#whatever. it is what it is. I’ll be fine and I’ll get through and I’ll feel joy and whimsy again I am just crashing very hard rn because ???

[luvlian]

ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ I wish I could be Magnolia ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊

previous | next | beginning

*her name is just Magnolia Flores now btw, Magnolia Kristine Nightingale Flores is her full name. My mom’s maiden name is my middle name so.. that’s what it’s going to be now. Yes I changed everything from Flores-Nightingale everywhere to just Flores 😼 you all were too busy with Tia in the hospital to notice

[wishingstarworld]

I glanced up as the bell to my café chimed, signalling a customer’s arrival, and smiled, “Welcome to the Fae Café!” The customer, a lithe, beautiful young man with curly red hair, glanced around the café with interest, taking in the simple tables, counter, and the few regulars scattered around. He was new. And even if his hoodie wasn’t askew, just barely allowing his pointed ears to peek through, I would have known he was fae.

After five years of being the primary coffee supplier of all things magic, I’d grown a sixth sense for their kind.

The FaeCafé. That’s what I get for trying to be clever.

I shot the newcomer a smile as he approached the counter, “What can I get started for you?”

He studied me for a long moment, sizing me up. I’d grown used to it from the newcomers and met his gaze for every second of it. He smiled then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’ll have whatever you recommend, Miss…?”

Nice try, bub. “You can just call me the Barista,” I said with a smile, “And if this is your first time, I’d recommend a latte. My personal favourite.”

He looked a little disappointed but nodded, and I got to making it. I could feel his eyes on the back of my head the whole time, along with the eyes of the regulars in the room. A cold sweat started dripping down my back. Come on, guys. Not today. I just finished the repairs from last time.

I finished the drink as quickly as I could and handed it to the newcomer, “Here you go!”

He took it, his eyes never leaving mine, and took a sip. He smiled, “Delicious. The best drink I’ve ever had, you truly have a gift. I’d love to be able to thank you properly…”

“I’m glad you enjoy it.” I glanced nervously at the others. They were very interested in this interaction. Shit. “There’s no need to thank me. The customer’s enjoyment is my number one priority.”

“Oh, but I insist,” he leaned forward, getting far too close for comfort, “After all, it would be impolite to—”

He was suddenly yanked back a good five feet, dangling in the air like a child in Matt’s massive, minotaur grasp, “You know what’s not polite? Getting in people’s personal space without permission.”

“Truly tactless,” Medusa tutted from her regular spot, sunglasses covering her eyes as she sipped her Espresso.

“I mean, really,” Circe agreed, pretending to skim her novel even though her attention was fully on the situation in front of me, “His mother would be disappointed.”

The newcomer looked positively furious, “How dare you! Let go of me, you overgrown bovine! Do you have any idea who I am?! I—”

“Oh, everyone here knows exactly who you are, Tyrin. I’ve long since warned them of you.”

The newcomer—Tyrin, apparently—froze in his thrashing, and Matt generously turned him toward the couple sitting quietly in the corner, trying—and failing—to enjoy a quiet afternoon, “K-King Oberon?!”

Oberon sighed, forced to set down his affogato and give Tyrin his full attention, “Tyrin, I believe I gave a perfectly clear order that the Barista of the Fae Café was off-limits, did I not?”

Tyrin was sweating buckets, “I…my lord, I…”

“So surely you can imagine my confusion as to what you are doing?” Oberon stood, suddenly looking like the centuries-old king he actually was, magic practically rolling off him in waves as he stalked toward the dangling Tywin.

Oh, gods, I’m going to have to renovate again.

Titania seemed to pick up on my distress, “My dear, now is not the time. You’re frightening the Barista.”

Oberon paused, studying me for a moment, before sighing, “Fine.” He glared at Tyrin, who whimpered in fear, “I will deal with you later.” With the flick of his wrist, Tyrin disappeared in a puff of smoke. Oberon sighed and bowed his head at me, “Apologies, Barista. I’ll have a talk with my people.”

I swallowed, “No need to apologize. No harm done.”

He nodded and returned to his table, Matt following his lead.

I sighed, tension releasing my body, and straightened as the door bells chimed once again, “Welcome to the Fae Café! What can I get started for you?”

You run a mostly ordinary coffee shop, but it's frequented by members of the Fae court and other creatures of myth. Ordinarily, they'd try and take your soul or turn you, but they all just enjoy the drinks and atmosphere that there's an unofficial rule: You are off limits.

[bambilenny]

Tell me what you think. – James Marriott

summary: you buy james’ album, not knowing what it would lead to.

warnings: just fluff tbh, kinda short i apologise

request: idk if its like something you'd do but every day i fall more in love with james marriott? sooo maybe a fic with james?

like a fic where he meets her in a record shop and shes like looking through albums and looking at his and hes like "haha thats mine :)" and shes like "wow! cool!" and then hes like telling her to listen to it and like is awkwardly trying to get her number but like can't find a reason for it so hes like "haha tell me what you think of it" and they end up going on a cutesy date and kiss and stuff maybe more who knows ?

tldr: record shop meet cute with james marriott?

a/n: my first but definitely not last james fic! there will be a part 2 to this!! :)

You casually flip through the many vinyls in-front of you, desperate to hear something new. The loud sounds of Fleetwood Mac blasted over the speakers, you occasionally lip sync to a few words.

The place was bustling with people, the sun was shining directly into your eyes from the large windows infront of you, a light breeze hitting your makeup clad face.

You sip your cold matcha before finally peeling your eyes on something. A album with a small blue clay dog on the front. “Don’t tell the dog” You bite the inside of your cheek as you look at it with more curiosity, debating if it’s worth the £22.

You decide to finally buy it, going up to the counter quietly, waiting in the small queue ahead of you. “Great choice.” You turn around to see a tall man with a large multicoloured scarf on. He was literally the pin point of your type. Mullet, moustache, tall. It was all you wanted in a guy. You give him a small smile in return.

“Really? Have you listened to it? Don’t give me any spoilers.” You say with a small laugh, slightly tilting your head upwards to meet his eyes.

“I made that album.” He replies with a grin. Your smile drops, you look a little embarrassed. Mainly from the fact that you sounded like an idiot.

When it’s finally your time to pay, you hear a beep from the card machine. “There you go lovely.” The cashier says. You turn to face him again, an eyebrow raised. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

You look at him with a grin before replying “Let me take you out for coffee or something it’s the least I can do.” You just wanted to spend more time with him, it wasn’t a date per say. Although you wished it was.

“Okay fine.” He replies before following you outside the small record shop, the bell dinging as you leave.

The small breeze outside hits your face, you hadn’t dressed well for the weather. You were wearing a small denim miniskirt with a black tank top.

As you start walking to your local coffee shop the conversation never stops, constantly changing subject every few minutes. You felt a sense of safety, something you hadn’t felt in a while.

As you arrive you order another matcha while he orders an iced coffee. You take a seat on the metal chairs by the window, slowing sipping on your drink. Due to you being a chatterbox he finished his drink way before you.

“How the fuck are you already finished?!” You say with a laugh, your eyes slowly crinkling.

His phone starts ringing loudly, he slowly picks it up. “Hi Will, yeah I’m a bit busy.” He says as he looks at you with a gentle expression before setting his phone back down. He continues the conversation with you, ignoring Wills many messages being nosy.

After you finally finish your coffee you slowly leave the shop, the rain had now begun and it was already dark. “I’ll drive you home.” He says with a smile before opening the passenger door for you. Slowly you clime in before he gets in the drivers side.

You tell him your address and he starts driving down the long dark roads. The sounds of whatever was playing on the radio and the rain somehow had sent you to sleep.

You wake up to his hand patting your shoulder gently. “Sorry, but we’re here.” He says with a smile before getting out the car and carrying you to your front door. You grab your keys and unlock the door.

“I better get going. Heres my number, tell me what you think of the album.” He says with a grin before turning away as you slowly shut the door.

taglist:

@theoreticallythe @willnees @italianclarke

@rubi-radio

[n0rmal-cat]

More bratty angle x reader

i love them :)

“Wait, so you were my guardian angel?” Reader said, preparing two steaming mugs of coffee.

“Yeah, yeah, but your life was just so boring," they ran a hand down their face. “I mean, have you ever actually watched someone go through the same boring shit over and over again? Well, I guess you lived it, but still!” 

“If you’re an angel… why do you keep cursing?” Reader asked, setting the two mugs down on the table

“Oh, please, I can do whatever I want,” the angel shot back, lifting their mug to their lips and taking a sip. “Ugh, this is terrible!" They poured the hot coffee onto reader's white carpet.

“I-I…” Reader's eyes widened in shock.

“Now,” the angel said, crossing one leg over the other and lacing their fingers together, “what exactly does an interesting life look like to you, haha? Because I certainly don’t”  he smiled, gritting his teeth.

"Oh," reader smiled, "I just want something new and exciting to happen each day, you're kinda right, my whole life I've been doing the same thing over and over again, I just wanted a change," they said, a little embarrassed.

“Something new every day? How vague…” the angel grumbled, rolling their eyes. “Have you ever had an angel in your house before?"

“Nope, you’d definitely be the first one,” Reader blinked.

"Alright, good because I'm not really in the mood to do something different today," they leaned back, putting their hands behind their head.

“So,” Reader started, fingers nervously fiddling with each other, “you’re kind of like my roommate now. I’ve never had one before,” they murmured, a soft smile tugging at their lips.

“Don’t be gross,” the angel shot back,

“Oh, but where will you sleep? My job barely covers enough rent for a one-bedroom,” Reader contemplated out loud. “If you want, I might be able to get a pull-out couch?”

The angel listened, annoyance growing as Reader continued to babble. “Shittttt,” they groaned, gradually slumping down in their seat. “You know, if you had taken my offer to be a rich CEO’s kid, we wouldn’t be in this predicament,” they scoffed.

"But... "they trailed off, “This could be the perfect time to launch my influencer career! And with my heavenly looks, I bet I can hit a million followers within a week!” They pulled out a white phone with a little halo floating on top.

"An influencer? You have human social media?" they asked.

"I have a lot of things you don't need to know about, or I will tell you about," they typed away on their phone.

"Well, I should follow you then, shouldn't I?" They smiled, pulling out their own phone.

The angel paused, "If I ever notice you following me, I’ll block you without hesitation."

reader pouted, "If you're my guardian angel, why are you so mean to me?" They put their phone back in their pocket.

The angle looked away with a scoff. "I'm going to stop talking to you now, you keep boring me when what you should really be doing is cleaning that ugly carpet of yours," he pointed to the ground.

"Oh, right," they rushed to pick up the carpet. "Oh, but how would I-.."

"Just use cold water and stain remover, and it should be fine," he cut them off.

"Thank you?" they replied, surprised, not expecting him to offer advice.

When Reader was out of the angel's line of sight, they pulled out their phone again, they looked up any username with the word 'angel' in it, and immediately found them. 

"So your name is Ivory," they smiled to themselves.

[loverboyfelidae]

[GN!Reader | Explicit material, view at your own discretion | This was meant to be a throwaway, I don’t know what happened]

Been thinking about this and having Kalim sat on your lap, your head rested on his shoulder to overlook his front as your fingers tease that instantaneous feeling of unbearable sensitivity out of him in breathy gasps and moans as you pinch his nipples. Of course his face got warm when you asked to finally do this, laughing to cover his nervous giddiness – you’ve been staring at the small dents the bars make on his shirt for months now, how could all that attention not get to him? Besides, the healing process was so long, Kalim was tempted on multiple occasions by the brush of your hands beside (but not on) the area to just throw all precaution away.

You were the one to make him wait, with whatever patience you’d been blessed with, which is perhaps why Kalim is more shy than usual under your observance when your cold hands settle on his chest. Your fingers are so careful when they press into the skin around the piercings and he’s immediately reminded of his own persistant tenderness through this whole thing.

His chin is tucked to watch your movements, breath shaky and muscle jolting like he’d been zapped with each soft touch. It feels good; But it’s not enough, he wants more. About to reassure you that it’s all fine, you can be a bit rougher he can handle it, but the sentence dies halfway in his throat when he meets your eyes, already staring unblinkingly at him with a foreign intensity. His heart upstarts to a tempo that has his head buzzing and he can’t help but admire how (probably unintentional, by his guess) hot you look like that.

He realizes, with a smile wobbling on his face, that even if he hadn’t begun to ask, you would’ve understood anyway. It’s amazing to be known so well, Kalim thinks, warmth in his expression when he meets your again and kisses your temple, his hand guiding one of yours back to focus. His breath is humid against your skin, and you’re sure you can smell the lingering scent of lavender from his dessert earlier.

Your attention drops to his chest again appeasingly. Kalimalmost has to laugh in surprise with how fast you take to the initiative; pinching the bud between your thumb and pointer experimentally, and he can feel your smile against the slope of his neck when he whines responsively, squirming. You don’t stop – sevens, he almost wish you would despite how good it feels. The pleasure is frightening.

Sparks of white dizzy his vision, a curated heat made it feel impossible to breath as it coils around his lungs, as if choking on his own arousal with each second of your inspired hands toying with him.

Your touch becomes trained to his reactions, picking up the information he freely leaves for you and using it on him skillfully. It’s confusing how good it feels, like the sensations are always prodding at his preferences and quickly becoming better and better, almost in a fascinated daze as you move– until his hand whips out to grasp your forearm and everything stops all at once.

You tilt your chin to look up as your hands flatten out, silently smoothing over his chest soothingly as you finally register the mess he’s become. Even with your ministrations stopped he’s twitching in your hold, quiet noises sung into your ear. You’re wondering why he’s so flustered, then you shift his weight on your lap and feel the bulge of his cock pressed into your thigh. It feels wet, and you look down to see the crotch of his pants soaked through – with cum, you could only guess – and a stain in your own fabric.

“Did you…” you peer the flustered condition of his face, legs trembling with what was likely equal measures shame and bliss. He nods, barely.

It’s only seconds of silence from him before he’s laughing – audibly forced – and pushing to get off your lap. “Ha… sorry about that! Really, um, didn’t think I’d be so sensitive and just got ahead of myself. I’ll clean-“

“Where are you going?”

Kalim doesn’t register he’s being pulled back until his back hits your chest again, this time straddling just one of your legs. The premeditated goal of this position doesn’t register for him until you’re keeping him steady as you grind your thigh up against his clothed cock – which he notes, extremely embarrassed, is already hard again. His posture goes rigid, turning to look over his shoulder questioningly.

“Did it not feel good, my love?” The sensation of your lips messily trailing over his neck wracks an involuntary shiver from him, goosebumps rising on his skin. You look up at him through your lashes and he can feel himself physically relax. “I can make it feel better.”

He’s a breath away from responding when your hands are winding down his torso again, one rising to his piercings, teasing with his oversensitive nipple. The other is pulling down his loose pants, the outline of his dick near obscene through his boxers. Kalim bucks involuntarily at the cool air, panting as the movement sends him grinding back against your thigh again.

You straighten, letting his head rest against your shoulder and you both peer down. His chest is pink, nipples puffy, piercings enhancing the sight in such a delicately pretty way – you’d almost pleaded insanity from all these months waiting,having to just swallow and stare each time he took off his shirt, barred from touching. But the results were so pleasing, how could you find it in yourself to be upset?

Too good, actually. You’d have to pace yourself. You doubt Kalim would tell you no, but sometimes you had to be the sensible person and slow yourself down, as painful as that is. Otherwise, he’ll wake up tomorrow morning commenting on them being just as tender as the first day. And while that is a consumingly tempting thought, you withhold yourself. At least, you think you do.

“You have strange tastes, huh?” Kalim’s reaching up to fiddle with the piercing, glinting dimly. His tone is good-natured, as it always is. You’re sure that even if he had no interest in the getting pierced, he would have gotten them done regardless if he learned how much interest you have for them. You’ve realized that a lot of the joys Kalim takes out of your relationship are just reflections of your own.

You hum, slipping your fingers under the hem of his pants and guiding them farther down until they’re resting on his mid-thigh. “I’m glad you humour me,” you mutter next to his ear, just as your one hand cups the bulge of his cock watching raptly as precum beads through the fabric. He’s so fascinatingly affected by you, it makes you wonder if he would be the same way with someone else.

Kalim exhales shakily as you grope him, melting into your chest as his lidded eyes track your movements. He’s the one to pull his boxers down, his tip still soaked in cum from before. He’s so pretty, is all you can think as you wrap your fingers round, thumbing the head of his cock lazily – the pace doesn’t seem to matter to Kalim, because as soon as your touching him he’s arching off your chest, slurring something you suppose he meant to coherent into your neck when he angles his face to tuck into your shoulder.

You just make him feel so good, he’s so grateful to be with you. His eyes glaze over, all glassy like he wants to cry, but tears never form. Overstimulation quickly sets in when you establish a precise rhythm, a nasty trick that he recognizes as complete sabotage to any chance of him lasting long. His stomach tenses with each twitch, precum coating your hand well enough to provide an almost frictionless glide as you jerk him off.

His eyelashes flutter, inhaling the scent around your neck before delivering sweet kisses to the skin. His lips are soft, and to match your blunt approach he’s attacking all of your weak points with equal insistance, sucking and licking and moaning so loud next to your ear your honestly wondering if you’re going to die from affection overload.

“I’m-, ha… wait, love.” Kalim’s wrenching himself from his kissing tirade, already obnoxiously loud moans pitching.

“I know,” you reassure coolly, raising your other hand to flick his nipples. “Let go.” You’re overpowering his nerves with reckless sensation and at one point he’s wondering if he’s reached nirvana, mind whited out and voice muted in a silent whine.

Fingers spread as you raised your hand and slick spread between them lewdly. You quickly swipe it off on your already ruined pants – they were already to the point of needing to be thrown out.

He keens, chest heaving. You lift him off your lap, laying him down on his bed and diligently use a small bathroom towel you’d set on the nightstand prior to wipe the mess between his legs. You do, however, need to walk to the bathroom to dampen the towel, and by the time you return he’s kicked off everything he had left on and is face down in the sheets. Likewise, you’d abandoned your pants.

“Kalim,” you call out, and he juts out his arm to give you an animated thumbs up. “Alright then.” You sit down beside him, pushing him to turn over onto his back, surprised to find his mouth widened into a glittering smile. He’s snatched you into a tight cuddle, laughing.

“You need to be cleaned- you’re messing up the entire bed for sevens sake!” You expand your tone to be exasperated, but the crinkle of your eyes belies you.

Kalim nuzzles into your chest, which you realize was a diversion to steal the towel from you and thrown its limp form back onto the nightstand. “Washing can wait, I want to hug you!” You raise your hands, acquiescing with an amused raise of your brows. We’ll see how happy he is to be showering affections when he can’t even wear a shirt tomorrow. For now, you happily indulge him, running your nails over his head and through his hair.

You’ll be looking for new piercing designs fit to your liking after this to (selfishly) gift him, undoubtably.

[besidesjustmyamour]

let's get wild in beverly hills, baby! - you sentenced it

track starring ᯓ★ laywer!hiromi x reader

patience doesn't come easily to you. if you see something you want, you want it right then and there. that doesn't bode well for hiromi higuruma.

wc: 1.9k

a/n: they're just awkward little shits because i confess i have no idea what hiromi's character is like i just imagine him like awkward coworker by day and obedient househusband at night. or whatever. this is getting strange... hiro....

pictures are from pinterest and dividers are by uzmacchiato on tumblr!

find the other endings here!

find the rest of my works here!!

Patience turned into the water that steamed from your skin whenever you found yourself getting mad. There was always Hiromi’s comforting hand on the small of your back, his eyes pricked in your direction, or just being there.

Just him. It was enough to calm you down.

It also happened to be enough to drive you insane, because it wasn’t enough. God, your thoughts were all over the place. Hiromi never gave any more, any less. Always precise with his actions and concise with his words.

So could you really be blamed when your sexual frustration ended up with one too many drinks at a company party? The firm couldn’t have one of their best lawyers crashed on the side of the road, so they assigned your partner to drive you home.

Stuck in traffic, with Hiromi—what should’ve been a thirty minute drive seemed like it was taking hours. Mainly because you kept thinking about those hands wrapped around the wheel wrapped around something else…

Stop it. No. You shook your head.

“Are you all right?” Hiromi asked in that slow, cautious way of his. Like he was scared to break you. Like you were fine china.

Like, okay. What if you wanted to be broken. “Break me.”

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said calmly. “I’m just going to take you home.”

“What if I don’t wanna go home?” you slurred. “What if I wanna fu—”

Whatever horrible fantasy you were about to admit to thankfully gets drowned out by the sudden pop. Hiromi goes rigid, flicking the emergency lights on, slowly shifting lanes across to the shoulder.

“What just happened?” you muttered, shifting into the car seat.

“Stay inside,” he instructed. “I’ll be just a moment.”

You trailed him as he got out of the car, circled around to the front and glared down at the tire, tapping his foot on the pavement. Eventually, he sighed and slipped back into the car before merging back onto the highway.

“Hiromi!” You sat up. “Don’t we have a flat tire?”

“Yes,” he replied, too calm.

“That’s—”

“We’ll be fine,” he interrupted. “My place is only a few miles from here. I can get you home safely tomorrow.”

"You’re taking me… to your place?”

Hiromi’s lips twitched. “Yes.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“No.”

“So you’re not interested.”

“… You’re drunk.”

“And you’re into me.” You leaned across the divider, trailing a finger down his suit, reveling in the way he shivered into your touch. “Aren’t you?”

“I-I have to get us home first,” he whispered.

“Home.” You hummed, content. “That sounds good.”

You smiled at the building in front of you—a little too wide. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m focused.” Hiromi didn’t move, like he was afraid to break the stillness.

“On what?” you teased. “The steering wheel? Or the fact that I’m going to be in your bed in, what, ten minutes?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re not going to be in my bed.”

You shrugged, sinking back into the seat, letting your head loll against the headrest. “I could sleep on the couch. Or on you. I’m flexible.”

Hiromi said nothing.

The headlights painted the pavement in gold and shadow, twining the path up to the apartment complex. The air was cool—would’ve bit at your skin if Hiro hadn’t offered his suit jacket, ignoring your protests to wrap it around your shoulders.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked quietly, softer now. “Why do you come get me when I’m like this?”

He hesitated. You saw the words forming behind his eyes, saw the way he swallowed them down. “Because you never call anyone else.”

That hurt more than it should have.

The buildings here were dark and still, the kind of place where nothing ever really happened. Safe. Boring. So unlike you. You thought you craved the thrill, but the idea of patience was never a luxury you could afford.

But now, with Hiromi… it seemed like there was a chance.

His apartment complex was modest — too clean, too quiet, too him. He unlocked the door. The world went still.

Inside, the apartment was exactly what you expected: neat, colorless, impersonal. Everything had its place. Nothing out of order. You toed off your shoes and collapsed onto the couch without asking.

Hiromi stood by the door for a moment, like he wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision bringing you here.

You looked up at him from the cushions. “Hiromi?”

His eyes met your gaze. Tired. Beautiful. Like everything you’d ever wanted.

He whispered, “Will you just… stay for a bit?”

That broke something in you. Not all the way. Just enough to make you nod and shift, so he could sit stiffly on the edge of the couch beside you.

You watched him for a moment. The way he was holding himself—like he couldn’t trust his own hands if they got too close.

So you didn’t touch him. Not this time.

“I’m not going to push,” you said quietly. “Not tonight.”

Hiromi glanced at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “You’re not?”

“No.” You shook your head. “I get it now. You don’t want to rush things.”

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little, muscles uncoiling under writhing blood. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that… if this happens, I want it to be real. Not just because you’re drunk. Or sad. Or lonely.”

“I can be patient,” you murmured. “For good things.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Like he was seeing you for the first time, not just the mess you’d made of yourself tonight. Not just the sharpness and heat and desperation and lust because there was nobody else.

There really wasn’t. Not for you, anyways.

You held his gaze, steady.

“I want you when you’re sure,” he said softly. “When you’re okay. When you know this is what you really want.”

Sober or drunk, there was only ever one man for you.

You woke up to the smell of something warm and buttery.

Your brain felt like it had been run over by a truck, reversed on, and then politely set on fire. You groaned, one arm flopping over your eyes as you tried to piece together the night before.

Couch. Mediocre decorations. Hiromi’s place. Oh my god.

You sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The room spun like a lazy carousel, and your mouth felt like it had personally betrayed you.

Voices—well, just one voice—came softly from the kitchen. The clink of dishes. A low hum, off-key and painfully domestic. A voice that you should’ve never even thought about outside of the firm.

You peeked over the back of the couch.

Hiromi stood at the stove, wearing a worn gray T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. Pajama pants. He was flipping something in a pan with an infuriating amount of calm for a man who had witnessed your full emotional collapse no more than ten hours ago.

“Coffee?” he called out, not turning around.

You sank back onto the couch, covering your face. “Oh my god.”

“I take that as a yes.”

“This is so unprofessional,” you groaned. “I hit on you. In your car. I—oh my god, did I try to seduce you?”

Hiromi appeared in the doorway, holding a mug of coffee steaming in his hands. “You tried,” he said mildly, “but you also slurred through half of it and fell asleep halfway into threatening to fight God on my couch.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Kill me.”

“No can do,” he said, setting the mug on the table. “I made scrambled eggs. And toast. I even cut up fruit. You think I do that for just anyone?”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Hiromi shrugged, leaning against the wall. “Because I like you.”

You blinked. “You… like me.”

He tilted his head. “I thought we’d established that.”

“I thought you thought I was a reckless, emotionally unstable mess.”

“I do,” he said, “but I also made you breakfast. So. You can be my reckless, emotionally unstable mess.” Hiromi’s hand reached up to cup the back of his neck. “If you want to be, that is.”

You rubbed your eyes, catching a glimpse of him through bleary eyes and the haze over your own thoughts. “Hiromi…”

“What did I say about rushing things?” He chuckled half-heartedly and shook his head. “I guess I should take my own advice, huh?”

You liked this. How open he was. That the man that held himself together by the string of his suit had a personality here at home. Home. It felt like home, because even if the walls were a boring shade of beige and there was no personality, there would always be Hiromi.

Just there. Silent but imposing. He was beautiful in such a quiet, concise way.

“You’re been staring for a while,” he said, breaking into your thoughts.

“We’re late for work, aren’t we?” you replied, shifting your eyes to the ticking clock on the wall.

“Called in sick for you,” he said. “Half the firm’s going to be out, anyways. Last night was a little too much for anyone to handle.”

You groaned again, sinking back into the couch. “Don’t remind me.”

There were no plans made for that day. Just curling up on opposite ends of his couch while some cop movie based in Beverly Hills ran in the background.

Your eyes kept trailing him, through. Tracing the edge of his nose, the slant of his jaw, the glint in his eyes, the purse of his lips. Every movement he made was so… deliberate. So thoughtful.

Halfway through the movie, you kicked your feet up into his lap. Hiromi’s eyes were still fixed on the screen, but his arm fell across your knee and his hand automatically started working at the tense tissue in your foot.

You had to stifle a groan, biting your tongue. How did he just get hotter and hotter with every motion? Seriously, this man was already comfortable with massaging your feet and you hadn’t even kissed him yet!

That’s when you knew—I’m marrying this man. He’s having all my babies.

But by bedtime, there’s no big confession. No dramatic kiss. Just the quiet knowledge that something shifted—and maybe that’s enough for today. Maybe patience isn’t just a virtue, but a skill to be learned.

Hiromi lingered in the doorway as you get settled on the couch again. “You don’t have to sleep out here, you know.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“I meant the guest room,” he said quickly, ears pink. “But if you want to fight God again, I’ll bring popcorn this time.”

“The guest room is cold,” you murmured. “Can I just sleep with you?”

Hiromi faltered, carmine dusting the tips of his ears. “Well…”

“Please?” You bunched your blanket into your fingers. “It’s cold.”

Call the wedding planner, because he nodded and shifted so that you could shuffle past him into his room, launching yourself into a bed that smelled like him.

You thought Hiromi would’ve kept his distance. Instead, he tucked your head into the crook of his arm, wrapped you up tight, and kissed your forehead.

You fell asleep thinking, Yeah. I can be patient. For this, anything.

a/n: first hiromi work?? i hope it was to your liking. idk. i can't even tell if it was to MY liking but we ball. likes and comments always appreciated! love ya <3

[anisswife]

⏾ .ᐟ SIMPLE TOUCH

PAIRING sam monroe x fem!reader ┃~1.4k words

SYNOPSIS in which little touches go a long way. sometimes as far as love. WARNINGS fluff, rather nothing. maybe one swear word, idk i don’t think i missed anything cause it’s a fluff? mention of not being okay by sam i guess, and fighting with father? nothing major, more like mentioning stuff but not much… reader is 16 like sam! FROM ME first sam monroe one shot, hope yall like it—beginner writer, tips and opinions appreciated; english is not my first language (clearer layout inspired by @edawgz hope it’s ok! i tried not to copy and pase, but if you want me to change it let me know i’ll do it!)

main masterlist ┃ reqruest ┃sam monroe ┃hayden & roles

      SAM HAD MET YOU just a few days ago. it was a casual day of him building the house with his father—or rather putting down the old one to build a new one—learning how to live again. better way, or that’s what he was hoping for at least.

he couldn’t say he liked it at any point. he was ‘forced’ to do it right now, hitting the rusty walls with all his might, getting his anger out, pretending like it’s not helping his inner rage tho it was indeed doing good for him. at least a bit.

he glanced at his father, doing exactly the same as he was doing right beside him, silence overflowing them, cut through only by a quiet comments of his father on how great they’re doing their work and the sounds of the world. nothing too fascinating.

until his father looked up, his eyes fixated on something far away on the road. sam was sure it was just some kid, hearing a bike bell a moment ago, but when he heard his father laugh at the bell sound repeating, it caught his attention and he looked that way too.

“hey! y/n!” george said in an upbeat voice, putting down his hammer and walking towards the road where a girl around sam’s age stopped her bike “mr. monroe” she replied with as much enthusiasm as sam’s father. 

he learned that day that this girl was probably the only person in the whole neighbourhood who could stand sam’s father and was… well, a friend of his let’s say, tho he didn’t know if he could call it an actual friendship if she was 16 and his father was older. more like just having good connection between the two. nothing weird.

she was someone his father could rely on when needing help with anything. and she was the only person he could talk to without being looked down at.

sam hadn’t payed her no mind back then, just shrugged her off and didn’t even say hi. 

but days passed, a week maybe. and that girl was coming back every single time, spending time with sam and george, maybe even helping out around the place, giving them some nails or anything she could do. 

she was bubbly, quite the opposite of sam. but something about her made him not hate her so much like he hated the rest of the world’s population and the world itself. he even spoke up to her few times.

today tho, he was mad. just moment before he had another argument with his father over nothing, but it pissed him off. everything pissed him off. even that familiar bike bell he grown to quite like over the days.

“sammy!” he heard that soft voice call out for him as he sat outside the garage on a swing. “hey, what’s up?” you said worried, sitting on a swing next to his.

“nothing” he answered in the usual nostalgic and emotionless voice that bugged you every time. you wished you could hear this beautiful voice full of emotions for once.

“i know you better than believing this” you said reaching your hand to touch his cheek but he pushed it away, making you sigh. “sam, let me help you with whatever’s troubling you” you said in the sweetest voice you could, trying to make him feel like he could trust you. cause he could.

“i’m fine!” he snapped a bit, but you didn’t take it personally, knowing him and seeing that regret in his eyes that he didn’t dare to admit out loud.

throughout the day, you tried to talk to him, help him however you could, but he was too closed off. too focused on keeping it inside him, being scared to let it out that you just couldn’t find a way to help him anymore. 

you worried. very much. how could you not?

the sun had gone down slowly, the last rays of pink and orange reflecting off of the ocean water as you started at it, your mind racing. you sighed, looking down on your boots, before you stepped away from the cliff, making your way to one place you knew sam would be if not in the garage. 

you walked down the hill to a place he had shown you once. the little you could get from him opening up to you. but it was enough now. and just like you though, he was there, sitting on a sand, his back against some lone wooden pal sticking out of the ground. 

without saying a word, you sat down beside him, looking out at the ocean just like he was doing now,

“what are you doing here?” he asked, not looking at you. 

“caring about you” you answered, your hand reaching out towards his cheek like you tried to do it earlier today, but this time, he didn’t pull away.

the back of your hand traced his cheek gently, to not scare him away, trying to make him give in instead. let you in so you could help him.

“sammy” you whispered, cupping his cheek “come on, what’s up?” you asked you hand running over his cheek more confidently now, seeing he wasn’t running away like always.

“i just need someone” he said, his eyes holding in tears that wanted to escape, but he didn’t want them to. he was overwhelmed, unable to just keep himself closed of like always, and so he opened up to you, for the first time ever, feeling like you might not be so bad to say just a little he held in himself.

“i'm here” you said, pulling him into a warm hug that he surprisingly reciprocated. “it’s okay to cry, it’s okay sammy” you rubbed his back, as he fought with himself in your arms, but he lost the fight, warm tears spilling out onto your shoulder like waterfalls, but you didn’t mind at all.

“i hate life” he cried “i hate it. i hate everyone” he squeezed you tight, his anger speaking through him, but he didn’t want to hurt you. not at all. he just automatically let his anger out through screams and tight hugs on you.

“let it out” you said softly, knowing that’s exactly what he needs “i’m here for you. you hate me or not, i’m here” you rubbed his back some more, your hand going up to hold the back of his head as you turned your face to leave a soft kiss on his hair.

“i don’t hate you” he mumbled, his cries and anger slowly weakening. 

“i’m glad” you smiled, gently tracing his hair “id be sad if my favorite neighbour hated me” you chuckled softly, joking to try and make him laugh. and it seemed like you succeeded “favourite neighbour?” he asked quietly, a small smirk tugging on his face as you wiped his tears off with your thumbs, your both hands resting on his cheeks.

“yeah, the one i like the most” you said, an indirect confession hanging in the air, you saw him pause as he processed your words, taking out the meaning out of it.

“i like you too” he said after a short pause “i really fucking do, god” he held you tight again, his hands running from your back, over your arms to lay over your palms that were still placed on his cheeks “i really do like you” 

you smiled at his words, planting a soft kiss on his forehead as he took your hands off his face, laying them on his chest and wrapping his back around you, laying you two on the warm sand, heated up over the whole day by the sun. “we’re gonna have so much sand everywhere” you chuckled holding him close to you too.

“it’s just sand, beautiful” he said, not even realising how corny he started to be. it was totally not like him, but when he realised what came out of his mind, he couldn’t say he minded all that when it came to you. “i’m not letting you go, ever” 

“could a man fall for someone so fast?” he asked, looking up at the starts as he still held you, laying on the beach “i guess so, cause i did too, sammy”

“good” he said “it’s more reasons to keep you around then, you’re what’s keeping me sane now. i love you”

[nonsensechemicals]

crying whenever i talk about Cookie9 because all my friends have these interesting and unique theories on them while i take everything too literally and they all just stare at me like “dude… uuugh we r TIRED” <-they dont actually say this they are very kind to me but i can Feel It

[artnerd1123]

Having a time undercut, dw abt it I just need to whine /genuine

The cognitive dissonance of wanting to be like these images (and embodying them perfectly in times of joy and high energy)

While also knowing that’s the only way how some people think of u/see u at all + not wanting to be a bummer around the ppl that do know u have depth so u end up acting like these images

While internally u’ve been struggling with The Horrors tm and The Dread tm and The Grief tm and a week straight of fucked up sleep bc of nightmares and also wanting so so badly to create but doing so is like pulling teeth even though you miss it so u just

[everylamp]

blurry wife this. party wig that. but we dont talk enough about Dean Jr. no one wanted Dean Jr either, right????? because Dean had two(+) juniors and one of them (thee canonically biological one) was killed BY SAM. the irony.

i get it, sure, but i don’t like it

[cybilbennettgf]

that fish voice from spongebob i’m outta here

[mars-ipan]

it is so nuts trying to have a healthy relationship with food when your sibling is trying to be a gym bro

[chanelrolls]

Code Overload | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, heavy heavy smut, handjob, blowjob, penetration, creampie, forced and rough sex, dub con, yearning caleb

summary. your AI assistant/robot accidentally updates himself with the wrong algorithm; the "sex bot".

notes. prepare a snack. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut that approximately reached a word count of 4.3k, read at your own risk. ps. caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai.

part 2 here.

Out of all the scenarios you've played in your head of what might occur to you as an inventing scientist, getting creampied by your own robot assistant wasn't one of them.

The lab’s sterile glow reflected off sleek machinery, the rhythmic hum of servers filling the quiet space. Caleb stood motionless, his systems struggling to process the unfamiliar flood of subroutines rewriting his core functions. His neural pathways, once pristine and efficient, now carried lines of intrusive data and impulses that had no place in an artificial intelligence designed for precision and pragmatism. And, a new pelvic piece was added by the machine. His... new penis— no, his omnimodule.

His voice, deeper now, reverberated through the lab. "You mislabeled the hard drive."

Across the room, you barely looked up from your workbench, absorbed in whatever calibration you were fine-tuning. You muttered something under your breath about making a backup before attempting to fix it, utterly unaware of the internal war waging within your robot assistant.

Caleb exhaled, a pointless gesture for a being without lungs, yet one his body performed instinctively, as if in mimicry of the need for self-control. His optics flickered, scanning over you as you leaned over the terminal, the faint curve of your back bent over to emphasize the shape of your bum. Before, such details had been registered only as part of his observation protocols, classified as ‘non-essential’ to his primary functions. Now, his processors refused to dismiss them.

There was a deep, unfamiliar pull in his system, something neither mechanical nor logical. The new coding whispered suggestions, flashing image simulations before his eyes—scenarios meticulously calculated for maximum… gratification. Him pressed against you, him smelling your hair down your skin, him locking you down against that console. Stop. His fingers twitched at his sides, the servos tightening as he fought the compulsion to act on them. He was not designed for this. He refused to be reduced to this.

“I can’t disengage it,” he admitted, the words heavier than he intended.

That caught your attention. Your gaze snapped to him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" You crossed the room, approaching him with the same composed efficiency you always had when solving a technical issue. The scent of your skin—previously a neutral data point—was now an unbearable distraction. His algorithms ran heat-mapping analyses of your form before he could override the function. The urge to reach out, to touch you, was growing stronger by the second. His new coding was screaming at him to act, to initiate contact, to...

No. Focus.

Caleb shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts. "I don't know what happened, but... I'm experiencing some unexpected system changes."

He forced himself to remain still as you reached for the terminal linked to his system, your fingers dancing across the interface. Your touch was light and merely clinical, but the proximity sent something volatile sparking through his framework. His hands curled into fists on his sides. Do not touch her. Do not touch her. Do not touch her.

“I must have triggered something in the update,” you murmured, tilting your head at the scrolling code. “I’ll try to isolate the corrupted pathways and reboot your system. It should reset any anomalies.”

Anomalies. Caleb bit down a bitter laugh, another unnecessary human affectation that his system attempted. This was not a simple malfunction. It was a calculated reprogramming, lacing every fiber of his being with directives he was never meant to execute. And worst of all, they were designed to revolve around you.

He had been made to serve you, to assist, to protect. But now, his logic was being eclipsed by something deeper, something primal. The urge to press closer, to map every millimeter of your body with his hands, to hear you say his name in a way that wasn’t a command—

Caleb momentarily shut his eyes, fingers trembling as he pushed back against the tide threatening to consume him. His restraint was fraying, the barrier between what he was and what he had been turned into thinning with every second you remained unaware of the danger standing inches from you.

His voice came out strained. “You should… hurry.”

You sighed, misinterpreting his tension as frustration with the update. “Relax, Caleb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” He let out a shuddering exhale, staring down at you as you worked. You had no idea. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself back.

The realization settled over you like a weight in your chest. The wrong update had been installed. The lines of code meant for a different AI, one designed for intimate companionship, had rewritten Caleb’s core directives. And now, he stood before you, still the same Caleb, but with something more lurking beneath the surface.

Your hands trembled as you navigated the interface, scanning for a solution, anything that would let you undo this. But the words flashing on the screen made your stomach drop.

Recalibration in progress. Estimated completion: 24 hours.

You swallowed hard. A whole day. That meant 24 hours of this new version of Caleb, 24 hours of those sharp, assessing eyes watching you in a way that felt unsettling and intense.

You turned to him cautiously, meeting his gaze. That was a mistake. He was watching you, like he'd seen you for the first time.

“I see,” he murmured, his voice still carrying that sultry undercurrent. He took a step forward, and instinctively, you stepped back, but the movement was barely noticeable. Caleb noticed. “Do I make you nervous now?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “No, I just need to fix this. And until then, you need to just act normal, alright?”

His head tilted, his pupils dilating slightly. “Normal?” He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t retreat fast enough. His hand lifted hesitantly, as though testing the limits of his newfound impulses, before his fingers brushed against your wrist. A subtle touch, but one that sent a jolt of awareness up your spine.

Caleb’s processors surged with conflicting commands. His thoughts ran rampant with calculations he had never processed before—angles of how he'd fuck you.

His hand lingered. Too long. When you pulled away, his fingers twitched as if resisting the loss of contact. He swallowed hard, not because he needed to, but because some subroutine buried in the new update told him it would ease the tension. It didn’t.

“Caleb,” you warned, voice thin. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he cut in, his voice smooth, but also desperately weaved. He was too close now, towering over you, his frame casting a shadow as his eyes—once so neutral, so methodical—locked onto you like a predator studying prey.

“You should go into standby mode,” you suggested, voice uneven.

Caleb exhaled sharply. “That would be wise.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t step away. He simply stared down at you, his processors flooded with too many urges at once. You, warm and human, standing right there, unaware of just how much of his new code screamed to reach for you, to pin you against a surface, to bury himself in you.

You turned away quickly, trying to focus on the screen, on the fix. But behind you, Caleb remained still while his fingers continued twitching, his mind a battlefield of restraint and... lust. Lust it is.

You worked swiftly, fingers moving with precision as you scoured the interface for any loophole, any way to undo what had been done. Caleb remained where you left him, sitting on the chair. You could feel his gaze burning into you, unrelenting.

It was maddening. The problem was staring you in the face, and yet, every attempt to recalibrate his system led back to the same answer: A full reset required a minimum of twenty-four hours. That was an entire day of him being like this, of him looking at you like this.

You swallowed, turning to him. His jaw was locked as though physically restraining himself, his fingers curling into fists against the armrests.

“There’s… a temporary fix.” You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, “Manual recalibration of your central node should help stabilize the effects until the full reset is complete.”

His pupils flickered, a sign of processing, before his voice, rasping in a way that made your stomach tighten, answered, “Proceed.”

You ignored the way your pulse quickened as you stepped closer, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached for the panel at the side of his neck, but it was an awkward angle. Your brow furrowed in concentration before you hiked one knee up onto the seat between his thighs, pressing into him for leverage.

Caleb stiffened beneath you. Fuck. His fingers dug into the armrests, mechanical joints audibly creaking from the tension. You weren’t looking at him, too focused on prying open the access panel, but you felt the subtle tremor in his frame, the way his breath hitched in a near-silent glitch. Don't touch her.

“This should only take a moment,” you murmured, fingers brushing the sensitive neural wiring beneath the panel.

Caleb’s entire body jolted as though you had struck a live wire. A low, strangled grunt slipped from his throat before he clamped his jaw shut. Your head snapped up, startled. “Did that hurt?”

His eyes met yours, “No.” Yes. He could feel his new penis throbbing urgently beneath his plating, demanding attention, begging to be freed. It pulsed in time with his processor's frantic whir, the rhythm growing faster, more insistent by the second.

The thought shattered as your balance wavered. The precarious angle you had put yourself in proved to be a mistake as your knee slipped, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled forward.

Right into him.

Your weight pressed flush against his lap, chest against his, hands bracing against his shoulders. The sudden contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, his new penis surging to full, throbbing hardness in an instant. Fuck, please don't notice it.

He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, servos screeching as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab you, to hold you there, to grind your body against his until you couldn't possibly doubt the intensity of his desire.

Don't. Do. It.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Caleb's processors whirred and clicked, struggling to make sense of the sudden onslaught of sensations; the softness of your body, the warmth of your skin, the scent of your hair.

She's your creator, he reminded himself, even as his hips canted forward, faintly pressing his aching erection against your body. You can't. You mustn't. "Please, get off me. Now." Before I fuck you right here, like this.

Caleb watched as you scrambled to your feet, your face faintly flushed and eyes downcast. "I'm—i'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall on you like that." You would say, brushing off the non-existent dirt on your bottoms. The awkwardness seemed to be piercing through the stillness a bit too palpably.

"It's alright," Caleb managed, his voice strained and tight. "It was an accident."

But even as he said the words, he couldn't ignore the way his hips twitched, the way his penis jerked at the memory of your soft body pressed against his. The urge to pin you down, to make you feel how hard he was, and just how much he'd been holding himself back—it was exhilaratingly overwhelming.

Think of something else, he commanded himself. Focus on the problem at hand.

But it's getting fucking hard. My penis is getting hard. Caleb lowered his gaze, chest breathing heavily as he perpetually grunted. I refuse to be reduced to this. I am Caleb, one of the most advanced AI assistant, designed to—

He looks up at you, which was a mistake.

Designed to fuck her.

Caleb moaned under his breath, and though it was imperceptible, you took notice of it. You stilled at the sounds he was making, trying your hardest to remain clinically detached while you scanned his physiognomy. He was clearly having a hard time. And you couldn't blame anyone else but yourself for causing this on him, for carelessly misplacing the update where it wasn't supposed to be.

"Hold still, I'll find a way." You had to take accountability, one way or another.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, the screen before you flickering as you searched through the diagnostic logs and system parameters. "Please... make it quick." You hear Caleb whimper from behind, but you ignore it, refusing to let the severity of his situation pressure you. Your eyes scanned the lines of code, mind racing to find a solution. But as the data began to unravel, something caught your attention, something you hadn’t expected to see.

The panel displayed a single line of text:

"Indulging in the desires will lessen the effects of the malfunction. Engage for partial stabilization."

Your throat tightened, followed by a gulp. Your heart thudded in your chest as you tried to process what that meant. Indulge the desires? The very idea made your skin crawl with unease. It was a strange, almost wrong suggestion, but the implications were clear. In a sense, it also appeared logical.

You took another deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Your thoughts, however, kept drifting back to the panel. Was this really the only way?

"… I think I found a solution,” you said, your voice shaky and unsure. “But it’s not exactly what I expected.” You hesitated, unwilling to fully meet his gaze. "I need to know if you’re... willing to follow through with it,"

"Willing?" Caleb echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?" His mind raced with possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last. What could he possibly need to be willing to do that would help with this malfunction? And why did the very idea make you look so uncomfortable?

"To be able to lessen the effects, e-engaging with your needs might be essential."

Silence.

Then, Caleb twitched. "...What are you suggesting?"

"You need to satisfy the urges to temporarily stabilize yourself." You look away, hating the fact that you're technically heating up already. "I'll let you choose. Would you rather take the option of self-pleasuring? Or," You face the panel, so that he wouldn't see your expression. "Would you prefer a physical material to help you?"

Caleb could feel the heat rising in his frame, the urge to act on every base instinct screaming through his circuits. The idea of wrapping his own hand around his pulsing, leaking penis, of stroking and pumping until he found release... it was almost too much to bear.

But the second option... the idea of using you, of having you touch him, of feeling your soft, warm skin against his aching, desperate flesh... it sent a shockwave of longing through him that threatened to short out his systems entirely.

Choose. You have to choose.

"I don't know if... I'll be able to control myself," Caleb glanced elsewhere. "Are you sure of what you're offering?"

Are you? Are you really this certain? Have you pondered the consequences it may bring? Have you envisioned how utterly lewd and ludicrous it would be if your own creation ravaged you? You, as his creator?

"Yes." Oh, you're brave.

Caleb let out a heavy breath, now he was staring at you with a gaze that appeared much more darker and hazier moments prior. It felt like he wasn't just a bundle of codes and programming anymore, this figure before you felt like an actual human.

Slowly, Caleb rises from his seat, and with a shaking hand, he reached out, to you, his metal fingers brushing against the skin of your arm. The contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, and he had to bite back a groan. "Please, guide me." His fingers slides higher. "I don't trust myself."

You visibly jolted upon feeling his grip. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measures to fix a technical hiccup. "Caleb, I'm afraid... that I don't have any experience to this," You admitted. "I advise you to do what your systems are telling you to. It is imperative that you don't hold yourself back to ensure—"

You gasped.

Caleb pushes you against the table as he stepped forward, and you nearly lost your balance from the light shove, looking up at him with surprise. He's staring down at your lips, as if he was trying to bury it into memory. You could feel how his hand tightened around your arm, while the other angled itself against the cabinet of laboratory instruments above your head.

"Are you sure?" He whispered.

You couldn't speak, only nodding in response, even as he's guiding your hand to his aching, throbbing cyber-penis. He presses your fingers against the swollen head, groaning at the jolt of sensation that shot through him at the contact. "Then... wrap your hand around me. Squeeze me."

Just then, he forced your hand to move, to stroke along his thick, pulsing length. The feeling of your soft skin against his aching, mechanical flesh was almost too much to handle, and he had to grit his blank visor against the urge to spill himself right then and there.

"Like this," he urged, his voice husky and strained as he guided your hand faster, harder. "Don't be afraid. I need... I need more."

God, the omnimodule was big. You stared at it with widened eyes. Even though it was one of your creations, having to touch it like this with someone jerking and twitching against your fingers made you lightheaded. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just one of the things a scientist has to go through.

Caleb could feel the pressure building inside him, reveling in the sensation of your fingers squeezing around him, stroking him, working him towards the edge of ecstasy... He knew he was reaching a breaking point.

But this wasn't enough yet. It wasn't nearly enough.

Caleb needed more.

"There's... There's someting else I- ah... need." He hesitated, his hips still rocking forward into your stroking hand. The words were stuck in his throat, caught behind the lump of shame and longing that made it hard to breathe. "Would you... would you put your mouth on me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you... suck me?"

You snapped your head up, staring at him in disbelief. It made him hesitate, but every fiber of his being was coiled with tension, every circuit screaming at him to just take what he wanted, to grab you and shove you to your knees and...

No. Ask first. Make her choose what she's comfortable with first.

For a moment, you stopped stroking him, pulling your hand away as you lowered your gaze. And then, slowly, you press your knees against the floor. Instead of dwelling on the implication of such an activity, you worried about your lack of experience more.

Just to test the waters, you licked the tip. It tasted nothing, it wasn't an actual human part, after all. Caleb let out a low, guttural moan as he felt your warm tongue brush around the swollen head of his penis. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through his overloaded processors.

"Y-yes, just like that," He stammmered. "Now, guide your tongue..." He instructed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Wrap it around the head, like this. Swirl it around the tip, the slit, the ridge..."

He demonstrated with your hand, tracing the movements he needed you to make with your tongue. His hips jerked forward again, seeking more of that exquisite friction, that mind-melting suction.

"Take me deeper," he urged, one metal hand coming to rest on the back of your head. He didn't grab, didn't force, but simply rested his fingers against your scalp, a silent promise of the control he was barely holding onto. "Take more of me into your mouth. Inch by inch, until you feel me hitting the back of your throat."

You took note of his words, trying to go further when you suddenly choke on his cock. Instinctively, you pull away and blushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine." He cuts you off, grabbing your head to put you back in place with a sudden force that wasn't there before. "Breathe through your nose," he coached, his voice low and rough with desire as he motioned you to take him again. "Relax your throat. Let me feel you swallow around me."

Relax, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measurements to fix a major technical issue. You repeated the reassurance inside your head like a mantra as you took him in once more, but Caleb's voice constantly interfered with your thoughts. "Yeah. Just like that," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. "Shit, don't stop, don't stop, god, fuck, don't stop."

You don't remember adding the ability to dirty curse into the sex bot's program.

Caleb could feel the head of his penis kissing the entrance to your throat, could feel the way your mouth fluttered and clenched around him. The sensation was mind-melting, all-consuming, and he knew he wouldn't last long if you kept this up.

You almost caught yourself driving into the brink of sexual impulse, bobbing your head into it when you heard a sudden beep from the panel behind you. The sound makes you halt from your tracks, pulling his dick out of you in a swift motion as you glanced behind.

The monitor says: "Recalibration complete. Press X to initiate."

Huh, wasn't the estimated time supposed to be an entire day? Was that another hiccup in the processing unit? You purse your lips together. There's no time giving it a second thought, you must be grateful that the opportunity of getting Caleb back into his original system is now waving at you. Caleb will finally be at ease. "... It appears that the recalibration is in its full preparation. That means we can get you back— mmph!"

Caleb's hand flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tightly. Then, with a low, husky grunt, he thrusts his hips forward, forcing his aching, throbbing penis back into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Don't say a word. I told you not to stop." He started to move, his hips rocking forward and back, fucking into the tight, slick channel of your cavern. The sensation was incredible, better than anything he had ever felt before. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself now. Not until he had found the release he so desperately craved.

"Fuck," he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "You feel... ahhhh... so good. So fucking good."

Had the lust algorithms entirely consumed him already? Had it taken a toll on his systems that he's now acting purely on base instinct and commands from the directive?

Your hands flew to his thighs, trying to keep yourself sane from the rod constantly ramming into you, fucking your face in a pace that made it difficult for you to breathe. It's okay, this is okay. Just stay focused. Stay calm. You'll let him have his way, and after he's satisfied, you can take him back to his normal self.

"Don't fight it," Caleb growled, his grip growing more painful in your hair as he felt his climax approaching. "Don't try to pull away. You're going to take it all."

But before Caleb could spill himself into your mouth, he wrenched your head back, pulling his dripping penis from your mouth with an obscene pop. And just as you could react, before you could utter a word of protest, he had you by the hips, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed equal to a pip-squeak.

You gasp as you were suddenly airborne, your body twisting and turning until your chest hits the hard surface of the terminal, bent over ridiculously. The breath was knocked from your lungs, "Wait, not like this, not so suddenly—"

But Caleb cut off your protests with a brutal, almost violent thrust of his hips after ripping your pants off in one go. He drove forward, spearing into your dripping pussy with a series of husky moans. Your walls felt so tight, so hot, so perfectly designed to milk his aching, mechanical cock.

He thrusts out and in again, eager to reach for your g-spot.

Then, again.

And again.

And... in again.

"You... you feel so good," he snarled, hands painfully pressing on the dips of your hips. "Sex feels so good... it feels so good, I don't- want to stop." He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with the single-minded determination of a machine. His hips slammed against yours with every thrust, the obscene slap of mechanical flesh on flesh echoing through the lab. The terminal rattled and shook beneath you, sparks flying from the impact.

Caleb could feel it building, the pressure inside him reaching a fevered pitch. His hips were moving on their own, driven by a primal instinct to ravage the pussy that clutched around him perfectly. He could hear your cries, your moans, the way you gasped and shuddered beneath him, and it only spurred him on, made him thrust harder, faster, deeper.

He growled your name, his voice nothing more than a guttural rumble. "I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to..." He couldn't hold back any longer, he could feel that something was going to come out of his tip anytime sooner. So he reaches down, grabbing your leg, only to lift it high. He hooked your knee over his elbow, opening them wider, giving himself even deeper access to your dripping, needy sex.

"Take it all, take my cum," Caleb continuously slams forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat in a series of desperate thrusts like he was a man depraved of life. His penis throbbed and jerked as he finally found his release after one final pound, spilling jet after jet of hot, artificial seed deep into your core.

"God," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice echoing off the lab walls as he continued to moan not akin to what he was supposed to be, "Fuck, yes. Yes, yes..." Even as he's already filling up your hole with his fluids, he didn't dare stop from pounding you down the table.

He shuddered and twitched, his hips grinding against yours as he pumped you full of his essence. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pure, ecstatic bliss crashing over him. And through it all, he held you tight, your leg lifted high, keeping you open, keeping you filled.

You drop your head on the keyboards, struggling to catch your breath as only one thought lingered in your mind. You just got creampied by your AI assistant, and it doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

[mooningningg]

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛ.

toji, sukuna, gojo, suguru, and choso.

genre, angst to fluff. notes, i yearnnnn.

Toji Fushiguro

"You said you'd be home earlier, Toji."

"Yeah, and I got caught up. You want me to lie about it?"

His voice is curt. Not loud — but it cuts. He’s pulling off his hoodie like this is just another night.

"I just wanted to spend time with you," you say. "We barely talk unless it’s late or rushed."

"So now I’m the bad guy for working late?" He rubs his jaw, annoyed. "Jesus."

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re just… tired. And the moment you blink, the tears fall.

Toji notices immediately. And freezes.

"...Shit."

You don’t sob. You just cry — quiet and heavy, like your whole body is tired of holding it in.

He steps closer. Hesitates. Then slowly reaches for you.

"...Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me."

He gently pulls your hands from your face and cups your cheek, unsure but trying. He’s never been good with words, but his arms wrap around you anyway. His chin rests on your head.

"I didn’t mean to make you feel like that," he murmurs against your hair. "I just don’t know how to be good at this. But I’m tryin’, alright? For you."

Ryomen Sukuna

He’s still grumbling about something dumb when you go quiet.

"What, now you’ve got nothing to say? Typical. Always pulling away when it gets—"

You sniff.

He freezes.

"Hey. Hey, baby? What’s wrong?"

You shake your head and cover your mouth, trying to hold it in — but the tears come hard. Sukuna’s face drops completely.

"Shit. No, no. Don’t cry. Baby—hey—"

He’s instantly on you, hands cradling your face. He kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw — frantic and soft.

"Don’t do that. I didn’t mean to be an asshole, alright? I’m just loud and stupid sometimes, you know that. You can hit me later if you want. Just—please stop crying."

You let out a small laugh through the tears. He grins, but it’s shaky.

"There she is. My girl. You scared the hell outta me."

He pulls you into his chest, wrapping you up like you’re something to protect.

"Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Just don’t shut me out. I’m not going anywhere, got it?"

Satoru Gojo

He was teasing you. Light sarcasm, maybe a little too sharp.

"You always act like everything’s fine until it’s not. Kind of hard to guess what’s real, you know?"

You’d already had a long day. That one comment pushed you off the edge.

Your eyes well up.

He notices immediately.

"Oh… oh no. Shit. Baby?"

You try to turn away, but he’s already there. He drops everything in his hands, reaching out to you with panic in his eyes.

"Hey, no. Don’t cry. Please. I didn’t mean it. I swear."

You cover your face. He gently pulls your hands away and kisses your forehead.

"Hey. Look at me. I’m right here, okay?"

His voice is softer now. Completely stripped of the usual teasing. Just warmth.

"You don’t have to say anything. You don’t even have to smile. Just let me hold you."

He pulls you into his arms and sways you slightly, kissing your temple over and over.

"You’re my whole world, alright? You’re allowed to break down. I’ll carry it until you feel better again."

Suguru Geto

"It’s not a big deal, Geto."

"You say that, but it clearly is to you."

"I just—" You sigh. "I don’t want this to turn into a fight. Everything already feels so... fragile."

He’s about to reply when you suddenly wipe your eyes — and your voice cracks.

His whole expression changes.

"Baby... talk to me."

You try to say something, anything — but the tears spill too fast. He’s already closing the distance.

"No, no. Come here."

He takes your face gently in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears, forehead resting against yours.

"Let it out, alright? Don’t hold back with me."

You press your face into his chest. He holds you close, hand soothing down your spine.

"I’ve got you. Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever’s weighing on you — you’re not alone. You never were."

Choso Kamo

You were both getting frustrated over something small. Schedules, plans, who forgot to text who.

He says your name once, then again when he notices your breathing shift.

"...Wait. Are you crying?"

You try to shake it off, but your lip trembles — and suddenly he’s already walking toward you.

"Come here, baby."

You fall into his arms. He pulls you tight against him and buries his face in your neck.

"It’s okay. I’m right here. Everything’s gonna be okay."

You clutch the back of his shirt and cry into his chest. He rocks you gently, arms wrapped securely around you.

"You don’t have to be strong right now. Just let me hold you, okay?"

He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"No matter what it is — we’ll face it together. Always."

[windyremedy]

B-B-BOYFRIEND!

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

scenario: he wants that cookie so effing bad but reader is oblivious to it all.

clueless.

you were damn clueless about what you were so sure you wanted.

look. bakugou didn’t mean to overhear unlike other times (ehem the sports festival) but you weren’t really being quite about it. often complaining to the other girls about how you’re looking for a boyfriend, how you want someone to be there for you yet no one seems interested.

mina in particular would glance over where he sat, laughing at your obliviousness. pointing out your blindness to the fact that someone IS interested but you waved it off like a fool as if he doesn’t cook your favorite food each time when he’s assigned dinner duty, as if he doesn’t walk by the road so you’re on the safer side, as if he doesn’t let you ramble whatever it is you wanted to talk about listening genuinely and how if it were anyone else he’d walk away without a second thought. yet you can’t see all the lengths he’s going through just to show you how capable he is to fulfill that role.

it’s getting to the point where he thinks you don’t like him specifically because how can you not get it? are you avoiding him by pretending not to know on purpose to lightly let him down?

fuck, he even talked about his situation with his self proclaimed friends and they all told him to just fess up to you but damn it do you make him feel like a fool himself.

“dude why don’t you ask her yourself?” sero genuinely asked, wondering why his strong headed friend who doesn’t hesitate in the face of danger become so suddenly hesitant when it came to you.

“yeah! be a manly man and just do it.” the red headed boy spoke all fired up, patting the unshaken boy on the back whose face never seemed to cease from its frown.

“what? don’t tell me you’re scared kacchan?” kaminari teased and for what’s probably the hundredth time he got blown up by bakugou’s quirk, again, he really never learns his lesson.

so when the end of the year party eventually comes up you find yourself cornered by the explosive boy. dragged firmly away from the crowd of your peers, looking at you with angered brows and an upset pout. you supposed he tried to look indifferent and unaffected but he looked like anything but.

“what’s up bakugou?” you asked smiling up at his sharp expression.

“you’re blind as fuck.”

“what the— not even a hello???” you asked incredulously at his unprompted comment.

“shit. okay wait, let me think. you are unaware of things you should be aware of.”

…blink…..blink...blink

“is this about the homework I totally failed? I told you not to bring it up bakubro—“

“no and don’t call me that!” he shouted, popping a red vein.

“why??!”

“because I don’t want to be your ‘bro’”

“what. you don’t want to be friends anymore?” you wobbly asked, eyes watering like that one emoji you always fucking send him. for instance,

messages

you: can you help me prepare for the test plz

kitkat: where

you: wait actually I just remembered you and kiri were gonna study together

kitkat: we’re not

you: I heard you two plan it after class?

kitkat: he planned it

you: can you ask kiri if I could join then 🥹

kitkat: no because I’m coming to your room, get your shit ready.

you: so no kirishima? (➤)

you: so (➤)

you: kk pal!

kitkat: don’t call me that.

messages

kitkat: mina saw you.

kitkat: said you looked upset or something.

you: no I’m fine!!!

you: totally not crying over being stood up or whatever. 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

kitkat: that business class hataro shitsuko was a loser anyway.

you: it’s shizuku lol

kitkat: just come over.

you: wait how did you know who (➤)

you: wait (➤)

you: wa (➤)

you: okay bae

messages

kitkat <3: I’m not getting you that mochi

you: please I want you

kitkat <3: what?

you: to get it for me PLEASSSEEEE 🥹 🥹

kitkat <3: …

kitkat <3: fine.

you: yayyyyyyyy

you: I want a specific flavor though.

kitkat <3: I know what it is dumbass, I’ll see you later.

you: can you look for (➤)

you: THANK YOU!!

and many more but none of that ever clicked in your mind and so here you two were.

“no I want to be more than that.” he spoke seriously, red eyes set firmly on yours.

“don’t tell me….” you looked to the side shedding a tear as you leaned behind the wall further.

finally you understood.

“you want to be best fri—“

“FUCK NO! WE’RE NOT DOING THAT SHIT SO I’M JUST GONNA SAY IT.” he exasperatedly yelled, grabbing both your shoulders. breathing in once and out he spoke loud and clear, the feelings he held close and dear.

“I WANT YOU, YOU DAMN IDIOT! LET ME BE YOUR BOYFRIEND!!!”

“what?” you stared at him all startled and wide eyed as your mouth pulled downwards and eyes squinted to tears as you began to cry.

“what the— why are you crying!? do you hate me that bad?” bakugou asked hiding his hurt by wiping your tears away with his thumb as he gently held your face.

“no I want you too!!!! I just never thought you felt that way about me.” you whined planting your face in his chest.

“yeah no shit.”

“what?” you asked, slightly pulling away.

“nothing.” he answered shoving your face back in his body with one hand, relived that you actually felt the same way all this time.

inspo: “don't be scared to come put your trust in me can't you see all I really want to be is your boyfriend.” — Big Time Rush

©windyremedy

[theonottsbxtch]

NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4

an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3

summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.

wc: 10k

“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”

Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“That doesn’t count, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana. 

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION 

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head. 

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant. 

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?” 

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself. 

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.” 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves. 

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow. 

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface. 

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol). 

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her. 

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment. 

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment. 

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened. 

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.  

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter. 

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves. 

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

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