soft from a lotion he always says is his favorite smell. Steve loves to sing in the car, and thankfully he’s not bad at it. On your third date he sang you a song from a tape he made and you felt your heart double in size. 

When you turn into Tommys street you can already hear the loud music. Multiple cars park around his house and Steve gets lucky that his car is just small enough for a spot. As he helps you out of the car you can hear a loud whistle come from the other side of the street. It’s two old guys who are sitting in plastic chairs with a beer in hand– other alcoholic drinks surround them. 

Steve flips them off and walks behind you the whole way to the door. When walking into the house the music only gets louder and colorful lights appear on the walls. It’s not pitch black but it certainly isn't brightly lit, allowing people to make out in corners without being spotted. 

“D’you want a drink?” Steve asks, hand grabbing onto your own. 

You give him a nod as you run your nails up and down his arm. The last thing you want to do is be separated by Steve, even if it’s to get a drink. The old guys already got you in a bad mood. 

Steve is really great at making drinks, he always knows exactly how much you want or what flavors you would like. As he makes it you take a chance to look around at the people dancing. Sweaty bodies grinding against other sweaty bodies, not a care in the world. You see some girls from your english class, if all else fails you could always talk to them. 

Steve’s hand on your waist brings you back to him, a pinkish drink is in his reached out hand. 

“I added pink lemonade, if it’s still too bitter let me know.” 

You give him a small ‘thank you’ that he 100% doesn't hear but his eyes were already on your lips, easily reading them. He grabs a beer for himself, using the edge of the counter to take the lid off. 

The drink is a little bitter but not anything you can't handle. When you see Carol walk your way you already know you’re gonna need a few more of these pink drinks. She’s wearing an extremely short dress, one you’re sure Tommy yelled at her for wearing. She’s probably only wearing it to rebel against him, the way it pushes her boobs up and together looks extremely uncomfortable, like it's just a size or two too small but still she fits. 

“Hey you two! Have you seen Tommy?” The slur mixed with her speech tells you all you need to know. 

“Nope, we just got here. He’s probably smoking out back.” Steve answers, sipping on his beer. 

“He quit smoking, no way he’s back there.” She says looking through the crowd of people. It gives you a second to look at Steve as he shakes his head at you, as if to say ‘no he didn't’. 

Her drunk state probably isn't helping her look so you take her hand and make your way through the crowd. Steve is talking to some guys in the kitchen but his eyes are still on you. 

“Where did you last see him?” You are already almost done with your drink, the small glass plus ice did not give you much. 

“I went to get us drinks and he walked away.” She holds up the two bottles of beer in her hand, both opened ready to drink. 

Thankfully she isn't looking at the staircase because when you finally spot Tommy he’s with a blond girl walking down the steps. She presses a kiss to his cheek, lipstick leaving a print, and in seconds you are trying to think of a way to get Carol away so you can pull them apart. 

But her head turns too fast, her gaze follows yours, and she's already caught them. Her hand rips away from yours as she stomps over to the two people. The blond is quick to walk away, not wanting to be part of the whole fight, probably just wanting a guy to take home. When Carol dumps the beer on Tommy you walk away too, something you also don't want to get involved with. 

Steve is still in the kitchen talking to the same people you saw him with when you left a few minutes ago. But this time a new pink drink is sitting next to his beer, all perfect and ready for you. Putting the old glass in the sink you pick up the new one, it doesn't have as much ice, or maybe it’s melted from your time away. This one is stronger, the alcohol hits you quickly, making your eyes pinch together as you shake your head. 

“Too much?” Steve asks with a laugh. His arm snakes around your waist again. 

“Nope, perfect, thank you.” This time he hears you say it, faces so close together he just has to give you a kiss. 

Before you can deepen it he lets go. “Did Carol find Tommy?” You’re practically leaning your body against him, going completely limp into him. 

“Yep, with another girl.” His eyes widen and then roll. The shock lasted about 2 seconds before it wore off. 

You don't even give him a chance to say anything back, going in for another kiss. This time it’s deeper, longer, and says more. But the sound of another person entering the kitchen forces you two apart, Steve grabs your glass off the counter. 

“Hey, if you two need to use my room you can.” Tommy says with a wink. His shirt is completely soaked from the beer Carol dumped on him, the kiss print still bright on his cheek. 

Steve just gives him a small nod as he takes your hand to get you two out of the kitchen. Now that it’s taken over by Tommy you need a new spot. He nods when you point to a couch in the corner of the room, a nice lamp stands next to it, meant for a reading nook. It’s quite small, really only fitting two people or maybe one person who puts their legs out. Still it works for you both, turning on the lamp is a huge plus. Every other light in this house, besides the kitchen, is multi-colored so the nice warmth is appreciated. 

The more you and Steve talk in that corner the more the drinks flow. Every once in a while you’ll get up to get two beers, when Steve gets up he comes back with a beer and a new colorful drink. The longer you sit on the couch the less you care about the drinks and more about the effect it gives. 

You start to get up again, ready for another drink but this time Steve pulls you back down. He says something as you land back on the seat but you can't hear it, it makes you tap on your ear hoping he gets the gist. 

“No more okay?” He yells into your ear, the current song playing is way louder than the others. 

And the pout he receives is deadly. Your already glassy eyes become more prominent, the lip you stick out is lightly red from your leftover lipstick, and the whine that leaves you isn't missed on him. He should really cut you off but when has Steve ever been able to deny that face? 

Although you were originally trying to get it, he decides it’s best you stay seated. Your body is loosey goosey thanks to the alcohol, not a good way to walk around a crowded room. 

When he comes back with two drinks the smile is back on your face. After this Steve will man up and say no to you but for now he lets you chug the bottle down with no argument. He wants you to have fun after all, tomorrow you will hate yourself for it but right now the smile on your face is so pretty. He wishes he brought his camera you look so good, even all drunk and messy with your legs thrown over his lap. His hand is warm on your thigh keeping your skirt in place so it doesn't roll up and when you notice he isn't even touching his new bottle you make grabby hands for it. 

He lifts it up high so you can't reach, shorter than him sitting down and your arms are not as long enough to grab it. 

So when you swiftly move your legs off of his lap and stand you can reach it with ease. Grabbing onto the neck of the bottle, trying to get it your way. It all happened so quick, Steve was just playing around. But when you yank too hard on the neck it tips and all of the liquid falls out onto you. Similarly to Tommy, it soaks your chest, the white shirt you have on becoming see through. You’re left sticky and shiny with tears filling your eyes. 

You forcefully push yourself away from Steve and he catches you before you tumble backwards. His hands grabbing onto your wrists tightly. This only makes you angrier. You struggle to get away from him but his grip is too tight. 

Steve is getting the worst flashbacks from his last party of spilling a drink on his date. The way it ended, the words said, it all came back to him so fast. If you were in a normal state of mind you would be aware of this, probably not even mad about a drink spilt by Steve. But with the alcohol coursing through you and the drunk state of mind none of that comes through. 

“C’mere let's go to the bathroom.” His hands move from your wrists to your hips, pushing you both through the crowd. He’s too strong for you to pull away from, especially in your wasted state. 

It’s crazy how much the bathroom door blocks out the loud music. It’s like you can finally think again and you can even hear his sigh as he looks at the two of you in the mirror. Despite the slight smudge of mascara and the loss of lipstick you look pretty much the same. Except your shirt is now showing your bra and the shine from the beer is glowing from the light. 

“Will you let me help you clean up?” He’s still looking at you through the mirror, you stand there with your arms crossed thinking. You really aren't terribly upset, it’s not like he was mad at you like Carol was with Tommy. It was an accident, but still it happened and you were just trying to have fun. There was no need for him to be such a party crasher, even if he was just looking out for you, you know when you need to stop. 

Still you give him a nod as you turn to face him, he brings his hands back to your hips. You know what he's doing from your few times of making out in bathrooms. He says a little ‘jump’ as he lifts you up onto the sink counter. Slipping himself into your legs, all in your personal space. 

He grabs a hand towel from below the sink and wets it. Neither of you are talking and the fact that you're so drunk your boyfriend has to clean you up is making you want to cry again. This was not how the night was supposed to go, you two were having such a nice time talking and dancing to the music. 

“I'm sorry baby, I really am.” He gently lifts your chin so you can look at him. His eyes are downturned, the sad expression that takes over his face is enough to have you break as well. 

“I’m sorry too, I didn't mean to drink so much. I was just having fun.” 

Steve can't help but think about how different this is to him and Nancy. Both of you apologizing even though nothing was done on purpose, neither of you have done anything wrong. No mentions of how your relationship was bullshit or you that weren't actually in love. 

The towel is nice and cold against your burning skin, he’s being so soft with you in this moment. You want to kiss him, the only time you are put onto bathroom counters is to kiss so it’s weird that you feel like you can't. 

“I’ll grab a shirt from Tommy’s room, you wanna wear mine?” The last thing Steve wants to happen is for the old pervs outside to see your completely see through white tank top. 

“Yeah, good idea.” He gives you a small smile and you feverishly give one back. 

He pats your thighs as he leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him. You hop back down on the ground and take your shirt off, allowing you to get more of the beer that is still on you. Now that a million people aren't surrounding you, you’re getting really cold. Goosebumps litter your skin and at the moment all you want to do is go home with Steve. 

When he comes back he is wearing a plain black shirt, the one he just had on in his hands. 

“Are you okay?” His voice comes out heart achingly sincere.

“M’okay, thank you.” Your arms wrap around him as you pull him into a hug. The beer also got your bra and he can feel how cold it is through his t-shirt. 

His hands rub up and down your back in hopes to warm you up and you giggle. 

“That tickles.” It murmured into his chest. 

“Let's get this shirt on and we can go yeah?” 

You nod letting go of him and he puts the shirt over your head. Each arm slips in their respective place and he opens the door, music and lights hit you immediately and it makes you even happier to get out of here. 

An arm wraps around your shoulders and both of you make your way to the car. It was a good idea for Steve to give you his shirt because the old men are still there, this time with even more bottles around them. 

When both of you get settled into the car you turn towards Steev and it makes him pause. 

“Kisses?” You ask, puckering your lips. 

He breaks into a smile, the famous Steve Harringotn one that took your heart the second you first saw it. His hands grab onto your cheeks and he pulls you into him. The kiss is passionate and strong, you are still drunk though so when you let out another giggle Steve doesn't hold you to it. 

He starts the car and puts it in drive as you kiss along his neck. You’re a big distraction when he’s driving home but it doesn't matter. When you get home he’ll run a bath for you and the spilt drink won't even be thought of. 

[sharieb]

hello! just wanted to say I LOVEEE the way you do non-mc content. that being said could i request a headcanon on: lets say non-mc and the LI’s broke up because the dudes were still hung up on MC (they end up regretting it lol). then later on see non-mc in public who has moved on to someone else who is doing everything they guys failed to do.

The One Who Never Got It Right

Pairing: LADs x Non-Mc reader Genre: Angst (Breakup regrets) Writer's notes: Thought I could be getting more fluffs to do, but instead I got slapped in the face with this one, welp, no rest for the wicked, I guess 😅

He sees you across the bustling Skyhaven terminal—laughing, radiant, clinging to the arm of someone who isn’t him.

The man by your side is kind-eyed, attentive. He holds your bag, listens intently, and actually smiles when you talk. He doesn’t look distracted or distant—he’s there. Present.

Caleb halts mid-stride, fingers curling around the edge of his datapad. For a moment, it’s like the mission debrief in his hand doesn’t even exist.

He remembers every time he cut conversations short, gave you half his presence, let you walk beside him in silence because his mind was always elsewhere—on MC.

He thought you didn’t notice. That you’d wait. That maybe you’d always be around until he figured himself out.

Now you’re smiling in ways he never earned.

The worst part? You glance his way. See him. Then look away just as easily, returning to your conversation without missing a beat.

He used to be the safe place. Now, he's just a distant name in your past.

Later that night, he types a message to you. Deletes it. Writes it again.

In the end, he just stares at your contact photo for hours, then shuts off the holoscreen. And for the first time in a long time, Caleb can’t strategise his way out of the ache in his chest.

Mission Log 6.14.3A — Deleted Draft I saw her today. Not MC. Her. The one who asked me to be present. To try. To stop living like the past was all I had left. I thought letting her go would make me noble. Thought I was sparing her the weight of being second to a ghost. But maybe she wasn’t second. Maybe I just never gave her the space to be first. And someone else did. I hope he keeps holding her the way I never learned how to. I hope he never makes her feel like a placeholder. …I hope she never looks back.

He saw you at a gallery opening.

You're dressed in something elegant, arm-in-arm with a gentle-faced man who looks at you like you're art incarnate.

The moment hits him like a palette knife to the ribs.

You’re glowing—not in a spotlight way, but in a quiet, contented kind of joy he never could give.

He flashes his usual grin to the crowd, but his fingers twitch at his side.

Because of that new guy? He’s whispering something in your ear. And you’re laughing. That laugh used to belong to Rafayel, once.

But he made jokes about still missing MC. Let you hear silence when you needed security. Let you fade beside someone else’s memory.

Now?

Someone else painting you with attention. Frames you with love.

He downs his champagne and pretends to care about the next exhibit, but he draws you three times from memory that night.

None of them capture your smile the way he just did.

He doesn’t stop drawing until dawn. Each page is more desperate than the last.

 Sketchbook Entry — Page Torn Out She asked me once what I thought love looked like. I told her it was impossible to capture - always shifting, always out of reach. But she caught it. She was it. And I? I framed her in glass and called it finished. She wanted a mess. Partnership. Splattered hands and stained shirts. I gave her monologues and empty wine glasses. I thought she was a phase. A warm red before I returned to ash. But she was permanent. I saw her smile today. It wasn’t for me. And for once, I couldn’t paint a damn thing.

He was leaning on the railing of a shadowed walkway, scanning the crowd below on a recon run, when he spotted you.

You're tucked into the side of someone unfamiliar—someone laughing with you, their hand laced with yours, feeding you a bite of something sweet.

The softness on your face is devastating. It used to be his. It was once the only softness he’d let himself keep.

He stays hidden, watching.

That guy kisses your knuckles. And you smile like you trust him completely.

His chest tightens, fingers twitching. He almost drops the comms unit in his hand.

You’d begged him once to try, to stop comparing you to MC. To see you. He hadn’t known how to let go back then. Now?

He’s thinking about how that man just wiped whipped cream from your lip without flinching—and how he never even learned your coffee order.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, pushing off the railing.

But he doesn’t go down there. He’s already done enough damage.

And this time… someone else didn’t waste the chance. He hates it. He admires it.

Mostly, he regrets that it wasn’t him who made you stay.

Encrypted Voice Log – Never Sent SYLUS.ENTRY_097.BURNOUT Timestamp: Corrupted “She looks better without me. You’d think that’d piss me off, wouldn’t you?” “It doesn’t.” “Not really.” “He holds her like he’s not afraid she’ll disappear. Like he’s not too busy sharpening knives to hold her with both hands.” “I didn’t know how to do that. Couldn’t stop chasing shadows.” “I told myself she was a game. A way to forget.” “But she was never small. Never temporary. She waited for me to look up. I never did.” “He did.” [long pause] “She’s not coming back. Good. Let her stay gone. Let her stay whole.”

It’s late in the museum observatory, and Xavier’s here to recalibrate a projection model—until he looks down from the upper dome and sees you.

You're walking hand-in-hand with someone else through the starlit halls. Laughing. Calm.

The person beside you spins you under their arm, and you twirl without hesitation, radiant under the artificial cosmos.

He stands frozen in the upper dome, unseen.

You once asked Xavier to dance. He hesitated, too quiet and too caught up in thoughts of MC to say yes.

But that stranger below? He didn’t hesitate at all.

And you look so light in his arms. So free.

Xavier leans his forehead against the glass, breathing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

His star map reboots beside him, scattering constellations. But for the first time, he doesn’t reach out to correct them.

Because he knows now, you weren’t meant to orbit him forever.

And you didn’t. You became your own universe. One that he was never brave enough to explore.

Private Memoir Entry – Unpublished I was always afraid I’d look at her and see someone else. So I never truly looked. Not the way she deserved. She asked me once if I was choosing to heal with her or without her. I said, “Without.” She nodded. Didn’t cry. Just left. And now I’ve healed. Or so I pretend. But sometimes I think healing isn’t a choice. Sometimes it’s a cost. I gave up the one person who saw me in the shadows and stayed. And someone else saw her light and danced into it.

You’re seated in a corner café with a man Zayne doesn’t recognise—easy smiles, shared laughter, his coat wrapped around your shoulders.

Zayne was on his way to deliver lab files to the main district med unit but now… he can’t move.

His gaze locks on the way the man leans in to tuck your hair behind your ear. How your eyes crinkle with joy.

It’s the kind of comfort Zayne never offered you—not because he didn’t care, but because he was too distracted chasing clarity with MC.

You once told him you felt like his second choice. He never answered that. And now, someone else treats you like you're the only choice.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach.

But that image burns in his mind for weeks. It replays in the sterile quiet of his clinic, on late nights when no one needs stitching up.

And when he returns home, he finds one of your old letters still tucked inside his medical textbook.

He rereads it, fingers trembling, and realises too late—he could’ve loved you right, if only he’d let himself try.

His next patient finds him staring into nothing, stethoscope in hand, utterly elsewhere.

Medical Log – Never Filed Patient: N/A Status: Unreachable Treatment note: Emotional detachment leads to unintentional abandonment. Prognosis: Permanent loss. Notes: She used to come into my clinic with little things. Fake injuries. Paper cuts. Just to be near me. I knew. And I let her pretend. I let myself believe I had time. That once I stopped thinking about MC, I could finally give this girl the pieces I hadn’t sealed away. But healing is slow. And people… they don’t always wait for your hands to stop trembling. She’s warm now. She’s whole. And I still wear gloves to hold my regrets.

[thunderbolt-ing]

Three Roommates and a Loft [3]

PREVIOUS | NEXT The One Where You Get Romanoff'd: A lifestyle adjustment, a bed-rotting intervention, a surprise guest, and a rebound roster. Yeah, you'll probably regret this later. Warnings: none, just pure silliness and slight (stupid) sexual innuendo. I'm sleep deprived when I'm writing this, so this is just pure crack. Word count: 6.6K (sorry for the mistakes, i dont proofread as you already know)

You were jolted awake at exactly 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday by the unmistakable sound of an old-timey trumpet muffly blaring through the ceiling, specifically, a World War II-era jump blues song. 

🎵 He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way,

He had a boogie style that no one else could play,

He was the top man at his craft,

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft,

He’s in the army now, a blowin’ reveille, 

He’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B! 🎵

There was only one possible culprit: Steve Rogers. 

His room was directly above yours, and apparently so was his nostalgia-fueled alarm clock. The song continued at full volume for a solid two minutes before Steve finally got up and shut it off. 

Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the end of it. 

Next came the footsteps. Then the light stomping. Then… counting… and grunting…? 

Was he doing pushups? At six-thirty-five in the morning? On a Sunday? 

You buried your head under a pillow and groaned. The realization settled slowly and painfully; the walls in this loft were way too thin. Adjusting to life here was going to take time and possibly noise-cancelling headphones. Or earplugs. Definitely earplugs. 

Eventually, you managed to fall asleep again, though it was more like drifting in and out of consciousness while dreaming about WWII-era trumpets. Still, your body naturally woke up at your usual weekend time of 9:00 a.m., groggy but functional. 

Noise was already filtering in from the living room—voices, at least two of them, mixed with the clatter of dishes and the unmistakable sound of someone being way too enthusiastic for a Sunday morning (suspects are either Steve or Sam. You’re leaning towards Steve). 

You stared at the ceiling and sighed. 

This was your life now.

With the weight of reluctant acceptance, you braced yourself for the horror of human interaction. You got up from your bed and mentally prepared yourself to walk out of your room looking like a witch who’d just crawled out of a bog. Your oversized t-shirt was twisted halfway around your torso, your hair was an unruly mess, and you were certain that your face bore the imprint of your pillowcase. 

You didn’t even bother to make yourself look presentable. What was the point? 

You needed caffeine. You needed breakfast. And most of all, you needed to not be spoken to until at least a cup of coffee had been fully consumed. 

You sluggishly dragged yourself out of your room, your first stop being the bathroom. You just wanted to splash some water on your face and pretend to be alive. Instead, you opened the door to find a near-naked Bucky Barnes hunched over the sink, towel slung low on his hips, mid-shave. 

Your brain short-circuited, but he didn’t flinch. He just met your stunned silence with a deadpan stare. 

“Do you know how to knock?” he asked coolly, eyes narrowing like you’d just ruined his entire day. 

You blinked, fighting the instinctive downward glance that, traitorously, happened anyway. It only made everything worse. 

“Sorry,” you muttered, slamming the door shut as your heart pounded loudly in your chest. Your face burned with the mix of rage and embarrassment, and now, thanks to him, you were fully and disturbingly awake. 

From inside the bathroom, you heard him mutter just loud enough to be heard: 

“Unbelievable.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped through the door, patience running thin with the lack of caffeine in your system.  

“No thanks,” he called back flatly without missing a beat. 

You were two seconds away from throwing the door open and escalating when Sam’s voice rang out from the kitchen: 

“I told y’all to come up with a bathroom system.” 

You huffed and stomped your way into the common area, still fuming. 

Sam was at the stove flipping pancakes that were definitely a little burnt, but pretending not to notice. Steve was already seated at the newly placed dining table (thanks to your charitable donation), sipping coffee like this was a perfectly normal, drama-free Sunday morning. 

“Hey, sunshine!” Steve greeted you as you stepped into the room, entirely too cheerful for someone who caused your 6:30 a.m. trumpet wake-up call. “How was your first night?” 

“What is wrong with him?” you shot back, completely ignoring Steve’s question. “Does he not believe in getting dressed after a shower? Is that not a thing for him?”

Sam’s laughter echoed through the loft. “Wait—did you see him butt-ass naked?” 

Steve choked on his coffee, but being Steve, he tried to play it off with a composed nod and a sip like nothing had happened. 

You gave Sam a withering glare. “Toweled, but barely. It was an assault on my morning.” 

Sam was practically doubled over now. “Man, you and Bucky are gonna kill each other before the month’s out.” 

“Yeah?” you muttered as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “Well, I’ll make sure I get to him first.”

“Doubt it,” Bucky said unenthusiastically, stepping into the room fully clothed this time. 

“No one’s killing anyone,” Steve cut in with a chuckle. “We just need time to adjust. There are four of us now, it’s gonna take a little grace.” 

You and Bucky locked eyes over your mugs. Clearly, there was no grace, only war. 

——

After breakfast, the guys headed out for a Whole Foods run, arguing over oat milk versus almond milk as they disappeared out the door. You stayed behind, however, choosing to confront the disaster that the loft turned into from your move-in yesterday. So, with Japanese Breakfast on Sam’s speaker, you got to work. 

You hauled your boxes to the center of the living room, then tore through them with the determination of a woman who was about to perform a miracle. Blankets, candles, books, and years of collected knick-knacks found their homes. A patchwork quilt over the chaise. A vase of bodega flowers on the dining table. Your Princess Diaries poster now hung proudly beside Bruce Willis, which perfectly summarized the loft’s new look. 

In the kitchen, you replaced the single wooden spoon with actual utensils, alphabetized the spice rack (because who was stopping you?), and stuck a whiteboard on the fridge that read Weekly Chore Rotation — TBD in teacher handwriting. You almost changed your alphabet magnet message from HELLO ROOMIES to HELLO FUCKERS, but you figured you’d soft launch your personality and have them get used to the harmless kindergarten teacher first. 

Perhaps you were getting carried away, but you even cleaned the entryway. Now there was a shoe rack, jacket hooks, and a key bowl because you weren’t a barbarian. You felt very smug about your work… until you opened the hallway closet and discovered the mini-armory. 

Mounted neatly on the back wall was an array of throwing knives, each blade gleaming despite the dim light. Steve’s old, battered shield leaned against the corner, the once bright paint chipped and scratched raw to the vibranium. It looked like it had been through hell, probably had. Maybe he kept it for emergencies, or maybe out of sentiment. Above the shield, resting on a shelf, sat a worn military grade duffle bag with WILSON embroidered on the front. You didn’t dare to open it, something told you that it didn’t hold gym clothes. 

And then, there was the bundle. It was tucked in the far corner, hidden enough that it could be overlooked. Before you could even begin to think about unwrapping it, keys jingled outside, and the front door swung open with a dramatic slam. 

“Guess who survived Whole Foods!” Sam’s voice rang through the loft, followed by the telltale thud of grocery bags hitting the floor. 

You quickly shut the closet door, forcing a casual smile despite your heart hammering in your chest. “Hey! So, who won the milk debate? For the record, I was team oat—”

“Hold up,” Sam cut in, eyes widening as he entered the living room. He gasped, hand clutching his chest theatrically. “Is that Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, Queen of Genovia next to John McClane?!”

You followed him into the living room with a shrug. “Don’t they look cute together?” 

“Who the hell is that?” Bucky asked, breezing past with grocery bags and heading straight for the kitchen. 

“Princess Diaries,” Sam and Steve answered in unison, though Steve was a beat slower and slightly more ashamed about knowing. 

Steve bent to pick up the remaining bags, but paused as he took in the living room. His eyes did a slow sweep across the space before he broke into a pleased, golden-retriever grin. “You redecorated.”

“Holy shit, you did,” Sam added, spinning in place to look around. “No more hostage bunker, frat house adjacent. This place has… character now.”

“There’s a key bowl,” Steve noted in delight, pointing to the entryway like you’d just placed a national treasure. 

“I’m ignoring this,” Bucky cut in from the kitchen. He scowled at the whiteboard magnetized to the fridge. “Weekly Chore Rotation? This is not elementary school.”

“Also, where are the tongs?” he asked, rummaging through the newly organized drawer with increasing irritation. 

“The rusty ones?” You asked, joining him in the kitchen. “I threw them out before it gave someone tetanus, but don’t worry, I replaced them with new ones.” You opened the other drawer and showed him the new tongs. 

Bucky turned to you, arms crossed. “So you’re in charge now?” 

You smiled sweetly. “Someone has to be a functional adult out of the four of us.” 

Steve chuckled as he dropped the last bag on the counter. “She’s not wrong.” 

Bucky muttered something about “whiteboard dictatorships” as he walked off, but not before you caught him glancing at the newly filled bookshelf. 

That was the closest thing to approval you were probably ever going to get. 

——

Adjusting to your new life at the loft with three superhero roommates was… messy at best. The only man you’ve ever lived with before was Adam, and while that came with its own set of issues, chaos had never been one of them. Adam had been neat, predictable, and quiet. The exact opposite of the three men you now shared a loft (and very thin walls) with. 

The loft wasn’t perfect. It was loud, unfiltered, and filled with clashing personalities. But oddly enough, it was exactly what you needed right now. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, not to them at least, but the chaos helped. It distracted you from thinking about Adam and from falling back into the life you’d walked away from. 

Monday started off strong. 

You were in the kitchen, half-asleep and clinging to your coffee before work, when Sam practically sprinted down the stairs looking like he’d already finished at least three marathons.

“Morning, miss girl,” he beamed, already reaching for your mug as if you didn’t need it to survive. “What’s your sign by the way? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re a Virgo aren’t you? You alphabetized the spices.” 

You stared at him. You didn’t even get a word in before he declared you his ‘platonic soulmate’ three times and tried to convince you to join him on a sunrise run. It was 5:07 a.m.

Later that day, after work, you found Steve in the living room, utterly absorbed in The Great British Bake Off. You expected him to switch to something more macho when you sat beside him, but instead he turned to you with a frown.

“I just think he could’ve decorated that cake better…” 

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond at first. “You know what, you’re right. It’s lacking something and the sponge looks dry.” 

“You wanna make something better?” 

“...Sure?” 

By the end of the hour, you were in the kitchen covered in flour, while Steve was making frosting. You two were making something completely unrelated to the show, and the smell of vanilla filled the loft. Steve wore an apron that said ‘Be Patriotic & Kiss the Captain’ with an arrow pointing toward himself. You didn’t question it, but you had a sneaky feeling that Sam was the one who gave it to him. 

Steve and Sam were surprisingly easy to get along with, but Bucky on the other hand, was the human equivalent of a locked door. 

On Tuesday, he glared at you for leaving your clothes in the dryer. 

On Wednesday, you got into a five-minute shouting match because he was using your shampoo. 

On Thursday, he accused you of “hogging the hot water” like you’ve just committed crimes against humanity. 

But on Friday, your shampoo was replaced with a fresh bottle, and when you walked into the living room later, he was reading your copy of Anne of Green Gables. You didn’t say a word. Instead, you just baked the cookies that Steve offhandedly mentioned Bucky liked. He didn’t say thank you, but the cookies didn’t last a day. 

Midweek, the boys left on an impromptu mission. It was a quick recon, nothing too dangerous according to Steve, but the silence in the loft was jarring. You wandered around in your fuzzy socks, grading math quizzes with background noise from a sitcom rerun just to fill the void. 

You actually missed the chaos. 

They came back home a day later, exhausted and grumpy. You didn’t say anything, but you had grilled cheese and tomato soup ready for them. Steve muttered something about being “blessed,” and Sam dramatically asked that you platonically marry him (whatever that meant). Bucky just gave you a curt nod, which, in his language, might as well be a hug. 

On Saturday, Steve and Sam insisted on helping you grade a stack of your kindergarteners’ spelling tests while eating cereal straight from the box. 

“Why does this kid spell ‘banana’ like ‘bunahnuh’?” Sam asked. 

“Gwen spells phonetically,” you replied, like it was obvious. 

Steve, squinting through his reading glasses with a red pen in his hand, held up a paper. “What’s turlul?”

“Turtle,” you replied with a grin.

Then Sam, looking deeply concerned, held up your lesson plan. “You’re teaching them Romeo and Juliet with puppets?” 

“What? They’re five and they love tragic romance.” 

Steve chuckled. “New York kids… gotta love ‘em.” 

The week ended with you, curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs, grading kindergarten science homework while Steve sat beside you, quietly sketching. Sam DJ’d badly from the kitchen while Bucky was silently fixing the crooked picture frame you meant to fix days ago. 

“You hung this badly,” he muttered.

“I’ll fix it later,” you replied without looking up. 

“It’s going to fall.” 

“Aw,” you looked up and smirked at him. “So you do care.” 

His lips twitched just a little, but you didn’t point it out. 

Living in the loft was a mess, but it was home. 

Your home.

——

Two months into living with the boys, a rhythm had settled in. It was morning coffees with Sam’s unsolicited astrology takes, quiet evenings grading assignments with Steve, and your usual snark-filled cold war with Bucky. Against all odds, the arrangement was working. And yet, even with all the laughter and distractions, the sinking feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, the stillness between the noise made it even louder. 

You missed Adam. Terribly and painfully, in spite of the hell he put you through. Some wounds didn’t announce themselves with aching pain, they crept in during the quiet, slipping through the cracks when you were doing everything to keep moving forward. 

You thought you were hiding it well, smiling when you needed to, laughing when expected. But somewhere deep down, you had a feeling that the boys were starting to catch on. 

It started with Sam. One afternoon after work, he appeared at your door without knocking, flopping onto the edge of your bed with a bag of chips and zero introduction. He didn’t pry or asked how you were, he just talked about nothing. He complained about the subway system. He argued about why almond milk was better than oat milk. He recalled the dream he had where Steve ran for mayor and lost to RuPaul. 

Then Steve started stopping by too. He’d sit in the armchair in the corner, sketchbook in hand, half-listening to Sam’s ramblings and occasionally offering stories about old missions and silly anecdotes about his teammates. He talked about the Avengers often that you were starting to feel like you knew them, even though you hadn’t met any of them in person. Steve never asked what was wrong, he just stayed just like Sam did. 

Bucky never set foot in your room, but the arguments with him stalled. The sharpness between you dulled just a bit. He still glared, still muttered under his breath when you used the last of the coffee, but he didn’t pick fights the way he used to. It was as if he didn’t want to add more weight to what you were already carrying. 

At one point, the quiet sadness that had been simmering beneath the surface tipped into something heavier. A mini depressive episode, maybe. If you could even call it that. It crept in gradually at first and was barely noticeable, but soon your behavior shifted in ways the boys couldn’t ignore. 

You started locking your bedroom door after work, claiming you were just tired. You bailed on loft game night more than once, always with a vague excuse about lesson planning or needing to grade your students’ assignments. Even when you didn’t have a stack of spelling tests to get through, you stayed tucked away in your room, lights dim with Pride and Prejudice looping in your TV just to feel something. 

You stopped lounging on the couch. Stopped making dinner for the loft. Stopped bickering with Sam over his abhorrent snack combinations or baking with Steve for fun. You slipped in and out of the kitchen like a ghost, only entering when the coast was clear. You timed your showers to avoid Bucky, dodging eye contact in the hallway like it was a full-time job. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You did. It was that everything suddenly felt unbearable. Every noise, every conversation, every mundane task, it all felt too much. 

The worst part? You didn’t even know how to explain it to yourself or the boys. 

By the time the weekend rolled around, you’d all but vanished into your room. The door stayed closed, the lights stayed off, and not even the smell of Steve’s buttermilk waffles managed to lure you out. 

Sam, in an attempt to get you to talk, slipped a piece of paper under your door:

Are u mad at me? Yes or no. Circle one pls <3. 

You saw it, but you didn’t pick it up. 

Later that evening, the three boys were sprawled on the couch, half-watching a terrible action movie and working through their respective takeout containers. The dialogue on the screen was awful, the explosions louder than necessary, but no one bothered to change the channel. 

Then, casually, as if tossing in an afterthought, Bucky asked, “What’s going on with her?” 

He didn’t look up from his food, he just stabbed a piece of broccoli with his fork. “Last night, she had this song on repeat. Something about a girl sitting in a restaurant, waiting or something. Played it for hours. I didn’t say anything. Kinda liked it.” 

Sam froze mid-chew. Slowly, he lowered his chopsticks. “Wait. Was she playing Right Where You Left Me?” 

Bucky shugged. “How should I know? I wasn’t paying attention. Her room’s next to mine, I just heard it.” 

Sam immediately placed his food on the coffee table like it had become irrelevant. “Oh hell no. That’s the emotional paralysis anthem.” 

Steve frowned. “You got all that from a song about… a restaurant?” 

“It’s not about the restaurant, Steven, it’s about the metaphor,” Sam said, deadly serious. “It’s heartbreak, it’s what you play when you’re stuck. And she’s got it on loop? Oh, I’m gonna kill that Adam guy.” 

“Who the hell is Adam?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing. 

“Her ex,” Sam said, crossing his arms. “Steve and I met him briefly. Bad vibes, stank aura, absolutely zero stars.” 

“Not a pleasant man,” Steve added diplomatically. “Didn’t seem to appreciate her.” 

Bucky went quiet for a moment, then muttered. “Figures.” 

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Figures what, Barnes?” 

“Nothing,” Bucky replied, too quickly. He refocused on his takeout with exaggerated interest, stabbing the piece of beef in his plate half-heartedly. 

Steve sighed and looked toward your room, his features softening. “I should try checking in on her again.” 

Sam was already on his feet, grabbing the extra box of chow mein from table. “Nope. We’re doing this together. This is a group effort.” 

Bucky didn’t move. 

Steve glanced at him. “You coming?” 

Bucky groaned, dragging himself up with zero enthusiasm. “Do I have to?” 

“Yes.” Sam and Steve said in unison, leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Bucky followed them down the hallway. Sam knocked first, rapping his knuckles gently against your door. 

“I know you’re alive in there,” he called. “I can hear Mr. Darcy monologuing through the wall.” 

No response. 

Bucky shifted awkwardly. “Wanna insult me? Could be therapeutic. I’m an easy target and I used up all your conditioner again.” 

Still nothing. 

Steve gave the door handle a patient turn, but it didn’t budge. “We just wanna check in. No pressure.” Steve said, his voice low and gentle.

Sam held up the box of food like you could see it through the door. “We brought noodles… and poor emotional boundaries.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky muttered. 

Steve side-eyed him. “You offered yourself up for verbal abuse two seconds ago.”

“I’m just trying to help!” Bucky snapped, crossing his arms. 

Another beat of silence followed. Then, from inside the room, you spoke up, your voice muffled, “Is it chow mein or lo mein?” 

Sam grinned triumphantly. “Chow mein.”

You shuffled to the door and creaked it open an inch. 

“Fine,” you sighed. “But only because I’m hungry and you guys are loud.”

As you stepped back to let them in, Bucky was the last to follow, but not before glancing at your TV, the frozen frame of Pride and Prejudice paused on Darcy’s rain-soaked confession. He didn’t say anything, just slipped inside and quietly straightened the crooked calendar by your door as the others made themselves at home. 

Sam looked around your room, eyebrows raised at the unmade bed, scattered tissues, and the lopsided stack of grading papers on your desk. “I love you,” he said as he handed you the box of chow mein, “But this is just… a mess, and I will be cleaning while we talk.” 

You gave a weak laugh as he started picking up the empty cups on your nightstand like he lived in your room, too. 

Steve sat gently on the edge of your bed, his tone soft. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could talk to us.” His brows pulled together in concern. “I know we’re not… the best at this kind of thing, but we care and we want to help.” 

You looked down at the box in your hands, fingers digging into the paper. “It’s not that I didn’t feel comfortable with you guys,” you said, voice tight. “I just didn’t know how to explain it. And honestly, it’s stupid. I’ve been crying over Adam.” 

The words felt small and pathetic once they were out in the open. But the silence that followed wasn’t judgmental.

From the doorway, Bucky shifted his weight, arms still crossed tightly. His gaze stayed on the floor, then he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. “It’s not… stupid.” 

You glanced up at him in surprise, but he refused to meet your eyes. 

Sam looked between the two of you with a knowing expression. “Well damn. If Barnes is offering moral support, then you’re officially at rock bottom.”

Bucky glowered at Sam while you flipped him off. “Whatever, Wilson,” you muttered in mock annoyance. 

Steve smiled, looking relieved that they were somehow helping. “Why don’t you go and spend a day with your own friends?” He suggested kindly, his tone gentle. “Not us, you know, like… women. People who get it more than we do.” 

“Sure! That’s cute,” You said dryly, bitterness bleeding into your voice. “Except all my friends were Adam’s friends, and when we broke up, he turned them all against me. They blocked me, every single one of them.”

“That motherf—“ 

“Okay,” Steve cut in quickly, shooting Sam a look before he could finish. “I’m calling Nat. She’ll know what to do.” 

“Nat?” You echoed, confused. “Who’s Nat?”

“Natasha,” Steve clarified, pulling out his phone.

“You know… Natasha Romanoff,” Sam clarified further, seeing your confused expression. “Black Widow…? Come on, keep up.”

“Oh no, no, no,” You sat up a little, alarmed. “I am not meeting her like this. She’s going to think I’m a loser. I mean, she kills men for sport, and I’m here sobbing into my pillow over one. I’m literally crying over someone who owns a mug that says ‘Rise and Grind’, I am beyond pathetic.” 

Steve raised his brow, but you kept going.

“It’s already embarrassing that you three know,” you muttered, tugging your blanket higher. “Just give me one more week of bed rotting and I swear I’ll bounce back.” 

“You’ve been rotting,” Sam said bluntly. “We’ve hit the compost stage.” 

“Advanced decay,” Bucky chimed in, arms still crossed. You shot him a glare. “Nat won’t judge.” Steve reassured, patting your shoulder gently. “She’ll understand more than we do.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “She’ll actually be gentle, like surprisingly gentle. You need someone who gets it, because if it were me? I’d just deck the guy and move on.” 

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed dramatically. “If I end up crying in front of Black Widow, I’m changing my name and I’m leaving the country.”

“She cried during Marley and Me, you’ll be fine,” Steve reassured as he pressed Natasha’s contact on his phone. 

——

The next morning, you shuffled out of your room in an oversized t-shirt and mismatched socks. Your only mission for the day: retrieve coffee without making eye contact with anyone. 

You failed instantly. 

All three of your roommates were seated around the dining table, and sitting casually among them, as if she hadn’t just completely caused your soul to leave your body, was her. 

Natasha. Romanoff.

The Black Widow. 

Former Assassin. Legendary Avenger. Threat to all men. 

She was drinking her coffee from one of your ridiculous mugs. She wore no tactical gear, no combat boots, just jeans and a fitted black top, with a posture so immaculate that it made you stand up a little straighter. 

Her red hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and her gaze met yours the moment you entered. She didn’t smile, she didn’t frown, she just looked. It was as if she was quietly assessing whether you were dangerous or just a sad little mess Steve had guilted her into babysitting. 

You, of course, chose to freeze like a deer in headlights. 

Flattening your sleep-matted hair instinctively, you stood awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if you should apologize for daring to set foot in front of her presence. You didn’t understand why she was here. There was no way someone like Natasha Romanoff wasted time on strangers. She must’ve owed Steve big-time if she came to the loft immediately after he called yesterday. 

“Good morning,” Natasha said smoothly, voice low and unreadable. It was a statement, not a greeting. Like a poker player declaring her turn.  You stalled in real time, your brain shutting down in a panic. And then, you opened your mouth despite every survival instinct begging you not to embarrass yourself: 

“Hi. Wow. Is being hot a requirement to be an Avenger because… damn.” 

Silence. You could even hear the birds chirp outside. 

Sam snorted into his coffee. Steve blinked slowly like he was rebooting. Bucky coughed to hide what suspiciously sounded like a laugh. 

Natasha tilted her head, still expressionless. “Yes,” she said simply, and took another sip of her coffee. “That’s why Sam didn’t make the cut.” 

Your laugh came out before you could stop it. It was your first real laugh in weeks, and it caught everyone off guard. 

“Okay, first of all, I just didn’t sign the papers, Romanoff,” Sam shot back, pointing his fork at her like it was a weapon. “I was recruited! There were negotiations!” 

“Yeah,” she replied dryly. “Negotiations to keep you off the roster.” 

Steve hid a grin behind his coffee. Bucky didn’t bother hiding his smirk, though he kept eating like he wasn’t paying attention. 

Sam turned to you with a hand over his heart. “I’m being dragged in my own home. Do something,” he said, turning to you with pleading eyes. 

You dropped into an empty seat next to Bucky, grabbed a piece of toast, and casually stole a forkful of eggs from his plate. He shot you a look, brows knitting in mild disapproval, but he didn’t stop you. 

“Not too much on Sam,” you said with a grin. “He’s an emotional guy. He cried during Paddington 2.” 

“He went to prison!” Sam cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Why would you incarcerate a cute little bear who just wanted to make marmalade?!”

Steve nodded solemnly, like he was testifying in court. “It was deeply unfair.” 

Natasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re all unwell.” 

“This is my life now,” Bucky muttered, sliding the rest of his eggs your way with a resigned sigh. You beamed at the gesture. 

Natasha took a sip of her coffee, eyes scanning you like she was running a background check. Then, finally, she nodded. “Okay. I like you. You’ve got potential.” 

You blinked at her, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Potential for…?” 

Natasha stood up from her chair, already grabbing her keys off the counter like this was a done deal. “Not sure yet, but you’re coming with me today.” 

You choked on your eggs. “What—why?” 

“Does it matter?” she said, already halfway to the door. 

You looked around the table like someone might save you, but Steve just gave you a thumbs up and took another sip of his coffee. “You’ll be fine.” 

“Fine or maybe dead,” you muttered. ‘What’s her idea of fun anyway?” you asked in a small, horrified voice as Natasha opened the front door. 

“Get dressed,” Natasha called. “Ten minutes. I leave with or without you.” 

Sam leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Congratulations. You’ve been Romanoff’d.”

Bucky, now taking back his eggs, gave you a flat look and a lazy wave. Then, with zero sympathy, he nudged your chair with his foot. “Go. Now.” 

You groaned, already standing. “God help me,” you muttered, fast walking to your room like your life depended on it because with Natasha Romanoff waiting at the door, it just might. 

——

Spending the day with Natasha Romanoff was nothing like you’d expected, but exactly what you needed. She didn’t drag you to brunch to get bottomless mimosas or ask how you were feeling. Instead, she tossed you into the passenger seat of a black Corvette Stingray, drove like every red light was a suggestion, and took you to an underground boxing gym in Brooklyn where she taught you how to properly throw a punch. You expected sympathy, but she gave you bruised knuckles and a protein bar. 

Later, she made you walk through the city with her, mostly in comfortable silence, stopping only to grab overpriced lattes and people-watch like spies on a stakeout. At one point, she handed you a pair of sunglasses and muttered, “Put these on. We’re stalking your ex.” You tried to protest, but she was already leading the way, reciting tire-slashing tips like they were ancient wisdom. “Don’t worry,” she added coolly, “I’ll make sure there’s no trace.” You still don’t know how she found Adam’s car, but you did it, and oddly enough, it felt like therapy. 

By the time you got back to the loft, your head felt a little clearer, your shoulders a little lighter, and for the first time in weeks, the tightness in your chest had eased. You didn’t feel fixed, but you finally didn’t feel like rotting for the foreseeable future. 

Now, the five of you were sprawled across the loft’s living room, half-watching The Princess Diaries play on the TV. It was Sam’s idea, of course. He insisted that Bucky had to be cultured, and no one else had any other suggestions. 

Steve sat on the floor with a bowl of popcorn, fully invested. Bucky was squinting at the screen like he was trying to solve a murder. Natasha, lounging in the armchair with her legs propped on the ottoman, glanced at you. You were pitifully curled up under a blanket with a bowl of ice cream. She gave you a once-over, then turned to Steve. 

“She needs a rebound.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, maybe to disagree, but instead he gave Natasha a thoughtful look and decided to keep his mouth shut.

You choked on your spoon. “I’m sitting right here.” 

“Exactly,” Nat said coolly, not missing a beat. “You’re sitting, you’re sad, and you haven’t been laid in…?” 

“Do not answer that,” Sam interjected, hands raised. “Please, I beg.”

Unfazed, Natasha went on. “You need someone pretty who’ll tell you your hair looks good and you know… absolutely ruin you in the best way.” 

Your face flushed an alarming shade of red as you stared hard at the TV. “I need to get struck by lightning.” 

“Whatever you do,” Bucky said flatly from the opposite end of the couch, “Do it at his place. I’m not hearing that.” 

Sam gagged dramatically. “Can we not talk about her getting defiled during Princess Diaries?’ 

“Uh-uh,” Natasha cut in smoothly, already pulling out her phone. “No talking unless you’re volunteering, I need to focus.” 

Before anyone could argue, she cast her screen onto the TV, replacing The Princess Diaries entirely. Sam let out a horrified gasp as the screen flickered. 

“Nat! Princess Mia was about to give a speech!” 

“Shhh,” Natasha waved him off. “This is more important.” 

On the screen, three crisp photos appeared in a neat row. 

“These,” she said, gesturing toward the candidates like she was presenting a PowerPoint presentation, “are all people we know. Which means they’re not losers… not really. Low emotional investment, good hygiene, passably good-looking. All solid rebound options.” 

The screen displayed the following candidates: 

Johnny Storm — Shirtless in a bathroom mirror, abs flexed, sunglasses on indoors. There was a 99% chance this selfie had originally been sent to someone else, or possibly everyone else. He looked like the human embodiment of a “wyd?” text at 2 a.m. “This guy? Really?” Bucky sighed, genuinely disappointed. “Slim pickings, huh?” “I’d steer clear with this one,” Steve added with a grimace. 

Sébastien Noir — A S.H.I.E.L.D agent with a sleek black-and-white headshot, clearly pulled from a classified S.H.I.E.L.D file (because, of course, Nat had access to that). Dark hair and a darker smirk. Very French, very suave. “Could be the next James Bond,” Natasha said casually. “Or a complete poser,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Matt Murdock — The Avengers’ lawyer. Crisp navy suit, tousled hair, holding a cane and leaning casually against a brownstone like he walked out of a Jane Austen adaptation if it was directed by Scorsese. “I like this one,” Sam said with a thoughtful nod, “Lawyers have money.” 

After much deliberation and a fair amount of peer pressure, you begrudgingly settled on Sébastien Noir. Johnny had given you nothing but red flags, and you didn’t hate yourself enough to fall for a walking thirst trap with the romantic depth of a frat boy.. 

Matt Murdock, on the other hand, was too much. Too handsome, too smart, and too put together. You weren’t emotionally stable enough to be perceived by someone that kind, and to be honest, it felt borderline disrespectful to label him a rebound. 

So… Sébastien it was. 

Tall, French, and suspiciously charming, he felt like the safest terrible decision. There was a certain relief in choosing someone who came with low expectations and virtually no risk of actual feelings. If it all went up in flames, you could just blame it on ‘cultural misunderstanding’... or Natasha. 

“Are you sure about this…?” Steve asked cautiously, like he might step in and offer a better alternative if you gave him even a hint of hesitation. 

“Not really,” you admitted with a frown. “I feel like I’m setting feminism back a few decades.” 

“That’s how you know you chose the right rebound,” Natasha nodded while typing something on her phone, probably texting Sébastien himself. 

Bucky didn’t even bother commenting. He just sat there, slowly shaking his head like a man watching a car crash. 

“What? No notes?” you asked him, raising an eyebrow. 

“This is just… unbelievable,” He simply muttered, shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth like he was trying to eat away his disapproval. 

“To your slut era, I guess,” Sam said half-heartedly, raising his beer before switching the TV back to Princess Diaries like nothing life-altering had just occurred. 

——

Later that evening, on your way out of your room to brush your teeth, you caught a glimpse of Bucky standing by the hallway closet you jokingly dubbed the mini armory. The door was open, and dim light spilled out over the floor. He was unraveling a black bundle you vaguely remembered seeing months ago, back when you were just trying to store your cleaning supplies. 

You paused in your room’s doorway, unsure if he’d want company. 

The cloth slipped from his hands to reveal a silver prosthetic arm with a red star near the shoulder area. 

“So that’s what it was,” you said softly, stepping out just enough for him to hear. 

Bucky froze. His head turned slightly, shoulders tense. “You were looking around here?” 

“I just thought it was a normal closet, okay?” you said quickly, holding your hands up. “I was just looking for somewhere to stash my Swiffer and boom… murder closet.”

That earned the smallest twitch of his lips. Barely. 

“I should throw this thing out. Make room for your junk.” 

You smiled just a little at the jab. “I don’t know…” You said, tilting your head. “I kinda think you should keep it.”

He gave you a look. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s good to have a reminder of how far you’ve come,” you said, meeting his eyes. Then, with a wry twist of your lips, you added, “And also, maybe we can use it as a talking stick. In my class, we pass around this glittery baseball bat to stop the kids from yelling over each other. This could be our version.” 

That earned you a real smirk this time, brief but genuine. “You’re weird.” 

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” you said with a shrug, just as your phone buzzed. 

You glanced down at your phone to see a text from Sébastien. Bucky noticed, and his smirk immediately faded. 

“You’re going through with Romanoff’s idea?” He asked, crossing his arms. 

“Why not?” You replied, shrugging your shoulders. “It could be fun.” 

“You’re going to regret it,” he warned, putting his old prosthetic back inside the closet like he was wrapping up the conversation. 

“Probably,” you called over your shoulder as you turned to the bathroom, “But at least I won’t be looping Pride and Prejudice in my room anymore.” 

Bucky didn’t say anything, he just gave you one last unreadable look before retreating to his room and closing the door with a soft click.

—————————————————————————————————— End Notes: this was so dumb i cracked myself up writing this one. oh and for some reason, when i was writing this i kept imagining Sébastien (original character) as Sebastian Stan when he was the mad hatter in ONCE hashsdhasdhahdfh i need to sleep oh and i will be changing the summaries to look like friends episode titles because why not

tags: @projectjuvia @vibraniumavenger @mommymilkers0526 @iyskgd @pllwprincess @hiraethmae @b1pan1cg1rly @starstruckfirecat @soupiemeowmeow @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @cherrypieyourface @lasnych @okbutiambabygorl @herejustforbuckybarnes @ilistentotayswifttocope @s-sh-ne @ficmeiguess @alagalaska

[douceurrrr]

photobooth sex w/ nic

cw: steamy makeout, straddling, thigh gripping, suggestive dialogue, sexual tension, teasing, public risk, nic being a smooth flirt, reader is blk, fem-presenting, minor possessiveness, light dry humping, some mild

the villa had been buzzing all day — tension from challenges, whispers from recouplings, and that weird kind of silence that hangs when everybody’s watching everybody else a little too closely.

you’d been trying to lay low.

trying to ignore the way nic had been acting since the challenge earlier — the one where someone made a slick little comment about your ass, and he laughed a little too loud before pulling you into a headlock and whispering something like, “they can look, but you know who’s tappin’ that tonight, right?”

now, he was lounging near the fire pit, eyes flicking up every time you moved past.

and you? you were trying not to give him the satisfaction. wearing your little ruched dress and the gloss that always drove him mad. you hadn’t touched him since the challenge, on purpose. let him sit in it.

so when he finally stood up and strolled over — one hand brushing the small of your back like it wasn’t about to start a war — you looked at him without flinching.

“come with me,” he said, voice low.

“say please,” you teased, sipping your water.

he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “baby, don’t make me beg in front of these people. you already know what i want.”

and you already knew where he was headed — that damn photobooth tucked in the corner of the villa like a little secret. no mics. no cameras. just you, him, and whatever mess you were about to make.

you followed him, pretending not to notice the subtle smirk on his face as he opened the curtain for you.

the second it fell closed behind you, the vibe shifted.

“sit,” he said, nodding toward the little bench.

you gave him a look. “you always this bossy?”

“only when i’m about to kiss you like i mean it.”

that shut you up. you slid into the booth, heart already racing. he followed, knees spreading slightly as he sat close — real close. your bare thighs touched. his cologne wrapped around you like a promise.

nic looked at you, eyes dragging down to your lips. “you mad at me?”

“no.”

“good.”

you tilted your head. “but i might be later.”

“then i better get my kisses in now.”

and he leaned in — slow, intentional — lips brushing yours once, twice, before fully pressing into you. his hand came up to cradle your jaw, the other sliding behind your back to pull you into him.

the kiss was hot. open-mouthed. all tongue and teasing and not nearly enough air. you moaned before you could stop yourself, hands sliding up his chest to clutch at his shirt.

“fuck,” he mumbled against your lips. “you kiss me like that again, and we’re not leavin’ this booth for a minute.”

you kissed him harder.

the photobooth started snapping pictures without warning — flashes lighting up in random bursts while nic’s hands slid down to grip your thighs. you swung one leg over his lap, straddling him now, dress riding up so high it barely counted as clothes.

he groaned when your hips settled on his. “you tryin’ to kill me?”

“just remindin’ you who this ass belongs to.”

he laughed, low and dirty, pulling you flush against him. “you really tryna start somethin’ in here?”

“who said i was starting it?” you whispered, rolling your hips once.

nic’s eyes fluttered shut. his hands gripped your thighs tighter, thumbs brushing the crease where your legs met your hips. “damn, baby.”

his mouth was back on yours, hungrier this time. teeth tugging your bottom lip, tongue sliding over yours like he was claiming it. like he didn’t care who’d just seen what in that challenge or who might be talking — this was his.

your fingers threaded into his curls, tugging gently, and he groaned into your mouth. the sound vibrated against your lips, sent a pulse between your thighs.

“you feel that?” he whispered, grinding up into you slowly.

you gasped — he was already hard, pressed thick and perfect against the thin fabric of your panties.

“nic…”

“nah, keep doin’ that,” he breathed. “grind on it. real slow.”

you obeyed, hips rolling gently against him while his hands roamed your body like he was memorizing every dip and curve. your dress had fully bunched up now, his hands gripping bare skin.

“we can’t fuck in here,” you said, breathless.

“i know,” he said, eyes dark. “but you can cum on me.”

you nearly choked on your breath.

he kissed the side of your jaw, down to your neck. “you gonna be good for me and make a mess on my lap? right here, while they all out there think we takin’ cute lil pictures?”

the flash went off again. both your faces were red now — not from the lights, but the heat building between you.

you rutted against him, his mouth finding your ear. “you always this wet for me?”

you moaned softly, lips trembling.

he grinned against your neck. “you are now.”

the tension built and built — flashes flickering, hands exploring, mouths hungry. your thighs squeezed around his waist, and his grip on you tightened.

he was saying things now — quiet, filthy things that only you could hear in this box. things about how you tasted, how your moans sounded in his ear, how he wanted you bent over the firepit next time when no one was looking.

“you close?” he asked, biting your earlobe.

you nodded, shaky.

“then cum, baby. right here. all over me. let ‘em take that picture.”

and you did — quietly, breath held in your chest, thighs trembling, hands gripping his shoulders as your body rocked through it.

he held you tight, kissed you softer now. slower.

“good girl,” he murmured. “fuck, you’re perfect.”

you smiled against his mouth. “you’re not too bad yourself.”

“gonna have to delete these pictures before production sees ‘em.”

you both laughed, still tangled, still breathless.

⸻

aftercare scene

back in the villa, no one asked where you two disappeared to. but nic kept his hand on your lower back all night, whispering things in your ear that made your face burn and your thighs clench.

and when bedtime came, he made sure to tuck you in first — a kiss on the forehead, then one on your lips.

“g’night, baby.”

“night,” you whispered, smiling.

he smirked. “same time tomorrow?”

you smacked his chest, laughing.

⸻

[asneakyfox]

not sure where exactly i'm going with this but something i always think is interesting about ofmd s2, and very unlike a lot of fic & speculation from before the season dropped, is that they chose to make the previous ed-izzy relationship completely implode BEFORE stede is back in the picture. by the time stede, ed and izzy are all conscious and present on the revenge at once izzy has already permanently given up on the idea of re-creating the sort of relationship he used to imagine he had with blackbeard.

from a doylist pov this is partly just because the writers pretty clearly never had any interest in playing stede-ed-izzy as love triangle in the way that a lot of fandom saw it. but it does something interesting to how the redemption arc goes.

because it really changes izzy's arc for the season to have ed reject him while stede is firmly out of the picture, while both ed and izzy have no reason to think they will ever see stede bonnet again. because if stede had been there when izzy said "i have...love for you" and ed scoffed, izzy would have thought ed was rejecting him in favor of stede. he'd think, if only stede weren't around this wouldn't have happened. i think in that circumstance izzy would have never given up hope that if stede were removed from the picture somehow then he could resume his pre-stede-bonnet relationship with ed.

but what happened instead is ed made it absolutely clear that EVEN IF STEDE IS NOT AN OPTION he still does not want or need the kind of relationship with izzy that izzy wants the two of them to have. he would in fact literally rather die.

and then i thought about it a little more and, well, almost the next thing izzy does is blame ed's behavior on "your feelings for stede bonnet," right? and taken literally what he's blaming on ed's feelings for stede is the atmosphere on the ship, the way ed's treating the crew, etc. but actually i don't think that's what he means.

i think he's still - understandably - stewing in rejection at that moment, and he wants to find a narrative that lets him understand why it happened and save some face, if only to himself. so he really wants to think, edward rejected me because of his feelings for stede bonnet, if it weren't for that homewrecker he would have accepted my love confession. so he wants to believe that, and he starts to say it out loud. he pretends he's talking about the atmosphere on the ship, but he doesn't mean the atmosphere, what he means is you rejected my love because of your feelings for stede bonnet.

and ed shoots him before he can finish that sentence.

i don't think either izzy or ed really consciously understands what izzy was trying to say there. i'm not sure ed even subconsciously understands it either tbh. so i don't think ed like intended to send a message about izzy's love confession there, he just wanted to make sure izzy didn't get stede's name out right here in front of everybody. but narratively, symbolically, that gunshot is shattering the lie izzy wants to tell himself along with izzy's kneecap.

and this makes a bit more sense out of why izzy tells stede first that ed shot him for mentioning stede's name, and then later that ed shot him for saying he loved him. because he knows the first one is literally what happened. but there's a reason he feels like it was the second, and he's not exactly wrong to think of it that way.

[dearlymrme]

Well-Balanced...? (Black Leg Sanji/Reader)

Part of Schrodinger's Shooting Star series.

Summary: Sanji is used to the morning shift. He's not used to having help from someone waking even earlier than he does. Your stay is obviously stressing you more than you let on and far be it from him to let you feel useless. You have a habit of ruminating on the negatives. So, he reminds you to rely on your crew. Anything on your mind, ask them instead of letting it circle in your head like a shark.

Sanji had woken up like clockwork, always before the sun, having learned day one as the Straw Hat’s chef that Luffy is solar powered and requires the bare minimum to be super charged for the whole day.

He found you in the kitchen nursing a steaming cup of tea. Normally he’d admonish anyone, man or woman, for touching his tools while he’s not present. Even Nami and Robin, two of the most beautiful women in the world, were not spared his scolding if they had to lift a finger in his kitchen.

Then he saw the dark bags under your eyes, and pale parlor had him clicking his mouth shut and taking stock of things.

The only evidence you had made tea in the first place was the wet sheen in the sink and suds in the drain. The counter was also wiped and nothing out of place from how he had left it last night. He supposes he can respect you in his kitchen given that you respect his kitchen.

The one sin he can’t pardon is the overwhelming herbal scent. He can tell a poorly brewed tea just by the smell.

He glances your way and watches as you take a slow sip from your cup and doesn’t know whether to be concerned or impressed by your lack of expression. As though your taste buds have fallen asleep in order to make up for your own lack of sleep.

It’s got to be bitter but given the eye-bags that seem to get heavier and darker every day, he can’t blame you for wanting something to help with the exhaustion.

A good rest would also do it but he’s overheard Nami say you toss and turn with the ship. Either still unused to the sea or it’s the stress of your circumstances. You were scared, though you only showed it through small motions.

Your hands ticked the same way his did when the urge for a smoke was too much to ignore. You chewed your lip like it was made from candy. Even though Luffy’s usual antics seemed to lighten your mood there was still a weight pulling you down.

While you said that this was not a world you would be well suited for, he was at least grateful that your world had manners. Despite what he knows is one of the most bitter teas to have ever been brewed on the ship, you polish it off without wasting a drop. As he gave the counters an extra wipe before prepping for breakfast, you casually soft stepped behind him to wash your cup.

Then, you asked him in a soft but tired voice.

“Anything I can do to help?” He saw the haunting hollowness in your eyes. Someone with the need to just *do*. A distraction of any kind to help your brain process.

You’re still adjusting, Chopper made it clear for them not to press you too much, but there is a big difference between physical health and mental fortitude. You seem self-aware of your own state of mind. Any time you're seen it’s always in the constant company of another crew member, just coexisting in the same room. On the Merry, it would have been near impossible to pull off. The Sunny had more room for privacy if wanted. So, it was intentional that you never let yourself be alone.

He’s realized that something big to help you is to feel included. Small things, busy things. Sometimes, something as mindless as tying rope or counting coins. Sharpening colored sketch pencils for Usopp. Sorting through the recycle pile for Franky and separating the nuts from the bolts. Tidying up the library shelves for Robin. And having a near holy amount of patience by letting Luffy play pretend as he describes their adventures so far.

He didn't even have to tell you to wash your hands. The second he gave the okay, you had already started to lather, even getting under your nails. He let you shower the eggs and hand them over one by one as he scrambled. He corrected your hold on the small knife and showed you how to properly mince the peppers with your knuckles instead of your fingers. He let you set the table, and by the time you were done laying plates, the crew would be up and minutes away from running in for breakfast.

Breakfast, as usual, is hectic. Your first morning with the crew comes teaching the most important lesson of the Straw Hat Pirates.

“Make your plate fast and guard it with your life.” Dawning realization as if you knew the storm approaching by heart. You had managed to stack your plate just before the crew fell through the door. Gangling limbs of rubber and constricting holds as Usopp and Nami try to pull Luffy away from the inevitable.

“Dang it, Luffy! Let us at least get to the table first!”

“But it smells so good! Sanji made bacon! Oh! Oh, and I smell sausage!” Robin made her appearance and, with her multiple arms, managed to wrestle him down.

Both Nami and Usopp collapsed from the effort it took to hold back the straw hat captain.

“Come on now, Luffy. We want our lucky star to have a chance to eat, too, right?” Luffy froze and hummed, pouting as a sign of defeat.

The black haired archaeologist smiled and released him from the grapple. A clone hand sprouted from his shoulder, giving his head a praising pet.

And your eyes had widened with the boy flashing you a trademark smile.

“Sanji’s food is the best in the whole wide sea. You can have first dibs, I guess.” He huffs as he takes his seat with the rest, hands twitchy to grab a plate. He pouts as though forcing himself to eat a spoonful of medicine. “But hurry up, I’m hungry!”

You were allowed that one blessing that one day. Then, you quickly adapted to the hungry greed of Luffy’s stomach like a pro.

Today was no different, your arms wrapped around your plate like a fortress of fortitude and brandishing your fork in your hand like a knife. You leaned over your plate and made to jab Luffy any time he stretched his fingers anywhere near your food.

It was humorous just how futile it was. Their captain tapped on one shoulder to get to you to look and then snatched your bacon off your plate while your head was turned. No one could help you. Every day was an entirely different lesson as Luffy came up with new and inventive ways to snatch scraps.

And at the end, with breakfast finished, you would usually pick who to spend your day with before they left the kitchen, following in their shadow like a lost puppy. Given that you remained seated as the crew thanked Sanji for the meal, you had decided on him.

You carefully tidied up the table, separating the plates from the cutlery to hand him for the sink. He trades you for a clean cloth, and you’d wipe up the mess.

“You know, you don’t have to do any of that, right?” He interrupts the quiet idle clattering of polishing forks and freezes when he feels a tension suddenly creep in the room. He turns to look over his shoulder to see you holding the broom with sudden white knuckles and a look of anxiety.

“Sorry, am I–...? Um, does it bother you?” Lips chapped from constant nibbling, he realizes his bad choice of words and quickly tries to backtrack.

“No, what I meant was…If you want, we can just talk?” You look at him with wide and lost eyes. “You’re always trying to work through it on your own. You’re quiet even though you're suffering. You don’t have to take this whole world on your shoulders, you know. You’ve got a crew now."

He offers his hand for you to take. A smile meant to settle your stomach as well as any meal.

"Lean on us a little.”

You hesitate long enough that a lesser man would have given up and returned to the task at hand, but he can see you mentally arguing and working through the logic of it all.

“Sometimes the best things in life are best doing scared.”

It settles you, grabs you by your shoulders, and shakes the hesitation from you. Like he’s added oil to your joints, and the stiffness works its way out of you as you set aside the broom and take his hand.

He grinned, tugging you over and stepping around you almost as if he led you in a dance before placing you in front of the sink to finish the dishes, and he starts on lunch.

“What’s bothering you so much? What is on your mind right now?”

“How does milk regrow your bones?” He huffs a laugh at how you start on one of the silliest questions.

“Milk regrows your bones. That’s just a common fact.”

“Is it? I mean, is milk the only thing that's literal like that?…What kind of cow do you even milk to get milk that can regrow your bones?”

And he pauses from wiping the counter for prep and glances towards you.

“...Does…milk from your world…not do that?”

“No!” You state solidly and continue washing the dishes.

“Will your carrots actually improve my eyesight? In my world, it's an old wives' tale. A lot of expressions like this are just to get kids to stop being picky and eat their vegetables.”

He stares, prep now set aside for later as he takes a step to you and takes you by the shoulder.

“What?” You blink at him, and a deep pit begins to open in his stomach.

“What else have I been feeding you that’s like that?”

A few minutes later, the dishes are finished, and water boils. You sit on the table with Chopper across from you, listing off vegetables and fruits. Chopper furiously scribbles in on his increasingly thickening pile of notes about your health.

Sanji furiously turns pages in his cookbook and recipe cards. Scouring his memory and cross-referencing every recipe he’s ever cooked up to this point in an attempt to salvage the nutrition he thought he was providing.

“You mean eating spinach doesn’t actually make your muscles grow?”

“I mean, it does, but not to that extreme!”

“What about tomatoes? Can we still use them as sunscreen?” Chopper asks in genuine and fearful concern.

You close your mouth and shock overtakes your own face.

“You can use tomatoes as sunscreen?!”

Sanji's hands shake as he reaches for a cigarette.

“What kind of hellish world do you come from…?!”

How much dietary neglect had he been subjecting you to by accident? On the topic of allergies, he had watched you like a hawk with any foreign ingredients.

But he didn't expect their regular shared foods and ingredients to be so biologically different. They needed to start from the ground up and formulate a new diet plan.

Each and every food-stuff from apples to zucchini has been brought to question.

Chopper starts once again, another page in your ever growing file.

“M-Maybe it’s the way our soil interacts with the Devil Fruit-infused environment?! Or our entire world’s geology? You said that while your world is more salt water than fresh it’s a LOT smaller than ours?”

“That was more of an assumption, really. I figured it had to be smaller because we've mapped the whole thing.”

“WHAT?!”

And then Nami is sitting in the kitchen, also with a notebook furiously scribbling in her pages with wide-eyed shock.

[lvc-a]

LOOKISM ✦ Kim Joon Goo x m! reader ✦ 1.3k words

It's raining. You pulled out a cigar and lit it with your gloved hand. You looked down at the body close to your feet and checked around the penthouse once more. Clean, no evidence, no witnesses, a knife close to the body, a sliced throat. An accident. You made your way to the back door and walked away with an umbrella, then quickly sent a text to your employer. Done.

Busan is pretty, and as you look up, the moon is also present today, gracing you with its presence. You look through your notifications to find 22 missed calls and 31 texts from your little money grubber. Always impatient. As you walked in the cool night, you called him back, hearing it ring a few times before being picked up. "Hmph! So now you remember me!"

You chuckled at his little tantrum, continuing to listen to him ramble about how you always abandon him and leave him to tend for himself, how you didn't care to ask what is he doing right now, checking up on him, how you didn't even care about his well-being!. How dare you. "Hi darling, I apologize for the long wait, it seems that my target suddenly has a different schedule today.." You apologized to him, finishing your cigar and throwing it on the ground to step on it.

"Hmph! I'd better see you tomorrow, if not. I don't want to see you ever again!" You were quick to wind him down, promising you'd be at the house by morning and would smother him with kisses, to which he switched his tone and happily accepted your proposal. You continued to talk to him on your way back to your little apartment, well, it's more like he continued rambling about his day, and how Gun is annoying for leaving him alone to collect debts, he whined on how he hasn't recieved his daily kisses from you, for a month now, since you've been away for that long. To which you apologized again, and he said that he only accept your apology if you drown him in kisses.

"Of course I will, darling I've just arrived at my apartment, I will be packing my things and see you this morning?" You could hear him complain again on the phone, making you chuckle as you put your umbrella away and went up the stairs, you pulled out your keys from your pocket, quickly opening the door and letting yourself in. "Okey fine, I'll let you pack your stuff, but please… I miss you a lot.."

You smiled at his cuteness, at times like this, you just wish you could french him right then and there, not allowing him to breathe even for a second. "I know darling, I miss you a lot too, sleep tight okay? I will be there before you know it." You could hear him mumble out and okay, and proceed to say good night to you, to which to replied with good night as well and hang up. You scanned around the room for a bit and grabbed a towel on your bed, and went to take a shower, after all, you did wait all day inside his house, waiting for him to get home.

You finished showering not long after and went to your wardrobe with a towel around your waist. You picked a simple shirt with pajama pants and dried your hair, but your eye caught your phone lit up for a second. Walking over to grab it, you were met with a transaction, money has been sent to your bank account, a huge sum, though you didn't receive a text back. Typical of him.

This particular person you've eliminated was a big one, he's been on your employer's tail for quite some time, and he didn't like it one bit. That's why he sent you. To finish the job. This is basically your life. An assassin. Of course, Gun and your lover are doing dirty work, but you're doing dirty work… sure, they were more than capable for it, but they appear too often in public, if someone looked into it closely, they can be seen cleaning up some stuff the authorities are not happy with.

Your employer needed someone private, someone who does not appear by his side everywhere he goes, someone happy to be lurking in his shadow. Someone clean-cut, doesn't talk much, and is ready at all times. And you were perfect. Simple, direct, and quite fancy. He didn't care for any of that, but you liked style. Few times you were urgently needed as his bodyguard, when Gun or Goo were not available, but you were never at his side. Always around, but never seen, blending quite well with the other guests, thinking you're just another businessman. But you would eye him from time to time, taking note of his posture and expression. People think he's here without a bodyguard, they are gravely mistaken.

You put your phone on charge and turn the lights off to sleep, you've got a promise to keep and a flight to catch in the morning.

It had stopped raining when you woke up, you checked your phone and it's 4 am, your flight is at 6. You've got some time to spare. Getting up from your bed, you walked to the bathroom to ready yourself, then packed what little stuff you brought into your bags and double checking the small apartment in case you missed anything. You then ordered a taxi to the airport and arrived swiftly. A private one, provided by your oh so kind employer. They served you breakfast there, which is a plus.

You've finally arrived in Seoul, getting off the plane to meet a person there handing you your car keys, he didn't say anything as he escorted you to the parking lot. Nodding his head to you as he walked away. You got in your car and texted your lover before you leave. I'm in Seoul, I'll be home in a bit.

Driving your way home, you stopped by a flower shop. You fancied yourself with the classic, a bouquet of red roses, and bought some cakes from across the shop for your beloved. "Him and his sweet tooth…" you shook your head as you load the stuff in the back seat and made your way home to your needy wife. He's been waiting for a while now, after all.

The penthouse is in sight, and you parked your car and grabbed your stuff, you didn't even have the chance to open the door before a whole body was thrown your way. "YOU'RE HEREE!". You could smell his shampoo, well, yours, as you hugged him with one arm and kissed his head. He had just finished drying his hair, you could tell. "I'm home darling, and I brought you gifts as a token of my apology." He didn't let go of the hug but turned his head to the side, seeing you holding flowers and cakes. He was visibly happy.

Goo smiled at you brightly, as you press kisses all over his face, then a deep kiss to his lips. He quickly grabbed the side of your head to deepen the kiss. He has been missing you, greatly. You were the first to break the kiss, making him chase your lips, wanting more. "Let's get inside first.." He pouted at you, but lightened up again as you gave him his flowers and cakes. But his mood changed back, your darling has quite frequent mood swings…

"You've left me to rot for a month, you're not allowed to leave! Anywhere! Without me for a whole year!" A whole year? you know that's not possible, but you gave in to his actics. He is, after all, your beloved wife, making demands.

"Yes dear…"

I apologize for any grammar mistakes, English is not my first language, and thank you for reading. ✦ luca

[ryan-sometimes]

Fun Chemistry With Ryan #1: The Discovery of Helium

Welcome to my new series, Fun Chemistry With Ryan, where I, a biochemist, discuss some chemistry topics that I personally find fun!

For the first installment of this series, I’ll be going over the discovery of helium. Let’s get right into it!

Helium is the second element in the periodic table, and it is considered to be the most unreactive element. The discovery of helium is particularly interesting because it was actually first discovered in space, not on Earth! It was discovered in 1868 by the French astronomer Jules Janssen during a solar eclipse.

Yes, that’s right, helium was discovered because of a solar eclipse!

Every element possesses its own emission spectrum, meaning the wavelengths of light emitted by this element. Think of emission spectra as elemental barcodes or fingerprints, in the sense that it is unique to each element, and can be used to identify it. For example, here is the emission spectrum of hydrogen:

In a time where chemistry methods were more rudimentary than today, emission spectra were one of the main methods used for the discovery of new elements. Although it wasn’t enough to characterize the element fully, it did give scientists pointers that there was an element out there they hadn’t discovered yet!

And that brings us to India in the year of 1868. The French astronomer Jules Janssen was observing a solar eclipse. He noticed while looking into the corona (the bright outer ring of light on the circumference of the sun), that there was an emission spectral line that didn’t belong to any of the elements known at the time.

The eclipse was crucial to this discovery, as in normal conditions, the glare of the sun makes the corona exceedingly difficult to observe. However, during this eclipse, the moon dimmed the sunlight just enough to allow Janssen to observe the emission spectrum of an unknown element. The moon gave him 7 minutes of darkness, which was enough time for him to know that there was an element present in the sun that hadn’t been discovered yet. Janssen did not go as far to name this element or even definitively say it existed. He still mailed his findings to the French Academy of Sciences, but his letter took a bit too long to reach Paris.

Emission spectra of hydrogen and helium. The yellow line down the middle was the “a-ha!” wavelength for Janssen.

Meanwhile, as Janssen’s letter made its way to Paris, an English astronomer by the name of Norman Lockyer made the exact same observation. He had figured out a way to observe the sun’s corona during the daytime, and found the same thing: spectral lines that did not belong to any known element at the time.

However, unlike Janssen, Lockyer took the leap of faith to not only say this element definitely existed, but went as far as naming it too: Helium, after the Greek god of the sun Helios, paying homage to the phenomenon that allowed its discovery.

Illustration of Lockyer.

The French Academy of Sciences decided to grant both Janssen and Lockyer joint credit for the discovery of helium. It wasn’t until 1895 that helium was discovered on Earth by Sir William Ramsey through isolating it from uranium ore, which releases helium as a component of radioactive decay.

I find helium fascinating, exactly because it was discovered in space 27 years before it was discovered on Earth! Not only that, but its discovery was made possible by an eclipse!

Alright, that’s it for the first installment of this series! Let me know if you like it, and if you have any requests for following episodes. Thanks for reading, if you’ve made it this far.

[coffeegnomee]

Hi Gnomee hiii I really like your analyses and you have such a comprehensive understanding of relationships and the members of the server so I was just wondering if you have any thoughts to share on golden laurels (minute and wemmbu)... because I'm just a bitttt obsessed with them and I like knowing what other people think about them too so yeah.... :D

So i thought i had no thoughts until i started typing and didn't stop. I didn't start watching either of them until they joined lifesteal so i have almost no knowledge of their relationship before except that there was a betrayal in kings s1 and minute wore wemmbu's tiara until he returned.

which is like two very opposite and opposing emotions lmao. hatred from one betrayal that stops minute from ever wanting to team with wemmbu ever again. paired with caring about him so much that his absence when wemmbu had to delete his channel made him change his skin to wear a tiara.

and then they just barely interact or talk or do anything at all ever on the server.

but minute just has absolute and complete exasperated exhaustion and frustration over everything wemmbu does. wemmbu builds an orbital, minute is put out. he builds it again and minute stumbles upon it and is just flabbergasted wemmbu didn't think of someone flying in. It's like an elaborate cat and mouse, but the cat thinks the mouse is up to nothing until it runs out in front of him. and then the mouse gets caught laden with crumbs and just bans himself off, not to minute, but to 4c.

Minute deals with wemmbu quickly and swiftly. He knows that if he can put overwhelming pressure on wemmbu, that wemmbu will cave and quit.

which interestingly colors how minute deals with all problems on lifesteal. He'll often do, or at least think of doing, something that does overwhelming destruction to another's plot, and that's either something that is intrinsic to minute, or something that he's learned from battling wemmbu. bc it's extremely effective against wemmbu. or its just both. but i always wonder about how much his friendship with wemmbu made him the way he is. i wont ever know bc i dont plan on watching the old videos lol. but i like to think it's connected.

Bc like getting a mole on abyss and ensuring it ended before zam could break into the void at all, trying to BAN spoke in their conversation this season. these are overwhelmingly powerful actions meant to absolutely destroy the opposition and make them stop and give up. It's anything for the win, but when you throw golden laurels into the mix, it's everything to stop wemmbu from being annoying with his overpowered plots. It makes him quit and they can go back to being friends.

it is- ok, it is also i think just minute. if you watch his rlcraft play style, even without hardcore, minute grinds until he has overwhelming gear and armor, and then plays really safely against the bosses and wins with ease. It's a facet of how he plays video games.

and then wemmbu has the exact opposite play style. anything to make his life easier. "can i have a hint" .5 seconds into every wato room. He'll do a grind project like the orbital or like learning pvp and then use it all at once in his own overpowered plots. 50 hearts in one hour. killing anyone for no reason and using tnt to get people angry. He puts in time in the backend, but when it comes to the presentation, it's swift and absolute.

And then when it's defeated he just gives up. Life is easier that way.

and so they're so similar but so opposite. both are willing to use overwhelming force. but since wemmbu leans evil he leads the plot, while minute leans good so he's always caught flat footed, something, to note his play style again, he would naturally hate. So he tries to get ahead of wemmbu (and everyone evil) and stop the plot before it can happen, using overwhelming force if they show their hand before the presentation (trying to ban spoke).

but then. ok wow lmao maybe i do have thoughts. but then Every. Single. Thing. Wemmbu. Does. Minute. Does.

Wemmbu paves the way and gives minute permission to follow his darker tendencies to follow the whispers in his heart of what is cool, but maybe a little evil.

wemmbu builds an orbital, minute builds a death star. wemmbu builds an arrow cannon rail gun. minute builds an arrow cannon claymore. and then builds 10 more arrow cannons. wemmbu adds immortality to his presidential decree. minute adds an immortality switch to his presidential decree. and givens himself netherite durability on his armor, a minor version of immortality.

at least he didn't copy wemmbu in blowing up spawn with tnt.

minutetechnologies loves his technology, his silly little redstone technology. But before wemmbu did the orbital, minute only ever did pvp. it's like he limited himself, did what was acceptable to fit into the group of lifesteal, that is until wemmbu did something bigger and it opened the door to more opportunities.

But then again, minute is batman too. He takes the higher road, his voice waver about spawn being the target was just as important to his decision to kill spoke as the exploits were, at least in my mind. We'll see if he decides to bomb spawn next season, but I think we're seeing an upper limit to what Minute is willing to do, one that is much lower than wemmbu's upper limit. And that makes them an even better duo, in some ways their ideologies are the same, and in others they're completely different.

[salt-clangen]

Meet Saltclan’s first (and only) Patron, Fennelheart!

We haven’t seen this lil man is quite awhile, but I promise he’s hanging out. So originally Fennel went to the ‘unknown residence’ (in the clans it’s called the Unknown) after he died bc he didn’t believe in Starclan. His beliefs were more akin to that of kittypets and loners, many non clan cats believe that when you die you spend eternity reliving the best moments of your life. Now for kittypets and loners that’s a very simple concept, they relive nursing at their parents bellies or being petted or sharing tongues in the sun. And it was the same for Fennel for several moons, but a lot of his best memories involve Saltclan and his friends there, slowly he began to want for more than just reliving the moment no matter how nice.

Starclan is capable of both great simplicity and complexity, changing between the two within seconds, so no one is sure how Fennel ended up in a trial before Starclan to see if he could join. Even starclan’s oldest members can’t fully comprehend the forces that lay beyond and bellow the stars, so everyone just goes with it as if this was a normal trial. Now not every clan cat that dies gets a trial to enter Starclan, but it’s more common than not, after all mortals of all species are inherently flawed. Fennel though was deemed a good boy and allowed in.

Fennel himself honestly didn’t even believe it was Starclan until he was shown proof and by the time he accepted it, they’d already accepted him. Soon he was walking amongst the stars like a true warrior, he could even walk the territory or visit cats dreams. After visiting Lynxdawn and Mallowstripe’s dreams and confirmed his new residence, Wolfstar decided since he had made it to Starclan he should get to be a patron spirit. So Lynx declared him the Patron of Shifting & Former Outsiders

Outsiders attempting to join the clan can pray to him to ease their transition into clan life. Speaking of transitions, trans cats can pray to him to help present as their desired gender. It can be something as simple as ‘Oh please, Fennelheart let them assume I’m a tom’ before going to a gathering, more commonly he’ll get a ‘Fennelheart please let these herbs not taste like ass’. While Saltclan is still in its infancy, it’ll be much more common to pray to Saltclan specific patrons. Other clans are pretty open to praying to patrons not originally from their clan, Scorchstar is a popular choice for fire starting assistance.

As a patron Fennel has more responsibility, which he loves, he doesn’t get prayed to often, especially in the early days but he answers every prayer sent his way no matter how silly. He uses his spiritual energy to make bitter hrt herbs taste sweet or to make someone’s scent a little more gender affirming or to soothe a cat who is frazzled about learning new clan customs. It’s not much, but it’s honest work.

I plan to post more patrons, previous leaders, and notable cats of clan history as time goes on, but I figured we should start with our boy Fennelheart💕

Also yes every early/founding member of Saltclan will be a patron after they die, some ill reveal some I won’t due to spoilers.

As always I’m inspired by Bonefall’s Patrons and Rippleclan’s Celestials writings (tho I call them patron or patron spirits)

[ironcade]

johnny & a kiss of desperation

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up here. 

It had started out as most nights do following a return home from a long op. Since none of the team really had much to return home to, besides Kyle, everyone got together to decompress at a local bar off base. It was a dingy place, one that a lot of soldiers went to. Almost felt like a second home at this point.

Now usually, it was an easy night. Some drinks were shared, stories told, and any attempt was made to forget the horrors left behind in the field. However, something had been off the entire night.

Well, more specifically, Johnny had been off the entire night. He was more sullen, quieter and to himself. Every so often he might throw out a quip, but he seemed trapped in his own thoughts. Every so often he’d send a glance your way, you noticed. Once he’d meet your gaze, his eyes would dart away, as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

However, you didn’t really say much at the time, not sure this was really the place to interrogate your teammate. You tried to enjoy your drinks at least, chatting away with Kyle about his plans to surprise his partner. Yet, your eyes always ended up on Johnny, concern eating at your insides.

Once the team returned to base, you finally confronted Johnny. You stopped him in front of his room and softly asked, “You alright?” His soft blues met your gaze, his expression twisted with some unspoken thought or emotion. 

That was how you found yourself stumbling into his room, lips clashing with his in a desperate hunger. The taste of whiskey was on his tongue, probably what was fueling this impulsive and emotional moment. Yet, you couldn’t find it in yourself to really care as Johnny gently herded you into the safety of his quarters. 

Sharp inhales and gentle moans escaped the two of you as passion took over. Johnny’s hand gripped to your hips, tugging you close to him. It was almost like he was afraid you might disappear if he lost even a moment of your touch against him. 

Eventually, a moment of clarity struck and you pulled away. You opened your eyes and took in the sight of the handsome Scot panting softly. His eyes were gazing down at you with a turbulent storm of emotions present in them. Finally, he opened his mouth and found words.

“When you stopped respondin’ on comms,” he started with a slight quiver to his voice. “I thought…” he swallowed, his gaze staring at you with such intensity. “I thought the worst.” 

There was a moment of silence as you took in his words. “Johnny,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “I realized then and there that I couldn’t lose ya,” his tone was firm. “Not without ya known’ that I fuckin’ love ya.” The sincerity of his declaration hit you like a freight train. 

You inhaled sharply and your eyes widened, freezing up entirely as you processed this. The reality that Johnny had somehow fallen in love with you during your time together seemed particularly impossible. Yet somehow, here you were. Words were beyond you, though it seemed. How does one respond to something so brutally honest and vulnerable? Especially when you hadn’t given yourself a chance to ponder that maybe you could have Johnny in the ways you desperately wanted. Although, the alcohol in your system did not help.

Instead, you tightly wrap your hands around the collar of his shirt. You then yanked, bringing him to you. Passionately, you kissed him again. This time, it was in an attempt to convey the feelings you could never speak of. Your lips mashed against his with an aching affection. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation before you felt him return the kiss. 

As you two clung to each other, seeking solace in feelings that had gone unspoken for a long time, a silent desperation was found. Love had blossomed among the death and destruction that was your life. One that both of you are scared to pursue, but even more terrified to lose.

[john] [kyle] [simon]

[inlovewithalotoffandoms]

6ft Nothing

ex!Rafe Cameron x ex!Topper Thorten x ex!John B Routledge (for the start, but you get back together at the end) x Fem!Reader

Summary: 3 guys. 3 relationship. Always ending up with 6ft Nothing. Or so you thought.

Author's Note: Based on the song 6ft Nothing by Jenna Davis. Also, this is mainly a John B fic, but if you want two other fics where you end up with Topper and Rafe, let me know. Y/N = Your Name, Y/L/N = Your Last Name, and Y/E/C = Your Eye Colour.

Rafe Cameron. You're first boyfriend. You thought the two of you were gonna be together forever. But no. That was not the case at all. He was toxic. Abusive even. Yeah, not a great situation to be in. He'd yell, he'd hit you. But he wasn't like that all the time. He was worse when he was drunk and high. Which was most times. Rafe was violent. Manipulative. Cocky. Controlling. Possessive. Obsessive. And you, you were innocent. Kind. Naive. You trusted people too much. Loyal. And forgive way too easily. And when Rafe hit you or yelled at you, you thought that was normal. Well, he made you believe that, actually. Oh, and he also cheated on you. When you brought up the topic at a party one night, he hit you and yelled at you, and after that, you guys broke up.

Topper Thorten. Your second boyfriend. You met through Rafe. 2 weeks before you started dating, he witnessed Rafe hit you and yell at you during an argument. Did he step in? Yeah, he did, and he broke up with Rafe for you. Rafe was pissed, obviously, saying stuff like, "You'll come crawling back to me! Just like you always do, Y/n!" You ended up staying the night at Topper's house, and he comforted you all night as you cried on his chest while he held you in his arms. When you were dating, he wasn't like Rafe. At all. Well, maybe the partying, but that was it. He was kind, he let you have your space if you wanted it, and he wouldn't yell or hit you. He wasn't controlling. Wasn't manipulative. Wasn't toxic. But, there were times when he would ditch you for his friends. And you brought it up one day, he got angry and said things that he regretted as soon as they came out of his mouth. But, you and Topper didn't last either. He dumped you for Sarah Cameron. Your ex's sister. Yeah, that's a shame.

Finally, there's John Booker Routledge. A Pogue. A very very handsome Pogue. You met the night Topper dumped you for Sarah. Oh, and it was at the bonfire too, so, yeah. Great way to end the night. When you and John B started talking and hanging out, you practically became a Pogue pretty quickly. Kaira, JJ, and Pope all welcomed you from the very start. You were the only Kook they liked. And you were practically one of them since you acted like more of a Pogue than a Kook. John B started falling for you, well, actually, he fell for the very night he met you. So, one day, when looking for clues of where the gold was, he asked you out, and that's how you and John B became a couple. He was so different to both Rafe and Topper. He was basically Topper, but without the anger when you confronted him about ditching you for his friend. He was kind. Gentle. Sweet. Caring. Funny. He'd do anything for you, within reason. Sure, he was protective, and got into a fight or two. Three? But that was only ever with Topper. John B gave you space when you needed it. When you needed him, he was there. He always made sure you were okay. You were safe and happy.

So, why'd you break up if you were going so good? Well, when he kissed Sarah. Yeah. Topper and Sarah broke up, and John B accidentally kissed Sarah. Well, she kissed him, but he didn't stop her. You saw the kiss, and John B ran up to you to tell you that it meant nothing. And you knew he wasn't lying, but you still said, "I think we should take a break.' and he, being the most understanding guy he was, respected that. However, he was in hell on earth without being with you. He wanted you back in his arms. But, he knew he had to give you time.

Now, back to the present. You were sitting at the dock, thinking about everything you've been through. You wanted John B, but you were scared of getting hurt again.

"Y/N. Hey." A soft voice says as the person sits beside you.

You knew it was John B. Your John B.

"Hi." You mumbled as a reply.

You missed him, and he missed you. John B ran his fingers through his shaggy, messy hair as he sighed.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't do anything to stop Sarah from kissing me. It meant nothing. I love you, Y/N Y/L/N. I love you so much that I haven't stopped thinking about you for the past 2 weeks. It's been hell for me without you in my arms. I'm an idiot Pogue. But I'm an idiot Pogue in love with a beautiful, sweet Kook girl."

John B legit ranted the life out of him. All you could do was look at him.

"You won't hurt me again?" You asked shyly. Your sparkly Y/E/C eyes locking with his gorgeous brown ones.

"Never. Never again." The Pogue boy replied before leaning his head down a little to kiss you.

Well, at least you've now ended up with 6ft something.

[yuh13lo]

Too much? | matt sturniolo

The soft hum of the humidifier was the only sound in the dim bedroom. Outside the windows, Boston was blanketed in gray rain, steady and cold. Inside, you were curled up under a heap of blankets, your hair a little messy and your cheeks flushed with a fever. A used tissue clung to your hand, and another threatened to fall from your lap.

Matt stood in the doorway like he was trying to figure out how to knock on a door that was already open.

He had a bowl of soup in his hands—chicken noodle, the kind you always said reminded you of being a kid, back when your mom would bring it on a tray and rub your back. He made it himself. Okay, it was from a can, but he added pepper, some lemon, and fresh parsley like his mom said well, she helped him. He even garnished it.

“Hey…” he said gently, like his voice might somehow make things worse. “You awake?”

You shifted and squinted at him. “Kinda. My head feels like it’s full of wet cotton.”

He smiled a little, stepping into the room. “That’s a new one.”

Matt set the soup down on your nightstand, hesitating like he wanted to fluff your pillows or pick up the tissues, but didn’t. You caught the way he fidgeted, the way he rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at your blanket pile.

“You okay?” you asked, voice hoarse.

“Me? Yeah. I’m fine. I just… wanted to bring you this.” He motioned toward the bowl. “Soup. It’s probably too hot. Or not hot enough. I don’t know, I tried.”

You smiled softly. “That’s really sweet, baby.”

He sat on the edge of the bed but didn’t reach for your hand like he normally would. Didn’t lean in. Just sat, stiff and quiet for a second.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked carefully.

You blinked. “Of course.”

Matt let out a breath and nodded, but didn’t move closer. Instead, he looked at you, his brow knitting.

“I don’t want to do that thing where I… y’know. Hover,” he said. “Or treat you like you’re helpless. I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You always are. I just—”

You looked at him, waiting.

“I just don’t want you to think I don’t want to help. ‘Cause I do. Like a lot. I just don’t know how to do both.” His voice trailed off. “Does that make sense?”

Your heart ached in the best and worst way. You reached for his hand, warm and familiar, and gave it a squeeze. “Matt. I love that you even think about that. Most people don’t.”

He looked down, sheepish. “I just don’t want you to feel like I don’t think you’re strong. You are. You’re—god, you’re one of the strongest people I know. But I still wanna be here. I just don’t wanna… I don’t know, make you feel babied.”

You tilted your head. “There’s a difference between babying someone and showing up for them.”

Matt looked at you again, this time more steady.

“You don’t have to pretend I’m not sick,” you said, voice gentle. “You can fluff my pillows. You can rub my back. You can hold my hand even when it’s clammy and gross. That’s not saying I can’t do things. That’s just saying you love me.”

He smiled, the kind that melted slow and real across his face.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. You’re already doing it right. You brought soup, remember? That’s, like, peak care.”

He laughed under his breath and finally leaned in, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Okay. But if I do something annoying or too much, you’ll tell me?”

“I’ll cough twice if it’s too much,” you teased.

“Perfect,” he said, and kissed your forehead. “Consider me your personal nurse-slash-boyfriend for the next twenty-four hours. I take payment in forehead kisses and sleepy snuggles.”

“You’re hired,” you whispered.

Matt settled in beside you, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, and when you dozed off on his chest twenty minutes later, he didn’t move—not even when his arm fell asleep. He just held you.

Quiet. Present. Exactly what you needed.

Taglist @xsturnkay @ellsxxoxo @nessaisabelartemas333 @edu4rd0ss @sturnsobsessed21 @bugs-tags @mattspillowprincess @oopsiedaisydeer