#I have been thinking about doing something like this for a while

[harrysfolklore]

future wife - ln4

summary: lando always says that yn russell is his future wife. the entire paddock thinks he's just joking, but he's not. wc: 6k + social media posts

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!! FINALLY !! i loved writing lovesick puppy lando so so much and i really hope you love him too. PLEASE SEND YOUR FEEDBACK AND LEAVE A REBLOG !

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and 206,378 others

yn.russell silverstone race weekends always hit different 🥹 big bro starting front row tomorrow and i couldn’t be prouder LETS GOOOO

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username1 the most iconic russell

username2 COME ON RUSSELL NATION

landonorris excuse me why didn’t you include a picture of your future husband here ??

↳ yn.russell lando your delusions are talking again

↳ username1 hey he ALWAYS does this

↳ username2 lando and yn’s banter will never get old

carmenmmundt Love you both ❤️

username3 LANDO BEING ANNOYING IN THIS COMMENT SECTION AS ALWAYS

charles_leclerc I see homeboy trying to shoot his shot again

↳ landonorris what are you talking about? we’ll get married

↳ yn.russell LANDO STOP 😭

username4 she’s the real paddock princess

username5 lando really said fake it till you make it

username6 GEORGIE BOY DID IT

georgerussell63 Love you so much little one 🤍 Also Lando, she’s still my sister

↳ landonorris and? she’s my girl 😍

↳ yn.russell STOP

liked by yn.russell, maxverstappen1 and 986,409 others

landonorris honey i’m hooooome 🇬🇧😘 picture by my favorite girl @/yn.russell

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username1 LANDOOOOO

username2 the papaya hat is killing me

username3 CALLING LITTLE RUSSELL HIS GIRL AS ALWAYS

mclaren Papaya forever 🧡

username4 manifesting lando and yn wedding

carlossainz55 Just wait until George finds you cabron

↳ landonorris he knows she’s my future wife

↳ georgerussell63 I HATE YOU

username5 DYING AT THIS COMMENT SECTION LANDO YOU HAVE NO SHAME

username6 lando and yn are my favorite platonic lovers (actually there’s nothing platonic about them we all know it)

username7 SO BOYFRIEND CODED

yn.russell lando i need you to look at me when i tell you this…

↳ landonorris yes i do darling 😍

↳ georgerussell63 I’m literally never letting you two fly together again

↳ username1 IM WHEEZING

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You're lounging in George's motorhome at the track, scrolling through your phone while he reviews data with Alex. Carmen is perched on the sofa beside you, both of you sharing occasional knowing looks at the boys' intense focus on lap times.

"Oh, by the way," you say casually, not looking up from your phone, "I won't be around for dinner tonight. Got a date."

The effect is immediate. George's head snaps up from the screen, Alex nearly drops his water bottle, and Carmen tries (and fails) to hide her amused smile.

"A date?" George's protective brother mode activates instantly. "With who?"

"That new marketing guy from McLaren," you reply, finally glancing up. "Jacob. You know, the one I was talking to at the paddock party last week?"

"The tall blonde one?" Alex pipes up, earning himself a sharp look from George.

"Not helping, mate," George mutters.

"He seems nice," Carmen offers diplomatically, though there's something knowing in her expression that you can't quite read.

"Speaking of nice," Alex says with a poorly concealed grin, "should we tell Lando? You know, since he's been planning your wedding since 2018 and all."

The friendship between you and Lando dates back to karting days, when you'd tag along with George to races. You were fourteen when you first met a tiny, curly-haired Lando who immediately declared you were "pretty cool for a girl." Despite George's protective big brother routine, you and Lando became inseparable during race weekends.

The marriage jokes started right when Lando was making his F2 debut. You were both hanging out in the paddock when he suddenly announced, "When we get married, our wedding colors have to be papaya orange. Because I know I'll drive for Mclaren"

"Bold of you to assume I'd marry you, Norris," you'd laughed.

"Please, you love me," he'd grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Plus, I've already told my mum you're the one. Can't disappoint her now, darling."

That was the first time he called you darling, but it certainly wasn't the last. Over the years, the pet names multiplied - love, sweetheart, future wife - each one delivered with that characteristic Lando grin that somehow managed to be both cheeky and endearing.

But at the end of the day, he was Lando. And it was all jokes.

"He's probably too busy planning our honeymoon in papaya-colored paradise to care about my actual dating life," you said, trying to sound casual.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Carmen murmurs, just as the door bursts open.

Lando's characteristic energy walks in, his curls slightly messy from his helmet. "Hello lads! Future wife," he grins, making his way over and dramatically flopping onto the couch, his head landing in your lap like it's his designated spot.

"Comfortable?" you ask dryly, but your hand automatically goes to his curls.

"Very," he beams up at you. "Why's everyone looking so serious though? Did George finally realize his neck's too long?"

"Ha ha," George deadpans, while Carmen tries to hide her laugh behind her hand.

"Little Russell was just telling us she's got a date tonight," Alex announces, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding.

Lando sits up so fast he nearly headbutts you. "A what now?"

"A date," you repeat, watching as his face does a complicated journey before settling on forced nonchalance. "With Jacob from marketing."

"McLaren Jacob?" Lando's voice goes up an octave. "My Jacob?"

"He's not your Jacob," you roll your eyes. "And yes, that Jacob."

"The one who still can't figure out how to work the coffee machine?" Lando scoffs, repositioning himself to face you properly. "Come on, darling, you can do better than that. What happened to our sacred Friday night FIFA tournaments?"

"Sacred?" George snorts. "Is that what you call screaming at the TV when she beats you?"

"Oi, whose side are you on?" Lando throws a nearby cushion at George. "Besides, I let her win. Can't have my girl crying, can I?"

"Your girl?" you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way your stomach flips at his words.

"Obviously," he grins, but there's something slightly off about it. "Who else is going to fulfill my mum's dreams of having you as a daughter-in-law?"

"I'm sure Jacob would love to hear about these marriage plans," Alex teases, earning himself a glare from Lando.

"He better watch himself," Lando mutters, then louder, "Where's he taking you anyway? Probably somewhere boring like that chain restaurant near the factory."

"Actually," you say, "he's taking me to that new rooftop place in town."

"The one I said we should try?" Lando looks genuinely offended now. "That's just... that's just rude, love. I called dibs on taking you there."

"When exactly did you call dibs?" Carmen asks innocently.

"In my head," Lando protests. "This is not fair."

You poke his side. "Jealous, Norris?"

"Of course I am," he says, and for a moment, his voice loses its playful edge. "Can't have someone stealing my future wife away. We've got plans, remember? House in Surrey, three kids, dog named Fernando..."

"You've really thought this through, haven't you?" you laugh.

"Been planning our future since I was fourteen, love," he grins, but there's something soft in his eyes. "Now, would you cancel on Jacob and have a proper movie night with your future husband instead?"

"Still not your wife, Lando," you remind him.

"Not yet," he corrects, "But I'm a patient man, darling."

"Okay this is getting weird," Alex chimes in, "Lando, we're leaving. Little Russell, have fun on your date."

"Right," Lando stands up, but his usual bouncy energy seems subdued. "Have fun with boring Jacob. But just remember," he points at you with mock seriousness, though something flickers in his eyes, "I'm not giving up without a fight. Can't let some marketing guy steal the love of my life, can I?"

"The love of your life?" you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your heart skips.

"Since karting, darling," he winks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on, Alex, let's leave the Russell siblings to their protective brother-sister chat."

As soon as the door closes behind them, Carmen turns to you with raised eyebrows. "You really have that boy pining over you, you know that right?"

"Oh please," you wave her off, though your cheeks feel warm. "We're just joking around. We've been doing this since forever."

"Sure, sister, sure," George snorts, exchanging a knowing look with Carmen. "Because every guy I know plans out their future house in Surrey with their 'joke' wife."

"And names their future dog Fernando," Carmen adds.

"It's just Lando being Lando," you insist, but you can't help glancing at the door where he'd disappeared. "He jokes like this with everyone."

"Really?" Carmen leans forward. "Because I've never heard him call anyone else 'the love of his life' or 'darling' or plan out their wedding colors."

"Or look like someone kicked his puppy when they mention going on a date with someone else," George adds.

"You're both reading way too much into this," you say, standing up and grabbing your bag. "I have to go get ready for my date with Jacob."

"The date that Lando looked absolutely thrilled about," George mutters under his breath.

You pretend not to hear him as you leave, trying to ignore the way Lando's slightly hurt expression keeps playing in your mind.

Because it's all jokes. And he's just Lando.

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liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 211,984 others

yn.russell great great night 😙

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username1 OMGG LITTLE RUSSELL

username2 she's so pretty its not fair

flonorris1 we need to catch up 👀

username3 HUHH DID LANDO FINALLY ASK HER OUT

username4 how did george allow her to go on a date

charles_leclerc Oblivious little baby russell

↳ yn.russell ?

↳ username1 EXPLAIN

iamrebeccad Prettiest girl 😍

jacob___ ❤️

↳ yn.russell 😘

↳ georgerussell63 I'm watching...

↳ username1 IM YELLING

↳ username2 WHATS GOING ONNN

landonorris the prettiest girl in the world and my future wife idc idc

↳ username1 lando have some class ffs

↳ yn.russell ENOUGH

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liked by carmenmmundt, jacob__ and 229,836 others

yn.russell snaps from the summer break 💙 happy happy

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username1 AN ICON

username2 i wish i was this pinterest feed coded

carmenmmundt Love you my girl !

username3 HOLD ON. THE SECOND PICTURE

username4 did she just soft launch 👀👀

username5 LITTLE RUSSELL HAS A BOYFRIEND ?????

username6 if her bf is not lando we don’t want it

alex_albon i know someone who’s NOT going to like this

landonorris my darling 😍😍 do u miss me as much as i miss youuuu?

↳ username1 HES SHAMELESS

↳ yn.russell STOP THIS MADNESS

georgerussell63 I know a lot of ways to make a crash look accidental

↳ yn.russell you’re literally not intimidating anyone BYE

↳ username1 SO SHE DOES HAVE A BF

jacob__ ❤️

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The sun is surprisingly bright as you make your way through the Zandvoort paddock, dodging various team personnel rushing around for Thursday preparations. The summer break was finally over and it was time for race cars again. You're just turning the corner when you hear a familiar voice.

"There's my darling!" Lando calls out, jogging over with his signature grin. "Thought you'd forgotten about your future husband during the break."

Before you can respond, he's pulled you into a tight hug. You catch a whiff of his familiar cologne, the one he's worn since F2, and automatically hug him back.

"How was your summer?" he asks, keeping an arm around your shoulders as he starts walking with you. "Did you miss me terribly? Cry yourself to sleep thinking about our FIFA rematch?"

"Actually," you start, feeling unexpectedly nervous, "I've got some news."

"Oh?" His eyes light up. "Did George finally admit his neck is abnormally long? Because I've been saying—"

"Jacob and I are officially together," you cut in quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. "Like, properly together. Boyfriend and girlfriend."

Lando's step falters slightly, his arm dropping from your shoulders. "What?"

"Yeah," you continue, fiddling with your paddock pass. "We kept seeing each other after that first date, and during the break... it just got serious."

"Serious?" His voice sounds strange. "How serious? When did this— why am I just finding out about this?"

"We wanted to keep it quiet at first, you know? But he talked to the higher-ups at McLaren today about dating someone connected to another team, and they're cool with it, so..." you trail off, watching his face carefully.

"Cool with it," he repeats slowly. Then, visibly forcing his usual grin, "Well, that's... that's great, love. Really great. Though I have to say, my mum will be devastated. She was really counting on those papaya-themed grandchildren."

But his joke falls flat, lacking its usual warmth. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lando—"

"No, really," he cuts in, running a hand through his curls. "I'm happy for you. Even if he is rubbish at making coffee. And boring. And probably doesn't even know your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip, or that you secretly love watching those terrible reality shows, or that you—" he stops himself, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Good for you. Both of you."

You're about to respond when his race engineer calls him over.

"Duty calls," he says, already backing away. "But hey, tell Jacob he better treat my future wife right. Even if she's... not actually my future wife anymore."

He tries to wink, but it looks more like a flinch. Before you can say anything else, he's gone, leaving you standing alone in the paddock with an inexplicable heaviness in your chest.

But you immediately brush it off. Because at the end of the day, he's just Lando.

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liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,504 others

yn.russell making it official 🤍 @/jacob___

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username1 OH?

username2 YALL HE WORKS FOR MCLAREN ??

username3 what happened to lando ?? the marriage proposal??

georgerussell63 About time you stopped sneaking around 🙄

↳ yn.russell shut up old man

↳ carlossainz55 Protective brother mode activated

carmenmmundt You guys look so cute! ❤️

↳ yn.russell love you xxx

alex_albon Well this is going to be interesting 👀

↳ landonorris mate.

↳ alex_albon what? I said nothing

username4 But what about Lando?? 😭 They were literally perfect together

usernsme5 nooo my ship is sinking

username6 the way lando looks at her tho…

jacob___❤️

↳ yn.russell 🤍

landonorris i guess i need to find a new future wife then 🤷‍♂️ applications open x

↳ danielricciardo i volunteer as tribute mate

↳ landonorris sorry mate you're not george's sister

↳ carlossainz55 You okay there buddy?

↳ yn.russell don't worry, you'll always be my favorite husband-that-never-was x

↳ landonorris 💔

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yn.russell has added to their stories

landonorris has replied to your story

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The Singapore night air is thick with humidity and celebration. The club's bass thrums through your bones as you watch Lando being congratulated for what feels like the hundredth time. He's practically glowing, champagne-drunk and victory-high, but something seems off about his smile.

"Babe, want another drink?" Jacob's voice pulls your attention back. His hand is possessively placed on your lower back, and you notice Lando's eyes flicker to it before he quickly looks away.

Across the VIP section, Alex nudges Charles, nodding towards where Lando is now aggressively stabbing at his ice with a straw.

"Subtle, mate," Alex smirks, sliding into the booth beside Lando. "Very subtle."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Lando mutters, but his eyes betray him, darting back to where Jacob is now whispering something in your ear.

"Ah, l'amour," Charles sighs dramatically. "It is painful, no?"

"Nothing's painful," Lando protests, straightening up. "I just won a Grand Prix, in case you forgot."

"And yet you look like someone stole your puppy," Alex points out.

"Or your future wife," Charles adds with a knowing look.

"She was never actually going to be my future wife," Lando says, but his voice lacks conviction. "It was just jokes. Always has been. She's George's sister, for fuck's sake."

"Right," Alex drawls. "So you wouldn't mind if I told you they're probably going to move in together soon?"

Lando chokes on his drink. "They're what?"

"He's joking," Charles quickly intervenes, shooting Alex a look. "But your reaction..."

"Means nothing," Lando insists, but his knuckles are white around his glass. "I just... I don't want her to rush into anything. As a friend. A protective friend. Who happens to be her brother's mate. And her future husband. But like, as a joke. Obviously."

"Obviously," Alex repeats dryly.

Suddenly, Charles straightens up. "Where did they go?"

The spot where you and Jacob were standing is empty. Lando's eyes scan the crowd, something uneasy settling in his stomach.

"Probably just getting more drinks," he says, but he's already standing up.

"Lando..." Alex starts.

"I just need some air," Lando cuts him off, making his way through the crowd.

The corridor leading to the outdoor area is quieter, the music muffled. That's when he hears raised voices.

"You're being ridiculous," Jacob's voice is sharp. "I was just talking to her."

"With your hand on her waist?" Your voice sounds tired. "While I was right there?"

"Oh, so I can't even network now? That's literally my job, YN. But I wouldn't expect you to understand that, since you're only here because of your brother."

Lando's feet move before his brain catches up.

"Everything alright out here?" His voice is deliberately light, but there's steel underneath.

"Fine," Jacob snaps. "Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend."

"Doesn't sound very private," Lando steps closer to you instinctively. "Or very pleasant."

"This doesn't concern you, Norris."

"See, that's where you're wrong, mate," Lando's usual playful demeanor is gone. "YN's wellbeing always concerns me. Future wife contract, remember? Legally binding and all that."

"We're still doing that joke?" Jacob scoffs. "Bit pathetic, don't you think?"

"Not as pathetic as hitting on sponsors' daughters while your girlfriend watches," Lando retorts, then softer, to you: "You okay, darling?"

The familiar pet name makes your chest tight. "I'm fine, Lando."

"Great, she's fine," Jacob moves to grab your arm. "Let's go."

"Touch her like that again," Lando's voice is deadly quiet, "and you'll be looking for a new marketing job. Might want to learn how the coffee machine works first though."

Jacob looks between you and Lando, jaw clenched. "Whatever. This is bullshit anyway. Call me when you're done playing happy families with your brother's friend."

He storms off, leaving you and Lando in charged silence.

"So," Lando finally says, attempting his usual lightness, "does this mean I can keep the dog name Fernando?"

You let out a watery laugh, and without thinking, he pulls you into a hug. You fit against him like you always have, his cologne familiar and comforting.

"My darling," he murmurs into your hair, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't call you that anymore."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "You've been calling me that since we were teenagers."

"Yeah, well," he gives you a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "things change, don't they?"

The way he's looking at you makes your heart stutter. Has he always looked at you like that?

"Is he always like this?" Lando asks quietly, still holding you close. His usual playful tone is gone, replaced by something more serious than you're used to hearing from him.

"No, no," you shake your head quickly. Maybe too quickly, because Lando's brow furrows as he studies your face. "It's not— he's not usually... it was just a misunderstanding."

He's silent for a moment, his hands fidgeting like they always do when he's worried about something. "You'd tell me though, right? If he ever... if he's not good to you? Or tell George at least?"

"Of course," you try to smile reassuringly. "But really, today was just a bad night. Too much pressure, too much champagne..."

"YN," he cuts in, and the way he says your name instead of one of his usual pet names makes you look up at him. His eyes are intense, concerned. "Promise me."

"I promise," you say softly. "You're a great friend, Lando."

Something flickers across his face – so quick you almost miss it – before his signature grin returns, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Friend?" he scoffs, but his voice sounds slightly strained. "Future husband, remember? Can't have my darling dealing with drama alone. Bad for our future marriage prospects."

You laugh, and he joins in, but there's something heavy hanging in the air between you. Before either of you can say anything else, Alex's voice carries from the doorway.

"Found them! Everything okay out here?"

"Never better," Lando announces, stepping back and throwing an arm around your shoulders with practiced ease. But you notice how his smile doesn't quite match the one in all those podium photos from earlier. "Just reminding the future Mrs. Norris about our very legitimate marriage contract. Very binding. Legally waterproof and everything."

He's doing that thing he does when he's uncomfortable – talking too fast, jokes tumbling out one after another. But his hand squeezes your shoulder gently before he lets go, and you catch him glancing back at you as he bounces toward the club entrance, his "Let's celebrate my amazing win, shall we?" almost drowning out the sound of your heart beating too fast.

Alex watches the exchange with knowing eyes but mercifully says nothing, just offers his arm to escort you back inside.

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texts between george and yn

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 287,540 others

yn.russell british boy steps foot in mexico city and instantly thinks he's a local... who's gonna tell him

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username1 LANDO X LITTLE RUSSELL IS SO BACKKK

username2 he looks so cuute

username3 i know her bf is not going to like this

alex_albon he can't even keep tequila shots down. such a fake

↳ landonorris want to test that theory?

↳ charles_leclerc Poor little Lando Norris

username4 HELP SHES SO IN LOVE WITH HIM 😭

jacob___ 👀

↳ username1 i know he's JEALOUS

username5 the way yn's feed is like 60% lando

username6 MY PARENTS

landonorris why is my future wife so mean to me

↳ yn.russell LANDO

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Later that afternoon, you're sitting with Carmen in the Mercedes hospitality when George joins you, stealing a bite of your sandwich.

"Get your own food," you swat his hand away.

"Sharing is caring, little sis," he grins, then notices your expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," you say automatically, but Carmen raises an eyebrow.

"She's overthinking," Carmen supplies helpfully. "About Jacob."

"I'm not overthinking," you protest. "I'm just... thinking. Normal amounts of thinking."

"About?" George prompts.

You fidget with your paddock pass. "He wants me to meet his parents. After Abu Dhabi. Says it's time we got more serious."

George's expression shifts slightly. "And you want that?"

"I mean... yeah? I think so. It makes sense, right? We've been together for a few months now, things are good..."

"Are they?" Carmen asks gently.

"Of course they are," you say, but your voice lacks conviction. "The Singapore thing was just a one-off. He apologized. He's been really sweet since then."

"Sweet enough to make up for being a dick?" George mutters.

"George."

"Sorry, sorry," he holds up his hands. "Just... you don't sound very excited about meeting his parents."

"I am excited," you insist. "It's just... a big step."

"Not as big as naming your future dog Fernando," Carmen says under her breath.

You shoot her a warning look. "Can we not?"

"Not what?" George asks.

"Nothing," you say quickly. "Just... Carmen thinks I'm not fully committed because..."

"Because you still light up every time Lando calls you 'darling'?" Carmen finishes.

"That's not— he calls everyone darling."

"No, he doesn't," George and Carmen say in unison.

"I hate you both," you groan. "Look, Lando and I are friends. That's all we've ever been. The whole future wife thing is just our running joke."

"Sure," Carmen nods. "That's why he looks like someone kicked his puppy every time Jacob touches you."

"He does not—" you start, but stop when you catch sight of Lando walking past. He gives you a small wave and his signature grin, but something about it seems off.

"Doesn't what?" George prompts.

"Nothing," you shake your head. "I should go. Jacob's waiting for me."

As you leave, you hear Carmen say to George, "They're both idiots, aren't they?"

"Complete idiots," George agrees. "But at least they're consistent about it."

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liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 298,605 others

yn.russell happy birthday to my favorite “future husband” 🎂 from stealing your caps in karting to stealing your FIFA records (still undefeated btw), you've somehow become one of my favorite people in this weird little world of ours. here's to many more years of terrible jokes, impromptu dance parties in the garage, and you pretending to let me win at everything (we both know I'm just better 😌). love you loads landolorian 🤍

ps: fernando the nonexistent dog says happy birthday to his future dad x

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username1 THIS IS TOO CUTE

username2 YOUR HONOR IM CRYING

landonorris still waiting for that marriage certificate darling 💍 also you definitely cheated at FIFA last time

↳ yn.russell sounds like someone's a sore loser

↳ landonorris sounds like someone's avoiding the marriage topic

↳ georgerussell63 get a room you two

↳ landonorris working on it mate

↳ username1 LANDO WTF

↳ username2 HE HAS NO SHAME

mclaren Happy Birthday @/landonorris! @/yn.russell when's the wedding?

↳ landonorris asking the real questions admin

↳ oscarpiastri I'll officiate

↳ landonorris DEAL

↳ yn.russell STOP IT

jacob___ 🙄

↳ landonorris problem mate?

↳ yn.russell boys.

↳ username3 THE TENSION

username4 why aren't they together yet??

username5 my heart can't take this anymore just date already

liked by username1, username2 and 3,976 others

f1.gossip Lando Norris and YN Russell spotted getting cozy at his birthday celebration last night. Swipe for more 👀

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username1 "just friends" my ass

username2 no because why does he look at her like she hung the stars

username3 wait where's jacob? 👀

↳ username1 apparently he left early...

↳ username2 he posted from a different party later that night

username4 george watching his best friend and his sister like 🧍‍♂️

↳ username1 he's been watching this slow burn for years poor man

username5 jacob watching these photos like 👁👄👁

username6 the way lando calls her darling more than her actual boyfriend does

username7 who's gonna tell jacob his girlfriend has better chemistry with lando in these photos than their entire instagram feed

username8 the "future wife" jokes don't seem so jokey anymore huh

username9 okay but can we talk about how she literally glows when she's around him?

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The afternoon sun filters through your apartment windows as you put the finishing touches on your makeup. You're going out to dinner with Jacob - another fancy restaurant, another chance for him to network while you smile politely beside him.

A knock at your door makes you pause. Opening it reveals Lando, holding a bag of takeaway and what appears to be your favorite ice cream.

"Oh," he says, taking in your dress and heels. "You're going out."

"Yeah," you adjust your earring, but can't help smiling at the familiar sight of him with food. "With Jacob. Remember?"

"Right," his smile dims slightly. "The boyfriend. Must've slipped my mind." He holds up the bags. "I brought provisions for our traditional post-race debrief. You know, where you tell me how amazing I was and I pretend to be humble about it?"

You laugh despite yourself. "Since when are you ever humble?"

"I'm incredibly humble. The most humble. No one's more humble than me," he grins, then peers around you into the apartment. "But seriously, can't you reschedule? I got your favorite ice cream. Mint chocolate chip, because I'm the best future husband ever."

"Still going with that, are we?" you ask, turning back to the mirror to check your lipstick.

"Always, darling," he follows you in, setting the food down and flopping onto your couch like he owns it. "It's legally binding, remember? Can't disappoint my mum now."

"I can't tonight," you say, checking your phone. "Jacob said he has something important to tell me."

"The one who made you cry?" Lando's voice loses some of its playfulness.

"That was one time," you defend, though without heat. "And he apologized. He actually told me he loves me last week. Says he wants us to be serious."

Lando sits up straighter, his usual energetic demeanor momentarily stilled. "And do you? Love him?"

"You don't know anything about my relationship, Lando," you say, but it comes out softer than intended.

"I know you," he counters, standing up and moving to lean against the wall near your mirror. "I know you scrunch your nose when you're trying not to laugh at bad jokes. I know you secretly love those terrible reality shows but pretend you're 'just watching them ironically.' I know you stress-eat ice cream when George has a bad race."

"That's different," you say, but you're fighting a smile.

"Is it?" he challenges, but his tone is gentle. "Look, I just... I want you to be happy. Even if it means dealing with boring Jacob who still can't work the coffee machine."

"He figured it out last week, actually," you laugh.

"Finally! Only took him what, six months?" Lando grins, then sobers slightly. "But seriously, if he makes you happy..."

"He does," you say, though something in your chest tightens. "Most of the time."

"Most of the time?" Lando raises an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement, darling."

"Nobody's perfect."

"I am," he says immediately, making you laugh. "What? I'm just saying, our future children would have excellent genes. Plus, I make a mean cup of coffee."

Your phone buzzes - a text from Jacob asking where you are.

"I have to go," you say, grabbing your purse. "Lock up when you leave?"

"Fine," he sighs dramatically. "Abandon your future husband with melting ice cream. But just know, Fernando the dog is very disappointed in you."

"Still haven't given up on that name, huh?"

"Never," he grins, but something flickers in his eyes. "Save me some time this weekend? For proper FIFA revenge?"

"You mean so I can beat you again?"

"Excuse you, I let you win," he protests, following you to the door. "It's part of my long-term strategy."

"Which is?"

"Can't have my future wife thinking I'm bad at something, can I?" he winks. "Even though we both know I'm actually terrible at FIFA."

You shake your head, laughing. "Goodbye, Lando."

"Wait," he calls as you start down the hall. "Just... be happy, yeah? Even if it's with someone who took six months to learn how to make coffee."

"I am happy," you say, but even to your own ears, it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"If you say so, darling," he says quietly. "But just remember, the Fernando name reservation is still valid. You know, in case the coffee-challenged boyfriend doesn't work out."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling as you walk away, trying to ignore the way your heart seems to be arguing with your head about exactly what - or who - makes you happiest. Behind you, you can hear him humming what sounds suspiciously like the wedding march, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Because at the end of the day, he's still Lando. Your Lando. Even if you're not quite ready to admit what that really means.

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liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,498 others

yn.russell last dinner date before heading back to the circus 🏎️ @/jacob___

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username1 ewww

username2 cute couple tbh

jacob___ miss you already x

↳ yn.russell ❤️

landonorris see you in las vegas darling x

↳ jacob___ can you not?

↳ landonorris sorry mate, contractual future wife obligations

↳ yn_russell boys. please.

↳ georgerussell63 🍿

↳ carlossainz55 Share some with me

↳ username1 LORD

↳ username2 THIS IS SO MESSYYYYY

username3 THIS COMMENT SECTION HAS ME IN TEARSSSS

username4 i feel like shit is about to hit the fan reaaaally soon

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"I just don't understand why you have to be there for every single race," Jacob's voice carries down the paddock corridor. "It's not like you're actually part of the team."

You're standing outside the McLaren hospitality, what started as a casual conversation having turned into yet another argument. "My brother races in F1, and Lando's one of my closest friends. Of course I'm going to be here."

"Right, Lando," Jacob scoffs. "Because God forbid you miss one of his races. Wouldn't want to disappoint your 'future husband.'"

"Don't do that," you say tiredly. "You know it's just a joke."

"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you'd rather spend time with him than support your actual boyfriend's career."

"Your career? I've been to every single marketing event you've asked me to attend. I've smiled and networked and played the perfect girlfriend."

"Perfect?" He laughs humorlessly. "You barely talk to any of the sponsors. You're too busy hanging out in the Mercedes garage or watching Lando's practice sessions."

"That's not fair—"

"You know what's not fair? Having a girlfriend who's more invested in other people's careers than mine."

"I didn't realize I was supposed to give up my entire life just because we're dating."

"Your entire life?" His voice rises. "You mean hanging around the paddock like some glorified fan?"

You step back like he's slapped you. "Is that what you think I am?"

"I think," he says coldly, "that you need to figure out what's more important - playing happy families with your brother's friends or having a real relationship with someone who's actually going somewhere in life."

"Hey!" A sharp voice cuts through the tension. George is standing there, face thunderous. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend," Jacob says stiffly.

"Doesn't sound very private to me," George steps closer, positioning himself slightly in front of you. "Or very respectful."

"George, it's fine," you start, but he cuts you off.

"No, it's not fine," he says, not taking his eyes off Jacob. "No one talks to my sister like that."

Jacob holds up his hands. "Look, this is between me and YN."

"Not anymore it's not," George's voice is dangerously calm. "I think you should leave."

For a moment, it looks like Jacob might argue, but something in George's expression makes him think better of it. "Whatever. Call me when you're ready to be a proper girlfriend."

As he walks away, George turns to you, his anger melting into concern. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," you say automatically, but your voice wavers.

"Come on," he wraps an arm around your shoulders, leading you toward his driver room. "Let's talk."

Once inside, you sink onto the couch while George grabs two water bottles. "How long has he been talking to you like that?"

"It's not... it's not usually that bad," you say, fidgeting with the bottle label. "He's just stressed about work."

"That's not an excuse," George sits beside you. "Has he said things like this before? About you being just a fan?"

You stay quiet, which is answer enough.

"YN," George's voice softens. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's embarrassing," you admit quietly. "He's right, isn't he? I am just hanging around because of you."

"Stop," George says firmly. "You've been part of this world since we were kids. You understand racing better than half the people in the paddock. Hell, you probably know more about tire strategies than some of the engineers."

You manage a small laugh. "Only because you never shut up about them."

"Exactly," he grins, then turns serious again. "Look, being here isn't just about me. It's your life too. You've built relationships with everyone here. Carmen loves you, Alex considers you a little sister, and Lando..."

"Don't," you cut him off. "Please don't bring Lando into this."

George studies you for a moment. "Why not? He's your best friend."

"Because..." you trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated mix of emotions that surface whenever Lando's name comes up lately.

"Because Jacob's jealous of him?" George suggests gently.

"He's not... it's not like that."

"Isn't it?" George raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like your boyfriend has a problem with how close you are to someone who's been in your life a lot longer than he has."

"Lando and I are just friends," you say, but the words feel hollow.

"Are you?" George asks softly. "Because friends don't look at each other the way you two do. Friends don't have elaborate future plans including dogs named Fernando. Friends don't get that look in their eyes when the other person is dating someone else."

"George..."

"I'm just saying," he continues, "maybe Jacob isn't entirely wrong to be jealous. Just... wrong about everything else."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. "I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do," George says simply. "You just need to be honest with yourself about what - or who - actually makes you happy."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?" He challenges. "Because from what I just heard, Jacob doesn't make you happy. He makes you feel small. And my little sister," he squeezes your shoulder, "deserves someone who makes her feel like she could take on the world."

"Someone like Lando?" You ask quietly.

"I didn't say that," George grins. "But now that you mention it..."

You shove him playfully. "Shut up."

"Make me," he laughs, then sobers. "Seriously though, YN. You deserve better than someone who makes you question your place here. This is your home too."

You lean your head on his shoulder. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. I'm the older sibling, remember?"

"By like two years!"

"Still counts," he says smugly, then adds more seriously, "Just... promise me you'll think about what I said? About being honest with yourself?"

"I promise," you say softly, even as your mind drifts to a certain curly-haired driver who's probably wondering where you are for your traditional pre-race FIFA tournament.

"Good," George stands up. "Now, want to go watch Lando absolutely butcher his quali prep? I heard he's still convinced he can take turn 3 flat out."

You laugh, letting him pull you up. "Some things never change, do they?"

"Nope," George agrees, but there's something knowing in his smile. "And some things are just waiting for you to realize they've been there all along."

As you walk toward the McLaren garage, you can't help but think about how some of the best things in life start as jokes - like a fourteen-year-old boy declaring you'll have papaya orange wedding colors, or a nickname that feels more like home than any other word in the world.

Maybe it's time to stop pretending it's all just a joke.

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liked by georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and 301,988 others

yn.russell my big brother just won in VEGAS!!! 🏆✨ from watching you race karts in the rain to watching you stand on top of the podium under those lights... i've never been prouder to be a russell. you deserve this more than anyone georgie. also thanks for letting me steal your champagne and ruin your hair before the photos 😘

ps: mum's crying, dad's crying, i'm crying, even fernando the dog is crying and he's not real x

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username1 I LOVE THEM SMMMM

username2 THIS IS MY FAMILY

georgerussell63 love you little sis ❤️ (but i was definitely the cuter kid)

↳ yn_russell keep telling yourself that x

↳ landonorris can confirm yn was the cuter kid

↳ georgerussell63 no one asked you lando

↳ landonorris just supporting my future wife mate

↳ yn.russell boys please this is george's moment

username2 THE WAY SHE RAN TO HIM IN PARC FERME 😭

username3 sibling goals fr

username4 ok but can we talk about how lando waited to celebrate with george until after yn had her moment with him 🥺

↳ username1 future brother in law behavior

username5 wait why isn't jacob in any of these photos? Wasn't he there?

carmenmmundt so proud of you both ❤️

↳ landonorris *all three of us

↳ carmenmmundt ?

↳ landonorris future wife = future family

↳ yn.russell this is GEORGE'S post omg

↳ landonorris sorry darling carry on x

charles_leclerc the russell genes are strong

↳ landonorris hopefully our kids get her genes

↳ georgerussell63 LANDO.

↳ yn.russell i swear to god

↳ landonorris what? just planning ahead 😌

username6 THIS COMMENT SECTION IS KILLING ME

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yn.russell has added to their stories

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The Abu Dhabi night is alive with celebration, the McLaren garage covered in papaya and champagne. But you're hidden away in one of the quiet corridors behind hospitality, mascara smudged, trying to muffle your sobs.

"There you are, darling! We've been looking everywhere for—" Lando's voice cuts off abruptly when he sees you. "YN?"

You quickly try to wipe your tears, but it's too late. His championship-winning smile vanishes instantly as he drops down beside you.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, concerned. When you don't answer, he gently takes your hands away from your face. "Talk to me."

"It's stupid," you manage to say. "You should be celebrating. You just won the constructors'."

"Pretty sure the champagne will still be there in ten minutes," he says, thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. "What happened?"

You take a shaky breath. "Jacob... he..." Your voice breaks.

Lando's expression hardens. "What did he do?"

"He broke up with me," you let out a bitter laugh. "Apparently now that he's secured a position at Mercedes for next season, he doesn't need the Russell connection anymore."

"He what?" Lando's voice is dangerously quiet.

"Turns out I was just... convenient. A way to get closer to Toto. To Mercedes." Your voice cracks again. "God, I feel so stupid."

"You're not stupid," Lando says fiercely. "He's the stupid one. He's worse than stupid, he's a complete—"

"I really thought..." you cut him off, fresh tears falling. "I actually thought he cared about me."

Without hesitation, Lando pulls you into his arms. You bury your face in his race suit, still damp with champagne, and let yourself break.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, darling."

You stay like that for a while, his hands running soothingly up and down your back as you cry. The distant sounds of celebration feel like they're from another world.

"Want me to crash his car?" Lando finally asks, making you let out a watery laugh. "I could do it. Make it look like an accident. I am a professional driver, after all."

"Lando..."

"Or we could put laxatives in his coffee. Though he'd probably notice, since he still can't make a proper cup himself."

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling slightly.

"There's my girl," he says softly, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't..."

"It's okay," you whisper. "I've always been your girl. Even if it was just as a joke."

Something shifts in his expression. "YN..."

"Don't," you pull back slightly. "Please. I can't... I can't lose you too. Not tonight."

He studies your face for a long moment, then nods, pulling you back against his chest. "You'll never lose me. Future husband contract, remember? Legally binding. Can't get rid of me that easily."

You close your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. "Promise?"

"Promise," he kisses the top of your head. "Besides, Fernando still needs both his parents."

This gets a real laugh out of you. "We don't actually have a dog, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects. "We don't have a dog yet. But when we do—"

"His name will be Fernando," you finish with him, and for a moment, everything feels okay again.

"Want me to get George?" he asks after a while.

You shake your head. "Not yet. Can we just... stay here for a bit?"

"As long as you need," he says, and you can hear his heart beating steadily under your ear. "I'm not going anywhere."

In the distance, someone calls his name.

"Go," you start to pull away. "They need their champion."

"They can wait," he says firmly, pulling you back. "You need me more."

And maybe it's the way he says it, or the gentle kiss he presses to your temple, or how his arms feel like the safest place in the world, but suddenly you realize what everyone's been trying to tell you all along.

This was never just a joke to him.

And maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke to you either.

But that's a revelation for another night, when your heart isn't quite so broken and his race suit isn't covered in your tears. For now, you let yourself be held by your best friend, your future husband, your Lando, as the Abu Dhabi night carries on without you.

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 288,760 others

yn.russell back to my favorite job: professional thirdwheel 🏖️ (at least they feed me occasionally) @/georgerussell63 @/carmenmmundt

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username1 MY PARENTS

username2 wait... where's jacob? 👀

↳ username1 he unfollowed her last week 👀

↳ username3 tea incoming

georgerussell63 You love us

↳ yn.russell debatable

↳ carmenmmund We literally paid for your dinner

↳ yn.russell okay fine you're alright

landonorris need a fourth wheel? 👀

↳ yn.russell ...

↳ landonorris i'll bring snacks

username4 THE WAY LANDO COMMENTED SO FAST

username5 LANDO THIS IS YOUR CHANCE

username6 single little russell era is coming

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The winter sun is setting early, casting long shadows across your apartment. It's been a month days since Abu Dhabi, a months since Jacob revealed his true colors, and you're curled up on your couch in your comfiest sweats, surrounded by empty ice cream containers.

George and Carmen tried to cheer you up, making you tag along on their vacation, but now that you were back home, the sulking feeling inevitably came back too.

A familiar pattern of knocks at your door makes you groan. "Go away, Lando."

"Not a chance, darling," his voice calls back. "I come bearing provisions!"

"I don't need provisions," you call out, but you're already getting up to open the door. "I need to wallow in peace."

You open the door to find Lando, arms full of bags, wearing a ridiculously oversized hoodie that you're pretty sure belongs to George.

"Wallowing is officially cancelled," he announces, breezing past you into the apartment. "We're having a proper heartbreak recovery session."

"We are?"

"Absolutely," he starts unpacking the bags. "I've got all the essentials. More ice cream - mint chocolate chip, obviously. Every terrible rom-com Netflix has to offer. Popcorn. Those weird crisps you like that no one else understands. And..." he pulls out a bottle with flourish, "your favorite wine."

"Lando..."

"No arguments," he says firmly, but gently. "I'm not leaving you alone to cry over that coffee-challenged idiot."

"I wasn't crying," you protest weakly.

He raises an eyebrow at your clearly tear-stained face. "Right. And I'm not the most talented driver on the grid."

This actually makes you laugh. "Your modesty never fails to amaze me."

"I know, I know, I'm incredible," he grins, already making himself at home on your couch. "Now come here. We're starting with The Notebook because I know it's your guilty pleasure, even though you pretend to hate it."

"I do hate it," you say, but you're already curling up next to him.

"Sure you do, darling," he throws a blanket over both of you. "Just like you hate reality TV and actually love Jacob's boring marketing presentations."

You wince slightly at Jacob's name, and Lando immediately softens.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "No more mentions of He Who Shall Not Be Named. Though I still think we should put glitter in his car ventilation system."

"George already offered to have him banned from the paddock," you smile slightly.

"Good man, your brother," Lando nods approvingly. "Though my revenge plans are much more creative. I was thinking we could reprogram his laptop to only play 'Baby Shark' when he opens PowerPoint..."

You can't help but laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Made you smile though, didn't I?" he says softly, and something in his voice makes you look up at him.

"You always do," you admit quietly.

He holds your gaze for a moment before clearing his throat. "Right, well, that's what future husbands are for, isn't it? Can't have my darling being sad. Bad for our wedding photos."

"Still going with that, are we?"

"Always," he says, and despite his light tone, there's something earnest in his eyes. "Someone's got to look after you properly."

"I can look after myself," you point out.

"Oh, I know," he grins. "But it's more fun together, isn't it? Plus, who else is going to appreciate your terrible taste in movies?"

"My taste is not terrible!"

"Darling, you genuinely enjoyed that film about the talking cats."

"It was artistic!"

"It was horrifying," he laughs, pulling you closer. "But I watched it three times with you anyway."

"Because you're a good friend," you say softly.

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "The best friend you'll ever have. Even if you have questionable taste in everything except future husbands."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. "Speaking of questionable taste, weren't we supposed to be watching The Notebook?"

"Oh right!" he brightens, grabbing the remote. "Time to pretend you're not going to cry at the end."

"I never cry at the end."

"Darling, you've cried every single time we've watched it."

"Have not!"

"Have too! Remember last time? You got tears all over my favorite hoodie."

"That was one time!"

"One time this month, maybe," he grins, then softens. "It's okay though. My hoodies are always available for your tears. Even if they're about stupid coffee-challenged marketing guys who don't deserve them."

You lean your head on his shoulder. "Thank you, Lando."

"For what?"

"For being you. For being here. For..." you gesture at all the supplies he brought. "For everything."

He's quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Always, darling. In sickness and in health, remember?"

"We're not actually married, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects, but there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "We're not actually married yet."

The movie starts playing, but you're more aware of his steady breathing, of how perfectly you fit against his side, of how safe you feel in this moment. And maybe it's too soon, maybe your heart is still too raw, but you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the right person has been here all along.

But that's a thought for another day. For now, you let yourself be comforted by your best friend, your constant, your Lando, as he quotes along with the movie and keeps you supplied with ice cream and terrible jokes until you're laughing more than you're crying.

And if you do end up crying at the end of The Notebook, well, his hoodie is already there to catch your tears.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 291,483 others

yn.russell FIRST RACE OF THE SEASON. WHAT A RIDE !!!! lando winning and georgie on podium. ALEX P5 !!!! all of my boys killing it 🥺 so happy to be back, i missed this so much

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username1 LITTLE RUSSELL BIGGEST SUPPORTER

username2 SHE WAS SO HAPPY FOR LANDO OMFG

username3 still gutted for the missed mclaren 1-2 but GEORGE P3!!

carmenmmundt You almost broke my hand with all the squeezing !! Missed you so happy my girl 🤍

↳ username1 AHH LITTLE RUSSELL IS HEALING

username4 the way she JUMPED into lando's arms

ciscanorris My future daughter in law! It was so good to see you

↳ username1 AHH MAMA NORRIS CLAIMING HER

landonorris THAT WAS FOR YOU MY DARLINGGG

↳ yourinstagram 🥺

↳ username2 AHH SHE DIDN'T CORRECT HIM

georgerussell63 Love you sis, even tho you hugged Lando first

↳ yn.russell he won okay

↳ landonorris and i'm her future husband

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Miami night air is warm and sweet, carrying the distant sounds of celebration from the post race party below. You're leaning against the balcony railing, watching the lights of the circuit sparkle in the distance, when familiar footsteps approach.

"There's my darling," Lando's voice is soft as he joins you. "Hiding from your adoring public?"

You smile, not looking away from the view. "Just needed some air."

The past few months flash through your mind - Lando showing up at your door with takeaway after particularly hard days, marathon gaming sessions that somehow always ended with you falling asleep on his shoulder, countless movie nights where he'd quote every line just to make you laugh. He never let you wallow, never let you retreat into sadness. Whether it was surprising you with your favorite coffee in the morning or sending you ridiculous memes at 3 AM, he was constantly there, slowly piecing your heart back together without you even realizing it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, bumping your shoulder gently with his.

"Just thinking about everything that's changed since last season."

He hums in agreement. "Good changes though, right?"

You finally turn to look at him, really look at him. His curls slightly messy from running his hands through them - a nervous habit you've known since you were teenagers. But there's something different in the way he's looking at you now, something that makes your heart skip.

"Yeah," you say softly. "Good changes."

He takes a step closer, and suddenly the air feels charged with possibility. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"Dangerous hobby," you tease, falling into your familiar pattern.

"Very dangerous," he agrees, but his voice is serious. "Been thinking about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes."

Your breath catches. "Lando..."

"Like when a fourteen-year-old boy tells this pretty girl she's going to be his future wife," he continues, taking another step closer. "And he keeps saying it for years, making it this big running joke, because it's easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke at all."

"What are you saying?" you whisper, though your heart already knows the answer.

He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your cheek. "I'm saying that I've been in love with you since we were kids. I'm saying that every time I called you darling, every time I talked about our future dog Fernando, every time I claimed the future husband title - I meant it. All of it."

"Lando..." your voice wavers.

"I know it's only been a few months since... everything," he says quickly. "And if you're not ready, if you don't feel the same way, we can pretend this never happened. We can go back to just joking around. But I needed you to know that for me, it was never just a joke. You were never just a joke."

You stare at him, this boy who's been your constant, your safe place, your home for so long. And suddenly everything clicks into place.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he says softly, giving you time to pull away if you want to.

You don't.

His lips meet yours, gentle at first, like he's afraid you might break. But when your hands slide into his curls, pulling him closer, the kiss deepens into something that feels like coming home and falling free all at once.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. "So," he says, slightly breathless, "about that legally binding marriage contract..."

You laugh, the sound full of joy. "Still going with that, are we?"

"Always," he grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. "Though now I'm thinking maybe we should make it official. You know, for Fernando's sake."

"We still don't have a dog, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects, pulling you closer. "We don't have a dog yet. But we will. Right after the wedding. Which will definitely have papaya orange colors because I called dibs when we were fourteen and—"

You cut him off with another kiss, feeling him smile against your lips.

"FINALLY!"

You break apart to find George standing in the doorway, grinning like he just won the championship.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Lando grumbles, but he doesn't let go of you.

"On a balcony door?" George raises an eyebrow. "Besides, I've been watching you two dance around each other for months. Years, actually."

"Have not," you protest.

"Have too," both men say in unison.

"I hate you both," you mutter, but you're fighting a smile.

"No you don't," Lando says confidently. "You love me. You're going to marry me and we're going to have a dog named Fernando and—"

"Still with the dog name?" George groans.

"It's tradition!" Lando defends. "Tell him, darling, tell him how important traditions are."

You look between your brother and the boy - no, the man - who's been your everything for so long, and feel your heart might burst with happiness.

"Actually," you say slowly, "I was thinking maybe we could name the dog George."

"What?" both men exclaim.

You burst out laughing at their expressions. "Just kidding. Fernando it is."

"See?" Lando beams at George. "She agrees with me. Because she loves me. Because we're getting married. Because—"

"Because it was never really a joke?" you finish softly.

His expression softens as he looks at you. "Never."

"Right," George clears his throat. "I'm going to leave before this gets any more sickeningly sweet. But Lando?"

"Yeah?"

"Hurt my sister and they'll never find your body."

"Please," Lando scoffs, pulling you closer. "I've been planning our future since I was fourteen. I'm not about to mess it up now."

As George leaves, shaking his head but smiling, Lando turns back to you.

"So," he says, his eyes twinkling, "about those wedding colors..."

You silence him with another kiss, thinking about how sometimes the best love stories start as jokes, and how sometimes the person you're meant to be with has been there all along, calling you darling and planning your future with a dog named Fernando.

And maybe, just maybe, those papaya orange wedding colors don't sound so bad after all.

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 201,384 others

yn.russell turns out some jokes become reality 🧡 @/landonorris (yes, we're actually getting the dog. yes, his name will be fernando. no, this isn't a drill - the future wife position has officially been filled, i love you my lando)

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username1 SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP IS THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENING??? 😭😭😭

username2 THE WAY I JUST SCREAMED IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS

username3 THE FUTURE WIFE JOKES WERE REAL ALL ALONG

georgerussell63 About bloody time 🙄 (but actually very happy for you both)

alex_albon the group chat can finally rest, no more "should I tell her?" messages from lando every 5 minutes

carmenmmundt The paddock's favorite love story

ciscanorris Finally! I've only been waiting for this announcement since they were teenagers 🥰

username4 the way this man has been calling her darling for YEARS and we all thought it was just banter 😭😭

username5 THE WAY I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE 2019

username6 ok but can we talk about how he's literally been manifesting this since they were TEENAGERS???

username7 this is actually the cutest thing ever like???? he's been planning their wedding since he was 14???? hello???

username8 the way george is probably somewhere being like "finally i don't have to pretend i don't see them flirting"

landonorris worth the wait, every single second❤️ love you darling x

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon in late summer, and you're curled up on your couch with a book when you hear Lando's key in the door. You smile, not looking up - he's been coming and going from your place so much lately that it feels more like his home than his own apartment.

"Darling!" his voice calls out, sounding suspiciously excited. "Close your eyes!"

"Why?" you ask warily. "Last time you had a surprise, it didn't end well."

"Just trust me!"

You sigh fondly, closing your eyes. "Fine, but this better be good."

You hear him moving around, and then something warm and furry lands in your lap.

Your eyes fly open to find yourself face to face with the most adorable chocolate Labrador puppy you've ever seen. The puppy immediately starts licking your face while Lando watches, beaming with pure joy.

"Lando..." you breathe, already in love with the wiggling bundle of fur. "What did you do?"

"Well," he drops onto the couch beside you, reaching over to scratch the puppy's ears, "I was thinking about how we've been together for months now, and living together basically even though we pretend we don't, and how there's this one very important member of our family still missing..."

"You didn't," you whisper, even as the puppy settles contentedly in your lap.

"I did," he grins. "Meet Fernando. Finally."

You look between Lando and the puppy - Fernando - feeling your heart might burst. "You actually named him Fernando?"

"Of course I did! I've been planning this since I was fourteen, remember?" His eyes soften. "Plus, I made you a promise, didn't I?"

"We're not married yet," you point out, but you can't stop smiling.

"Yet," he emphasizes, leaning over to kiss your cheek. "But really, I thought... I mean, we practically live together anyway. Might as well make it official. You, me, and Fernando."

You look down at the puppy, who's now snoring softly in your lap, then back at Lando. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Properly?"

"Maybe," he fidgets slightly. "Unless you think it's too soon? I know we haven't been together that long, but it feels like we've been building towards this forever, you know? And I thought, with Fernando here now..."

You cut off his rambling with a kiss. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move in with you. Properly. All three of us."

His face lights up like you've just given him the best gift in the world. "Really?"

"Really," you laugh.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him fondly.

"You love it," he says confidently.

"I do," you admit softly. "I love you."

His expression melts into that soft look he reserves just for you. "I love you too, darling. Both of you," he adds as Fernando stirs and licks his hand.

Just then, your phone buzzes - a text from George.

"Oh no," you groan, reading it. "George is coming over."

"Perfect!" Lando brightens. "He can meet his nephew!"

"You did not just call our dog George's nephew."

"Of course I did! He's family now. Speaking of which..." he pulls out his phone, "my mum's been asking when we're bringing Fernando to visit."

Before you can respond, George's voice carries through the door. "Why is there puppy food in the hallway?"

Lando jumps up excitedly. "Ready to meet Uncle George, Fernando?"

The puppy perks up at his name, tail wagging as George opens the door.

"You didn't," George says, taking in the scene.

"We did!" Lando announces proudly. "Meet your nephew!"

"My... nephew?"

"Fernando Russell-Norris," Lando declares. "Well, technically just Norris for now, but that'll change once your sister finally agrees to marry me."

"Still waiting on that proposal, aren't you?" George smirks.

"All in good time," Lando winks at you. "Got to do it properly, haven't I?"

You watch George pretend not to be completely smitten with Fernando, while Lando chatters about all his plans for family weekends and teaching Fernando tricks. You can't help but think about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes about future marriages and dogs named Fernando.

"Our little family," Lando says softly, pulling you close while Fernando attempts to climb into George's lap.

And as you lean into his side, watching your brother and your boyfriend argue about who gets to be Fernando's favorite uncle (while the puppy seems more interested in chewing George's shoelaces), you realize that this - this moment, this love, this little family - is better than any dream you could have had.

It's your reality. Your perfect, slightly chaotic, absolutely wonderful reality.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

[berrryparfait]

❝ i don't look good in this dress... ❞ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

♥︎ featuring: sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader | prompt

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you don't think this dress looks good on you... he begs to differ. 「i really don't see what you're seeing, babe.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: fluff, shopping date, reader tries on a dress that hugs her curves and doesn't like how it looks, mentions of weight loss, insecurity, reassurance, he's whipped and worships the ground you walk on

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: lipstick – charlie puth

✧ a/n: requested work that i rushed to complete because i wanted all of u to know that u are GORGEOUS. do us all a favor and wear that dress girl ♡(>ᴗ•)

Nothing makes you happier than a shopping date with the love of your life. The way he’d been so eager to plan this day—to put a smile on your pretty face as if your happiness were his own… Well, it is.

You’d made preparations of your own, too. You had a rough idea of what you wanted to try on, and you’re determined not to leave empty-handed today. All that’s left is to slip into the dresses you’ve picked.

But when you finally zip this one up, it’s… not what you’d hoped for. And deep down, part of you knows—it’s not the dress’s fault.

“Babe, I don’t look good in this dress…”

Sylus lounges on the fitting room couch, one arm stretched out on top of the backrest. He’s been sitting here this whole time, thoroughly enjoying the view each time you emerge from behind the curtains.

He’s cleared out the store today for you to shop “in peace,” so it’s just you, him, and two store assistants in the room.

He frowns at your words, raking his piercing eyes up and down the length of your body once more. A disbelieving smirk curls his lips as he drawls, “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. You look ravishing in this dress—in fact, I’ll have them ring it up for us right now—”

“I-I don’t think I want this one, babe…” You sigh as you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the dress cinching your body in all the wrong places. It just looks…unflattering.

Sylus waves the assistants away and studies your expression once more, realization dawning. He’s always thought you pulled off everything you’ve ever worn—to him, this dress is no different. But he knows about your insecurities…

“…I’ve made my opinion clear, Kitten, but you can’t seem to get it in that head of yours that you are unreasonably beautiful.”

You smile at his words, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. You’ve heard him compliment your looks a thousand times now, but insecurities aren’t so easily vanquished. They start and end with… well, you. No one else can touch them.

“I love you for that, Sy—but it’s not that simple. I’ve lived with these thoughts my whole life.”

His arrogant stance softens, and though the sureness in his voice remains. To him, your beauty is fact—an indisputable one.

“I don’t mean to undermine what you’ve been through. I only mean to highlight my perspective.” He stands up and twirls you around like you’re dandelions waltzing through a ballroom of wind, his hands memorizing every curve, every dip of your body. “If you could only see yourself the way I do… I’d squander the world for just another glimpse.”

Zayne leans against a wall, your leather purse in hand. He waits patiently while you try on each piece of clothing, occasionally pulling out his phone to skim through articles on cardiothoracic surgery training in Japan.

You step out of the fitting room wearing a form-fitting black dress, unsure what to think of it. It feels a little tight around your hips, and though you’ve been eager to try it on for days, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You glance at your reflection in the mirror and fight the urge to retreat into the fitting room before anyone else sees you.

Zayne catches the panic in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s just… This dress makes me look chubbier, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It accentuates your curves, which is hardly something to be upset about. You look beautiful—as always.”

His words warm you, but the tightness in your chest remains, your insecurities gripping your ribcage like a clawed hand. “I should lose some weight…” you mutter.

His brows knit together as he steps closer, concern softening his features. “Don’t sacrifice your health and wellbeing for the sake of meeting society’s so-called 'beauty standards. They’re unrealistic, fabricated, and frankly, unattainable. Your natural body is perfect just the way it is, and I mean that." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "This dress is gorgeous because you’re wearing it.”

He cups your cheek in his palm, and you smile up at him. Sensitive, adoring Zayne. While it’ll take more than an ultra-romantic speech to quiet the voice inside your head, his reassurance soothes the ache you’ve carried for years.

What once was a scar is now a patch of healing tissue—thanks in part to Zayne’s unwavering affirmations, and in part to your own efforts to love and accept yourself.

A group of girls are parading their outfits a few booths down from yours, giggling and squealing as they pose for photos. They’re stunning—slim and toned in all the right places, with flawless skin and sculpted jawlines.

You glance down at the dress you’re wearing, and it feels like a punch to the gut. How can you ever compete with girls like that? How do you look next to them? A nauseating wave of envy and self-doubt crashes over you, and your eyes instinctively seek out Rafayel for reassurance.

He’s staring at you with wide, hazy eyes, lips slightly parted as his gaze roams over your body. You blush, self-conscious, crossing your arms over your torso.

He jolts back to reality, the misty look on his face evaporating. “What was that for? I was enjoying the view.”

“You don’t have to lie, you know. This dress isn’t for me…”

He shakes his head, clearly baffled, and closes the distance between you in two strides. A half-smirk pulls at his lips as he says, “You’re kidding me, right? You look fuckin’ hot.” His hands trail down your thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Can we get this one? Please?” he murmurs into your ear.

You gently push him away. “...Nah. It’s unflattering on me.”

Rafayel scoffs, but there’s a surprising tenderness in his eyes when he says, “Listen, babe, you’re the most drop-dead gorgeous woman on earth, and the fact that you can’t see that? It genuinely breaks my heart. Tragic, really—”

You smack his arm and chuckle, the heaviness in your chest already starting to lift. Bless Rafayel and his ability to pull you from the depths of your own mind. Turning back to the mirror, you glance at your reflection again and think… It does make your ass look amazing. “…Maybe I will get it.”

“That’s my girl.” His grin turns wicked. “I can’t wait to take it off you…”

Xavier is dozing off on the couch, his head drooping and his eyelids fluttering. It’s an adorable sight—one that nearly distracts you from the reflection in the dressing room mirror.

Your hands smooth over the fabric of the blue cocktail dress, its fit on your body…disappointing. This isn’t how it looked on the mannequin, you think, heat blooming in your cheeks. All at once, your insecurities come crashing down, suffocating you with reminders that you’re “less than”, that you’ll never feel truly comfortable in your own skin—

“I like that dress. You look good.”

You spin around to see Xavier now sitting upright, his gaze fixed on your back. “You think so?”

He nods, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. But then again, everything looks good on you. It’s you.”

You bite your lip, hesitant to turn around. “You don’t think it makes me look… I don’t know…bigger?”

“Uhh…?” He frowns, confused. “What do you mean? Turn around. I want to see it.”

Slowly, you turn to face him, baring the gentle curve of your breasts and the mound of your tummy. You avert your gaze, fidgeting under the weight of his stare.

“Oh.”

“You don’t like it?” your voice wavers, your heart freezing as the blood drains from your face.

He shakes his head rapidly and shifts in his seat. “N-No, it’s not that… I just— I—” He quickly folds his arms over his lap, and you understand immediately.

A laugh escapes your lips.

He glares at you. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry! You’ve just really boosted my confidence today, that’s all,” you say between giggles. Suddenly, the mirror doesn’t seem so cruel. If this turns him on just by looking at it…

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hot. We get it…” he mutters, still throwing you dirty looks on the car ride home.

You spin around in the yellow sundress, the fabric hugging your curves and accentuating your hips. It looked different when the model wore it online…

Caleb is gawking at you from outside the fitting booth, arms crossed over his chest. “That dress looks so sexy on you, Pips. Let me get it for you—”

“Wait! I, uh… I don’t know how I feel about it…” You try not to betray your emotions, shoving the knot of insecurity down your throat. You’ve always struggled with body image, but you don’t want to worry Caleb by bringing it up.

Or worse—put those ideas into his head.

He steps forward, placing his hands gently on your waist as he takes in the way the fabric cascades down your legs, how it emphasizes your soft curves and full breasts. The very sight of you in it steals the breath from his lungs.

“Is this about your body?” he asks carefully, clearly afraid of striking a nerve.

You look down at your feet and shift uneasily, the nagging feeling intensifying beneath the weight of his gaze.

Caleb leans in and tilts your face up to meet his. “...Hey. I’ve traveled the world, and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, okay?” His thumbs stroke your cheeks with the softness of a summer breeze. “Why else would I be dating you—your personality?”

You glare at him, fighting to suppress a smile.

He wraps you in his arms before you can argue, and you melt into his embrace, allowing yourself—for once—to believe him.

You’re strong, funny, determined, and kind; and let’s not forget the fact that you pulled Caleb, the hottest pilot in any airport and the only man who sees you for exactly who you are.

“You’re the eighth wonder of the world, babe. Inside and out.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[darkbluekies]

Broken restraints

Yandere!doctor oc x reader

Summary: you've finally had enough and decides to switch the roles on your doctor, to try to get where he has placed the poison that is destroying you

Warnings: drugging, reader is held captive and poisoned, basically a little manhandling of darling?, restraints, manipulation/kind of infantilization

Word count: 2k

Your heart is beating. This can backfire horrendously, but what other choice do you have?

“Can I have something to eat?” you ask as he places the two cups on the table.

“Are you hungry?” he wonders and gives you a worried look, always speaking to you in that soft, understanding tone. “Didn't you like the dinner?”

“I did, but I'm still hungry.”

“Okay, would you want a sandwich? Or a fruit?”

“Whatever, please.”

He nods. “Okay, I'll be back soon.”

You wait for the door to click shut before opening your hand where he's placed the sleeping pills. Your eyes turn to his coffee cup. This is such a bad idea.

You grab your own cup of chamomile tea and place the pill underneath, gently crushing it against the desk, grinding it into a fine powder. Your heart beats inside your chest. What if he comes back before you're done? If he forgot something? How do you explain this without telling the truth? 

You pour the powder into his coffee, stirring slightly and feeling your heart sink to your stomach. Despite what he's doing to you, there has to be another way, right? But then again, if there was another way you wouldn't be doing this.

I'm sorry but what else do I do?

He returns with an apple.

“Here you go, little one”, he says. “Can't let you go to bed hungry. It's good that you're hungry. As long as you're not nauseous. Or cramping.”

From your poison, you mean?

You take a bite of the apple just for it to be believable. He takes a sip of his coffee. Your heart stops.

“How are you feeling?” he asks after he's swallowed. “How's your head?”

“Fine”, you reply shortly. 

He reaches out, touching it as if you had a fever.

“That's good”, he says. 

He drinks some more. You try to take another bite of the apple, but you're too worried about him feeling the taste, or the texture of the crushed pill.

“You look like you're going to throw up”, he says. “Are you sure you're fine?”

“I-I actually am a bit nauseous, when I think about it”, you half lie. 

“See? I know when you're lying, you forget I read you like an open book. Drink some tea, it'll help.”

He pushes the cup closer to you. You sip carefully. The warming sensation only highlights the disgusting guilt.

He tucks you in, like he does everything night, and starts to move towards the door, but your hand grabs his white lab coat sleeve.

“Please don’t leave”, you whisper. “Not yet.”

He looks at you in a questioning manner. You've been so quiet ever since you got to know about the poisoned air purifier, not wanting him close. But he can't deny you. Never.

“Okay”, he says and sits down on his stool, rolling over to your bedside. “Just lay down. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Lay?” you ask quietly, patting the space on the bed beside you.

“Why?”

“Please.”

“You haven't wanted me near these last few weeks. You've been rather cross with me.”

“I'm scared. I'm desperate. Please.”

He reads you like an open book, he says, but you pray he feels sorry enough for you to ignore any warning signs. Dr Kry sighs, removes his lab coat, leaving him in his blue scrubs, and lays down on the side of the bed. His bare arm brushes yours. He's weirdly warm for someone so cold.

Carefully, he directs your head to lean on his shoulder without a word. You close your eyes and pretend to sleep, opening your eyes every now and then to see if he's asleep. He's bigger than you. Maybe the pill was too little for someone his size? Or maybe the caffeine in the coffee balanced it out?

“Doctor”, you whisper after a while. “Doctor Kry?”

He doesn't respond. You lift your head from his shoulder, leaning on your hand as you push yourself up on one arm. You realise that you've never seen him sleep. He looks content, peaceful almost.

It makes what you're about to do so much worse.

You glance at the leather straps that have left permanent marks on your wrists from his discipline. Carefully you scoot over and lean over him to grab his right wrist, fully ready for him to grab you at any second. But he doesn't. Slowly, you fasten it to the side of the bed with the buckle straps. And then the other. You get off the bed and back away, taking in the sight. It makes you nauseous.

You walk over to the cabinet by the corner and pull over his stool to get a better look at the purifier. One hand covers your mouth and nose as the other twists and turns the little box, looking for the poison. Nowhere. This close, it looks harmless. 

You make your way down and over to his desk, looking through the drawers. There’s only papers. And documentation. You look throughout the room, but the poison is nowhere to be found. How can you ever get well if you don't even know what you've inhaled?

You have no choice but wait for Dr Kry to wake up. You sit down on his stool, waiting. It's tiresome, long, boring.

His eyes finally flutter open two hours later. You hold your breath. He blinks for a second, feeling something wrong. His hands tug at the restraints. 

“Y/N.”

You've never heard his voice like that spoken your way, only those few unfortunate times he has shown that dark side of his. But then that voice was never used against you.

His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. 

“What have you done?” he asks. “Release me. Now.”

“Wait”, you say. 

“Get me out, Y/N. I'm not joking.”

“You have to listen to me first.”

“How did you manage to do this? You—...I see. You did something with the sleeping pill. Your little joke is not funny. Release me now and I will forget about this.”

“No, you have to listen to me!”

“I have to listen to you? With these kinds of methods you have?”

“Doctor, please.”

He looks at you for a second before clenching his jaw, leaning back slightly. He doesn't say anything, doesn't accept it, but he doesn't reject it.

“Where's the poison?” you question.

“Poison?” 

He looks straight at you, cold blue eyes sending ice throughout you. Anger is so unlike Dr Kry. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

“Should have asked me when I was free, sweetheart”, he bites back. “I can't move. I can't show you.”

“You have a mouth. You can speak.”

“And you have one too, that's how humans work. One that works without having to tie me down.”

“You wouldn't have listened to me. And if you would have, you wouldn't have taken me seriously.”

“And you think this helps your cause? Because, to me, this looks like the doing of someone who's not well. Who can't be reasoned with. Who's too sick to take care of themselves, and that's why I have to.”

“I'm sick because of you! I want to know where the poison is.”

“Why? So you can go to the cops? I'm sorry, sweetheart but they won't be able to help you. That poison is of my own doing. There is no antidote on the market and if they want to figure out what I've put in it it'll take years to develop one … and who says they'll actually be able to? It's not unusual that new, untested substances make you worse. Face it, I'm the only one that can heal you.”

“You don't have an antidote.”

Kry scoffs. “Don't I? Do you think I'd be so stupid to develop a poison for my beloved, and not create an antidote in case something goes wrong?”

“Where is it?”

“Not in here … but I can show you.”

You hesitate. You're not sure if it's out of pure desperation, need to get out of the situation or the poison clogging your brain, but you move towards the bed. Unsure lying, as if you're waiting for a thought clear enough to stop you. Nothing comes.

You unbuckle one of his wrists. He immediately moves it in circles to massage it, grunting. As soon as you've loosened the other, he doesn't waste time. He flies up from the bed and in one motion, grabs hold of your jaw with his hand and forces you backwards. The grip isn't painful, but it's firm and unyielding. You've known that he's strong, but not like this. 

You stumble backwards until your back finally hits the wall beside the bathroom door. He towers over you, looking down at you in a way he's never done before. It's anger … mixed with something. 

He holds your jaw with one hand, thumb and index finger digging into your cheeks. He tilts it upwards, stretching your neck. You stare wide eyed, fear exploding in you like fireworks.

“What was that?” he hisses. “Do not ever do that again, do you hear me?”

“Let go!” 

“Y/N, don't you realise what could have happened if you hadn't released me? You're not well, you need me, precisely because of these kinds of things. See what happens when you think for yourself with that clogged head of yours?”

You try to turn your head away but he doesn't let you. His grip is still not harsh, just firm.

“You're irrational, hysteric”, he hisses. “And you think I will release you? When you act like this? How will you survive? Antidote or not, you're a danger. Both to yourself and others, clearly.” He thinks for a moment. “That's it.”

Swiftly he lets go of your face, bends down and picks you up, hoisting you over his broad shoulder. You yelp, trying to steady yourself against his back.

“Since you can't be trusted, I have to use your own tricks against you”, he says, walking back to the bed.

He places you down on the mattress carefully, supporting both your head and waist before roughly taking one of your wrists and fastens it to the belt buckle. He tightens it enough for you to not wiggle, on both sides. You stare at them, trying to move. Dr Kry grabs your chin, making you look at him again.

“Are they too tight?” he asks firmly. “If you can't answer verbally, nod or shake your head.”

You nod quickly. He gives the restraints a quick look, trying to decide if they truly are. He then stands straight.

“You'll be fine.”

He turns back to his desk and pops out another sleeping pill and grabs your glass of water that stands on the nightstand. He holds your face, forcing your mouth open and placing the pill on your tongue. Before you can close it, the glass is tilted against your lips. Water floods your mouth. His hand holds your jaw throughout it, refusing rejection. When the glass is removed, he tilts your head upwards.

“Don't fight it. Swallow.”

With the angle he has your neck in, you have no choice but to swallow the sleeping pill. You cough. 

“I despise having to use these kinds of methods against you”, he says dryly. “But if you refuse to listen to what’s best for you and behave, then I have to. I will put you back in your place, and that’s not to be mean. It’s to protect you.”

But then his eyes soften and his shoulders fall slightly. He sighs heavily, the anger running off of him.

“You should catch some sleep”, he says lowly. “You've been up later than usual. It's not good for your health.”

He tucks you in, jawstill clenched, but not angry. Not visibly. It's hard finding a comfortable position when your wrists are pinned.

“Y/N”, he says. “Don't do this again. Honestly. Don't.”

He gives off another sigh and leans down to kiss your forehead. You don't say anything.

“Sleep well”, he says.

He leaves the room, locking the door behind him. As soon as he's alone in the corridor, he leans against the wall, running a trembling hand over his face. This could easily have been avoided. He'll make sure it never happens again. If he has to feed you the medicine himself from now on, he will. Never again will he be put in that spot again.

[ggidolsmuts]

AirBnB - Red Velvet Seulgi, ITZY Yeji

"This is a nice neighborhood!"

"Yeah." You look around the quiet European village. "So nice and quiet, I'm glad your company chose to film part of your MV here."

"And I'm glad you could take the time off to come with me!" Yeji slinks her arm through yours, pulling you close. You were initially debating if you should go with Yeji on what is a work trip for her, but you don't regret it now, especially when you see the intimate housing she's secured for the two of you. "Here we are." It's a cozy little two bedroom, complete with kitchenette and a small living room.

"Oh, it's a little small," Yeji frowns as you pull the luggage in. "Not much room to spread out."

"It's fine, you won't be here for the most part right? It's enough for me work in, I can use the spare room as a study."

"Are you sure? We can still grab a hotel in the village center. I thought the living room would be more spacious."

"No no, this is good. Don't stress over it." You pull Yeji in for a hug. "What's important is the person I'm here with, not where I'm at."

"Says the guy who had trouble with the visa."

"Who knew that 'Following gorgeous girlfriend on work trip' was not a valid reason to visit?" Yeji boops you on the nose as the two of you get to unpacking. When you finish both of you slump on the couch, tired.

"Oof, I did not think we brought that much stuff."

"Me neither, but at least it's done. Dinner?" You check the time and shake your head.

"I think they're closed by now, shops close early here."

"Really?" Yeji scrolls through Google Maps, only for her expression to fall as she goes through every restaurant nearby. "Oh well, at least I brought ramyun."

"I thought I told you not to, I was going to bring them!"

"I brought it in case you forgot!"

"Well, I guess we have too much ramyun then, you could've used that space for your makeup or something."

"Nah I asked manager unnie to bring most of it, but yay ramyun!" Yeji enthusiastically starts boiling water, humming as she thinks about the ramyun she's about to make. "Ugh this might be my one time to eat ramyun, I'm going to have to watch what I eat when we start filming."

"I'll sneak you snacks, or have something for you when you come back then."

"You are horrible," Yeji says it ever so sweetly. "I'm supposed to on a business trip, I have to be professional!"

"Well you're not at work now, I think you can afford to be a little... Unprofessional." Your hands rested over her flat midriff, thumbs playing underneath the waistband of her jeans.

"I did cook some ramyun so... Do you want to come over for some ramyun?" Yeji asks the classic line cheekily.

"Already here babe." Your stomachs growl in protest. "Maybe we should eat first though."

"Yeah, you're going to need some extra energy!" You raise an eyebrow at her words. "I've never had sex outside of Korea, gotta make the best of this trip."

"We should wait a few days then, let me pick up the local language and I'll be saying filthy things you won't even understand."

"Wonderful. While you build that Duolingo streak, maybe you can say a few things I will understand later tonight."

"I always do." The sweet and dirty moment is interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Who's that?"

"No idea, maybe the owner of the place, forgot something here? Let me take a look." You peck Yeji on the cheek and go to the door only to find a stunning lady in front of you, surely this can't be the owner?

"Oh hi, are you the owner?" "Are you the owner?" Both of you ask at once.

"Eh? I'm here with reservation." She flashes a printout in front of him, her mind racing. There must have been some mistake, why is someone else here?

"We booked this place for the week." He answers back.

"No that can't be right, let me call the owner." Hurriedly she pulls out her phone, praying it isn't true. She's heard of nightmare stories like these, where an unscrupulous owner double books a place, allowing them to make double the money, and leaving the inconvenienced parties to figure it out themselves.

"Who is it babe?" She hears a female voice call out from the apartment.

"Ah, someone else apparently booked this place too."

"Oh, we should call the owner then."

"Yeah she's doing it."

"Does she want to come in?"

"I'll ask." You wait for her to put down her phone, and in the back of your head you have a nagging feeling—she looks incredibly familiar.

"No response, great."

"Do you want to come in? Just to put your bags down while we figure it out?"

"Yeah sure, that'd be great, I don't know what's going on. Something like this has never happened before." You help the visitor with her luggage as you let her in, and you almost walk into her as she stops right at the entrance.

"Yeji?"

"Huh? Seulgi unnie?" 

"Small world, to think I'd run into you here!" Seulgi's completely wrong-footed by the development, but she greets Yeji happily, grateful to be seeing someone she recognizes. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to film for my MV, shh don't tell anyone!" Seulgi nods understandingly. "What about you?"

"Same actually." She holds up a finger to her lips as well.

"Oh my god that's so good to hear, I loved your solo debut!"

"Thank you! And this is..." Seulgi addresses the odd one out in the apartment.

"Ah, he's umm—" Yeji's quickly burning up, what should she say, she's not that close to Seulgi.

"I'm her manager, nice to meet you." He reaches out and offers a hand.

"Oh, huh, I thought I heard her call you 'babe' earlier." Yeji almost drops the fork in her hand.

"Ah, that's my name, it's unusual, get a lot of stares because of it. Yeji can you get Seulgi something to drink?" You quickly deflect Seulgi's line of thought, offering her a seat at the dining table.

"Oh, yes of course!"

"You can't get a hold of the owner?" you ask, trying to keep Seulgi's focus on her predicament.

"Thanks Yeji. Yes, they're not picking up, argh! What do I do now?!"

"Is there a hotel nearby that has a room? And then get a refund for this later." You offer, and Seulgi nods and starts looking, and her expression slowly sours.

"No, there's nothing in this town that's available." She downs her water in one shot. "Thanks, I'll be on my way then, gotta get in touch with my team, maybe I'll stay with them, or stay in the city and travel out here for the shoot."

"Are you sure? Why don't you just stay here for the night unnie?"

"Really? That's okay with you?"

"Yeah, right op— Babe?"

"Yeah, Yeji and I can take a room, and you can have the other room."

"You and Yeji will... share a room?" Shit, right, you're supposed to be her manager.

"Er yes, there's a sofa bed in there too, quite common in small towns like these, we've slept together before." You wince internally, but it was too late, the words were already out. Thankfully Seulgi's too caught up in accepting the solution to her problems to notice.

"Ah really? If you're really okay with it..." Both you and Yeji nod insistently, and you make sure to help her bring her luggage to "her" room.

"We're making some ramyun unnie, do you want some too?"

"Is that okay? Thank you!"

The three of you split two portions of noodles, and you retreat to your room after to let them talk shop. Yeji ducks into the room after an hour later.

"Hi babe, did you shower?"

"Mmhmm, go ahead." Yeji does so before getting under the sheets with you.

"So, did we get found out?" you mumble as she snuggles against you.

"What do you mean?"

"She's your sunbae right? I'm sure I'm not the first manager that's called "Babe" she's run into."

"You think so? Maybe it's more common? I don't know, she didn't say anything about you, I think she buys it."

"Either she's naive, or you're naive love."

"It's fine, she'll be settled tomorrow, and then you can talk filthy to me every night." Yeji grabs your hand, stopping it from drifting across her thigh.

"Every night? You're asking a lot from me."

"Wait till you see me in the outfits I'm supposed to shoot in."

"God, you can't say that and expect me to sleep properly." You slip your hand underneath her flimsy t-shirt.

"Stop! No more tonight, we don't know how thin the walls are!" Yeji slaps your hand, reprimanding you with a hurried harsh hush.

But unfortunately for both of you, it turns out that you two might not be alone for the other nights either, as you find Seulgi waiting for the two of you the next morning.

"So I spoke to the owner, they offered to refund me fully, and you 75% off, all we need to do is not report them on the app."

"Ugh, fine. Did they offer alternative accommodations? Or do you still need to look for that?" Seulgi shakes her head sadly.

"They offered to look but also said to not get my hopes up, there was always only a few hotels, and this is peak season. It's why they decided to offer their place on the app too, good money."

"Figures, where are you going to stay then?"

"I was hoping I could stay here? It'd be just a lot easier if I don't have to stress about it. I know I'm not paying anything, so I'm happy to split whatever's left of your bill after the discount. I don't mind taking half, it's a good deal since they're taking so much off."

"That's true but, Yeji and I would like some priv—" Yeji pinches your side and cuts you off.

"That would be great unnie! I was hoping you would stay, we'd both have each other for company, right?" Yeji's pointed look is your cue to chime in.

"Uh yeah, that'd be great, you could give Yeji advice on her shoot as well."

"Oh no, she's doing great already! But thank you, I'm glad that's sorted then!" Seulgi heads back to her room, leaving you to stare at Yeji disbelievingly.

"You were going to say 'privacy'! What would she think then?" your girlfriend retorts.

"Ugh you're right." You prepare breakfast for Yeji, making a little extra for Seulgi as well, and as they prepare to head out for their respective shoots, Yeji hangs back just a little bit, stealing a kiss as Seulgi leaves first.

"I'll try to get back early, we'll have to get our fun in while she's not around." She heads out, only to run into Seulgi still near the building entrance.

"Oh Yeji, is Babe not coming with you?"

"Babe? Oh, the manager? No, he's er, coordinating stuff with the company, I can find my way there myself."

"Yeah? Oh after your shoot we should see if there's any good scenic spots around town, we can take pictures for each other!"

"Oh umm yeah, that'd be great unnie!"

Seulgi, to her credit and Yeji's debit, is blissfully unaware. With a nice junior idol to enjoy the scenic city with, there's nothing she wants to do more than to hang out with her! She invites her on her daily runs, scouts out local cafes that they can check out, the different parks dotted around the area, everything is perfect!

Although, sometimes she can be mysteriously hard to find.

"Oh, hi Babe!"

"Hnn—uh? Oh hello Seulgi!" She catches Yeji's manager leaning against the kitchen island. Slowly he twists around to face her. "Have a good shoot?"

"Yeah, is Yeji around?"

"Yeji? Umm hmm... umm umm, no she's not, she stepped out for a run, said she ate too much last night."

"Oh, okay." His expression is a little odd though. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Huhhng? Yeah, just a little under the weather."

"Oh no, do you need any medicine? I have some that you could use."

"No, I'm good, thank you!"

"Sure, please don't hesitate to ask, I'm sure Yeji depends on you a lot."

"Ghhk!" You forget just how much Yeji's depending on you to pull your cock out of her mouth so she can breathe. Your shaft is covered in her drool, and it drips down her jaw, her mouth forced open the whole time you've been speaking to Seulgi.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That sound?"

"Sorry, that was me trying to hold my cough back." You quickly fake a cough, pulling your hips slightly back and unpinning Yeji's throat from the furniture.

"Are you sure you don't need medicine? It's not good to get sick abroad."

"I have medicine I can take, I'll be sure to take it, thank you though!" You try to wrap the conversation up quickly, and thankfully Seulgi nods and heads into her room, allowing you to talk to Yeji. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just couldn't really swallow." She wipes her mouth before diving back in.

"Wait, Seulgi's here!"

"Just finish before she comes back out!" That wouldn't be a problem, as Yeji knows just how you like your tip licked, flicked, and sucked. It is on you to muffle your moan as you start to empty your load down her throat.

"Ugh god..."

"Are you okay?" You almost jump and pop out of Yeji's mouth, Seulgi's back out again!

"Yeah, just er... some bad news from home."

"Oh no, I hope everything's fine!" She approaches you, offering her sympathy, but any closer and Yeji would be discovered.

"It is, sorry!" You hold your hands at arms length. "I just umm, need a moment to myself."

"Right, okay, I'm here if you need a shoulder to lean on."

She's so kind! Is what you would've thought, if Yeji didn't choose that moment to swirl her tongue around your tip, cleaning you thoroughly as Seulgi watched, completely unaware. "Th-Thanks, sorry, please don't worry about me and go about your day."

"Oh, umm, okay." Uncertainly Seulgi answers and heads out again, and you allow yourself to slump forward as Yeji pops your soft member out of her mouth.

"That was close!" Yeji laughs as she gets out from under you.

"Yeah well, you're the one who wanted to finish me off."

"Are you telling me you wanted to be blue balled all night after Seulgi's back?"

"No, but I suppose you want me to repay the favor before she comes back?"

"You read my mind." You share a kiss with Yeji as she shimmies her shorts down, and as you sink to your knees you pull her panties down with you.

Seulgi slaps her forehead at her own stupidity, she left her airpods back at home! She trudges up the stairs to the apartment, only to be met with a yelp when she opens the door.

"Ah! I-I thought you were going out unnie!" Yeji's in the exact same position as her manager earlier, leaning forward over the flat surface.

"Yeah I forgot my airpods, were you here earlier?"

"N-No, I just got back!"

"Really? I didn't see you on the way out just now! Where's Babe?"

"I took the building's— Hnngh! Back door. Oppa's in the room, he said he wasn't feeling well so..." Yeji couldn't hide her soft moan as you press your tongue against her slit, and thankfully Seulgi doesn't notice Yeji's eyes rolling up when you begin playing with her back door, fingers drifting around it.

"Yeah I saw him just now, he did not look good. Should I get something for him?" 

"No need, I'll take care of him!" Seulgi quickly ducks into her room to grab the airpod and waves goodbye to Yeji, a little distracted. Did Yeji just call him oppa?

"Oppa that's too much!" Yeji whines.

"You said back door, so..." You get back to licking her pussy, rendering her incapable of a quip back. Your neck is sore from looking up between her legs, but it is made easier as Yeji disappears from anyone's view, knees sinking to the floor as she full on sits on your face—the only things visible from a potential Seulgi are her fingers, still gripping the top of the counter.

"Oh fuck, you eat me out so good!" She rides your face rapidly, eager to finally get herself off on this trip. A lick, flick, and suck of her clit, and Yeji's thighs close around your head—they tremble around you, making you shake slightly, adding to her pleasure. She can't help but cry out, letting herself go, sinking further on your face as her legs go weak. When she's done she swings herself off you, slumped against the kitchen island as she gathers herself.

"God I needed that."

"Same," you agree, helping Yeji to her feet.

"I wish we could do more, but no telling when she's back."

"Me too, maybe we can stay a few days longer, say your flight got delayed or something?"

"Maybe, now go to bed and pretend to be sick before Seulgi comes back and catches us like this!"

Seulgi doesn't catch them in the act, but she certainly caught Yeji's ecstatic shout as she came. She had forgotten something else, and cursing her own forgetfulness Seulgi quickly headed back before stopping dead in her tracks. Yeji's cry was sharp and pointed, yet the moan after was ground out, sounding absolutely and thoroughly satisfied.

Isn't Babe in there with her? She wonders, surely he heard it! Unless...

Maybe he was asleep because he was sick and didn't hear it. The naive little angel on her shoulder thought out loud.

He's in on it, responsible for it even, oh he's getting her off good! The lusty little succubus between her legs speaks up to her.

He's her manager, that'd be unprofessional! The naive angel barks back, scandalized.

Oh please, he's her boyfriend, when was the last time you cooked ramyun for your manager? Seulgi knew the little devil in her head was right. She had known all along that Babe wasn't Yeji's manager (That probably isn't even his name! the naive angel in her finally realizes), but she just wanted to give Yeji the benefit of the doubt, to not think about her boyfriend giving something else to her. Starved for attention recently, the little devil in her grew quickly with each such thought.

Yeji sounded so satisfied didn't she? Seulgi whirls around, quickly heading the other way, forgetting about what she forgot, her mind filled with Yeji's noises that the lust devil won't let her forget.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up!

But the need doesn't go away—it manifests itself viciously in a vicarious need to know that Yeji gets fucked. Seulgi makes sure to tell the couple when she's out, and when she'll be back. If she's done early, she'll wait outside the apartment, split in two between eavesdropping, trying to see if she can catch the sounds of their activities and feeding her own needs, and trying to be the good sunbae, recognizing and giving them the privacy they need.

Once she's back in the apartment her eyes are sharp, Yeji might very well think that Seulgi's trying to catch them in the act, but no, Seulgi just wants her own satisfaction—any redness on Yeji's knees, or a t-shirt pulled slightly further up to hide a hickey, her hair maybe slightly mussed and messy. The dead giveaways that make Seulgi wet are the bowleggedness that Yeji tries to hide, the lipstick mark that Babe doesn't wipe off cleanly, the sudden additional load of laundry that they do in the apartment.

And yet she can't get her own satisfaction—between Yeji coming and going and her boyfriend staying in and working remotely, Seulgi has no time to herself! She does it mid-shower, the sound of running water barely enough to cover her whines and whimpers, but it is nowhere close to what Yeji gets—not nearly as loud or as satisfying surely. So Seulgi simmers, letting off steam in the shower when she can, waiting, hoping for the inevitable boilover.

It comes in the most unexpected of circumstances, one that Seulgi didn't even plan for.

"Nngh..." Seulgi mumbles as she stretches her arms, waking up in the late morning. She's still sleepy, but she wakes up immediately when she can hear their voices through the shared wall.

"And you're sure she's not home?"

"Definitely, I went out for a quick run, and her shoes were not there!" Seulgi's eyes fly to her freshly wiped footwear—she had brought them in for cleaning after getting them muddy last night. They are silent for a while, but it quickly becomes clear what's happening when Yeji's whine pierces through the wall, followed by Babe's low moan. Safe in their false security of Seulgi not being home, they are not soft, and Seulgi hears every word, whimper, and wail.

"Fuck me, oh fuck me I'm cumming!" Yeji gets off fast, and Seulgi is quick to kick off her pajama bottoms, sliding a hand between her legs—she's too horny to think, hearing them basically going at it directly. She's only conscious enough to muffle her sounds, fingers running up and down her slit and thumb pressing on her clit. She gets herself to the edge of orgasm, but it seems to end a little too early for her as she hears Babe's moan suddenly close to the wall.

"Oh yeah, drink it all." There is a long drawn out silence, peppered with a few groans, before finally Seulgi audibly hears Yeji gasp, his cock finally taken out of her—just how much did he cum?

"God I wish Minju were here." She hears Yeji say. Minju? Kim Minju?

"I know I know, I taste better coming from her." Seulgi's eyes are wide open, what is he saying?! "But if she's here, we both know I wouldn't get anything done."

"You'd get a lot of her done. You two mix the best." Seulgi's hand stops moving, shocked by the revelation. Yeji's boyfriend is openly having sex with Minju, and Yeji is okay with it? And he tastes better coming from her? Does Yeji... oh god!

"Imagine how you would taste coming from Seulgi unnie."

"Yeji..."

"She looks so tight, have you seen her abs?" Seulgi's sticky fingers drift over her hard midriff—what is Yeji saying now?

"She's your sunbae—"

"So? Don't tell me you don't find her hot, even I find her hot."

"She is, but things will get awkward, how would you face her at music shows?"

"Oh I see Chaeryeong all the time and face her fine. You say that like I don't see the others at music shows already, even Hitomi is debuting again!" First Minju, now Chaeryeong and Hitomi? The little devil in Seulgi now really wants to see what she's missing out on—Yeji's satisfied enough that she's fine with him fooling around, if anything, she seems to be the instigator!

"Can you imagine, that tight naked body writhing underneath you?" As Yeji says it Seulgi's imagining it as well, fingers dipping back down her body. "Do you think she likes it hard? Or is she more of a rider, imagine that waist riding on top of you."

"Yeji—"

"Oh please, you're hard again already." Seulgi bites back a whimper as she fingers herself, the thought of him getting hard thinking about her getting her wetter—it's part of her job to be hot and attractive, but knowing the effect she has on someone when they're right there is different.

"Enough!" He growls, and there is a bang and a moan from Yeji. There is no fanfare, no more fantasizing, and Seulgi hears the headboard begin to knock constantly on the shared wall. They're outright fucking, and Seulgi adds another finger in herself when Yeji wails.

"You're so fucking big!"

The rest of it is unintelligible, but the "ohs" and "ahs" she can make out more than tell Seulgi just how thoroughly Yeji's getting railed. It turns Seulgi on that she's partially responsible for this, that thinking about her is making them fuck that hard. The headboard banging begins to get faster and faster, and Yeji manages a high-pitched whine.

"Cum in me!" Seulgi's mind goes blank, imagining herself in Yeji's place, fingers going faster and faster, loud wet sounds coming from between her legs. She grabs a pillow and screams into it when she hears his deep groan, imagining him filling her up and climaxing with him. There's no holding back her pleasure, and Seulgi bucks her hips and let's herself go, squirting all over the sheets as her heels dig into the bed. The moans and gasps of the couple across the wall fill her head as they finish, and Seulgi continues to rub herself, getting every last drop out of her.

"Fuck yes..." she moans loudly as she comes down, too in the clouds to realize what she just did.

"Was that—" You and Yeji look at each other.

"You said she wasn't here!" you hiss, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Her shoes were not there!" Yeji quickly gets under the sheets, as if fearful of getting caught naked by Seulgi. "Do you think she heard?"

"Well if we heard her, she definitely heard us, we weren't exactly being quiet."

"Shit, this is bad! Oh no we were talking about her like that!"

"You did, I didn't say anything. Well, she did sound like she was enjoying herself. Who would say 'Fuck yes' like that?"

"You think... she was getting off on us?"

"Maybe? Or maybe she just woke up, and she didn't hear us."

"You think we just heard her, and not the other way around?"

"We have to hope." The two of you agree to not bring it up with Seulgi, and to deflect if she asks. It doesn't last long though, as you run into her ready to start her own extra load of laundry later that day.

"Oh, hello, you go ahead."

"Hello Babe, I think we can do both?"

"Oh, umm sure." Awkwardly you put you and Yeji's fluid-stained clothes in there, and you can't help but notice the stained bedsheets already in the tumbler.

"There we go," Seulgi says as she hits start. "You and Yeji do each other today?"

"Sorry?"

"Are you and Yeji doing anything today?" Whew, you thought you heard her say "do each other".

"N-No, she doesn't have any schedules planned."

"Yes, but what about you and Yeji?"

"I— I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh please, I'm not stupid, I know you're not her manager. I'm not even sure if your name's Babe, but I'll call you that for now."

"Er, right, thanks. If you could keep quiet about me and Yeji that'd be much appreciated."

"Oh of course, that's your personal life, what you and Yeji say and do, no one needs to know about that." Seulgi says it in a way that makes you think she knows about what you and Yeji did.

"Right."

"After all, Minju, Chaeryeong, and Hitomi can all keep quiet, as her sunbae I assure you I am more discreet." Your blood runs cold, and then hot, how did she know about them, the only way Seulgi would know is because—

Shit.

"Y-You heard everything?"

"Maybe? I don't know when you two started. I heard you two talking about my shoes when I woke up." You groan internally, realizing that she heard almost everything.

"Damn, er, sorry we woke you up."

"No problem, it was an interesting morning." With the cards all out in the open you play it straight with Seulgi.

"I gather you had your fun too?" You tilt your head towards the laundry. "We heard you briefly too."

"W-What?" Now it's her turn to blush. "What did I say?"

"You just sounded satisfied."

"Oh, well... So much for being discreet."

"Do you want more? I understand if you don't want things to get weird between you and Yeji but, we can arrive at an understanding."

"Understanding?"

"You heard what you heard, and we heard what we heard. If you want to hear more of us, I'm sure Yeji would understand."

"You'd be happy huh, getting to fuck Yeji, knowing that I'm listening the whole time?"

"Yeji's probably happier than I am about that. Plus you wouldn't be the first to listen to us."

"What—" Seulgi processes the new information, before blushing a little deeper. "I see."

"You just let us know if it becomes too much."

The next few days become much more enjoyable for everyone involved. With the understanding in place Yeji becomes much more handsy, teasing and riling you up whenever she could. It started off safe, and you would hold it till night time, where Yeji would simply kick off her shorts and allow you easy access. There was no need to be quiet, and soon Seulgi can hear the crash of your hips into Yeji straight through the wall. Shortly after the two of you finished you would hear a moan or two, the signal that Seulgi got off. She would be muted some nights, while other nights she would be louder, almost correlating with how tired she looked before she said good night to the two of you.

By the end of the trip though, as long as Seulgi wasn't in direct view, all bets were off. Yeji continued to rile you up, teasing and showing Seulgi just how you liked it, and as soon as Seulgi entered her room you would rip off whatever Yeji was wearing and fuck her on the nearest surface in the living room. You had no idea if Seulgi peeked, but you do know that you never heard her door close.

"Hnngh she's right there oppa!" Yeji whispers urgently—the two of you were at the kitchen island, and you're pressing her against the countertop, sliding her shorts down already. Seulgi was laying on the couch, facing away from the two of you. You held Yeji by her arms, and when you pressed your cockhead into her there was nothing she could do to hide her moan.

"You're so deep in me!" Yeji whines, and the two of you watch Seulgi's thighs spread on the couch—Seulgi was adamant about only listening, but no one ever said anything about you and Yeji watching her.

"Yeah? You like it when I'm deep in you?" you say loudly, hamming it up for Seulgi's benefit.

"Yeah, ah! You're longer than my fingers, wider too, it's like three fingers stuffed in me all at once!" The two of you watch Seulgi plug three fingers into herself, and you're not sure if she's scooting down the couch to get more comfortable, but it certainly gives the two of you a better view.

"So fucking hot, how are you so tight?" you utter into Yeji's neck.

"Because you haven't fucked me in sooooo long!" Yeji drawls. "I need you to really fuck me." You slam into her hard, making sure the sound of your bodies colliding get to Seulgi.

"You're going to be bruised, do you want to take it to the bedroom?"

"No, I'm going to be sore anyways, just fuck me already!"

Seulgi fingers herself as the noises behind her get more and more obscene. Yeji's words just made her think about the last time she was with someone, and the only answer she can come up with right now is Too fucking long ago! Yeji's devolving with every moan—she had heard Yeji moaning before through the walls, and part of her wondered if Yeji's embellishing it for her to listen to, but now Seulgi knows there's nothing made up about it. If anything, it's too natural, too raw, the way Yeji moans, the gasps and grunts mixing as Seulgi imagines you hilting yourself deep inside her, forcing sounds out that could never be engineered or faked. She's so close to her own climax, trying not to explode, to not make a mess of the couch they share.

"Nngh I, I'm gonna cum!" Yeji cries, and a sudden splatter of liquid fills Seulgi's ears, triggering her own orgasm.

"F-F-Fuck, oh fuck!" She's powerless to stop the gush of fluids exiting her own body, and her hand moves in a blur, spraying her squirt everywhere unapologetically. As Seulgi comes down from her own orgasm she hears Yeji whimpering, hypersensitive from her own peak.

"Cum in me, do it, do it!" A grunt and a groan from him, and Seulgi hears Yeji being filled up, the sigh she releases utterly satisfying, a coo of contentment. The sound of their finish goes straight to her very core, and in her own blissful state something finally crumbles, Seulgi's inhibitions and reluctance dissolve—she wants it, wants it real bad.

You and Yeji quietly try to get back to your bedroom, to keep the facade up, but you both hear it—Seulgi's soft plea from behind you, just before the two of you enter the bedroom.

"I want it, the real thing." Yeji nods eagerly, and you're never saying no to a woman like Seulgi.

"Tomorrow—" you start.

"Tonight." Seulgi stands up, her thighs shining with slick. She watches a little bit of you leak out from Yeji—she neglected to put her panties back on. "Or now. I can't wait, I'm going to regret asking, I know it."

"You won't. We'll clean up a little first, and then start?" The slight delay wrongfoots Seulgi—she was planning on getting straight into it, to let herself be taken along as soon as possible.

"Right, okay." Seulgi is left standing there naked and a little out-of-it, figuring out what to do next.

"Aren't you going to join us?"

You didn't have to worry about getting hard again, as sharing a shower with Seulgi and Yeji and watching the water run down their lithe bodies does wonders for getting you "up and running". Just the act of cleaning you off is enough to get you hard again, and Seulgi's eyes have been glued to it since.

"We're going to take care of you unnie." Yeji wraps a tower around her hair. "Can you get her body oppa?"

"Sure." You wrap Seulgi with a towel from behind, and you take the chance to feel her through the towel, squeezing her chest, feeling her react already. Her abs are firm and hard as you work your way down, and you dry each of her taut thighs separately, making sure to get right up to where they met her hips before stopping—there's no drying the wetness there.

Up top Yeji's whispering in her ear the whole time, telling her how she's going to be split open, how you're both going to enjoy her tight body, and how she's going to want it again and again. All truths. Yeji kisses her neck, leaving Seulgi a trembling anticipating wreck.

"I'm going to dry my hair, but I'll join you two soon." Seulgi lets herself be lead to bed, and she's gently but firmly pushed down. Your lips are on her neck, and with a touch on her thighs she spreads them eagerly. Seulgi gasps as your hardness touches her skin, hard, hot and...

"Y-You're big."

"Why do you think Yeji moans like she does?" Seulgi blushes, grabbing you with a hand and wondering if she could wrap her hand around you—just barely. You put your hand around hers, guiding your tip to her entrance. Seulgi squirms as you nudge her lips with your cockhead, resting it there and holding yourself back from just pushing in and taking her in one shot.

"You do it." Her hand drifts down your shaft, and holding on to your hilt, she pulls you in with a bit of help from your hips.

"Hnngh..." Seulgi has to force herself to relax as the pressure between her thighs grow—there's no way you're only three fingers wide! As she feeds your dick into her pussy she gradually releases her grip on you, one finger at a time lifted off your cock until her hand is free to grip your shoulder. You do the final bit for her, grunting as you're balls deep in Seulgi's pink velvet wrap.

"Fuck you're really really tight."

"I— Ah! Thank you!" Seulgi manages, moaning as you pull back and push forward with an experimental thrust. "Yeji!" Your raven-haired girlfriend has crawled on to the bed naked, hands cradling Seulgi's head in her lap.

"She really does look hot squirming like this." Yeji reaches for her unnie's tits, playing with them through tweaks and pinches. "Make her squirm more." You draw your hips back, and with your hands leaving red marks on Seulgi's thighs you thrust forward and pull her towards you, fully filling her in one hard thrust.

"Nngh oh god!" Seulgi cries, the lightning bolt of pleasure and thunder-like sting after splitting her mind in two, striking at her very core. She grips the sheets, her low moans expectant as you pull back, only to rise to a satisfying cry when when you slam back in, rocking her against Yeji's lap again and again. At some point Yeji's thighs open up, and Seulgi's head is on the bed, watching her junior's tight body loom over her, slithering down Serulgi's own form. A warm breath on her pussy makes her shudder—Yeji's breathing on her!

"Do you want to taste?" you ask Yeji, pulling back, allowing her to lick Seulgi's juices off your shaft.

"She tastes good." Yeji follows up by rubbing Seulgi's clit, making her squirm even more. Your thrusting slows down, allowing Yeji to get to work.

"Ah!" Seulgi bucks her hips, sending more pleasure through her when she feels Yeji's tongue and finger on her clit. Somehow Yeji knows just how far to push Seulgi to the edge before drawing back, giving her a brief respite for the storm that follows. Seulgi finds herself making the same sounds she heard Yeji make as you get back to pounding her at a brisk pace.

"Ngh ngh ngh hnnngh! Ack, oh g— mmm!" The pressure holding her pussy open is suddenly gone, and Seulgi's still in cloud nine as you clean your cock with Yeji's mouth, letting her suck Seulgi's cream and slick off you before you're plunging back into her now red velvet embrace. As her mouth hangs open a tang of salty sweetness hits her tongue—Yeji's openly dripping on to her, and in her current state Seulgi has no inhibitions at all.

"Ohhh!" Your girlfriend moans as her hips are pulled onto Seulgi's face aggressively, feeling the effects of her sunbae's tongue licking messily on her slit. You fuck Seulgi as Yeji plays with her clit, and then you're fucking Yeji's mouth as Seulgi plays with her pussy—an obscene sixty-nine plus one, filling the hole in each number. Seulgi's contracting around you haphazardly, and she's due an explosive orgasm. You press a hand to her mons, and Seulgi's throat tears in a scream as you pound her even harder, your cock pushing against her cervix, making her feel like you're straight up moving her womb around to your wishes. It's uncanny, uncomfortable, but supremely fulfilling—you're as deep as anyone can get inside her, and she's quite literally putty around your cock.

Seulgi grunts, and Yeji's surprised by the sudden squirt splashing against your hips, followed by the uncontrolled seepage of cream from her pussy as you fuck her through the orgasm, a ring of white around your shaft. Seulgi's groans and moans vibrate through Yeji, letting her feel Seulgi's orgasm directly.

"Shit, gonna cum!" you mutter as you look at Yeji's pleasured expression.

"Wait!" She quickly turns around, addressing her cockdrunk colleague. "Unnie, he can cum in you right?"

"Huh..." Seulgi simply blinks at her, not really processing Yeji's words.

"I want to see him cum in you, you want that too right?" Before Seulgi can answer though, she sees Yeji's head snap back, her eyes rolling into her head briefly, and then the same satisfied moan that haunted her since she heard it that first time.

No!

In your urgency you saw Yeji's slit flushed and spread right in front of you, and you simply grabbed her hair and came in the pussy you know you could always count on to take it. Already close from Seulgi's mouthwork Yeji cums with you, tugging and milking your load. You pull out after, letting Yeji collapse on to Seulgi.

"Now now, no need to pressure Seulgi into making a decision." Seulgi shudders as she feels your cum leak out of Yeji, thick and heavy and hot as soon as it drips out of her pussy and onto her own skin.

"No, I— I want it. Wanted it," Seulgi corrects herself, her mind still dazzled from her climax. Yeji whines briefly, and then it is Seulgi's turn to whine as two fingers are shoved into her.

"You can have some." The digits rotate in her, and Seulgi realizes that you're smearing your cum all over her walls manually.

"Fuck!"

"Give her a taste oppa..." Yeji sighs into Seulgi's neck, and her breath hitches as you plunge into her again to get more cum. Seulgi licks her lips unconsciously when you present your fingers to her face, and she sucks them clean obediently.

"Good?" she nods.

"Unnie, if you want the real thing, we have to get him hard again," Yeji whispers in her ear.

"How?"

"Follow my lead." 

Yeji calls out to you, and you're already half hard at the sight in front of you. Yeji's still on top of Seulgi, but two fingers spread her pussy lips, symmetric with Seulgi's spread lips below her. "Do you think you have another round in you? I think Seulgi unnie has something she wants to say."

"Dump your cum in me..." she says, her voice wavering a little. Her cheeks are burning, she's never said anything like that to anyone! She gasps as Yeji runs her fingers along her lips, spreading them further apart, exposing the distinct lack of thick cum on her walls. Yeji whispers more in her ear, and Seulgi follows through.

"Please fuck your two cumdumps and... use this one properly."

You can't say no to that. You start with Yeji, and she knows just how to squeeze you to get you fully hard again—this isn't the first, nor will it be the last time that she gets you going for a second round quickly. Coated with her slick and your own cum, you plunge into Seulgi, the unholy gooeyness on your shaft making her spine tingle. Then it's Yeji's slick, your cum, and Seulgi's slick, going back into Yeji's pussy. And then it's Yeji's slick, your cum, Seulgi's slick, and then a second layer of Yeji's slick, back into Seulgi's messy hole. And then—

"Fuck!" Seulgi pussy tightens around your cock as Yeji plays with her tits and kisses her neck.

Just use her, Yeji mouths silently, and you give her one more thrust in appreciation before focusing on Seulgi.

"Ahhh! Don't stop, please don't stop!" She's wailing now, silenced only by Yeji kissing her. It's a dual assault by you and your girlfriend—Yeji's lips on her neck and fingers on her tits, nips, and clit; your cock rubbing on her slick walls, her g-spot, and cervix. You bottom out and grind against her, leaking precum into her womb, and Seulgi's collapsing around your cock, nails digging into Yeji as she climaxes again. When you're close you signal to Yeji to get off, and you lean over Seulgi, enjoying the feel of her juicy thighs squeezing your sides, ankles locked around your hips.

"Gonna cum in you."

"Yes, fuck me—" You kiss her fiercely, but a stinging nip on your lip makes you pull back. "I didn't finish. Fuck me up." Having said her piece Seulgi gives in to your kiss, allowing you to fuck her top and bottom, your tongue thrashing and tangling with hers. Sweat pours from the both of you, soaking into the sheets as you pound her tight body into the creaking springs of the bed. You grab her short hair and tug, exposing her neck and leaving an angry hickey—Seulgi's so lost in it she doesn't even protest, her eyes beginning to roll back. You leave one more on her chest, and she's holding you there, letting you breathe her raw needy scent as she cries hoarsely, losing her voice as quickly as she's losing her mind.

*Crack*

A spring or two give up at just the right time, and you're pressing Seulgi into the bed as the tension in your body snaps, firing rope after rope of cum deep into her. Stuck beneath you she can only tremble violently as the sudden warmth in her becomes white hot pleasure up her spine, triggering her own orgasm. She squeezes everything around you, clenching your cock in time with your pulses, limbs trying to hold you close as she milks you.

"D-Don't move!" But you do, pushing the last of your cum into her and sloshing the rest, the connection between the two of you getting messier and stickier as her own mix of cream and slick leak out. Her legs finally unlock from around you, and you pull back to make way for Yeji.

"Your turn." Yeji takes her spot between Seulgi's legs and begins lapping up your combined fluids. "Taste good?"

"Delicious."

"Give Seulgi a taste." She does just that, gathering the creamy load in her mouth before kissing Seulgi—the older idol twitches as the salty liquid hits her tongue, but then she relaxes, kissing Yeji and letting the lewd mixture slide down her throat. 

"D-Delicious," Seulgi manages to gasp, still recovering from her climax. Yeji gets back to cleaning her, and she's thorough, licking and eating Seulgi up until Seulgi's thighs are shiny and quivering from overstimulation.

"Do you regret it?" you ask Seulgi, handing both of them a glass of water.

"No, I think. I... I'm gonna need a few days." She winces as she feels your mark on her neck.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's okay, I have makeup for it." After the debauchery Seulgi's beginning to blush, her inhibitions and sense of propriety returning. She just had sex with her idol junior and her boyfriend, what is she thinking! "I'll umm, go clean up in my room."

"Right. You can use the shower first if you want."

"That would be good, thanks." Seulgi gathers up her clothes slowly, wobbling on her feet. You cuddle with Yeji, listening to the shower running and giving Seulgi her privacy.

"Think we went overboard?" you mutter into her hair.

"I don't know, maybe? I don't think I've seen anyone cum that hard... It was hot." Yeji's still breathing a little heavy, and you realize she didn't quite get herself there while you finished with Seulgi.

"It was." You rub her slit slowly. "We should take a shower after she's done too."

"Yes please." When she hears Seulgi's room door close Yeji pulls you into the shower immediately, and with the water running on full blast you give her a thorough fingering, making her cum loudly and wetly until she's satisfied and squirming away from your hand.

"The shower was hotter," you say as you and Yeji cuddle, finally clean and ready for bed—you get the side with broken springs of course ("You made your bed, now sleep in it!").

"Tch, no need to placate me, watching the two of you was definitely the hottest part of the trip. Think she'll go for it again?"

"I don't know, she seemed rattled afterwards, I don't think she regrets it, but she also doesn't think it's a good idea?"

"We'll see, I'll try to speak to her, maybe before we go back to Korea."

Unfortunately, either intentionally or by work scheduling Seulgi avoids the both of you pretty much most of the last day or two of her trip, and the only words either of you manage to get in was a "Have a good flight!" as she leaves the night before you. You and Yeji return to Korea, and nothing happens for a while until Yeji's promotions overlap with Seulgi's—you're in Yeji's waiting room when Seulgi knocks on the door.

"Oh, is this Yeji's room? Oh, hi," Seulgi cheeks are a little red. "I was looking for her to do the dance challenge with."

"You just missed her, she'll be back soon."

"Okay, great. So are you her manager actually?" Seulgi asks after the short awkward silence.

"When she can talk her way into bringing me backstage, yes."

"I see." Seulgi fidgets for a bit, before taking a deep breath and making her decision. "Are you and Yeji free on the weekend?"

"I think so? After the music shows at least."

"Right, same here. So I just got a new mattress, and I live alone, I was wondering if you two could—"

"Oh, you need help moving it? Sure, I have a car, I can pick it up and bring it over if you need the help."

"Oh no no, there's no need for that, I—"

"Seulgi, we can come back later, there's someone else available to do the challenge right now!" Comes her manager's voice.

"Right, coming!" She spreads her arms. "It's good to see you."

"Umm yes, of course." Seulgi pulls you in close, as if giving you a friendly goodbye hug.

"I was hoping you two could help me break the old one."

A/N: As usual I'm late on the timing, Irene and Seulgi already due to come out lol. The AirBnB moniker was too good to miss out on, so I got around to it eventually! I also wrote a parallel piece called AirGnG, but it's just Yeji and Seulgi, and the smut dynamics are different, so give that a read too, thanks for reading!

[kxsagi]

Hey how would blue lock boys (Rin, Reo, Sae, Isagi, Michael and Yuki) react to their son taking his first steps pls.

"𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐢'𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮"

a/n: awww this sounds so cute! tik tok ruined the title song for me but the lyrics are fitting for this request 🙂‍↕️

ft. itoshi rin, mikage reo, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, yukimiya kenyu

itoshi rin

he doesn’t react at first. just squints across the living room like your baby just challenged him to a duel. 

“what is he doing?” rin asks flatly. 

you’re like, “he’s walking.” 

“no, he’s not. he’s throwing himself forward with hope.” 

your son, brave little soldier, launches into an awkward, wobbly step, and lands square on his diapered ass. 

rin sighs like he just witnessed tactical failure on a battlefield. he even rubs his temple. “i told you. weak ankles. needs core training. i’ve been saying it for months.” 

you: “he literally just turned one.” 

the baby tries again and makes it three steps. right to rin. 

now rin’s frozen like this is some anime flashback scene. his eyes are wide. he’s malfunctioning. 

your son reaches him, giggling, grabs onto his sweatpants for balance. 

rin very stiffly picks him up, holds him out like a museum exhibit. 

“he has potential,” he mutters. 

he won’t say it out loud, but he watches the video of that moment later, over 17 times, alone in the dark with airpods in and his hand over his mouth like he’s reliving the birth of the universe. 

mikage reo

reo is acting like your child is about to walk the victoria’s secret runway. 

he’s holding up his phone camera at every possible angle, narrating like it’s project runway for babies. 

“okay, my little mogul, serve. give us WOBBLE. give us STAGGER. and yes, baby, the DISMOUNT? ICONIC.” 

your daughter takes two unsure steps, and reo SCREAMS. 

you think something’s wrong because he literally fell to his knees. 

“THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE MOMENT. THIS IS THE COVER OF MIKAGE MAGAZINE.” 

confetti cannons. no literally, he had them delivered same-day. 

he facetimes nagi, shouting, “BRO, OUR SON CAN WALK!!” 

nagi: “he’s not my son.” 

reo: “he’s everyone’s son. we’re building an empire.” 

then he pulls out a mood board for the baby’s future. “okay, i’m thinking modeling career by age three. sneaker brand by five. junior startup entrepreneur by seven. she’ll walk into the stock market and never leave.” 

you: “… or she could just be a baby.” 

reo: “not when she walks like that.” 

itoshi sae

sae does not react like a normal person. 

he’s sitting on the couch, sipping tea, scrolling through transfer rumors like a bored CEO, and he hears you gasp. 

you: “sae. he’s walking.” 

sae, not looking up: “good. gravity finally lost.” 

your son, teetering like a baby penguin, takes his first step. then a second. 

sae glances up… pauses… then casually starts recording on his phone without moving. 

“mm. decent foot placement. posture’s a little off. and where’s the composure?” 

you: “he’s a baby.” 

sae: “babies can have composure. mine should.” 

when your son stumbles into the couch and collapses, giggling? sae leans over and picks him up by the armpits like he’s handling a prized trophy. 

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, poking your son’s cheek. 

later he edits the footage into a slow-mo black and white video, adds piano music, and sends it to rin with the caption: “my son walks with more purpose than you ever played with.” 

you swear you hear him chuckling to himself while watching it again in bed. 

isagi yoichi

this man goes feral. 

he doesn’t even wait for the baby to fully commit to walking, he sees one leg lift off the ground and he SCREAMS. 

“BABY. OH MY GOSH. BABY HE’S– HE’S WALKING. HE’S ACTUALLY DOING IT.” 

you: “yoichi. he took like half a step.” 

“EXACTLY. THE MOMENTUM IS THERE. THE DREAM IS ALIVE.” 

he immediately runs to grab the camcorder. yes. he bought a camcorder. “we’re going retro. it makes the moment more cinematic.” 

when your baby makes it four steps, isagi gasps like he’s witnessing a marriage proposal in public. 

“WE’RE GOING TO NATIONALS,” he shouts. “HE’S GOT THE IT FACTOR. LOOK AT THAT GAIT.” 

then he picks the baby up and spins him like he just won player of the year. 

“do you wanna play striker or midfielder? we’ll keep your options open. you’re left-footed, right? we’ll train both. do you want a nutritionist? no pressure, of course. just breathe. i’m proud of you either way.” 

the baby spits up on his shirt. 

“that’s okay,” isagi says tearfully. “that’s the sweat of a champion.” 

kaiser michael

kaiser is laid out on the couch like a bored nobleman. 

you: “he’s about to take his first step!” 

kaiser doesn’t even look up from his phone. “call me when he takes a second.” 

but when your son actually does it? he perks up like a wolf sensing prey. 

your baby waddles, legs chonky and determined. one step. two steps. kaiser sits up. 

three steps. kaiser throws his phone across the couch. 

“WAS THAT MY GENETICS??” he bellows. “I SEE MY FOOTWORK. I SEE MY DOMINANCE.” 

he starts clapping like he’s at a boxing match in vegas. “ladies and gentlemen! the heir to the throne!” 

your son immediately faceplants. 

kaiser gasps. “no. no! you were doing so well! was it the flooring? the lighting? did someone jinx it?!” 

he rushes over and dramatically drops to his knees beside the baby. “don’t you DARE give up. not when the world is yours. you were born to walk.” 

your son sneezes. kaiser kisses his forehead and whispers, “my little lion. we march again at dawn.” 

yukimiya kenyu

yukimiya had the baby journal ready. 

he’s been documenting everything: first smile, first burp, first time the baby held his finger for longer than 1.5 seconds. 

so when your son pushes himself upright and takes that tiny first step? 

yukimiya gasps like a victorian woman fainting. “did you see that??” 

he clutches his pearls (okay, not pearls, but metaphorically). 

then he starts crying. like full tears. 

“he’s growing up. our little boy… he’s walking. soon he’ll be driving. then leaving for college. then marrying some terrible person who doesn’t deserve him–” 

you: “KEN. he just stopped crawling yesterday.” 

he gently kneels next to your son, hands over his heart. “every day with you is a miracle.” 

he makes a handmade “first steps” trophy out of play-doh and gives an emotional acceptance speech on behalf of your son while the baby chews on it. 

“i just… i never thought we’d get here so soon. i’m so proud of you. even if you become a dancer instead of a footballer. or a florist. or a scuba diver. i support you.” 

“he’s not listening, ken.” 

“a genius in the making.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒶𝒸𝒽𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃 

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men, Hot Things They Do + Their Attachment Styles! Oh yeah—we’re so back, babes.

A character breakdown of the four dangerously compelling men—Crowe, Geo, Hyugo, and Sol—sorry, no Deryl this time, there’s a reason why. through the lens of attachment theory and the chaotic behaviors that make us scream into the void, spiral, and convince ourselves we could "help."

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Yes, I know, I disappeared. Yes, longer than planned. Yes, you missed me—don’t lie, and yes—I missed you more. Plot twist: I wasn’t just napping after exams. I’ve officially committed to Ivy League—pause for applause, or choking, your choice—where I’ll be doing medical psych research this summer. Fancy, I know.

So yeah, I’ve been deep in research—now I’m back to apply it to fictional men who absolutely ruin lives. 

Let’s get feral… intelligently.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’ve known Crowe for years.

He was never loud about it—didn’t sweep in with fireworks or fall from the sky or pull any rom-com-level stunts. Nah. He just… showed up. And stayed. Quietly inserting himself into your orbit like some well-dressed glitch in the matrix who smelled faintly of jasmine and self-restraint.

People call him Prince Charming.

In your head? You call him Princess Crowe, Supreme of Serenity and Sass. Because yes, sure, he’s got that calm, regal aura—but look at him. He’s too pretty to be real. More beauteous than handsome. Delicate bone structure, elegant fingers, eyelashes that probably violate human rights laws. Honestly, he looks like if moonlight and sarcasm had a baby.

And don’t get me started on the braid.

He wears his dark hair tied back into this loose braid that hangs over his right shoulder, with stray strands escaping just enough to suggest he definitely read about brooding male leads in novels and took notes. It’s the kind of look that says “I could emotionally devastate you and then tuck you in.”

And that’s the thing about Crowe—he looks like a polite heir to a forgotten kingdom, but you just know he could get messy. Like, “trip you with a smirk and gaslight you into thinking it was romantic foreplay” messy.

But he’s also your best friend. 

Well, technically. In theory. Because let’s be real: Best friends don’t have crushes on you. Actually… It depends…

Hot Thing #1: The Thumb Tracing

Let’s get one thing straight before we proceed:

Holding hands is not supposed to be an arrestable offense.

It’s supposed to be harmless. Sweet, even. A little contact to say “Hey, I like being near you.” You’re supposed to feel a flutter—maybe blush a little, maybe squeeze back. Normal stuff. Manageable.

But with Crowe?

Crowe turns hand-holding into a transcendent event. A full-body experience. The kind of moment that rewires your nervous system. He doesn’t touch you like it’s casual. He touches you like your skin once whispered a secret into his palm and now he’s obsessed with decoding it again and again.

It starts innocently enough. You’re across from him, probably mid-rant—something petty that feels righteous and holy in your bones. Maybe it’s about that girl in class with her overpriced pens and her attitude that drips superiority like perfume.

You’re waving your hands, voice sharp with conviction—“And then she had the audacity to roll her eyes at me, Crowe. Like I was just supposed to accept that level of delusion and keep going? I mean—”

And then he does it.

He takes your hand. Just—gently folds it into his, like it’s nothing. And while you’re mid-sentence, he starts tracing.

It’s soft. Thoughtless, almost. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles against your skin, as if your hand was always meant to be read like braille. He’s not even looking at it.

He’s looking at you, steady and focused, with those impossible, thoes blue eyes that see straight through the noise and into the marrow. But that thumb? It keeps moving. Drawing soft spirals, lazy loops, idle figure-eights like he’s memorizing every line and vein and secret under the surface.

You lose track of your rant. Your brain glitches. You blink, like you’ve just slipped through reality. “Crowe,” you whisper, trying to anchor yourself, “what are you doing?”

He blinks, serene. “Listening.”

“With your thumb?”

His lips curl into that maddening little half-smirk. The one that ruins lives. “It’s a multitasking thumb.”

And you—you are so done.

Because it’s not just the tracing. It’s the intention. It’s the quiet. It’s the fact that his touch isn’t demanding—it’s remembering. The kind that leaves echoes long after it ends.

The Tracing Catalogue™ isn’t just a list of idle gestures—it’s a tactile love language, a slow-burning monologue spoken in skin and silence. He doesn’t rush. Ever. His thumb glides in these almost sacred patterns: a long sweep up your knuckles, a subtle line drawn from the base of your wrist to the dip beneath your thumb. Sometimes he taps lightly in rhythm, syncing with the subtle beat of your pulse like he’s grounding himself to your heartbeat.

And then, there was that time.

The moment that took your breath hostage. You were talking, something lighthearted—something forgettable—and without warning, he traced a tiny heart on the back of your hand. Just once. Barely there.

You felt it like a confession, so tender and raw that it short-circuited your ability to function. You didn’t react. Couldn’t. Just stared at the ceiling like the truth might be hiding in the cracks of the drywall. How do you respond when someone says everything without saying a word?

And then there’s the other touch.

When his arm slips around your waist.

That’s when it’s over.

Maybe it happens when you’re curled beside him on the couch, the room hushed around you, warm with lamplight and the low hum of music in the background.

Or maybe it’s in public, in a tucked-away café corner where no one’s watching but the air still feels charged. His hand slides around you—casual, like it belongs there—and then his fingers find the sliver of skin where your shirt lifts just slightly.

And it begins again.

Not teasing. Not rushed. Slow, reverent circles. His fingertips graze like they’re trying to calm something unnamed—like he’s writing protective spells in invisible ink. His thumb draws down, curves back up, sketches soft, looping sigils that feel like promises.

He’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing. He’s listening to you talk about something else—art, ethics, the gray morality of your favorite villain—but his fingers stay, moving as if they’re tethered to the rhythm of your voice.

And you try to keep speaking. You try.

But inside?

Nothing but white noise. Static. A gentle, chaotic implosion.

Because it’s not just physical contact. It’s presence. It’s intimacy without demand. It’s the comfort of being seen and held in the same moment. It’s him saying, I’m here. You matter. I won’t rush you. But I’ll stay.

Crowe doesn’t touch to take—he touches to witness. To remember. In a world that constantly demands volume and noise, he listens in quiet motion. His hands say what he’d never admit aloud. You don’t have to ask for softness here. You don’t have to earn it. I’ve already chosen to give it.

And the worst part?

He has no idea what he’s doing to you. He does.

Your heart is scorched earth. Your sense of self? Crumbling. Emotional independence? Weeping silently in the back of your mind. He thinks he’s just being thoughtful. Just being there.

But you know better.

That mf does know, he ain’t slick.

Hot Thing #2: Mind Reader Tendencies 

It’s like being escorted through life by a god disguised as a gentleman.

And honestly, at this point, you should be filing some kind of formal complaint with the cosmos, because how is it even remotely fair for one person to be both emotionally literate and devastatingly attractive?

Crowe isn’t just observant—he’s clairvoyant in that maddening, quietly devastating way. He reads you like you’re a well-loved novel: cover softened, margins scribbled with thoughts only he seems to understand. He’s memorized all the dog-eared pages—the ones you thought you kept hidden, folded deep between layers of defensiveness and polite silence.

You never have to ask for anything. Hell, you barely have to think.

You’ll walk back to the table after a miserable ten-minute brush with reality—maybe you just had to talk to someone fake-smiling through fangs, or maybe you stepped in a puddle and questioned every life choice that led you to this point—and there he is. Crowe. Already pulling out your chair like it’s instinct, his hand a steady warmth between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t look up when he murmurs, “Sweet or salty?”

You blink. Confused. You hadn’t said a word.

But he’s already halfway through ordering the pastry. That pastry. The one you always break down for when your mood drops below murderous. The one that tastes like forgiveness and poor coping mechanisms. You sit, stunned, and he just continues his conversation like nothing happened—like he didn’t just read your entire emotional forecast with a single glance.

And that’s not even the most criminal part.

There was this other time, in a crowd—people pressing too close, voices rising in static, the air too hot and full of demand. You hadn’t even reached the edge yet, hadn’t even panicked, but then—

Something cold. Slid into your palm.

You glance down. A bottle of water. Cold, unopened.

You look up. Crowe doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t crowd you further. He just raises an eyebrow in that maddening, knowing way—like he already knows how close the walls were getting. Just holds your gaze, steady and calm, a silent: You good? And you are now. Against all odds, against the crushing weight of existence—you’re good. Because he is.

But the real breaking point? The moment that tilted the axis of your whole internal world?

You’d once—once—mentioned this keychain. Half-asleep during a late-night call, your voice drifting between dreaming and real. Something small. Dumb. A fleeting detail you’d forgotten the second it left your lips.

He didn’t.

The next day, it’s there. Nestled into your bag like a secret. Two of them. Matching. Of course they match. Like some quiet offering you weren’t supposed to find. You pull it out, staring, heart lurching in that awful, beautiful way that says this is love and you are not ready.

You clutch it to your chest, stunned. “Crowe,” you hiss, heart glitching. “Did you…?”

He shrugs. Barely looks up. Doesn’t even try to act guilty. “You liked it.”

“You remembered that?”

That damn smirk. That slight tilt of his head. “I remember everything you like.”

You stare at him, torn between awe and emotional cardiac arrest. How dare he. How dare he weaponize that voice, that calm, unbothered presence, and make remembering you feel like the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part? It’s not one-sided.

Because somewhere along the way, you started doing it, too.

Noticing the way his shoulders ease when there’s jasmine in the air. Remembering how he always drinks tea when he’s tired but won’t say it aloud. Memorizing the exact pitch of silence that comforts him—and the precise song to hum when his gaze turns distant.

You know which hoodie he’ll actually wear when he’s cold, which movie pulls him out of bad days without needing a word.

It’s not grand gestures. It’s not declarations. It’s presence.

Mutual fluency in one another's unspoken needs. You start anticipating him the same way he’s always read you: sliding your dessert slightly toward him without a word, answering questions he hasn’t asked out loud. Exchanging glances in a crowded room and knowing. Speaking entire sentences with a look, a shift of posture, a barely-there smile.

And it’s terrifyingly intimate.

More than any kiss. More than any vow.

Because this isn’t about touch or words. It’s about the fact that Crowe lives beside you like he belongs there. Moves through your life like he’s always known the layout. 

Like he found your soul half-abandoned on a shelf somewhere, dusted it off, and said I know how to carry this without breaking it.

And what’s even more impossible? You belong beside him, too.

Whether either of you says it or not—you know it. And knowing someone like this? Being known like this? It’s dangerous. Addictive.

And utterly irreversible.

Hot Thing #3: Unreachable Vulnerability

aka “He Protects Everyone but Who Protects Him?”

You give. Crowe protects.

That’s the rhythm of it. The unspoken contract. The magnetic balance between the two of you. But the cruel twist—the part that breaks you open again and again—is that he never lets you protect him.

And gods, you’ve tried. With gentle words and even gentler silences. You’ve laid out your heart like a map, offered him little bridges of safety to cross at his own pace—whispers disguised as jokes, late-night check-ins wrapped in casual tones, a hundred soft invitations hidden in the way you say his name when no one else is around.

“Are you okay?” you ask one evening, your voice almost lost beneath the hum of the streetlight spilling through the window. The room is still. Dim. Crowe’s leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere far away. He doesn’t look at you.

Just exhales. Quiet. Controlled.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he murmurs, like it’s a favor he’s offering you. Like your concern is an unnecessary weight he’d rather carry himself.

But you do worry.

Because you see him—not the practiced version the world gets. Not just the dry wit, the strategic calm, the way he stands just slightly in front of you when a room turns sharp. 

No, you see the tightness in his jaw when something bruises beneath the surface. You see the tension in his shoulders after a day spent holding up more than anyone should. You see how he goes still sometimes—how his gaze drifts far, inward, haunted by thoughts he won’t share.

You see it, and it kills you. 

Because you’d take it. Every burden. Every wound. You’d carry his ghosts if he’d only let you. You’d hold his pain like relics, polish the sharp edges until they stopped cutting him open from the inside. You’d make a home for the parts of him he hides away.

But he never lets you in far enough to touch them.

Once—just once—he let the exhaustion catch up to him. The armor slipped. You sat close, your bodies almost brushing, and when the silence stretched too long, he let his head rest against yours for a moment that lasted longer than it should have. It felt like a confession.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “You don’t always have to be strong for me.”

And he smiled. That awful, beautiful smile. Half-ache, half-apology. The kind of smile that means thank you and please stop all at once.

“I want to be,” he said. “For you.”

And that ruined you. Because it was honest. Honest in a way that was almost cruel. It told you everything—how he sees you, how much he values your faith in him, how terrified he is of shattering the version of himself that makes you feel safe.

Because loving Crowe is like holding fire in your bare hands. He warms you. Protects you. Lights the way through every storm. But he never lets you get close enough to touch the part that burns. The core. The vulnerable flame. He shields it not to punish you, but to protect you—from the heaviness of him, from the fear that if you really knew, you’d run.

As if your love is some fragile thing. As if it wouldn’t survive the truth of him.

So when he places that grounding hand on your back, when he steadies you with that quiet certainty, when he shields you like you’re made of something fragile and divine—you say nothing. Not anymore. Not today.

You swallow the ache. Smile through it. Match his silence with your own. Because this is how he lets you love him: not in grand rescues, but in the quiet presence beside him. In noticing. 

In remembering. In never leaving. You guard him in the only way he allows—without confrontation, without demands, without pushing past the line he draws so carefully around himself.

You wait.

Because one day—when the dam finally breaks, when the weight becomes too much, when his walls crack just enough to let the flood through—you’ll be there. Steady. Ready. Not to fix him, not to pull him back to the version he thinks he has to be, but to rebuild with him.

Softer. Truer. Armor made not of silence, but of trust.

Until then, you love him the way he lets you. Quietly. Constantly.

You always notice. You always will.

Attachment Style: 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓊𝓇𝑒 

Confidence. Self-worth. Accepts Supports.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship.Crowe isn’t just a man—he’s a case study in secure attachment dressed like sin and serenity had a child.

Everything about him moves with intent, like he was carved out of composure and gifted to a world too loud for his quiet strength.

The paradox is real: he’s distant without being cold, intimate without being invasive. He looks like he doesn’t need anyone, but loves like someone who deeply values connection. And the truth? Crowe is secure. 

Not just emotionally available—emotionally anchored.

He is the kind of love that doesn’t flinch.

Out of all the men in TKATB, Crowe is the most stable. Other than Deryl, heance she the reason why I don’t write him because he’s like a mix between Crowe and Hyugo—look, I just don’t wanna write that much, man T-T.

Not in the sense of boring or predictable—no, Crowe is terrifying in the way gentleness becomes power when wielded with unwavering intent. His love doesn’t crash or spiral. It doesn’t demand to be witnessed through chaos. It simply is—a steady, grounding hum beneath the noise of the world, the kind of presence that calms your trembling hands before you even notice they’re shaking.

He doesn’t love to be impressive. He loves because it’s who he is.

Not possessive. Not performative. Just… quietly devoted.

A man who nurtures love like it’s a fire he’s been entrusted to tend: brick by brick, breath by breath, never smothered, never forgotten.

From a psychological lens, again, Crowe is the embodiment of secure attachment—a rarity sculpted not from trauma responses or codependent patterns, but from inner clarity. This is someone who knows himself. Who doesn’t run from discomfort, but also doesn’t manufacture it for sport? Who expresses his needs without guilt. Sets boundaries without cruelty. Listens without waiting to speak.

He doesn’t play games. Emotional safety isn’t a performance for him—it’s his baseline. He can sit in your silence without assuming it’s about him. He can watch you spiral without trying to fix you. He’ll just be there—a shoulder, a breath, a hand on the small of your back that wordlessly says, I’ve got you.

Where the anxious chase and the avoidants vanish, Crowe stays.

And that? That is rare.

He is safe. But not in the bland, beige, Hallmark-movie way. 

He’s safe in the holy shit, I can finally exhale around you kind of way. You could fall apart—shattered, incoherent, undone—and he would catch every piece with reverent hands. Not to glue you back together in his image. Not to fix what he thinks is broken. But just to witness you. To hold the fragments. To let you come home to yourself while wrapped in the kind of presence that never once wavers.

Because Crowe knows that love isn’t about control. Or urgency. Or possession. Love, for him, is about unfolding. Slowly. Deliberately. Willingly.

And he unfolds you in the most devastatingly mundane ways. Tea waiting by your bed before you realize you need it. His jacket slipped over your shoulders before you can pretend you’re not cold. The smell of laundry detergent clinging to your favorite hoodie—the one he washed and folded while humming under his breath. Nothing loud. Nothing dramatic. Just devotion stitched into the fabric of the ordinary.

But don’t mistake this softness for perfection.

Crowe still has his own shadows.

He gets tired. He burns out. Sometimes he overfunctions, taking on too much, because rest still feels suspiciously like failure. He’s the pillar in every room, the one everyone leans on, and sometimes he forgets he’s allowed to lean back. He doesn’t show it often, but he craves reassurance in quiet ways—needs to hear that he’s appreciated, even if he’ll never ask.

Even the most securely attached hearts carry wounds.

Crowe’s just learned how to hold his with grace.

That’s what makes him magnetic—his strength isn’t rigid. It’s fluid. Adaptive. His masculinity is never threatened by tenderness. His confidence is not armor—it’s foundation. And that’s what ruins people for anyone else. Because once you’ve been loved by someone like Crowe?

You stop mistaking chaos for passion.

You stop chasing the highs and lows and learn to worship the steady middle. You crave peace because he teaches you that it’s anything but passive.

You’ve thought about what kind of person Crowe could truly open to. The one he’d actually choose to give that rare, inner part of himself to. It wouldn’t be someone who demands a performance. Not someone who needs him to be impressive, loud, or invincible. It would be someone emotionally mature. 

Grounded. 

A person who can walk beside him, not behind. Who sees consistency as a love language, not a limitation. Someone who understands that passion, when paired with safety, doesn’t burn out—it burns deeper. Crowe needs someone who understands that intimacy is built in small, sacred rituals. That calm is not boring—it’s divine. Someone who knows the difference between being claimed and being chosen.

And you? You see it.

You don’t need him to shout his love. You feel it in the way he breathes around you. In the way he touches your shoulder like he’s checking you’re still anchored. In the way he cooks for you, like he’s crafting something sacred. In the way he smiles at you across a crowded room, like he’s proud that you are his still point in the storm. 

So yes. You’re already doomed. 

But it’s the kind of doom you walk into willingly. Reverently. Because there’s no falling here. No cliff. No crash. There’s just the quiet, terrifying comfort of being seen. Of being safe. Of being held in a love that doesn't ask you to shrink or rise—just be. Because Crowe doesn’t love like a storm. 

He loves it like home. And once you've felt that?

You won’t settle for anything less ever again.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Ugh. Alright, but just so we’re clear—I’m writing this with the same energy one uses to approach a beautiful, haunted cathedral that might also house a ghost with a knife collection.

Because Sol?

Sol is… a fucking mess. 

Of course, you wouldn’t know after ONE thing after hanging out with him, or you peek at it at the start of the game. Not the loud, unhinged, obvious kind of mess. No. He’s the kind of mess that hides in the corner of a nearly empty room, eyes locked on something no one else can see, sketchbook clutched in ink-stained fingers, and a look that says, “If you talk to me, I might vanish into smoke.”

You noticed him before you met him. How could you not? Why would you?

He didn’t fit. Not because he tried to stand out, but because he tried so hard not to be noticed that it was impossible not to notice him.

Black hair streaked with poisonous green, tied back in a loose half-up-half-down way that screamed “I didn’t try” but looked suspiciously intentional. Bangs in thirds, one long streak falling dead center down his face, the others framing his cheeks like curtains to something sacred. Crimson-red eyes with burning orange centers like the last flare of a dying sun—central heterochromia, you’d later learn, but at first? You just called them unholy.

Sol didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t even seem to see anyone. Sat in the back. Always sketching. Always watching. And dressed like he rolled out of a shadow realm thrift store and won. 

Ngl he has that shit on—like the best fit out of everone in that damn game because eveyone shit lowkey kinda basic asf.

He wasn’t trying to intimidate. He just wasn’t trying at all.

And still, somehow? He was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. 

Pretty, and pathetic, in the way haunted things are when they’ve been alone too long. You didn’t approach him like you would anyone else. Not with easy words or a smile. You approached him like someone inching toward a sleeping wolf. Careful. Curious. Fascinated.

Like maybe… maybe... You could stay.

Hot Thing #1: His Hands

Let’s just start with the obvious. His hands. His hands.

They should come with a warning label. Or maybe an art exhibit placard: “Do not touch—unless invited. Hazardous to rational thought.”

Sol’s hands are absurd. Long-fingered, precise, a strange contradiction of delicate and dangerous. He moves like someone who creates for a living and destroys for fun. The faint ink stains along his knuckles and fingertips don’t fade—they’re permanent, like tattoos of sleepless nights and compulsive inspiration. 

Calluses rest along his inner fingers from pencils and brushes and god knows what else, but there’s still something careful about the way he moves, something intentional. His hands tremble when he’s lost in thought—not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of whatever storm’s going on in his mind.

And the veins. God. The veins.

Prominent and winding, twitching subtly whenever he flexes or grips something a little too tight—like he's constantly at war with himself. You could map out your descent into insanity with them. Watch his hands tighten around a paintbrush, or twitch when he's gripping a mug too tightly, or the way his fingers hesitate before brushing against your skin—and every time, you swear you feel it in your lungs.

But it’s not just the aesthetics. It’s the intention.

The first time he cupped your face—with those artist’s hands, rough with talent and gentle with fear—you actually forgot how to breathe. He held you like you were something sacred. Breakable. Like he’d spent years drawing you in his mind before he ever touched you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, and he was terrified that touching you might undo the illusion.

And you?

You're long gone.

Because when Sol touches you like that—with those graceful, twitchy artist hands, a breath away from trembling—you forget your name. You forget his name. You forget why this is such a bad idea. All that remains is sensation: the calloused pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, the unspoken question tucked inside the drag of his knuckle, the ink-smudged tenderness of someone who holds fragile things like they matter.

You’re not immune. Not even close.

So—maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of pure chaos—you take one of his hands. Just… gently. As if you’re studying it. Turning it over in your palm. Tracing a fingertip along the long lines of his veins. You hear his breath hitch. Not loud. But enough.

And for someone who blends into the background so effortlessly, Sol is terrible at hiding how flustered he is.

His ears were pink first. A soft, creeping flush like a sunrise over frost. Then the edge of his jaw tightens—not from anger, but restraint. His fingers twitch under yours like he’s trying so hard not to pull away… or maybe not to pull you closer. His gaze darts anywhere but your face: the floor, the table, the sky. 

Anywhere safer than your expression right now.

“...You're doing it again,” he mutters. His voice is lower this time. Rougher.

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence as your thumb brushes the back of his knuckles. His pulse leaps beneath your touch.

“That thing. Where you look at me like I’m—” he pauses. Swallows. “Like I’m not a disaster.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe I like disasters.”

His eyes flicker to yours—just for a moment. Something vulnerable flashes behind the crimson and gold, something fragile and aching. It vanishes just as quickly. Replaced by that familiar, distant calm he wears like armor.

“…Okay,” he murmurs. Only quiet disbelief. His hand curls slightly around yours, just enough to hold on. Just enough to let you know he doesn’t want you to stop.

And you don’t. You can’t.

Because touching him like this—softly, reverently, like you’re handling some ancient spell-bound relic that might just whisper your name back if you get close enough—it completely undoes him.

Every time your fingers drift along his palm or ghost over the curve between his knuckles, Sol’s composure does this little glitch. Like a frame skip in reality. He tries to act unbothered—muttering under his breath, faking a yawn, suddenly very interested in the corner of the room where absolutely nothing is happening—but his hands? They give him away. Always. They stay exactly where they are. Still. Open. Waiting.

And okay. Fine. Maybe your interest isn’t entirely innocent. I mean, have you seen those hands? Long fingers, all twitchy with tension and stained in ink like a promise. Veins like lightning strikes. That subtle strength in the way he handles a paintbrush, or tightens the strap of his sketchbook bag, or, god forbid, cups your jaw like you’re something he’s afraid to break but dying to know.

Let’s just say—if you ever asked him to do something a little less wholesome with those hands?

You’re pretty sure he’d be excellent at it. Like, overly excellent. Like "I’ve read too many dark romance novels and now I know too much,” excellent. Not that you’re saying that out loud. Yet. Because Sol? Sol would die of embarrassment. Blush to his ears, probably knock over three books and his mug of tea in the process, and then immediately act like you were the one being inappropriate.

But his hands would stay. Still. Open. 

Just in case you wanted to hold them again. Or trace the lines. Or test a theory or two about how good he really is with them. Sol won’t say it. He doesn’t need to. But every little movement-every—every twitch, every stillness, every time he lets you touch—It’s him saying: I’m yours, if you ask.

And maybe, someday soon, you will.

Hot Thing #2: His Jaw Tenses

See, Sol is the kind of person you don’t notice until you do—and by then, it’s already too late.

He doesn’t command attention, he slips past it, folds himself into the edges of the room like a shadow that’s always been there. Not because he lacks presence, no, not even close. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Sol’s the ghost behind the curtain, the silent observer whose gaze lingers a beat too long and whose silence says more than most people’s entire vocabulary.

He watches. And remembers. 

But then. Oh, then—there’s the jaw thing.

It happens when he’s angry. Or jealous. Or both. And because he’s so quiet, so eerily unreadable most of the time, the first time you catch it, it hits like a freight train.

You're talking to someone else. Just a little too long. Laughing, maybe. Leaning a little too close. You glance over—and there’s Sol, sitting there like a portrait halfway finished in chiaroscuro, face calm but jaw tight. So tight you can see the muscle working beneath the skin, flexing like he’s biting back something vicious.

His pen is still in his hand, but it hasn’t moved in minutes. His heterochromatic gaze finds yours—and holds. Searing. Like the air just got thicker between you.

You shift in your chair, and just like that—scrrrrk—he reaches out, grabs the leg of your chair, and drags it closer to his. Effortlessly.

Your breath stutters. His arm lifts—casual, practiced—and drapes across the back of your chair like he’s staking a claim. You can feel the tension still thrumming in him, that fire he’s trying so hard to tamp down behind his quiet facade.

"Keep talking," he murmurs, barely glancing at you. His lips twitch—half smirk, half warning. "I was listening."

Your face? Absolutely volcanic. Your brain? Static. You try to refocus, try to pretend you're not being slowly incinerated alive by one (1) jealous gremlin masquerading as a sad poet.

But he doesn’t move.

And even with the jaw still clenched, that tension coiled in his shoulders, his hand brushes your back. Soft. Steady. Anchoring.

You don’t know if he’s trying to calm you down or himself.

Either way, it works. Because even when he’s mad—even when that jaw is practically grinding his teeth to dust—Sol doesn’t push you away. 

He pulls you closer.

Hot Thing #3: Well.. his Voice

Of course his voice is unfair. Of course it is.

We don’t even get voice acting in the game—but somehow, somehow, I can still hear him. It's one of those cruel little mysteries of the universe, like how your favorite characters linger in your mind long after the screen fades to black.

I remember the creator, Fantasia, once posted what each character’s voice would sound like—just a passing comment, buried in an old post—but it stuck. And among all the characters, Sol’s voice is the only one that doesn’t overwhelm you.

Everyone else? Yeah, they have presence. Energy. Volume. Some sounds normal. Some are… well—Geo. And listen, I say this with love and concern, but that man’s voice sounds like it was designed to haunt your dreams and threaten your ancestors. Geo speaks, and you flinch like someone just unsheathed a cursed weapon. He sounds like vengeance???

But Sol? No. Sol’s voice is different.

It's quiet, careful—like he’s tasting each syllable before deciding it’s safe to say out loud. It’s not sharp or commanding. It doesn’t need to be. His voice is a hush at the edge of the storm. A late-night radio broadcast meant only for you. It’s not there to startle you into attention—it coaxes you in. Warm. Thoughtful. A little hesitant, like he doesn’t speak often, but when he does, you listen.

And that makes it worse. Because he’s not trying to get under your skin.

He just is.

Like, Sol’s voice starts soft, low, breathy, like he’s never quite sure if he’s allowed to speak out loud. Sol talks like he’s unspooling thought directly from the inside of his mind, like every word he gives you is something private, meant to be kept.

His tone curls around your spine like smoke from an incense stick: barely there at first, but then suddenly all you can smell, feel, breathe.

But when he’s immersed? When he’s talking about things he actually loves—books with frayed spines and marginalia scribbled in the corners, the myths he collects like bones, the difference between gouache and oil paints, or how watercolor red bleeds like veins under wet paper?

That voice? Changes.

It deepens. Warms. Sharpens into this low, smooth, hypnotic hum that’s too much and not enough all at once. He leans over his sketchbook one afternoon, humming absently as he touches a brush to the page—burnt sienna fanning out in delicate, crimson rivers.

"The reds always bleed like veins when I paint with them,” he murmurs, his mouth entirely too close to your ear, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You forget to breathe. You forget your own name.

“I—what?” you stammer, blinking like you just came out of a trance.

He doesn’t even look up. Just smirks, barely, and dips the brush again. “You weren’t listening,” he accuses gently. “You just like my voice.”

“I don’t—!” You clamp your mouth shut, cheeks burning.

His eyes flick toward you, crimson ringed with gold, dark lashes brushing his cheek. “You do.” A pause. Then softer: “It’s okay. I like how you say my name, too.”

You malfunction. Completely.

But it’s not just the tone. Not the warmth, or the drop in pitch when he’s tired and his words come wrapped in sleep. It’s the way he speaks—how he always sounds like he’s choosing each syllable with intent. Like he’s afraid of wasting a single one. Like language is sacred. Like you are.

Even when he’s quiet—especially when he’s quiet—there’s so much in it. You can hear care in the way he says your name. You can feel longing in the way he pauses before speaking, like he’s gauging whether he deserves to say something that touches you.

And underneath all the odd, unnerving stillness… there’s sweetness. A tenderness that never needs to announce itself.

He lingers longer than necessary when he brushes your hand. He touches your wrist like it’s something fragile he might break if he’s not careful. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear when you’re not paying attention, then pretends he didn’t. He scribbles quotes and folds them into tiny shapes—leaves them tucked in your books, your pockets, under your pillow. 

“You’re not strange. You’re just the only language I haven’t learned how to read yet.”

You don’t tell him, but you keep everyone.

And when you dream, sometimes it’s not his face you see—it’s just the sound of his voice. Low, reverent, a whisper carved into your ribs.

Saying your name like it’s a poem. Like it’s a spell. Like it’s his.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓃𝓍𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 

Clingy. Highly Emotional. Seeking Reassurance.

Alright, let’s get something straight right off the bat: You guys know I don’t get the hype with Sol. Like, I see all of everyone on TikTok and Tumblr losing their minds over him like he’s some rare cosmic phenomenon, and I’m just here blinking, trying to figure out what’s so special about him.

He’s a yandere base character with a lot of character, he’s well written, I’ll give you that, because out of all the yandere

Because honestly? Again, visually, Sol looks like half the guys I see on campus every damn day. Long, disheveled bangs shadowing those stormy eyes, a kind of vacant, distant artist stare that’s been milled into the indie aesthetic.

The kind of dude who smells like burnt cinnamon and acrylic paint, like he’s perpetually stuck in a thrift shop or art studio. If you threw a rock into a random thrift, I’d bet it’d hit five Sol lookalikes before it hit you.

Let’s get something straight. 

Sorry, you can clearly tell one fucked me up so bad.

Sol is not romantic. He’s not the fantasy.

He’s the delusion dressed in aesthetics so sharp and lyrical that people forget to flinch before they bleed. And I’m sorry if that breaks hearts. 

Actually, no—I’m not. 

Because someone has to say it. Someone has to be the older sister standing between fantasy and reality with a tired look in her eyes and a warning in her voice: Don’t crave men like Sol.

Don’t mistake his obsession for intimacy.

Don’t confuse his emotional starvation for depth.

Yes, Sol is beautiful—haunting, even. He doesn’t ask to be adored. He doesn’t perform desire. He simply exists in a way that makes your chest ache, like looking at a painting you don’t understand but can’t stop staring at. He’s the kind of character who crawls into your veins and sets up shop in your most vulnerable thoughts.

But that doesn’t make him safe.

In fact, he’s the most dangerous man in TKATB. 

Not in the "knife-to-throat" way, but in the "I will latch onto you so completely that you forget where you end and I begin" kind of way. He’s a yandere.

Let’s not romanticize what he really is:

A walking case study in anxious attachment, trauma-coded intimacy, and emotional dysregulation. Sol doesn’t love with boundaries. He loves with abandonment issues and fever dreams. He doesn’t have a type. Not in the curated, preference-based sense. He doesn’t fall for “someone special.” He falls for whoever offers him a drop of attention in a lifetime of drought.

You texted him back twice? He’s writing odes.

You laugh at one of his jokes? He’s dreaming about your wedding.

You touch his arm casually? He’s ruined.

That’s not love. That’s fixation.

That’s attachment disorder dressed up in pretty metaphors and mournful gazes. Sol would bleed himself dry to prove he matters to you. He would carve your name into every corner of his mind, begging the memory of you to stay because he doesn’t know how to hold himself without an anchor, and you are the anchor. You, who smiled at him that one time. You, who didn’t run away fast enough. You, who made the mistake of seeing him.

And gods help you if you ever return that affection.

Because once you do?

He’s yours—entirely. Obsessively. Apocalyptically.

Not in a cute, flowers-and-sappy-notes kind of way.

But in the “I’d rather be miserable with you than happy alone” kind of way. The “I will shrink myself to fit in the cracks of your life” kind of way. The kind of devotion that doesn’t feel flattering. It feels suffocating. And yeah, he writes you poems. He makes you art. He memorizes your favorite songs.

But all of it is built on the trembling foundation of please don’t leave me. He gives you his soul—but not because he trusts you. Because he’s afraid you’re the only one who’ll take it.

Sol is scarcity in a human body.

He’s love-starved. He’s lonely. And that loneliness warps him into something too much and not enough all at once. He doesn’t want you to love him for his talents. Or his personality. He just wants to be chosen. Not out of logic. Not out of reason. Just out of that irrational, terrifying instinct that says, You. You’re mine.

And for anyone who’s ever felt unwanted, unchosen, or overlooked… That kind of love is magnetic. It feels holy. It feels like finally being seen. But it’s not holiness. It’s hunger. And hunger makes people desperate.

Now, listen closely. Because this matters:

Sol will make you feel special.

But that’s not because you’re the only one. It’s because he doesn’t know how to feel okay without someone—anyone—to fixate on. He’ll watch you sleep like you’re the sun and the end of the world. He’ll spiral at the thought of losing your attention. He’ll say he’s fine and then quietly implode when you don’t text back in time.

And the truth is: He’s not ready for love.

He doesn’t have the tools. He has poetry instead of communication. Passion instead of boundaries. And yes, he will ruin you with how beautiful he is when he’s desperate.

But he’ll ruin himself even faster. So please. Don’t aspire to love a man like Sol. Understand him? Yes. Empathize? Absolutely.

But don’t confuse him with a goal. Don’t glamorize his pain. Don’t make a home in someone who’s still setting fire to every place they enter just to see if anyone will stay in the flames.

Sol is not a villain. he kinda is...

He’s just... unfinished. Raw. Beautiful in that tragic, self-destructive way that makes you want to hold him and scream at him at the same time. But love should not be built on survival instincts and panic responses.

And if you’re a younger reader, especially, because I was once your age and I know SOME minors read my work, you're just playing it smart not to show your real age on the internet, so please listen:

This is not what love looks like.

This is not the kind of man you want to save. This is the kind of man who needs to save himself first. And you are not the cure. You are not a salve. You are not responsible for holding someone together just because they’re afraid to fall apart alone.

So no. I will not write him as some perfect tragic prince.

Because he isn’t.

And you deserve better than the fantasy of someone who would rather burn with you than heal beside you. Sol is poetry. But not every poem should be read like a promise. Some are just warnings dressed in beautiful words.

And this? This is yours.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Ah, finally. Geo.

God, I’ve missed writing this man like a bad habit I refuse to quit.

Let me tell you something real—there’s something infuriatingly addictive about Geo. He’s not just tall; he’s annoyingly tall. The kind of tall that makes your posture worse just standing next to him.

He’s the exact height where, if you asked him to grab something from the top shelf, he’d just look at you, expression flat, silently judging your weakness while reaching for it anyway. Like some quiet, reluctant guardian deity who hates your incompetence but takes care of you anyway.

He’s broody. Of course he is. Broody, serious, emotionally constipated in the way only someone raised under an oppressive cocktail of expectations, trauma, and tactical training could be.

He doesn’t “glare”—he assesses, and the moment his eyes lock onto you, you feel like you're being psychologically dissected and filed into a threat matrix. He doesn’t just walk into a room. He occupies it. Quietly. Commandingly. Like a ghost who’s also your landlord.

And yet?

No one knows a damn thing about him. 

He’s the human equivalent of redacted classified files. He’s got the kind of presence that screams: If you think you know me, you don’t. Geo’s not mysterious for attention—he’s just actually private. Like "burned his own childhood photos" levels of private. 

If you ask where he’s from, you’ll get a clipped “overseas” and a look so cold you’ll suddenly forget what the question even was. He’s not hiding anything in the way someone guilty might—he’s hiding everything because he can. And because of him, your curiosity is noise.

Geo’s rich, obviously, but not the new-money, “look at my luxury watch and hypercar” kind of rich. No, he’s old moneyrich—the kind where generational power moves in silence. His taste is curated, not expensive for the sake of expense, but because he understands precision. Geo’s wealth feels like legacy and bloodlines and something cold passed down through hands that never knew softness.

Now here’s the thing: he is not approachable.

Geo radiates this “do not engage” energy like a psychic wall. Trying to be friends with him cold? Suicidal. You don’t meet Geo—you get vetted by him. If you somehow worm your way into his orbit, it’s not because you charmed him—it’s because he saw something in you that wasn’t a liability. And even then, he watches. Always. Like he’s trying to solve you before you solve him.

Honestly, you’d need Crowe to run interference, several bribes, a six-month campaign of micro-interactions, and a willingness to have him ignore 90% of your existence before you even get a nod of recognition. And when you do get that nod? Oh, congratulations. You now mean slightly more than nothing to him. That’s progress.

And yet—yet—that’s what makes him devastating.

Hot Thing #1: His Useful Height

Geo’s height is not just a trait. It’s a threat.

A walking hazard to your sanity. A full-body reminder that evolution had favorites. Because it’s not just that he’s tall—it’s that he uses it, casually, instinctively, infuriatingly well.

Even when you can reach something on your own, he doesn’t let you. Doesn’t even hesitate. You’ll be mid-reach, fingers brushing the top shelf like a responsible, self-sufficient adult—and suddenly, he’s behind you. Close. Solid. His hand effortlessly sliding past yours to grab the exact item like he was summoned by the gods of smug utility.

“You were struggling,” he says mildly, placing it in your hands like some kind of benevolent height deity.

“I was not,” you grumble, trying not to combust from how his chest just barely grazed your back.

He doesn’t argue. Just scoffs. That very specific Geo scoff. The kind that’s 60% dry amusement, 30% mischief, and 10% 'I know I’m hot, but I’m going to pretend I don’t.'

And sure, maybe he likes being helpful. Maybe he enjoys the way your flustered silence lingers in the air afterward. But mostly? Mostly, it’s the excuse it gives him to lean in.

Because every time he reaches up to grab something, he does it deliberately close—his body brushing yours, his arm stretching just overhead, his torso turning ever so slightly so you can catch the shift of his muscles beneath that stupidly well-fitting hoodie.

You try not to look. You fail. Every single time.

Then, just as casually as he appeared, he steps back and returns to whatever he was doing like nothing just happened. Like you’re not standing there, gripping a box of cereal like it’s a loaded weapon, heart trying to escape your ribcage.

And always—always—he leaves with a scoff.

“You’re good?” he says once, catching the color on your cheeks/facial expression.

“I’m hot,” you lie flatly, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Geo raises a brow. “Mm. Sure. That explains the staring, too, I guess.”

You want to throw something at him. You also want to kiss him. Which is a real problem.

And let’s talk about doorframes. There should be an international crisis summit about the way Geo leans on them. His arm stretched casually overhead, braced against the frame like it was built to accommodate his wingspan.

That lazy, lopsided posture—the kind that says I’m comfortable in every molecule of my body. Shoulders relaxed, shirt rising just enough to hint at skin, and his head tilted with that quiet, unreadable expression like he’s cataloging your every reaction.

It’s a war crime. It’s inhumane.

Especially because it’s not on purpose. It’s never on purpose. It’s just him—tall, composed, stupidly attractive Geo existing in your general vicinity while your brain decides to restart its operating system like a cheap laptop trying to load a full RPG on dial-up.

And when you finally point it out?

He has the nerve to look confused. 

“…The lean?” he repeats, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” you snap, practically frothing. “The lean, Geo. You do it every time you want to ruin my life.”

“I was just standing,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to do when your arm is flexed, your bicep is straining against cotton, and your stare could melt glaciers.

You want to scream. Instead, you mutter, “There should be laws.”

And Geo? He scoffs. God help you.

But the absolute worst—the final nail in the coffin—is when he drives.

Because, of course, Geo reverse parks like a man who has conquered past lives. Of course, he shifts into gear with one hand on the wheel, the other slung casually over your seat, twisting with effortless control as his eyes flick to the mirrors. The car glides perfectly into place like it was drawn there by divine magnetism.

“Why,” you whisper hoarsely, “are you parking like we’re in a heist film?”

He glances at you. Calm. Confident. Zero shame. “Didn’t want to mess up the angle.”

You’re short-circuiting. You’re heat-flushed. You’re considering marrying this man solely out of survival instinct.

“I am the angle, Geo. You are messing me up.”

And it only gets worse when he responds with a small, smug chuckle—and goes back to adjusting the rearview mirror like he didn’t just hand-deliver your soul to the afterlife.

And the truth? You’d let him do it again.

Hot Thing #2: The Outfit Combo

aka “Domestic Geo Is a Public Threat to Your Sanity”

There’s a sacred kind of violence in the way Geo dresses when it’s just the two of you—no witnesses, no performance, just private comfort tailored for your psychological destruction. It's not a calculated seduction. 

It's worse. It’s instinctual. Organic. The kind of unintentional torment that comes from a man who has no idea what he looks like in grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt… or worse, knows exactly what he looks like and chooses violence anyway.

Let’s start with the setting: your apartment, a lazy Sunday, maybe a storm tapping against the windows while something warm simmers on the stove.

You’re the one bundled in his oversized sweatshirt—because, of course, he insists you wear it, mumbles something about you needing to “stay warm” while he eyes you like you’re the coziest thing he’s ever seen. You know the truth: he just likes how it looks on you. The drape of the sleeves. The way it smells like him. The fact that it’s his.

But him?

Geo’s at the counter, yawning, stretching, completely unaware (or pretending to be) of the absolute crime scene that is his outfit.

Nothing but sweatpants. And not just any sweatpants.

Those cursed grey ones. Worn soft. Hung dangerously low on his hips like they’ve got something to prove. They cling in all the wrong-right places, and somehow manage to reveal more than they conceal—each motion sending a silent, godless prayer into the air. And paired with that black t-shirt? Tight. Sinned against. Fitted like it’s trying to stay decent but failing gloriously.

Every muscle on display. Every line etched by fire and cruel genetics. You swear the shirt wasn’t that tight before he washed it, but now? It hugs his chest like a second skin, riding just slightly higher in the back, lifting just enough to tease a sliver of toned waist with every step.

And his hair. Messy from sleep. Tousled in a way he hates, muttering under his breath while running a hand through it like he’s offended by his hotness. You watch him move across the room like gravity is just a concept that chooses to worship him. His voice, still raw from sleep, is a low rumble when he finally breaks the silence:

“Did you eat yet?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain has fully exited the chat. You’re busy wondering how one man can look like he bench-pressed your emotional stability and then dropped it on purpose.

Geo glances at you, takes in your dazed silence, and arches a brow. “...What?”

You blink. Realize you’ve been staring at the waistband of his sweatpants like it’s a holy relic. “I—uh. Sorry. Lost my train of thought.”

He leans on the counter, arms folded, veins flexing with a casual, effortless threat. “Ha, simp.”

“I WAS NOT.”

“Sure.” And then the smile. That evil, knowing little quirk at the corner of his mouth like he knows. Of course he knows. He just won’t admit it. That’s the true hell of it all.

But if the home fits are emotional warfare, then gym Geo is a full-scale psychic assassination. You’ve tried working out with him. Honestly, you gave it a noble shot.

But it’s hard to focus on form when he’s three feet away doing pull-ups like gravity personally offended him. Back muscles rippling. Shoulder blades flexing with each movement. And you? Struggling to breathe like an asthmatic Victorian maiden watching a gladiator fight.

There’s sweat. So much sweat. His shirt sticks to his chest in a way that makes you question if cotton was ever ethical to begin with. His arms are a living map of divine punishment. The way he pushes up his sleeves before spotting you? Fatal. Intentional or not, it’s like he’s loading a gun and handing it to your libido.

And then… life intervenes. Work. Time. Distance. You’re stuck at home, haunted by the ghost of Geo’s muscles and the memory of how low those sweatpants really sit when he's stretching in the kitchen.

So you beg. Not even with dignity.

“Geo, I’m serious. I need this. One gym selfie. Please. I'm losing my mind. Just—just one flex. For my health.”

His reply is a single, soul-crushing word: “No.”

You spiral. You threaten to write poetry. You do write poetry. Terrible, desperate haikus about forearms and jawlines. You light candles. Curse his ancestors. Offer sacrifices to whatever cruel deity decided to gift that body to a man who refusesto let you thirst in peace.

Then, just as you’re giving up hope—ping.

Message from Geo.

You open it expecting a meme, maybe a gif. Instead?

It’s him. Shirtless. Standing in front of the mirror. Every muscle gleaming with sweat and sin, carved like living marble. Obliques deep enough to drown in. That cruel V-line disappearing into those same grey sweatpants now riding even lower, like they’ve lost the will to restrain. The angle? Cinematic. The lighting? Demonic. His face? Calm. Expression flat, like this, is nothing. Like he’s nothing. Like he didn’t just destroy your week with one jpeg.

The caption? “Thought you’d like this.”

You did. You did, in fact, like that.

You screamed into your hands. Threw your phone across the room. Whispered “Geo, I’m literally at work” like he was there to hear you. Which he wasn’t. Because he was probably drinking water like a smug bastard while you mourned your innocence and tried to remember how to function in a world where that image now existed.

To this day, you can’t look at grey sweatpants without blushing. And Geo? He still wears them around the house like it’s nothing. Like he is nothing. Like he’s 

not the physical embodiment of your final brain cell waving a white flag.

And the kicker?

He’ll ask why you’re so quiet, shirt clinging to his chest, waistband teasing danger, voice low and unbothered.

“You okay?” No. You are not okay.

Geo: 1. You: deceased.

Hot Thing #3: The Scent of Him

Geo smells… divine. 

There’s no other word for it. It's not loud or obnoxious—he doesn't storm your senses like some overcompensating cologne ad. No. Geo’s scent is subtle. Discreet.

The kind of fragrance that lives in the air between words, like a secret only meant for you to discover. It’s private, restrained—something you have to earn the right to know. And once you know it? You're ruined. Addicted. Held hostage by it in the best, most unhinged way.

It’s hard to describe exactly. There's something warm and grounding in it, like clean skin kissed with cedar and maybe some barely-there spice—soft but masculine, clean but not sterile, a whisper of danger dressed in warmth.

It lingers like a ghost, clinging to his clothes, haunting your pillows, hanging in the folds of his hoodie long after he's gone. You’ve tried describing it to someone once and failed spectacularly. Ended up mumbling something like, “Imagine if safety and sin had a baby.” That about sums it up.

You pretend it's nothing. But your body reacts like it is everything.

It starts innocently—like the way you always end up seated beside him when you're out with friends. You don’t say why. You just... do. Your hand brushes his arm as you sit, your shoulder brushes his when you lean. He doesn’t flinch. Neither do you.

And that scent—it just exists, subtle and quiet and infuriatingly Geo. You find yourself pretending to reach past him for something, stealing half a second of inhaling him like you're not building a shrine to his laundry detergent in your soul.

Once, he caught you zoning out mid-conversation, eyes soft, brain mush.

“...You good?” he asked, deadpan, brow barely lifted.

You blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Tired.”

LIESSSSS, YOU LIE. You were high off his hoodie. No regrets.

But it’s at his place, where the scent becomes something else entirely. Something sacred.

You and Geo walk in from classes, kick off his shoes, shrug out of his hoodie, and suddenly the air feels warmer. You don’t even realize how bad your day was until he’s next to you on the couch, stretching with a quiet sigh, and that smell hits you—comfort layered in human form. Not strong. Just... there. Softly invading your lungs until the ache in your chest unwinds.

He doesn’t talk much at first. Just sits with you, occasionally resting a hand on your knee or brushing his fingers along your arm. He doesn't have to ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t even need the details. He just exists—radiating presence and calm—and that scent does more to soothe your nerves than an hour of therapy ever could.

And then, the nap.

You weren’t even planning on sleeping. Geo was working on something beside you, laptop open, brows furrowed in concentration, and you were scrolling mindlessly on your phone, your head drifting toward his shoulder more with each breath.

He smelled good. Not in-your-face good. More like ambient-good. The kind of scent that makes your muscles go slack without realizing it. Something herbal and clean and goddamn intimate.

Next thing you knew, you were waking up. Still on the couch. Room quiet. Phone forgotten. Blanket half-tangled around you, and—wait.

Geo. On top of you. Dead asleep.

Sprawled across your chest like a human furnace, one leg tangled with yours, his arm slung protectively over your stomach, his head tucked into the curve of your neck like you were built to hold him.

His breath was slow, steady, warm against your collarbone. His hair tickled your chin—messy, soft, smelling like his conditioner and his shampoo and him. And all you could do was breathe.

You didn’t dare move. Not because of the weight (though, good lord, the man sleeps like a stone statue), but because the moment was too precious. Too tender. You threaded your fingers through his hair slowly, reverently, breathing in that scent like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. He sighed in his sleep.

A little exhale, a subtle curl of fingers against your side. You almost cried. It wasn’t just about how good he smelled—it was what he smelled like. Comfort. Safety. Something yours.

And then there’s The Hoodie Incident.

You had one of his sweatshirts. Accidentally—Not really, he left it at you plce and you never said anything about it.

You wore it to bed one night because the scent of him helped you sleep better. Wrapped yourself up in it like armor. He noticed it missing after a few days and asked.

“That mine?” he asked casually, brow raised.

“Nope,” you said, already wearing it again, sleeves tucked over your hands.

He stared at you, then walked over, stopping way too close. He leaned down just a little, nose brushing your hair as he murmured: “Keep it.” A beat. Then softer, with that deadly smirk: “Smells like me, right?”

You froze. Brain stopped. Oxygen left the building. He knew. 

He fucking knew. And he weaponized it. Now you own that hoodie. Officially. And every time you wear it, you remember the way he said those words. You remember the scent. You remember how it makes your shoulders drop and your thoughts still. And on the days he’s away, when your chest feels a little hollow and the world a little louder, you curl up in it, close your eyes, and breathe deep. It’s not just a hoodie. It’s a promise. A presence. A reminder that Geo might not always be in the room, but he’s still there.

In your space. In your breath. In the fabric of your comfort.

And he always will be.

Hot Thing #4: Incredibly Patient

It’s not something you notice right away—not in the obvious, neon-sign kind of way. Patience doesn’t announce itself. It creeps in slowly. Quietly. Steadily.

But once you see it in Geo, once it sinks in that he’s never rushed with you, never irritated, never short-tempered, you’re done for.

Geo is incredibly patient with you.

And not in the condescending, pretend-nice sort of way either. It's not a performance. It's just how he is with you. Whether you’re fumbling through something new or spiraling emotionally, he doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. Doesn’t tap his foot waiting for you to get your act together.

He waits. Silently. Solidly.

Like a fortress with a heartbeat.

It shows in the little things first. Like the way he teaches you archery—because he’s your man, when you not never gonna touch archery. He never rolls his eyes when you mess up. Never sigh when you get the same move method four times in a row. You’ll be sitting on the floor, half-focused, frowning at the bow like it insulted your bloodline—and then his hand will appear, warm and massive, curling gently over yours.

“Here,” he murmurs, and his voice is always so low when he talks to you like that. Patient. Measured. Soft in the way gravity is soft—subtle, but you feel it everywhere.

He shifts your fingers gently, adjusting the angle of your hands, the way you’re holding the bow. And he leans over just slightly, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back, his chest barely brushing yours. His breath ghosts past your ear.

“Try again.” But you can’t. Not really.

Not because you’re incapable, but because your entire nervous system is buzzing—not from the game, but from the feel of him. The way his touch isn’t rushed. The way he doesn’t even seem bothered that you’re not paying attention.

The way he notices, of course—but says nothing. Just lets you pretend like you’re actually trying to win when really, your brain is too busy short-circuiting over how gentle he is with you.

And it’s not just with archery practice.

There was one day—you were completely unraveling inside. Stress eating you alive, too many things happening all at once. You’d come over without warning, didn’t say much, just let yourself in with a weak excuse and sat stiffly on his couch. Geo looked at you—really looked—and didn't ask anything.

Didn’t push for an explanation. You could feel his gaze settle on you from across the room, could feel the weight of his silence, but it wasn’t judgment. It was presence. Waiting. Quiet support.

You didn’t want to talk. You couldn’t. So instead you got up, walked over without a word, and folded yourself beside him on the couch. Head on his chest. Nothing else.

Now, Geo isn’t one for touch. He doesn’t cling. Doesn’t really do hand-holding or snuggling or any of the cutesy, high-friction affection. But when it’s you? When you come to him looking tired and wrecked and saying everything in your silence?

He shifts wordlessly to make space for you. Tilts his body so you can settle into him. One of his arms slowly, carefully, finds its way around your shoulders—tentative at first, like he’s not sure if it’ll help.

It does.

You stayed like that for a long time. His shirt smelled like him—clean skin and woodsy soap and something faintly sharp, like wind on cold steel—and you buried your nose into it like it was oxygen. He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t fill the silence with empty reassurances. Just kept his hand loosely resting against your back, his thumb brushing a lazy, quiet rhythm there. Over and over. Like he was grounding you without even meaning to.

At some point, you must’ve whispered, “Sorry.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked slowly, tilted his head so his jaw brushed your hair. “What for?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You didn’t have the energy to explain how your emotions had knotted themselves too tightly to speak. But he didn’t press. Didn’t sigh or pull away or make it about himself.

He just let you exist. In your mess. In your silence.

And later—after you’d dozed off and woken again with a sore neck and a clearer head—he asked, voice calm and unreadable: “You wanna talk about it now?”

You didn’t. But the way he asked? The way he waited for you to say yes or no, giving you full control of the moment—it made your throat ache. Made you feel safe. Like no matter how messy things got, Geo would be there. Not trying to fix it. Not trying to change you. Just staying.

And that’s what patience looks like with him.

It’s in how he watches you wrestle with learning something and never gets annoyed. How he lets you take your time, even when you’re being difficult. How he gives you space when you don’t want to talk, but also makes room for you to collapse wordlessly against him. 

How he listens to you ramble about some obscure obsession for fifteen minutes and never once checks the time. It’s how he trusts your pace. Waits for you to come to him. And when you do—when you finally reach out with hands shaking and words unspoken—he’s already there, steady and silent and yours in the kind of way that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

That’s Geo. Incredibly patient. Almost unfairly so.

And when it’s just the two of you, and you’re fragile in a way most people don’t see? It doesn’t feel simple anymore. It feels sacred. Like maybe love isn’t always fire and fury. 

Sometimes, it’s just a man letting you fall apart against his chest—and waiting quietly while you stitch yourself back together.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒹𝒶𝓃𝓉

Distant. Unemotional. Avoids Closeness.

GEO. GEO. GEO. MY MAN. MY MAN.

MY. MF. MAN. GEO. GODDDDD I MISS WRITING HIM.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Geo’s Attachment Style: Dismissive Avoidant, But Not Entirely Heartless, an intimate autopsy of the man who flinches from closeness but still finds himself soft for you.

Let’s set one thing straight: Geo isn’t cold. He’s controlled.

There’s a difference—and it matters. Most people see the first layer: the distant, unreadable expression, the measured movements, the voice that rarely shifts tone unless absolutely necessary.

They call it stoic. Or maybe “chillingly calm.” They don’t realize it’s not for their benefit—it’s for his. A shield built over the years of knowing that needing people often ends in being disappointed by them.

Geo’s attachment style is avoidant, yes.

But not in the obvious “get away from me” kind of way. It’s more subtle. More surgical. He doesn’t avoid you physically; he avoids the implication of you. He’ll let you sit close. He might even make room for your leg to rest against his. But try to ask him what he’s thinking? What he feels?

And you’ll get a blank look. A pause that lasts just a beat too long.

Then something like, “Nothing important.”

That’s Geo. Dismissive to the core. Not because he doesn’t feel—no, that’s the real tragedy. He feels so much it becomes necessary to compress it all into a vault behind steel and smoke. Emotions are like open circuits in him. Dangerous. Hot. Always at risk of shorting out the entire system.

So he doesn’t express. He manages.

And the irony? Despite all this—despite the fact that he moves through the world like emotional intimacy is a sniper’s red dot aimed at his head—he’s still so incredibly patient with you.

That’s the paradox. That’s where the spell gets cast.

You’ve seen it. The way his brow never creases when you stumble through explanations. When you’re in a mood and don’t want to talk, he never pesters you with questions. He just makes space for your silence like it’s another language he happens to be fluent in. He teaches you things—like his likes and dislikes, his routines—with a steady hand and zero judgment. You fumble? He guides. You panic? He grounds.

He’s never unkind to you.

Even when you’re emotionally volatile, even when you show up unraveling and say nothing at all—he’s calm. Distant, yes. But never cruel. He lets you lean your head on his chest when you’re done pretending to be fine. He stiffens, sure, like physical closeness is a language he doesn’t quite speak fluently. But he doesn’t pull away.

And that’s the difference.

He doesn’t push you out.

He just… doesn’t know how to pull you in.

It’s funny in a way—how you might joke about showing up as a cat to get his attention. You’d think he’d roll his eyes or walk away. But no. He’d freeze. Horrified. Because of affection in feline form? That’s too direct. Too raw. But then he’d let you stay anyway. Make a space for you to curl up beside him without ever acknowledging what it means.

And once you’re in, even as a metaphorical cat? He’ll keep you.

He won’t say it. Won’t dare speak it out loud. But he’ll start moving differently. Making room for you in his routines. One night, he’ll throw you a hoodie without comment. Another time, he’ll share his charger before you even ask. And one day, when you’re bone-tired and thinking you might just break, he’ll make you tea—perfectly how you like it—without asking if something’s wrong.

Because he already knows. He always knows.

Geo doesn’t love declarations. He loves recognition. In presence. In survival. And his avoidant tendencies? They don’t disappear. But they bend—just a little—when it comes to you.

And the real kicker? Warning, I got into my feelings too much here.

You like him. You really do.

Not in the flippant, surface-level way you’ve liked others before—no. This is different. He is different. The attraction didn’t hit you all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was erosion. 

Soft, steady. A slow collapse of every defense you’d so carefully built, worn down by quiet eyes, dry wit, and the kind of patience that made you want to shatter in his hands.

Here’s the unkind truth—the one I’ve had to accept without romanticizing, without making excuses or reading too deeply into things that aren’t there: when it comes to Geo, there are rules. Unspoken, razor-sharp boundaries written in the fine print of his presence.

And at the top of the list is this: I would never tell him.

Tell him I like him? Hell No. That’s not part of the plan.

The plan, instead, is quiet. Strategic. I’d start by getting close to the others—Crowe, the rest of the friend group. Make myself a part of their ecosystem. Not to deceive, but to anchor myself. To become a steady fixture. And then maybe, if I’m lucky, I can learn to be friends with him—Geo. That would be enough. That has to be enough.

Because unless I knew—absolutely knew—that he was ready to open that gate on his own, I wouldn’t risk it. Not a single word. Not a glance too long or a comment too soft.

Because the moment I confess, even slightly, even subtly… he will disappear. Not in fury. Not with cruelty. Just—cool, detached vanishing. His eyes would dull, his tone would shift into something polite and flat. And I’d feel the connection we built snap like a tripwire I never meant to cross.

The worst part? He wouldn’t even leave. He’d still be there—still at group hangouts, still responding in the same dry, measured cadence. I’d still see him because I’d still be friends with Crowe. But the closeness? Gone. Just like that. A line drawn. And I know—I know—I’d feel the change before I even understood what I did wrong.

He’d move me into the mental drawer labeled “Admirer.”

Fan. Supporter. Background character.

And once I’m in there? I never get to come out. Not to him. 

Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about him.

Because I get it. I understand that avoidant armor better than most. As a writer, I’ve lived in that space between longing and fear for years. I’ve crafted entire relationships on writing—made people fall in love with characters who could never abandon them, because they weren’t real. Because fantasy doesn’t leave you unread or misunderstood. Fiction is safe. 

It’s the only place I’ve ever felt like love could be controlled.

In real life, intimacy terrifies me. Emotional closeness is a risk I struggle to take. It’s not just nerves—it’s a deep, gut-level dread of what happens when you let someone see all of you. So I keep my distance. I withdraw. I rationalize the silence. I bury the truth under sarcasm or detachment. And yeah—maybe that’s why I see so much of myself in Geo. Maybe that’s why I care.

Because when I look at him—through the cracks he doesn’t know are showing—I see someone doing the exact same thing. Someone who doesn’t reject connection because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s scared of what it could do to him. Of what it’s already done.

There’s something deeply human about that. Something raw. And I can’t help but wonder what happened to him. What shaped him into this version of himself—this reserved, unreadable, emotionally armoured man. Because no one just becomes that way. No one is born closed-off and analytical to the point of silence. That kind of detachment is a defense, not a default.

So no—you can’t blame me for wanting to know. For wanting to understand him, even if I never get to hold him.

And that’s the truth: if Geo were real, I’d want to be his closest friend before anything else. I wouldn’t push. I wouldn’t prod. I wouldn’t ask for more than he can give. I'd just stay. Let him learn that I won’t vanish when he goes quiet. Let him realize that I’m not afraid of his silence, his avoidance, his walls.

I know what lives behind them.

And if that friendship turned into something more—if, one day, he looked at me and chose us—then yes, I’d be ready. But only if he reached first. Only if he let himself want me out loud. Not because I asked, but because he couldn’t not. 

Until then, I’d watch from the background. Not as a fan. Not as a dreamer.

But as someone who sees him. Truly. Quietly. Completely. And waits.

So all is recommended is to just stay silent. Carefully. Strategically. You become a student of him—his moods, his tells, the way he pulls slightly at his sleeves when he’s agitated but won’t say so. You learn to read silence like a second language. You hold your feelings like a loaded weapon—safety on, never raised. Never fired. 

Because love, to Geo, is risk. And risk? He does not do it lightly.

He’s avoidant. Profoundly. Not because he doesn’t crave closeness—but because he fears what comes with it. Intimacy, to him, is exposure. Vulnerability. Leverage. A soft belly in a world of blades. So he compartmentalizes. He controls. And when things get too close, he doesn’t snap—he disappears behind the steel doors of practiced emotional restraint.

You’ve been on the receiving end of that vanishing act.

You’ve seen how quickly his warmth can turn to winter.

And that’s when you realized—Geo isn’t cold. He’s guarded.

There’s a difference. 

He’s spent so long building walls that sometimes even he forgets what they’re keeping out. But every now and then? He slips. Just for a moment. A flicker. A look. A comment too tender to be accidental. And then—just as fast—he seals it up again. Buried. Archived.

He feels deeply. That’s the problem.

Geo has the heart of a poet locked inside the armor of a tactician. He observes everything—stores it all. He doesn’t forget the things that matter. Not your allergies. Not your favorite song. Not the way your voice catches when you’re trying not to cry. He just doesn’t know what to do with that tenderness.

Because he doesn’t trust people to hold it gently.

So he plays the long game. He tests. Watches. Waits.

And if you pass—if you’re patient, steady, real—then maybe, maybe, he’ll let you stay. Even then, the intimacy doesn’t come in big, sweeping declarations. You won’t get love letters. You won’t get flowers on your doorstep. What you will get is him moving silently through your life in ways no one else notices. 

He won’t say, “I care.” But he’ll quietly correct your posture when you’re standing too long, press a water bottle into your hand when you’re too distracted to hydrate. He’ll edit your work without being asked. He’ll walk on the sidewalk. He’ll memorize your routines and build himself around them without ever needing acknowledgment.

That’s the paradox of Geo’s attachment style:  

He avoids love like it’s a battlefield. But once he lets you in? 

He loves like war. Strategically. Completely. Without retreat. And it’s never loud. Never boastful. But it consumes everything quietly, from the inside out. The only evidence left behind is how much softer the silence feels when he’s next to you. How even his presence at rest feels like protection.

And still—he flinches when it gets too real. He’ll pull back at times, without warning. He’ll retreat into logic, shift into disinterest, claim to be fine when he isn’t. But if you know him—truly know him—you’ll see the tension in his jaw. The pause before he looks away. The way his fingers twitch, wanting to reach for you and stopping short.

That’s the part most people miss.

Geo doesn’t fear connection. He fears being seen and discarded.

So he’d rather be unreadable. Untouchable. Unloved… than unloved after being known. But you stay. Quiet. Consistent. Not asking for more than he can give, but never letting him forget you’re there. And in time, he stops scanning the room for exits. He starts planning with you in mind.

 He doesn’t say, “I love you.” But he changes his route to walk you home. He remembers your comfort shows. He lets you rest against him, even when he doesn’t know what to say.

Because you made it. You got past the gate.

You are no longer a threat. You are no longer a risk. 

And Geo? Geo is not good at love. But he’s brilliant at loyalty.

Once he lets you in, you’re his. No conditions. No expiration. He won’t say it. But he’ll mean it. And in a world where most love burns bright and fast and dies in the ashes— Geo’s love is something else entirely. It’s forged. Tempered. Cold to the touch, but unbreakable. And if you’ve ever known a love like that?

You never forget it. Because no one else ever comes close.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Ah, yes. Hyugo. Such a sweet paradox!

Let’s talk about this baby boy—because honestly, even with all the chaos and brilliance dripping off the others, Hyugo holds his own in the pantheon of personal favorites. And somehow, the fact that he and Geo sit at the top of that list together just… says something dark and poetic about me, doesn’t it?

They’re complete opposites—Hyugo with his golden-retriever chaos, Geo with his stone-faced elegance—and yet, I adore them both with the same violent fervor. But today isn’t about brooding silence and suppressed emotion.

It’s about Hyugo. Our menace. Where do I even begin?

He’s sweet. So sweet.

Unreasonably kind in a way that makes you pause and side-eye the situation because you don’t trust people who smile like that and mean it. But Hyugo does. He’s genuine.

The type who holds doors without making it weird. Who notices when you’re off and asks if you’ve eaten today. Who has the emotional intuition of someone twice his age but hides it under playful sarcasm and that boyish grin.

Also: top student. One of the best on campus.

And yet? He misses class like it’s a sport. Like he’s actively trying to test the limits of how many absences a professor will tolerate before snapping. He'll stroll into class after ghosting for a week, turn in some god-tier assignment, and walk out again like an academic cryptid.

I wish I had that kind of university dominance. That’s not student behavior. That’s political power. It’s infuriating. It’s iconic. It’s Hyugo.

Now, depending on who you ask, he’s either a delinquent in disguise or a straight-laced prodigy. But no one denies one thing: he’s reliable. When it counts, when things get serious, when someone’s in real trouble, Hyugo shows up. Always. No drama. No noise. Just a quiet, steady presence and the kind of help that doesn’t need to be asked for.

And can we talk about how cute he is? No, like—actually cute.

He’s got that youthful glow, the kind that makes people go, “Aww,” before realizing he’s capable of absolutely unhinged behavior when provoked.

Oval-shaped face, soft features, maybe a bit baby-faced still, but it works. It works so well that when he does something unexpectedly hot—like cracking his knuckles while solving a logic puzzle, or shooting someone a sharp look mid-fight—you’re thrown. You're blindsided. You're clutching your metaphorical pearls like, “Oh???”

Because Hyugo is that rare, lethal mix of adorable + competent + quietly dangerous. A walking contradiction: he’s the storm and the rainbow. The mischief and the method. He’s playful, sometimes reckless, always charming—and he masks his depth with lightness. 

But it’s there. Oh, it’s so there. Underneath the jokes and casual demeanor is a razor-sharp mind that doesn’t miss a thing. He knows more than he lets on. And you feel it. Every time he tilts his head just so and gives you a look like he already knows what you’re about to say.

That’s the Hyugo effect.

You go in expecting chaos, and somehow, you walk out with your heart rearranged. He’s not the loudest. Not the darkest. Not the flashiest.

But he stays with you.

Hot Thing #1: That Damn Sliver Tongue

There’s this thing Hyugo does—this unholy, maddening, absolutely criminal little habit that should honestly be banned by every institution of higher learning. And God help you, it’s never on purpose. That’s the worst part. It's not like he knows he's driving you to the brink of cardiac arrest. No. This man, this deceptively innocent-looking menace, just casually, absentmindedly… pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

Or, if he’s feeling particularly destructive to your well-being, he’ll drag it slowly along the back of his teeth—like it’s just a casual muscle memory, no big deal, nothing to see here. Meanwhile, you're across the room calculating the odds of surviving your own attraction.

It happens at random. No warning. No preamble. 

You could be hanging out in the lab, watching him bend over a desk, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he messes with a disassembled drone that looks like it was stolen from Area 51. He's muttering to himself, utterly immersed in his task, hair a little messy, one hand balancing a screw between his fingers. Then—bam. Tongue in cheek. Subtle. Smooth. Like he’s tasting a secret only he gets to enjoy.

And your body? Instantly betrays you.

You feel heat crawl up your neck like a virus. Your pulse jumps. You suddenly forget how to breathe through your nose. And Hyugo? He’s just there. Fixing wires. Completely unaware that he's spiritually assassinated you with a single, lazy tongue movement.

“Hmm,” he murmurs under his breath, squinting at the circuit board like it personally insulted his mother. Then there it is—the soft swipe of his tongue over the bottom of his front teeth, slow and focused, as if he’s savoring the flavor of his own brilliance.

You? Dead. Absolutely spiritually slain.

The first time it happened, you choked on your drink so violently Hyugo actually looked up, concern flickering across his face. “You good?” he asked, brow arched, voice low and calm—like he wasn’t just casually making the most pornographic expression of the week by accident.

You nodded, hacking into your sleeve like a dying Victorian orphan. “Y-Yeah,” you wheezed. “Fine. Just thinking about... gravity.”

“Gravity?” he echoed, amused.

“Yeah. It’s the only thing keeping me from lunging across this table and committing multiple crimes.”

He laughed. The audacity. Laughed. And then had the nerve to go right back to what he was doing—eyes sparkling, tongue flicking out once more like he wasn’t a walking biohazard to your sanity.

It’s gotten worse with time. You start seeing it everywhere. He does it when he’s sketching, scribbling down blueprints with that focused look in his eyes and one earbud hanging loose.

He does it while reading, posture all lazy and slouched, legs wide open like a throne he doesn’t even know he’s sitting on. He even does it while playing with your hair absentmindedly during movie nights, gaze distant, and tongue pressing into his cheek like the scene unfolding on screen is somehow arousing to his neurons.

You swear to god—one of these days you’re just going to lose it.

You’ve already started imagining what else that mouth can do. Not even in a sinful way (okay maybe a little sinful), but in a deeply curious way. Like, surely no one’s allowed to have that much dexterity in their face for free. Surely it’s your moral duty to conduct an investigation. For science.

But no. You behave. Barely.

Because when it comes down to it, Hyugo doesn’t mean to be sexy. He’s not smirking on purpose. He’s not trying to fluster you or steal your soul with the ancient forbidden technique known as “tongue teeth cheek combo.” He’s just being himself. Just that kind, clever, infuriatingly focused version of himself who does hot things without realizing they’re hot.

And that’s what kills you most of all.

Because it’s natural. It’s honest. It’s so damn pure that it makes your crush feel one hundred times worse. Like, how dare he? How dare he sit there looking like that, doing nothing but existing in a hoodie and rolled sleeves, and somehow awaken thoughts in you that belong in a fanfiction archive under “E” for “Explicit and Emotionally Compromising”?

So now you live in fear. 

Fear of the next time he’ll do it again—right in front of you, tongue dragging lazily, eyes lost in thought—and you’ll be expected to act normal, sane, rational. You won't, of course. You'll blink slowly like you're buffering in real time and mumble something about kinetic energy or friction or divine punishment. 

“You're staring again,” he'll say, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a knowing smile.

“You’re the one doing… things with your mouth,” you snap defensively, then pout.

He blinks, confused. “...I’m literally fixing the game system.”

Yeah. Exactly. Send help.

Hot Thing #2: His Eye Contact Is Dangerous

Let me tell you something about Hyugo’s eye contact, and I need you to really listen—because this isn’t just any look.

This isn’t your average glance-across-the-room, polite-nod-of-acknowledgment kind of thing. No. This man stares like he was born to emotionally undress you using nothing but two annoyingly pretty eyes and a terrifying level of focused attention.

It’s not accidental. It’s not fleeting. It’s not safe. When Hyugo looks at you, it’s like he’s reading a page only he can see—in your brain. He listens to you talk like he’s decoding scripture, like every word out of your mouth might be the key to the universe. And you’re just there, talking nonsense about some random childhood movie that definitely shouldn’t be this deep, and he’s—

“So you’re saying… your favorite movie was Shrek 2 because it helped you process betrayal?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Struggles. “…Yes?”

He nods thoughtfully, eyes still locked on you like lasers made of warmth and unsolicited emotional insight. “That makes a lot of sense. The way the narrative reframes traditional heroism and confronts ego through the lens of ensemble character development—”

STOP. Why is he validating you? Why is he intellectualizing your brainrot? Why is he making Shrek 2 sound like a groundbreaking psychological thesis?

And the whole time, his eyes—those infuriatingly warm, soft brown eyes—stay locked on you like you’re the only person in the known universe. They don’t flicker away. They don’t bounce awkwardly to his phone. They stay. Steady. Present. Intentional. And it should be illegal, honestly, how good that feels.

You try to keep talking, you really do. But there’s a moment—a small, barely-there tilt of his head, the way his brows knit ever so slightly like he’s really invested in what you’re saying, and suddenly your brain starts buffering.

“Wait—what were you saying again?” you blink, face hot, internally screaming.

He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t laugh. He just smiles—gently. “You were talking about that dream you had,” he says, tone calm and so stupidly nice it hurts. “The one with the haunted blender and the French goose?”

You nod like you remember. You do not remember.

“Right. Yeah. Haunted goose. Totally. Goose… blender…”

And he just sits there. Watching. Listening. Still tuned in like you’re not spiraling into existential embarrassment. Like your voice is honey and your rambling is holy. And what’s worse—he’s not even trying to flirt. This isn’t a seduction technique. This is just how Hyugo operates. Fully attentive. Ridiculously warm. Dangerously real.

He’s so earnest. So genuinely interested in what you’re saying. It makes you feel important. Like you matter. And that’s the problem. Because somewhere between his steady gaze and the way he tilts his chin like he’s trying to memorize your facial expressions, you start to think maybe you actually do matter.

And that’s how he gets you.

You don’t just get flustered. You get possessed. Your ears go hot. Your fingers start fidgeting. Your thoughts fall apart like poorly constructed IKEA furniture. You start using words like “haunted goose” in casual conversation. All because this boy had the audacity to look at you like your voice was the sun coming up.

Sometimes, when you're across from him—say, at a café table, knees accidentally brushing, his sleeves pushed to the elbows and his chin resting on his hand—you’ll glance up mid-sentence, and he’s already watching you.

“Don’t stop now,” he’ll say, soft grin tugging at his lips. “You were lighting up.”

Lighting up??? Sir. Please. Have some decency. You can’t just say things like that and expect people not to fall in love with you. That’s entrapment.

So now every conversation with Hyugo is a dangerous game. A tightrope walk between “casual chat” and “oops, I just imagined us getting married because you looked at me too long.” Because when he’s got his full attention on you—arms folded, head tilted slightly, eyes glowing like he swallowed a candle—you don’t stand a chance.

There should be a warning label on his forehead. Something like: “May cause heart palpitations, blushing, full-body stuttering, and immediate longing.”

And yeah, it’s a little pathetic how weak you are for it. But you don’t care. Because when he looks at you like that—and you feel seen, not just noticed but understood—you'd willingly melt under that gaze for the rest of your natural life. No regrets. Just vibes.

And possibly a haunted goose.

Hot Thing #3: That Parting Kiss

There’s something so stupidly, unfairly romantic about the way Hyugo never forgets to kiss your cheek goodbye. Every. Single. Time.

It doesn’t matter what the situation is—doesn’t matter if he’s late for something—knowing damn well it isn’t classes, mid-conversation, or if you're standing in the middle of a crowded station with fifteen people brushing past you. Hyugo always makes time. Always finds that one sacred second to pause, lean in, and brush a warm kiss against your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re his home base. His starting point and endpoint, and everything between.

And it’s not just a quick peck and run. No. There’s intention in it. His hand usually finds your waist—or sometimes your wrist, if you’re holding something—and his head dips close like he’s shielding the moment from the world.

“Later, baby,” he’ll murmur, lips just barely grazing your skin, voice stupidly soft and low like you’re the only one he ever speaks to like that. Then he pulls back with a half-smile, eyebrows raised. “Don’t miss me too hard, yeah?”

And then he’s gone. Just… gone. Like, he didn’t just casually throw a whole intimacy bomb at you and walk away with zero consequences. You, meanwhile, are left standing there blinking at the air where he used to be like:

“Okay. That happened. That’s fine. I’m fine. My heart is not skipping and my stomach is not flipping and my entire face is not turning to lava. That’s just your average Monday goodbye.”

It’s NOT. Even worse is when it’s done in front of people. 

Because he doesn’t care. He could be surrounded by teammates, strangers, actual cameras—it doesn’t matter. He still leans in, still whispers your nickname like it’s sacred, and plants that soft kiss on your cheek like you belong to him and everyone should know it.

One time, you tried to beat him to it—get a quick hug and duck out before he could do the whole goodbye routine. Rookie mistake. You barely got three steps away before you felt fingers wrap gently around your wrist and pull you back in. Not hard, not demanding—just firm. Certain.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head like you’d forgotten your keys. “You trying to skip my kiss?”

“I—wasn’t,” you lie, poorly, as he slides an arm around your waist and leans in again, closer this time.

“Mmhm.” He kisses your cheek, slower than usual. “Thought so.”

And then he goes. Again. Leaving you looking like a malfunctioning Disney animatronic with a brain full of nothing but soft lips and the smell of his cologne. What makes it worse—better? worse—is how casual he is about it. Like the kiss isn’t even the thing. Like it’s just… part of the ritual. Something unspoken and sacred that says:

“You matter.”

“I see you.”

“I’ll come back.”

It’s the consistency that kills you, really. Because it’s not some big dramatic gesture saved for special occasions. It’s every time. Whether it’s a ten-minute errand or a three-day trip, Hyugo never skips the goodbye kiss. And over time, that steady little act becomes something you crave. Something you wait for.

And when he forgets? Oh wait—he doesn’t.

Not once. Not even when he’s flustered or exhausted or running late. You’ve had mornings where he’s scrambling to shove on one shoe while chewing toast, and he still circles back, grabs your face in both hands like he needs it, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s oxygen.

“Sorry—almost forgot,” he’ll say, breathless, smiling like he’s teasing but means it more than anything. “Can’t leave without this.”

And how are you supposed to survive that?

How are you supposed to live a normal life when this man drops a kiss on your cheek like a love letter, like a promise, like a damn curse you never want lifted?

Short answer: You’re not.

You’re simply going to blush, melt, and wait for the next time. Because that parting kiss? That quiet, consistent, soft little thing? It’s the hottest form of affection there is.

And you’re absolutely, irreversibly, deliciously ruined by it.

Hot Thing #4: That Damn Smirk 

Genuinely, someone needs to take this man—Hyugo, to court and file a class-action lawsuit for emotional damage. You’re just trying to have a normal, casual, totally-not-deranged conversation with Hyugo. 

Maybe you’re recounting your day. Something safe. Mundane. Like the time you tripped over a wet floor sign and tried to play it off like you meant to launch yourself into a wall. But it’s impossible to keep your thoughts straight because Hyugo is sitting too close.

Not in a socially acceptable “we’re just friends” way either. No. His thigh is grazing yours, warm and solid. His shoulder keeps brushing your arm every time he shifts.

His arm is slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching you, but close enough to brand awareness into the skin of your neck. He’s giving the illusion of casual distance while actively breathing your air.

And then there’s his face.

His cursed, unfair, drop-dead criminal face.

More specifically: the smirk. That slow, knowing, devastating smirk that shows up right when your brain is at its weakest.

You’re mid-sentence—something about your embarrassing run-in with a poorly-placed caution sign—and then his eyes flick to your lips. Just for a second. Barely there. But it’s over. Your tongue ties itself in a knot, your thoughts scatter like startled birds, and suddenly you're blinking at him, completely blank.

“—and then I tripped over the sign, because I thought it was a—uh…” You trail off. “…What was I saying?”

You can feel the moment he chooses violence.

Hyugo shifts again, slouching even lower into the couch so that he’s all lazy limbs and confident calm, stretching himself out like a cat who knows damn well it’s the center of attention. He tilts his head slightly, that dangerous smile creeping onto his lips—not even a full grin, just a pull at one corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Take your time,” he says, voice soft and stupidly smooth. “I’m listening.”

No. No, he is not allowed to be that close and that hot and that patient. It’s too much. You are not emotionally equipped for this level of concentrated charm. You blink at him. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Nope. But if I did, would you stop me?”

Touché. He leans in, just slightly. His fingers ghost along the couch behind your back, not touching you but so close you can feel the heat. His breath brushes your cheek, and now you’re fairly certain your soul has left your body and is watching from the ceiling like, “Oh no. I’m going to fold.”

“You sure you’re not nervous?” he asks, low and teasing. “Your voice gets all high when you’re flustered.”

You scoff (weakly). “I am not flustered.”

He doesn’t argue. He just smiles wider—that smile, the smug one—and lets the silence stretch. The longer it goes on, the more it eats you alive. He’s not talking. He’s not moving. He’s just looking at you with those warm, rich eyes, with that maddening smirk that says, you’re mine, even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

“Say something,” you mutter, your voice barely there. “Anything. I’m about to crawl out of my skin.”

And he does. 

He says, “You always look at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like I’m the problem and the solution.”

You don’t even have a response. You just stare at him, mouth slightly open, breath uneven. And then—because he is made of sin and silk—he lifts his hand, brushes his knuckles against your jaw, and tilts your chin just slightly. You don’t remember leaning in. You don’t remember closing the space. But suddenly his mouth is on yours.

And oh, it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s intentional.

He kisses you like he’s thought about it. Like he’s planned it. One hand settling around your waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

His lips move slow, deep, unhurried, like he’s savoring you—tasting every syllable you’ve ever stammered in his presence. When your fingers clench in his shirt, when you make a tiny sound against his mouth, he smirks into the kiss and pulls you closer, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

And when you finally pull back—barely, breathless, dazed—he’s looking at you like you’re the one who started it. “You were saying something about a sign?” he murmurs.

You blink, lips swollen, heart in your throat. “…What sign?”

He grins. Full-on. Smug and satisfied. Absolutely insufferable. “Exactly.”

So no. It’s not fair. It’s actually unethical. Because that damn smirk? That sly, quiet little upturn of his lips that always comes before he ruins your day with a single look or kiss or whisper? It’s a death sentence. A promise. A challenge.

And you’re failing. Beautifully. Voluntarily. Every. Single. Time.

Attachment Style: 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Hyugo’s attachment style? Disorganized as hell. Capital D. Italicized. Underlined twice in red.

It’s that rare, volatile cocktail of craving closeness and fearing it—of pulling someone in just to push them away the moment it starts to feel too real. It’s intense. Inconsistent. Unstable in a way that feels like whiplash and poetry at the same time. Hyugo: A Study in Disorganized Attachment and Devastating Presence.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—Hyugo is a mess. 

Not. Not like Sol, he's—ugh, that man is whole other level.

Not the cute, quirky kind of mess you can fix with a night in and some chamomile tea. No, Hyugo is chaos wrapped in silence. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve just uncovered a secret, only to realize it’s already falling apart in your hands.

Disorganized attachment fits him like a custom-tailored curse. One minute he’s with you—so present, so tender, so there—and the next, he’s vanished like smoke. No call. No warning. Just gone.

And the wild part? Everyone’s used to it. “You’re in Hyugo’s class? Good luck catching him.” or “Mister MIA strikes again.” or “Does he even go here?”

But the truth is, he does. 

Just not in the way that fits a schedule. Hyugo is everywhere and nowhere, running errands for professors, covering hush-hush matters for the administration, disappearing into side jobs he won’t talk about. He’s useful—too useful. The kind of guy who shows up when no one else can, handles what others won’t, and quietly earns the kind of backstage immunity that keeps him off the radar and still in the system.

He's a ghost with credentials.

And yet, when he's with you? He's with you. Fully. Deeply. Intensely. He speaks low and soft like your words are sacred, like you’re a language only he understands. He doesn’t touch often, but when he does, it’s deliberate. The brush of his fingers on your wrist. A palm between your shoulders when you’re tense. Barely-there moments that land like thunder.

And then—he’s gone again.

Hyugo is affection wearing armor. Intimacy holding its breath. He wants to love, to be known, to be seen—but he doesn’t trust it. Not really. Not fully. He’s lived too long managing expectations, compartmentalizing emotion, prioritizing others’ needs over his own. Somewhere along the way, closeness became a threat. So when you get close? He panics. He disappears. Not to hurt you, but because he doesn’t know how to stay.

He’s full of contradictions. He ghosts your texts but brings your favorite snack without you ever asking. He disappears for days, then returns with that tired smile and eyes that say, “Please don’t give up on me.”

He won't explain himself. Won’t offer apologies the way you might want. But he’ll show up with little offerings, hoping you understand the subtext:

“I’m still trying.” or “I care.” or “This is all I know how to give.”

And you believe him.

Because Hyugo isn’t manipulative—he’s terrified. Torn between the craving for connection and the deep-seated fear that he’ll ruin it the moment he touches it too hard.

That’s the heart of disorganized attachment: love feels like danger. So he pulls you close and pushes you away, hoping you’ll read the space between as loyalty. Hoping you'll stay, even if he doesn’t always know how to meet you halfway.

Hyugo’s affection feels like gravity—irregular, relentless. You orbit him without realizing you’ve started to. You excuse his absences. You memorize the cadence of his quiet. You forgive him, even when he hasn’t asked.

And that’s the trap.

Because when he does choose you—when he lets you into his emotional bunker—it’s like watching winter thaw. A slow, rare, aching thing. He’s still messy. Still inconsistent. But for once, he’s trying not to vanish. That effort is real. And when Hyugo tries, it’s the bravest thing he does.

So no, Hyugo isn’t the dream boyfriend you read about in neat little romances with perfect communication and stable text response times. He’s not reliable in the traditional sense.

But he is real. Raw. Complex. And if you’re patient—if you understand the language of broken patterns and unspoken apologies—then loving Hyugo becomes an act of rebellion. An act of faith. Because when he stays—when he chooses to stay—it’s not by accident.

It’s because you’ve become his safe place. And that?

That means everything—it’ll be the bravest thing he’s ever done.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Hi! I'd like to request Bob Reynolds x fem!reader where he is trying to find a way to ask her out when reader accidently walks in on him practicing how to ask her out

Heaven in Hiding | r. r.

Robert "Bob" Reynolds x fem!reader

Word Count: 883

Warnings: Mildly suggestive acts

Author's Note: I made this a Halsey reference i'm so sorry

Talk to Me! | AO3

She’s sitting on the counter in the kitchen, sipping a lukewarm cup of coffee as she scrolls through her phone. It’s a little after midnight, and the team is tucked away in their rooms, probably asleep. The only reason she’s awake is because she slept most of the day away, having been on bed rest after the last mission. Though, in all fairness, she didn’t actually need it.

Okay, yeah. She got shoved out a window. And yeah, she only just managed to grapple herself to a railing before hitting the wall. But the healing factor she has makes bed rest a moot point. 

However, she didn’t want to go to the debriefing, so she didn’t argue and spent her day sleeping. 

Coffee is probably not the best choice. But she’s finally awake and the tower is quiet. So she’s enjoying the peace while she has it. 

“This isn’t what I usually do…no, that sounds bad…,”

She perks up a bit, looking up as Bob wanders across the common space. The lights are off, and her phone screen is dimmed, so he doesn’t seem to notice she’s there. For a minute, she considers making him aware but he seems to be caught up in whatever he’s talking about. 

“Okay no. A girl like you…is…no,” he mumbles again, stopping in front of the window and raking his hands through his hair. 

She realizes, with a bit of surprise, that he’s trying to ask someone out. The thought hurts; makes her chest tighten. She and Bob have been getting closer. And she was thinking that there’s something between them. But she understands that, most likely, he’s found comfort in someone else. That he’s probably not interested in someone who is just as battered as he is. 

Probably Yelena. He’s always with her, and that makes sense.

She wants to be happy for him.  

“Someone like you is new to me. That’s way better. Someone like you —someone smart and caring and kinda terrifying —no, no she’s not terrifying. I’m just a pussy —,”

“Hey, don’t say that,” she finally cuts him off, hopping off the counter. 

Bob practically jumps out his skin, letting out a cry as he presses his back into the window. His eyes are wide, hand clutching his heart. If she listens close enough, she’s certain that she would be able to hear his heartbeat kicking in his chest. His eyes light up, his panic manifesting into a physical symptom. 

“Fuck, what are…why are you out here?” He asks, voice trembling as he slowly calms down. “I…I thought everyone was asleep.”

“I’ve been asleep all day,” she reminds him, walking over to him with her hands up. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I —yeah, no. It’s okay. Were you…did you hear any of that?” He asks, and he’s shaking still. Cautiously, he leans back into the window and slides to the floor. 

“If it makes you feel better, I can pretend I didn’t?” She offers, moving to sit beside him. 

“No…no, that won’t…that doesn’t help,” he groans, covering his face with his hands. In the dim lighting of the room, she sees the crimson blush that’s taking over cheeks. “That’s so fucking embarrassing.”

“It’s fine,” she reassures, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her cheek on them, looking at him. “You know, she’s going to say yes. Though maybe don’t tell her she’s terrifying.”

Bob stares at her for a long time, his brows furrowed. They sit there for a while, silence lingering between them. She needs to fill it.

“I mean, Yelena is terrifying,” she continues, shrugging. “But she’s great. And I know she cares so much about you.”

“You…,” he starts to say, then he pauses, dropping his hands into his lap. “You think I’m trying to ask out ‘Lena?” 

Sitting up straight, she drops her legs back to the floor, crisscrossing them in front of her. “I mean, yeah? Who else would you be asking out?”

Bob blinks several times as he stares at her. There’s gears turning in his head, she can tell. Like he’s trying to figure out something, or find words. She waves at him a little, saying his name softly. Drawing his attention back to her. 

Then he’s taking her by the face, pulling her into his space, and kisses her hard. She gasps, surprised —but returns the kiss, deepening it. One of his hands rests on the back of her neck as the other is drawing her into his lap. Her knees rest on either side of his thighs as her hands run through his hair. 

The kiss doesn’t break; Bob’s hands are gripping her hips, bruising and strong, as he pulls her down against him. There’s another gasp from her as she feels him, semi-hard, between her legs. His tongue is in her mouth, messy and tangled. She surrenders to the touch, pressing down on him in a slow but deliberate grind. It draws a moan —cracked, desperate —from Bob’s lips. 

“We —I don’t want to stop —but —,” he manages to breathe out, but his hands are still on her, grazing under her shirt and up her ribs. “I just —it’s you. I’ve been —,”

“Bob, I get it now,” she laughs, kissing him again, smiling into it. 

“Oh thank god.”

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton

Chapter 6, Part 1

masterpost (please no editing, head hurt, throat hurt, words hard)

“Danny, no,” Dick said, again.

“Danny, yes,” Danny said back, again.

Gar leaned over to Wally and whispered loudly, “You like the stubborn ones, don’t you?”

Wally sighed and buried his face in his hands. That would have worked better if his hands weren’t still slightly transparent.

“Black hair and blue eyes too,” Victor added.

“What an observation, you’re a real genius,” Donna said with a roll of her eyes.

“Uh, yeah, I actually am a genius,” Victor pointed out.

“Inappropriately positive,” Kori said with a tilt of her head as she watched Dick and Danny argue.

Gar blinked at her. “What?”

“Like… they are positive even when they should not be positive about the situation. They are… no, they pretend to be optimists,” Kori explained.

The rest of the gathered Titans looked at Dick and Danny thoughtfully.

“Yeah, no, you’re right. Inappropriately positive,” Gar agreed.

“Recklessly self sacrificing,” Raven added, to agreeing nods and murmurs.

“So smart they’re stupid.” The Titans turned to look at Mina, who just gave a little shrug. “It’s true.”

“So true. Can we keep you?” Gar asked.

Mina laughed and shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not hero material, I’m just an oracle. But if you ever need a reading, you just have to give me a call!”

Gar perked up like a puppy even without transforming. “Oh! Can you do one while you’re here?”

“Focus, Gar,” Raven said.

“Ugh. ‘Focus’, as if there’s anything we can do while they argue!” Gar said with a gesture towards Wally’s boyfriends.

“Who do you think will win?” Donna asked.

“Danny,” Wally answered. He pulled his face out of his hands and shrugged when his team (plus Mina) all looked at him. “At the end of it, they both want me back. Either Dick gives in now, or he gives in when things feel hopeless, but he’ll give in.”

“But at the risk of Danny?” Kori asked.

Wally bit back comment about how she didn’t know Dick, not like she thought she did, but that would have just been lashing out with his own frustrations. Dick and Kori’s breakup was ages ago, and Dick’s wounds had long scarred over. Besides, he never did let Wally fight for him, even when he needed it most.

“Danny’s been a hero. Rules are different for heroes,” Wally explained. “At the end of the day, Dick will trust that Danny understands the risk. He’ll let Danny make the final call.”

Raven gave a little nod. “And he will hate himself for it the whole time.”

“Yeah,” Wally agreed with a sigh. “Danny?”

The argument cut off with both of them turning to blink at Wally. It would be adorable, the way they moved in sync, if things weren’t so serious.

“Give me the over under on this,” Wally said. “Treat it like you’re proposing an experiment. What the risk something happens to you? What’s the risk we can’t undo it? And what’s the risk if we don’t do it?”

Danny set his hands stubbornly on his hips. “The risk is you never get back!”

“To you, Danny, what’s the risk to you,” Wally said, almost pleaded.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? What yeah?” Gar asked, unable to help himself.

“The yeah is, that I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that being Wally’s anchor is effecting my health,” Danny said. He crossed his arms. He looked smaller for it. “Is my plan putting myself at risk? Sure. I would say about an eighty percent chance that something serious is going to happen to me.”

“Which is too high,” Dick pleaded.

Danny sighed. “But Wally’s point is, if we do nothing? It’s a hundred percent chance that something serious happens to me. This isn’t sustainable.”

“Oh…” Dick said after a beat. “Yeah, that’s an oh.”

“Yeah,” Danny agreed. He took a breath and turned back meet Dick head on. “I guess I wasn’t making that part clear enough. This is a risk, I know that, but we can do it as safely as possible. I can be surrounded by heroes in a state of the art medical facility. Sure, I’m already weaker than I was, but I’m still strong enough to do this. I’ve bounced back from worse; I believe in my chances. And at the end of the day, it’s my risk. So please, believe in me too?”

Dick was silent for a long moment, searching Danny’s gaze, but Wally already knew what Dick was doing to say. He wasn’t surprised at all when Dick sighed with a slight slump.

“I believe in you,” Dick said, “but there will be precautions and fail safes in place first, so we’re not doing it right this instant.”

“That’s fine,” Danny agreed quickly.

“And we’re bringing in some of the Justice league.”

“Sure, not a problem.”

Dick snorted. “You say that, but you haven’t met Constantine yet.”

“Who?”

--

AN: Wally loves his stubborn idiots and he's going to try to protect Dick from his own guilt if he can. Danny... he's just trying to trust Danny.

(While I love Kori as a character, I hate how that whole event was written and the victim blaming of it. So sometimes I have to let myself be a little salty about it.)

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Eight

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, sexism, you're going to want to grab a man and shake him, brief argument between Lando/Amelia, protective!Lando, possessive!Lando.

Notes — In honour of Lando's Monaco win, enjoy this long ass chapter xxx

2024 (Bahrain)

The hotel bathroom was quiet, lit only by the soft gold glow of the sconces and the flickering of a candle perched on the windowsill. The bathwater had gone from hot to lukewarm, but neither of them wanted to move. The air was humid, vanilla scented fog clinging to the mirror, and the silence was beautiful.

Amelia sat with her back against Lando’s chest, her legs stretched out between his, one arm resting over his knee, the other trailing lazy patterns in the water. His arms wrapped loosely around her middle — not tight, just steady. Warm. Anchoring.

His fingers brushed the edge of her tiny bump, which was just now starting to round out more noticeably under the water.

“Susie texted me,” he said eventually, voice low, lips near her ear.

“I know. She sent me a screenshot.” Amelia hummed. “Said you told her you were proud of me. Thought it was very sweet.”

“I am.” His nose nudged against her temple. “You said yes to something that was scary for you.”

“I always try to say yes to things that matter,” she corrected, soft but firm.

“Same thing, sometimes.”

She smiled a little, the kind that didn’t quite reach her mouth but warmed her anyway. They fell quiet again, letting the moment stretch. Steam curled in the air above the water.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lando said after a while, “about how we announce it.”

Amelia turned her head just slightly, enough to glance back at him. “The baby?”

He nodded. “People already suspect. We could just... confirm. Say it in our own way, before someone takes that away from us, you know?”

She thought for a second. “No awkward statement. No grid-side reveal or something ridiculous like that. Just a photo.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“A bump pic. Me dressed comfy. I don’t want to show anyone my scans, they’re private. Ours.” She said.

He hummed his agreement. “I can take the picture if you want.”

She pushed further into him. “Yes, fine. I’ll post that, and you can post whatever you want.”

Lando grinned. “Yeah? Thanks, baby.”

“Mm.”

They sat for another beat before Lando asked, quieter this time, like he was tiptoeing toward something sensitive. “You want to go back to work after?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She watched the water ripple as she moved one toe, trailing it lazily beneath the surface.

It was a fair question. With Lando’s salary and her own savings, they were more than secure. Add in both their families’ wealth, and their future, their child’s future, was already built on something solid.

But it wasn’t about money.

It was about legacy.

She loved her work. Loved the process of building something from nothing. Loved running strategy with Oscar and chasing that edge-of-your-seat adrenaline from the pit wall. She loved knowing she’d carved out a place in a world that had once been her only real comfort; a world where she hadn’t always felt welcome, but had made space for herself anyway.

Not many autistic people got the chances she’d had. She knew that. And she wasn’t ready to give them up.

Finally, she nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He’d known her answer before she said it.

Still, hearing it, the certainty in her voice when she said “Yeah. I do.” — settled something in his chest that he hadn’t even realised was unsteady.

Of course she was going back to work.

Of course she wouldn’t be able to stay away.

She wasn’t built to. And honestly, he hadn’t fallen in love with someone who could. Amelia wasn’t passive. She didn’t sit still well. Her happiness lived in spreadsheets and simulations, strategy calls and sharp, direct problem-solving that left most people scrambling to catch up.

And he was obsessed with it.

Still; some part of him, ancient and primal and just a little bit unhinged, wanted to keep her home. Keep her wrapped up in soft jumpers and warm beds and low, steady heartbeats. Keep her safe. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he didn’t trust anyone else.

And now she was carrying his baby.

That knowledge struck him like a wave sometimes. The reality of it. The fragility. The ferocity of what he felt when he looked at her now; the kind of love that walked hand in hand with fear.

“I’ll get a sling,” she was saying, shifting slightly in the water, her voice more animated now. “Or one of those carrier things. I’ll bring the baby to the track with me. Nap time during debriefs. I’m sure they’ll be able to sleep through Oscar talking.”

Lando huffed a laugh, nuzzling the damp curve of her shoulder. “Probably sleep better with it.”

“I’m serious.” She turned a little, looking back at him. “I’ll make sure they’re safe. Make sure it’s never too loud or too dangerous. But I want them to be involved. Even if they’re too small to remember it.”

“They’ll remember how it felt,” Lando said, voice low. “You being happy. In your element.”

That made her pause.

She blinked. Once. Then again. She didn’t cry, not quite, but the weight of the moment settled heavy between them. “We’re going to be fine, aren’t we?” She whispered.

Lando tightened his arms around her, chin tucked into her shoulder. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We’re going to be brilliant.”

—

Later that evening, Amelia stood in front of the mirror in one of Lando’s old t-shirts; soft, worn-in, hit mid-thigh. The hallway light was low behind her, and Lando leaned silently in the doorway, watching her.

The bump was barely there. Just a shift. A curve where there hadn’t been one before. But he saw the way she looked at it — clinical, detached, like she was trying to solve a problem that couldn’t be defined by numbers.

He knew that look. Had seen it a hundred times when she was deep in a design challenge, stuck on something she couldn’t brute-force with logic.

Only this wasn’t CFD. This wasn’t something she could sketch her way out of.

“Beautiful,” he said finally, softly.

She startled slightly, eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror. “Sorry,” she muttered, like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

He crossed the room in a few slow steps and slid his arms around her from behind, hands warm over the gentle swell of her stomach. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he said, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Just… talk to me. Yeah?”

She hesitated, then leaned back into him slightly. “It’s stupid.”

“Bet it’s not.”

Her gaze dropped to the fabric of the shirt. “It’s just… weird. My body. It’s not mine the same way it used to be.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just held her tighter.

“I know it’s normal. I know it’s supposed to be this way. But I feel like I have to keep checking if I’m still… me.”

“You are,” he said, no hesitation. “You’re still you.”

She let out a breath, shaky. “I have two heartbeats.”

“Yeah.” His hand slid lower, covering hers. “Just another one for me to protect, hm?”

Her laugh was quiet. She looked down again, hands still hovering at the hem of her shirt.

Lando’s thoughts ran in quiet loops behind his steady face.

Amelia was already strong. Already capable. But she was also vulnerable in a way that twisted something primal in him. Not because she was weak, never that, but because she mattered. More than anyone. More than anything.

She turned in his arms and looked up at him. “I didn’t know you’d be like this,” she said softly.

“Like what?”

“Protective.”

His jaw tensed slightly, but his thumbs were gentle as they traced the curve of her waist. “You’re you. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her breath hitched.

“And if anyone even thinks about making you feel less than perfect, or looking at you wrong, I swear to God—”

“You’ll what?” She said lightly, looping her fingers in the hem of his hoodie. “Run them over with your big scary Formula One car?”

“If I must.”

Her laugh was breathy, but her eyes were wet again. She leaned in, forehead to his chest, small and quiet and warm in his arms.

The mirror behind them had fogged over, hiding their reflection.

“You’re mine,” he whispered into her hair. “Both of you. Mine.”

And if it was possessive, if it was a little bit selfish, well, maybe it didn’t matter.

Because it was true.

—

Amelia was called in just after Oscar’s final lap time had been logged and the garage started to empty. The paddock buzzed around her with its usual noise and movement, but her mind was quiet. Focused.

She didn’t knock.

Zak and Andrea were already inside, both standing.

She blinked at them.

Her dad looked uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the heat. His hands were on his hips, eyes on the floor. Andrea was less rigid, but equally tense, shifting a folder between his hands. When Amelia stepped in and closed the door, they both looked up.

“Sit down?” Andrea offered.

“I’ll stand,” she said evenly.

Andrea gave a small nod. Zak exhaled, a breath heavier than it needed to be.

“We spoke to the factory team,” Andrea began, “Reviewed the data from the past three days alongside their notes from the adjustments we made pre-season.”

“They admitted it,” Zak added. His voice sounded rough, like he’d rehearsed this and it still didn’t come out right. “They said you were right. About the aero balance. About the centre of gravity shift. About the torque distribution. Everything.”

Amelia didn’t react. Of course she’d been right.

Zak looked at her like he wanted to see something more; a smile, vindication, even relief. She didn’t give it to him.

“We should’ve listened when you flagged it the first time,” Andrea said. “It was a mistake to sideline your design philosophy.”

“You didn’t sideline it,” Amelia corrected, voice flat. “You replaced it. And let the factory team run with their own version of the spec, assuming I was being difficult instead of accurate.”

Andrea winced slightly. Zak flinched like she’d slapped him, not because her tone was harsh, but because it wasn’t. There was no heat behind the words. Just truth. Clean. Clinical.

Like it was data.

“I’m sorry,” Zak said.

Amelia finally looked at him.

She tilted her head slightly. “For which part?”

Zak swallowed. “For all of it,” he said. “For doubting you. For not defending your position when it counted. For treating you like a junior instead of a peer just because you’re my daughter.”

Silence.

Amelia’s hands were still. She blinked once, slow.

“I’m not here because I’m your daughter,” she said. “I’m here because I’m the best person for the job. I’ve proven that more than once. I led a driver to two incredible championships. But every time I push back, you treat it like a personal affront instead of professional disagreement. And Andrea—”

He looked up, eyes tired.

“—you’ve spent months pretending you trust me when it’s clear you don’t. That has consequences. Real ones. You compromised the car’s integrity because you didn’t want to back me.”

Andrea opened his mouth, but closed it again. There was nothing to say.

Zak was the one who stepped forward slightly, voice quieter now. “I didn’t know how to separate it. You being my daughter. You being in charge. I thought if I gave you too much leeway, people would say I was biased. But pulling back, letting others make the calls, it wasn’t the answer. And I see that now.”

Amelia didn’t move. She didn’t cry. She didn’t fold.

She just looked at him, measured and calm.

“Your worry about nepotism made you blind to sexism,” she said simply. “I wasn’t just second-guessed because I’m your daughter. I was second-guessed because I’m a woman in a room full of men who think engineering should look and sound like them. And you let that happen.”

Zak looked gutted.

Andrea rubbed a hand down his face, shame written clear across it.

“We’re reverting the car to your spec,” Andrea said quietly. “As soon as possible. We’re thinking it might take a while, but you’ll have full oversight. We’ll make sure your pipeline through the factory is restored — direct, no interference. We’ll back you. Properly, this time.”

Amelia gave one small nod. “Miami was your deadline.”

“I know,” Zak said. “It might still look like that — with how long it’ll take to introduce the upgrades in a way that won’t piss off the FIA.”

She hesitated, then nodded again — a fraction slower. “Good,” she said. “Then let me get back to work.”

She turned, her braid swaying behind her, and left without needing anything else.

No smugness. No triumph. Just forward motion; the kind she’d built her whole career on.

—

Amelia stood by the far window, sipping from a paper cup. Her badge was clipped to her belt still, her braid loose from where she’d pulled it apart during debrief. She didn’t move when her dad walked in.

He didn’t speak right away.

Neither did she.

He poured himself a coffee, too. Let the quiet stretch. Then, “I’ve been awful, haven’t I?.”

Amelia didn’t look at him. “Yes. But that wasn’t the worst part.”

He waited.

She turned, arms folded, the paper cup tucked loosely in her hand. “You’ve always believed in me as your daughter. I don’t doubt that. But you’ve never made space for me to be more than that when we’re here. You tell me you’re proud; but the second I disagree with you, or someone else in that room, I become a liability.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not.” Her voice stayed calm, level. Not emotional — precise. “I’m not irrational. I’m not reckless. I know that sometimes I communicate differently. But I am good at what I do. You don’t get to keep acting like those things are mutually exclusive.”

Zak looked down. His face, tired and slack under the motorhome lights, was older than she remembered seeing it last.

“You’re not a liability,” he said quietly. “Honey, I know you’re not. I swear.”

She nodded once, accepting it. No more, no less.

“I’m not angry,” she added. “But I’m not going to forget it happened.”

Zak nodded too. “You shouldn’t.”

They stood there for a beat longer.

Then he cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

She gave him a look.

“I mean—” He raised his hands slightly.

“…Fine.”

He scratched at the back of his neck, awkward. “Is this a bad time to ask if you’re going to want maternity leave?”

She blinked. Slowly. “Seriously?”

“Well, you’re already doing the job of three people. I just thought I should check.”

“I’m not going to be sitting around crocheting for six months, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

Amelia shrugged. “I’ll take a few weeks to recover. But I’m not vanishing. I’ll still be consulting. I’ll have a baby sling. And my iPad.”

Zak gave a small, helpless laugh — the first one all day that wasn’t exhausted. Then quieter, “You’re going to be a phenomenal mom.”

She looked down at her cup. Said nothing. But her lip twitched.

Zak stepped forward and pulled her into a quick, firm hug. For a moment, she stayed stiff — then let herself soften against him, just for a second.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “For everything. For trying to keep you away from Lando all those years ago, and for underestimating you again and again. I’ve learned my lesson. It'll never happen again.”

She didn’t say thank you.

But she hugged him back.

—

There were four days until the first race of the 2024 season.

The worst of the heat had passed, leaving just a shimmer of warmth on the breeze as Amelia and Lando strolled side by side down a quiet stretch of narrow street, tucked away from the busier tourist spots.

Amelia had her sunglasses on, hair up in a messy bun. One hand rested lightly on her hip through the oversized linen shirt she’d borrowed from Lando that morning. Her other hand was cradling a half-finished bottle of water.

“You sure you’re not too tired?” Lando asked as they slowed near the edge of a small, shaded plaza.

“If I sit still for too long, my brain starts building hypothetical aero upgrades. You don’t want that,” she replied dryly.

Lando grinned. “God forbid you solve our side-pod turbulence in your sleep.”

“I already did that.” She told him seriously.

They found a little cafe tucked between two sandstone buildings; one of those slightly touristy places, but quiet, with mismatched chairs and a handwritten chalkboard menu. The awning fluttered faintly overhead as they took a seat outside, the table wobbly until Lando kicked a piece of stone under one leg.

Amelia squinted at the dessert menu propped behind the till. “What’s that?”

Lando followed her gaze. “‘Tiramisu stuffed brioche’,” he read aloud. “Nice.”

“I want it.” She said.

“You want it?” He blinked. “You never eat sweets before four pm.”

Amelia gave him a look. “Yes. Well. Apparently, now I do. Make sure it has no alcohol.”

Lando stood without another word and went to order. She watched him through the front window as he paid, then turned slightly to rest a hand on her stomach — absently. Still not fully used to the motion, but grounding herself in it more every day.

When he returned, two drinks in hand and the promised pastry on a little ceramic plate, he placed it in front of her like it was some precious offering.

“Moment of truth,” he said, eyes dancing.

She took one bite.

Then blinked. Chewed. Blinked again.

“Oh wow.”

Lando laughed. “Oh yes.”

“I want twelve more.”

He leaned back, looking smug. “Say the word, and I’ll clear out their kitchen.”

Amelia broke off another piece, then paused mid-bite, frowning at the treat with faint suspicion. “Is it normal to fixate on food like this?”

“Yes,” he said easily. “And very cute.”

She narrowed her eyes. “It’s irrational. There’s no scientific reason why—”

“You’re building a human,” Lando said, gently interrupting. “You can have cravings. It’s fine. I find it… weirdly hot, actually.”

She choked on the next bite.

Lando grinned wider. “What? There’s something kind of sexy about watching the most brilliant mind in motorsport fall madly in love with wildly specific flavoured carbs.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Amelia swallowed her mouthful and rolled her eyes, but she did smile, just slightly, as she reached for his drink and took a sip without asking.

They sat in the quiet for a while longer, warm air brushing against their skin, the low hum of the city around them. At one point, Lando reached across the table and took her hand, just held it there, thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles.

“Tell the group-chat.” She said. “Before we post on Instagram. It’ll be nice for them to hear it directly from you.”

“Okay, baby.”

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2024 F1 Grid

Lando N.

alright lads

Serious message incoming

George R.

Everything alright mate?

Alex A.

Did Amelia lose her iPad somewhere in Bahrain and you expect us to go searching for it? Bc I’m busy

Charles L.

i will NOT be clicking any weird links this time

Lando N.

shut up all of you for 5 seconds

i’m being SERIOUS

Oscar P.

👀

Lando Norris:

Amelia’s pregnant.

We’re having a baby!

Carlos S.

BRO

FELICIDADES

Pierre G.

WHAT

YOU’RE GONNA BE A DAD????

Fernando A.

Congratulations!

I already knew of course, mi Nina informed me herself x

George R.

Mate. Mate.

MATE.

A BABY NORRIS.

Charles L.

❤️❤️❤️❤️

Esteban O.

So you’ll be like… a real life dad? Omg

Lando N.

Yes very real. Baby Norris will be arriving late summer.

Logan S.

Does this mean I won’t be the baby of the grid anymore?

Oscar P.

Sorry Loges. Feels like you’ve been dethroned.

Oscar P.

Also

Lando’s baby is 100% going to know more about aero than half this group before it can talk.

Lando N.

not even a joke

Yuki T.

omg

tiny paddock baby

can i be godfather

Lando N.

we’re not discussing godparents yet 💀

George R.

Tell Amelia congratulations from all of us — and that she’s the real hero in all this

You just did the fun bit LOL

Lando N.

already told her

Max V.

Happy for you both, mate

Hope you’re ready for zero sleep for the rest of your life 👍

Lando N.

ready as I’ll ever be

(i think)

Carlos S.

Let’s gooooooo

Grid uncle squad is forming

Message pinned by George Russell:

GEORGE R.

🎉 CONGRATS LANDO + AMELIA 🎉

Baby Norris incoming — Summer 2024

—

amelianorris just posted . . .

amelianorris We’re having a baby and I am always nauseous 🧡

liked by landonorris, maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, mclaren and 4.7m others

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landonorris my beautiful baby and my perfect little miracle. ❤️ by amelianorris

user82 the fact that i dont know if amelia is 'beautiful baby' or 'perfect little miracle'.... im so soft for them ohmygod. parents fr

maxverstappen1 Congratulations! You will be wonderful parents x

user26 BABY NORRIS IS REAL OMG!!!!!! THE SPECULATION WASN'T US BEING CRAZY!? BABY NORRIS TRUTHERS RISE

maxfewtrell Congrats!!!! So unbelievably happy for you and Lando. Can't wait to be an uncle 🥰

user60 you're telling me that little lando norris is going to be a dad?????? oh my word im speechless

oscarpiastri All my love to you both (baby and mommy) x

landonorris bro??? oscarpiastri oh right congrats ig user16 LMAO so we all know who his favourite norris is 😭

mclaren A McLaren baby! How exciting. Congratulations to you both!!! xxxx

—

The sun was already climbing, casting shadows across the paddock as the first media crews began setting up. There was a crispness to the desert air, the kind that would vanish by noon. The paddock wasn’t loud yet. That would come later, with the rush of media pens and mechanics and cameras and the first official laps of the year.

Amelia stepped out of the car first, tugging her sunglasses into place. Lando was out a second later, gently shutting the door and circling to her side without a word. His hand found the small of her back automatically, a steady point of contact as they began the familiar walk toward the paddock entrance.

She didn’t need the support, not physically, but she didn’t mind it either. His hand there was warm, grounding. She let herself lean into it slightly.

They weren’t walking fast. They didn’t need to.

A few fans had gathered at the edge of the barriers lining the team access road; early risers, most wearing McLaren caps and orange shirts, phones already out. Normally Amelia would’ve walked right past with a nod or a quick wave, but a young woman in a papaya tee held up a tiny baby onesie with the McLaren logo printed across the front.

Amelia paused.

The girl’s voice was soft but bright. “Congratulations, Amelia! I hope you’re feeling okay.”

Amelia blinked, caught slightly off guard by the sincerity. “Thank you. I’m… working on it.”

Lando smiled at that and stepped in slightly closer beside her, fingers brushing over the back of her shirt as she reached for the onesie the girl was offering.

“It's for you. I sewed it myself.” The fan said.

Amelia took it gently. Held it up. It was impossibly small, white with papaya trim, and a little line of checkered flags stitched along the sleeve.

She let out a quiet breath, something unreadable flickering through her expression.

A few others along the barrier were calling softly now — well-wishes, smiles, and congratulations. One older woman, probably in her sixties, just clasped her hands together and said, “You are both going to be wonderful parents.”

Amelia handed the onesie to Lando without comment and took the offered Sharpie. She signed everything that was shoved at her quickly but carefully. “Thank you,” she said, a little quieter this time.

They hung around for a few more minutes. Lando signed hats and flags; Amelia posed for a few photos, a little awkward, but always soft around the eyes. One teenage girl told her she wanted to be a motorsport engineer because of her. Amelia find herself sniffling, embarrassingly emotional over something she’d been told a hundred times, and Lando reached for her hand again without saying a word.

As they turned to leave, he leaned in close. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

“Good overwhelmed?”

She nodded once. “Yeah. It’s nice. People caring. Being so kind. You have nice fans. You and Oscar. They’re good people.”

Lando didn’t respond straight away. He just kissed her temple, hand still on her back as they walked into the paddock.

The baby onesie remained tucked into Amelia’s bag.

—

The atmosphere was calm — a rare thing for the days leading up to the first Grand Prix weekend of the season. A few drivers had filtered into the lounge after media duties, still in their polos, half-watching a muted F2 session on the TV overhead, trading quiet comments about the heat and the track changes.

The sliding door opened. Lando stepped in first, a hand gently guiding Amelia at the small of her back. She was dressed simply in team kit and a pair of dark sunglasses perched atop her head, posture straight but relaxed.

Oscar was leaned back in one of the corner chairs, legs stretched out, nursing a bottle of water. He glanced up, and his face lit up with something that looked like pride. “Hey,” he greeted simply. “All good?”

Amelia nodded. “All good.”

Charles was beside him, already smiling, the kind that started in the eyes, easy and genuine. “It’s nice to see you both,” he said.

“You too,” Amelia replied, quiet.

Max was near the back wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He gave a small nod. “Well done,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for Amelia to hear as she passed. “It’s nice not to have to worry about keeping your secret.”

She offered him a rare little smile. “I know you struggle with secrets. You did a good job.”

A few others looked up; George, Alex, Esteban.

George was the first to speak now, rising from the edge of the sofa. “Hey. Congrats, guys.” His tone was steady, no teasing. “Really happy for you both.”

“Thanks, mate,” Lando said, his hand still resting gently against Amelia’s back.

Alex gave her a quick nod, not pushing. “You feeling okay in the heat?”

“Tired,” Amelia admitted. “But not bad. The heat is frustrating.”

“You’re in Bahrain,” Esteban said, smiling lightly. “No avoiding it, unfortunately.”

There was a quiet round of low chuckles. No one pushed closer, no one stared too long. No inappropriate questions or drawn-out fuss. They all knew Amelia; knew she wasn’t a spotlight kind of person. They treated her like they always had. With respect. With a bit of caution. With something close to admiration.

Amelia turned toward Oscar for a moment. He tilted his head. “Hi.”

She gave him a small nudge. “How are you feeling about today? First practice of the year.”

“Good,” he said simply.

Lando leaned in slightly. “You want to head over to hospitality? Get some breakfast?”

“In a minute,” she murmured.

It was nice. For now. To be surrounded by people who respected her. Loved her, even.

—

Oscar sat half-suited in the car, balaclava tucked loose around his neck, race gloves rolled halfway up his wrists. The garage was alive around them; murmurs between mechanics, the steady beep of telemetry syncing, a dull hiss from an air hose being disconnected.

Amelia was perched on a stool pressed up against the side-pod of the car, elbow resting on her thigh, iPad propped in one hand. Her hair was tied back into a braid with clinical precision.

“The wind direction’s shifted twelve degrees since morning,” she said, eyes on the live atmospheric feed. “Downforce will wash out quicker through sector two. Turn ten’s going to be problematic for you.”

Oscar leaned his head back against the padding and gave a wry smile. “So, usual Bahrain things?”

“Yeah. Except a little meaner today.” She tapped through the sim data, cross-referenced it with the downforce models. Without looking up, she added, “Let the rear settle through seven or you’re going to spike your tyre temps and ruin the run.”

“Do my best.”

She flicked him a glance, dry and fond. “Thanks.”

One of the support engineers leaned over Amelia’s shoulder. “We’re showing high differential pressure variance through the right rear. Might need a last-minute check.”

Amelia didn't look away from the screen. “Yeah, I flagged it an hour ago. We already swapped sensors — it’s the wind skewing the read. Don’t touch it.”

“Copy.”

Oscar snorted. “Still terrifying when you do that.”

She tilted her head. “Do what?”

“Know things before anyone says them.”

“It’s my job.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath, flexing his gloved hands. “Do I need to worry about rear-end grip into Turn 11?”

“Not unless you've forgotten everything you know about driving a Formula One car.”

“Reassuring.”

Her hand came up, instinctively pressing against the curve of her lower belly for just a second, her expression twisting with something that looked a little green around the edges. 

Oscar noticed, but said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just watched her quietly, then offered, “You’re not too hot?”

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected the question. “No. I’m fine.”

His brow arched slightly. “You always say that, so I never know when to actually believe it.”

“I’ve got a thermometer that I keep using to check my temperature. It’s consistent. I’m drinking the exact amount of water that my doctor has recommended. I’m taking regular breaks from the sun and eating in intervals of three hours. I am, by definition, absolutely fine.”

He stared at her. “Sure.”

“I’ll bring you something nice for lunch if you can get through this session without causing a red flag.”

“Wow. Conditional nourishment. You spoil me.” He said sarcastically.

Before she could fire back, Lando passed behind them on his way to the other side of the garage, pausing only to brush a hand lightly along the back of Amelia’s shoulder as he went. She didn’t react outwardly, but her entire body softened for half a second.

Oscar clocked the moment. “He’s not going to wrap you in bubble wrap, is he? I need you.”

“He can try,” she muttered, before standing and glancing down at her iPad again. “Alright. First run’s mediums. Five-lap stint. I want lift-and-coast into lap two so we can log some cooling data. Don’t race the lap. This is recon.”

“Understood.”

She stepped back as the mechanics moved in. One of the tyre engineers looked to her for confirmation.

“Release him. Let’s get it done.”

Oscar gave a lazy two-finger salute as the engine roared to life. “Catch you in ten.”

She rolled her eyes but said, “Bring it back to me in one piece.”

—

McLaren’s pit wall pulsed with quiet, meticulous focus.

Amelia sat on her usual stool; headset already in place, tablet resting on her lap, one foot tucked under her thigh.

Andrea leaned against the back rail beside her, arms folded. “Any nerves?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “No. I never get nervous for practice sessions.” She paused. “Unless there’s extreme weather conditions.”

Zak, just settling into his own chair a few feet down, let out a snort. “Let’s not tempt fate.”

Will took his place beside Amelia, offering her a quiet nod. “Track temps are rising quicker than expected,” he murmured. “Oscar might get wind shear on the back straight.”

“I know,” Amelia said, already flipping through telemetry with a few well-practiced taps. “Told him we’d adjust diff mid-run if it hits. He’s got the override mapped.”

The strategists filtered in, eyes flicking between live data and evolving models. One handed Amelia a fresh printout of projected stint lengths based on wind intensity. She scanned it, adjusted two numbers with her pen, and passed it back without a word.

There was a beat of quiet as the first few cars fired out of the pit lane. The soft whoosh of tires on tarmac passed through the headsets. Oscar was next.

“Box clear. You’re good to go,” Amelia said calmly into her mic, eyes on the screen. “Watch your entry on Turn 4 — wind's picking up.”

Oscar's response was dry, as always. “Copy. Let’s have some fun.”

She noticed the red light on the camera above them flicker on. Without missing a beat, she lifted one hand and gave it a small, wry wave; the sort that said, ‘Hello, I’m aware that you’re broadcasting my face right now.’

Oscar’s voice crackled over the radio again as the first run of the day ticked down. “Rear’s light into six, but I can manage.”

“Okay,” Amelia said, scrolling across the telemetry. “I’ll bump rear brake bias up two clicks on the next run. Ride’s holding well, though.”

“Yeah. Feels sharp.”

Andrea stood nearby with arms crossed, eyes on the live delta. Will leaned in closer to her screen, already logging feedback. Zak occasionally asked short, pointed questions and her answers were always clipped, accurate, unemotional.

Still, there was something softer in Amelia’s tone with Oscar. A dry edge, yes, but the undercurrent of investment and care was impossible to miss.

“Sure, ducky,” she’d muttered when Oscar said he was ready to “have some fun” on his out-lap. “Fun.”

Andrea had caught it immediately. “You’re soft on him.”

Amelia didn’t even look up. Just took a drink from her McLaren water bottle — her name printed in block letters on the side, a bold red ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ sticker slapped under it like a warning label. “He responds better to praise. I yell at him a lot when he’s on the sim. There’s a balance.”

The morning wore on like clockwork. Data rolled in, Oscar ran clean stints, and Amelia barely left her post except to swap tablets or double-check tire degradation stats with the Pirelli engineers. FP1 ended solidly — no fireworks, but tidy and consistent. Exactly what she liked.

At lunch, she peeled off her headset and headed toward the hospitality area with Lando. He met her halfway, already peeling a banana and offering it to her mid-stride.

“I don’t want your banana,” she said flatly.

He grinned and took a bite himself. “Thought I’d try to help with your potassium. You looked grumpy.”

“I always look grumpy.”

“Grumpier than usual,” he clarified.

Amelia rolled her eyes but accepted the bottle of blue (her favourite flavour) electrolytes he handed over without question. They found a quiet corner inside the team’s motorhome, away from the usual pre-race noise. He sprawled lazily in the booth; she sat opposite, tugging the hem of her McLaren shirt down.

“How are we looking out there?” He asked after a moment, nodding toward the pit lane.

She shrugged, already halfway into reading the FP1 debrief notes on her iPad. “Stable. Better than expected on the straights. Wind's dropping slightly toward sunset, so you’ll get a cleaner second session.”

Lando watched her. “You’re amazing at this.”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Yes.”

He smirked. “But also very modest.”

“No point in pretending I’m not good at my job.” She finally looked up, softer now. “Especially with you and Oscar relying on me.”

He reached across the table and tugged her iPad down slightly. “I rely on you even when you’re not working.”

She blinked once. Then twice. “Lando.” She said. Her cheeks were pink.

Lando just laughed.

—

The desert heat had lessened, but the wind hadn’t. It whipped around the paddock in short bursts, rustling the pit board labels and tugging at Amelia’s hair where it was braided and pinned to the back of her head.

This time, Lando was out first. Amelia watched from her usual perch, shoulder to shoulder with Will, strategists reading live delta and fuel burn beside them. Her gaze bounced rapidly between live feeds and overlays, fingers dancing over the touchscreen surface like it was second nature.

When Lando’s rear stepped out slightly in Turn 12, her voice was calm. “Tell him to adjust your brake migration one click forward.”

Will relaid the information.

“Copy,” came Lando’s voice, low and focused.

Oscar followed soon afterwards on fresh softs. Amelia’s tone changed; not gentler, but more measured. “Remember what we talked about. Brake release into 7. Gentle. Controlled. Don’t throw the car in.”

Oscar’s lap lit up green across sectors.

She let a satisfied breath out through her nose.

—

By the end of the day, both drivers had done consistent long runs and given the strategy team a solid amount tire feedback.

Andrea glanced at her as they began packing up. “Good work today.”

Amelia gave a small smile — appreciative, but measured. Still, she noticed he was making more of an effort lately, and that counted. “Thanks.”

Later, back in the garage, with the mechanics winding down and the last of the day’s noise settling, Lando found her perched on a tire stack, sipping from a cold water bottle. Sweat clung to her temples, and the last of the sun lit her skin in warm gold.

He bumped her hip lightly with his. “Hi, gorgeous. Missed you today.”

She arched a brow. “You’ve been glued to my side every second you weren’t in the car.”

“Still,” he said, grinning as he pulled her into a soft, end-of-day hug.

Under the buzz of the Bahrain floodlights, she pressed her face into his neck with a tired groan. “My feet hurt. And my ankles are swollen.”

Without missing a beat, Lando lifted her off the ground. “Better?”

She sighed, tension melting out of her shoulders. “Much.”

He kissed the side of her head and held her a little tighter.

—

The balcony doors were cracked open, letting in the night air and the quiet hum of the city. Amelia sat cross-legged on the bed in one of Lando’s oversized T-shirts, blue-light glasses on, tapping idly at her laptop. Notes and track maps were scattered beside her, though she was only half-committed to actually reviewing them.

Lando, sprawled beside her with one leg over her thigh and a bowl of popcorn between them, was glued to his phone, thumb lazily scrolling through TikTok. His curls were damp from the shower, and his body still smelled faintly of sunblock and whatever soap the hotel stocked.

He stopped suddenly.

“Babe,” he said, voice quiet, almost unsure.

Amelia didn’t look up. “Hm?”

“No — look.” He turned the screen toward her.

She leaned closer, adjusting her glasses. The video was a fan edit. A slow, cinematic montage. Piano music overlaid with soft synths. The caption read, “Amelia and Lando through the years — from lovers to soulmates.”

The first clip was grainy; a 2018 paddock interview where a much younger Lando, awkward in his race suit, stood across from her in his garage. She looked different and the same all at once: neater, maybe. Definitely tighter, definitely more guarded. She didn’t meet his eyes once.

Then the timeline rolled forward. Garage zoom-ins. Candid paddock moments. A clip of them bickering while walking into the McLaren garage. Amelia pulling Lando’s cap off and tossing it down the corridor. Him handing her a coffee. All of the podiums he’d taken her to watch before it flashed to him up there and her watching, always somebody behind her in his place.

Her in the garage, arms in the air after a good quali. Him grinning at her during interviews he wasn’t even supposed to be a part of.

And then the quiet moments; fan-captured videos of her fixing his collar or brushing lint off his overalls. A slow-motion clip of him watching her walk away, soft-eyed. The first time they were caught holding hands. Her head on his shoulder during a rain delay.

The final clip was from just a few days ago; her at the Bahrain pit wall, hand resting lightly on her small but visible bump, waving at fans. He was standing just behind her, barely in frame, but watching her.

Lando said nothing.

Neither did Amelia.

The music faded out. The screen went black.

Some things are just meant to be — the caption said.

Lando lowered the phone slowly, gaze still fixed on the screen, eyes slightly wet. “Wow,” he muttered. “They got me.”

Amelia blinked a few times. “I remember that day,” she said. “Barcelona test, 2019. You spilled your coffee on my notebook.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled, nudging her foot with his. “You yelled at me.”

“I had to yell at you,” she replied, deadpan. “You tried to dry the notes with a heat gun.”

He laughed, soft and fond. Then he turned more serious, his voice quiet. “You think they’re right?”

Amelia tilted her head. “About what?”

“Meant to be.”

She looked at him fully now, taking in his expression — open, a little uncertain. His hand brushed over her shin, anchoring.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that if someone had shown me that video back then, I’d have said no.”

Lando’s mouth pulled into a crooked smile. “Ouch.”

“But,” she went on, “I’d have been wrong. So... yeah. Meant to be. I married you, didn’t I?”

He exhaled, tension she hadn’t realised was there easing from his shoulders. Then he reached up, hooked a finger around her collar, and tugged her into a kiss — soft, sure, familiar.

When they pulled apart, he whispered, “I’m saving that video.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure there’s a million more like it.”

His eyes lit up. “I’m going to watch all of them.”

“Yeah. Should’ve seen that coming.” She sighed.

He grinned and went back to scrolling — but his free hand stayed wrapped around her ankle, thumb brushing slow, unconscious circles against her skin. Amelia turned back to her laptop, but her smile lingered, half-hidden behind the screen.

Meant to be.

That was nice.

—

The sun hadn’t even reached its peak, and Amelia was already overheating. Her McLaren polo clung to her back, her hair was twisted into a no-nonsense knot, and she was halfway through her third bottle of water.

Lando trailed beside her through the paddock, annoyingly energetic. “Okay, but Atlas is cool. Strong. Powerful.”

Amelia didn’t even glance up from her iPad. “An atlas is a book of maps, Lando. Not a person.”

“Exactly. It’s smart. Worldly.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “We are not naming our child after a book of maps.”

They passed a few team staff who wisely kept walking despite the tension radiating off them.

“Fine,” Lando said. “Your turn. What name do you like?”

“Lando.”

“We’re not naming the baby after me,” he said, somewhere between amused and sarcastic.

Amelia stopped walking. Her iPad hung loose at her side. “Please,” she said flatly. “Please can you just… stop.”

Lando blinked. His smile thinned. “Fine. Whatever. Veto all my names. Not like I give a shit.”

The words hit harder than he intended; and he knew it the second they left his mouth.

Amelia didn’t respond. Just looked at him—sharp, unreadable—then turned and walked off toward the garage. The heat shimmered on the tarmac between them.

By the time Lando caught up, she was already perched on a stool in Oscar’s garage, scrolling through tire data like nothing had happened. Oscar lay sprawled across a tire stack beside her, eyes flicking between them with his usual diplomatic neutrality.

“What about Nico?” Lando offered again, voice cautious now.

Amelia turned her head so slowly it was almost theatrical. “Are you joking?”

“It’s a good name.”

“It’s Rosberg, Lando. I work in this paddock. Do you want me to be humiliated?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. Lando looked sheepish.

“Didn’t think about that,” he muttered.

“Clearly,” she snapped—sharper than she meant to be.

The room went still. Even the mechanics seemed to pause, pretending to check something on their tablets.

Amelia exhaled hard and pressed her fingers to her temple. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar lifted a hand like he was waving off a foul. “She’s growing the baby, mate. Obviously she gets to pick the name.”

Lando scowled. “That’s not—”

“No,” Oscar cut in. “It is that.”

Amelia gave him a grateful look. Lando, meanwhile, folded his arms and slumped into the seat beside her. He didn’t speak again for ten minutes.

They made it through the rest of FP3 in a strained kind of silence—not quite a fight, but not not one either. It sat between them through briefings, hydration checks, and another read of Oscar’s sector times.

When qualifying was called, Amelia handed off her tablet and sent Oscar toward his chassis—but instead of returning to the pit wall, she made a detour to the other side of the garage.

Lando was already in the car, helmet on, gloves secured, visor still raised.

She leaned in beside the cockpit, one hand on the halo. “Hi.”

He looked up.

“I don’t want you going out there with us still angry at each other.”

His mouth parted slightly. Some tension uncoiled in his shoulders. “I’m not angry. Just... frustrated.”

“I love you,” she told him.

His eyes locked with hers. The crease between his brows softened. “Baby, I love you too.”

She gave his shoulder a light squeeze—not an apology, just... a truce. 

“I’ll be on the pit wall.”

He nodded once, then pulled his visor down.

Amelia turned on her heel, walked past the media and telemetry boards, and took her seat at the pit wall. She pulled her headset on, pen tucked behind her ear, posture sharp.

Zak glanced over from a few seats down. “Everything alright?”

She didn’t look at him. “Fine.”

He paused. “You and Lando—”

“Fine,” she repeated, firm this time. A quiet warning.

Zak let it drop. He’d learned: if Amelia wanted to talk, she would—and if she didn’t, nothing would pry it out.

Andrea leaned in with a printed tire strategy. “Piastri’s prep lap?”

Amelia nodded, already focused. “He’s ready. Track temp’s down two degrees. We go aggressive into Turn One—he’ll have the grip.”

Zak leaned back and watched her work—cool, composed, headset like armour. Her voice calm, crisp, in control.

—

The motorhome was quiet after quali. Amelia sat cross-legged on the sofa, head tipped back, one hand resting lightly on her stomach. Her water bottle sat half-finished on the table. She hadn’t said much since lunch.

Lando stood nearby, helmet bag in hand, chewing his lip.

“Hey,” he said at last.

She didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

He stepped closer. “I’m sorry. For earlier. I was being a prick. A boyfriend, not a husband. You deserve better.”

That made her glance at him, eyes tired.

“You’re growing a human,” he said, crouching in front of her. “You’re doing it in forty-degree heat and still carrying the whole team on your back, and I’m over here sulking because you don’t like the name Atlas.”

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but her eyes stayed glassy.

“I’m sorry I made today harder than it needed to be,” he said softly.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m trying so hard to act normal. But I’m always tired. I can’t sleep. And I feel like I’m failing if I slow down, but my body won’t let me keep up.”

He didn’t hesitate. He climbed onto the couch, pulled her straight into his lap, arms tight around her. Her head dropped to his chest. She melted into the pressure like she’d needed it all day.

His hand moved in slow, steady strokes over her back.

“You’re not failing,” he murmured. “You’re doing something impossible, and you’re doing it perfectly.”

She didn’t respond, just pressed her cheek against him.

“I’ve got you,” he promised. “We’re a team, yeah?”

She nodded, silent.

When she finally sat up, brushing a tear from under one eye, he kissed her temple.

“You sure you’re okay to run Oscar’s quali?”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice steadier. “As long as you go out there and qualify well for me.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

When they stood, she slid her hand into his, fingers lacing tight. The tension had eased. They were okay. They were fine.

—

Oscar caught it first on Thursday. Lando pulling out Amelia’s chair, grabbing her breakfast, nudging her seat in like it was second nature. She said something under her breath, but didn’t stop him.

Oscar bit back a grin. So domestic.

—

On Friday, Oscar glanced over the monitor just in time to catch Lando’s hand at the small of Amelia’s back as they passed behind the pit wall. Subtle, constant—like he didn’t trust the world to make room for her unless he made it himself.

Andrea muttered, “If he stands any closer to her, they’re going to merge.”

—

On Sunday, Lando hovered. One step behind Amelia, intercepting wandering hands, redirecting nosy media, stepping into frame when someone aimed a camera too close.

“Mate,” Oscar said, helmet under his arm, “we have security, you know.”

“They’re not quick enough,” Lando said without missing a beat.

—

Post-race, Oscar unclipped his belts and looked over to find Lando, still suited up, wrapped around Amelia at the edge of the chaos, whispering something into her ear. She didn’t even flinch, like she was used to the weight of him.

Oscar shook his head. Smiled despite himself. 

—

At the team dinner that night, Amelia leaned to stretch her back and Lando noticed immediately, rubbing slow circles into the base of her spine. Then one of Lando’s engineers came over, and Oscar found himself absolutely ensconced by how it all played out.

Immediately jealous, Lando draped an arm behind Amelia’s head and said, without smiling, “You lost, mate?” He asked the engineer. Poor bloke.

Oscar pushed his plate of chips across the table.

Amelia beamed at him. “Thanks.”

Lando narrowed his eyes at his wife. “You ordered mash, baby.”

“Want chips now.” She told him. She was already dragging one through a puddle of ketchup.

“Should’ve ordered chips for your wife, mate,” Oscar teased.

Lando glared at him.

—

It all came to a head on the Monday.

They were flying commercial, first class, but still, alongside a handful of McLaren personnel for the long-haul back to the UK. Amelia was curled up beside the window, hoodie pulled over her head, eyes closed but clearly not asleep. Her hand rested over her stomach like it always did now—subconscious, protective and probably trying to quell nausea all the while. Lando was next to her, flipping through a movie menu without actually picking anything.

Two rows back, a small cluster of engineers were half-whispering over the tops of their seats. Tired, still wired from the adrenaline of the race weekend, and just loose enough from the champagne at the hotel bar the night before.

“She’s got him wrapped around her little finger, hasn’t she?” One of the engineers muttered — the youngest in the group, barely out of uni and already puffed up with the kind of confidence that comes with zero experience and too many opinions.

Another snickered under his breath.

“Please,” the idiot went on, leaning in like he was about to deliver a punchline. “She so much as fakes some weird little meltdown and Lando probably rewrites the whole weekend’s strategy just to keep her from crying.”

That got a quiet laugh.

“And let’s be real,” he added, voice dropping a touch. “He’s not still at McLaren because he’s irreplaceable. Man married the boss’ daughter. Locked in his contract and his pit wall privileges in one go. Fucking genius, honestly. Should’ve tried it myself.”

A third engineer made a noise halfway between discomfort and amusement. “You know she’s, like, three months pregnant, right?”

The first one just shrugged. “Not like that ever stopped a girl from using it to her advantage.”

Lando’s head turned, slow and sharp. He’d heard every word.

Amelia, mercifully, hadn’t. Her noise-cancelling headphones were still on, hoodie hood pulled down like a signal not to bother her.

Lando’s eyes flicked to her, still unaware, then back to the cluster of engineers. His jaw locked.

He stood without a word and walked two rows back, stopping just beside their seats.

“You. Up.” His voice was low, cold. Directed squarely at the younger engineer.

The guy blinked. “What?”

“I said get the fuck up.” There was no raise in volume, but the danger in it was unmistakable.

Around them, a few passengers glanced over. Lando didn’t care.

The kid stood, suddenly very aware that everyone else had stopped laughing.

Lando jerked his chin toward the galley. “Now.”

They stepped past the curtain separating the cabin from the service area. Lando folded his arms, body angled just enough to block the guy from view of the rest of the cabin.

“You think you're funny?” He asked, voice still quiet but razor-sharp.

The engineer’s face had drained of colour. “I—I didn’t mean anything. It was just—”

“No, you did mean something. You meant every word.” He took a step closer. “My wife’s name doesn’t belong anywhere near your ugly fucking mouth. You hear me?”

The engineer opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Lando stared him down. “You don’t speak about her. You don’t joke about her. You don’t look at her the wrong way. You want to talk shit about me? Fucking fine, I couldn’t give less of a shit.” He let the silence stretch long enough to let the weight settle. “But if I hear anything even remotely like that again, you’re done. I’ll really live up to the guy you think I am and go straight to Zak.And then you won’t just be off the travel team; you’ll be blacklisted from the entire industry. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” the guy croaked.

“Good.” Lando stepped aside, gesturing back toward the seats. “Go sit down. And if I see you look at her one fucking time for the rest of this flight, I’ll assume you didn’t understand me, and mate, I know how to throw a fucking punch.”

The engineer practically bolted.

Lando waited a beat, steadied his breathing, then ran a hand down his face and returned to his seat. Amelia had shifted, half-waking at the curtain being drawn back.

“Hey,” she mumbled sleepily, tugging her headphones down. “Where’d you go?”

He leaned over and kissed her temple. “Needed to piss. You okay?”

She nodded, settling back into the seat and tucking her feet into his lap.

Lando glanced back two rows, just once, then looked down at her and wrapped a hand gently around her ankle.

He was smiling, just faintly. But his eyes? His eyes were still on fire.

—

The hotel room in London was dark, save for the soft glow from Lando’s phone. Amelia had crashed the second her head hit the pillow, curled into the sheets, one knee pulled up to her chest and the other thrown haphazardly across the entire bed.

Lando stood at the window in his boxers, thumb swiping absently across his screen.

He called Max.

It only rang twice before the Dutchman picked up.

“Alright, mate?” Max sounded half-asleep, but not annoyed. Just Max.

Lando hesitated. “Did anyone ever say shit about her when she was working with you?”

Max was quiet for a beat. Then, with a tight tone, asked, “What kind of shit?”

“About her,” Lando muttered. “Just… you know. Fucking guy shit.”

Another beat.

“Yeah,” Max said eventually. “A couple of times. Why?”

Lando exhaled. “One of the new guys in our team said something on the plane back. She didn’t hear it. But I did.”

“Ah.” Max’s voice was a little clearer now. “You threaten to kill him?”

“Pretty much.” Lando rubbed his jaw. “Told him next time he even looks at her sideways, he’s off the team.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Max said, “That’s the right call. I did that a few times, only had to get physical once or twice. Everyone seemed to get the hint after that.”

Lando sank down into the armchair, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “She’s feeling like shit, still nailing every call, and this guy, this fucking kid, thinks he can talk shit about her?”

“I had a guy once say she was a distraction,” Max said quietly. “Because she was wearing a skirt in the garage.”

Lando barked a laugh, mirthless. “Fucking ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Max said, with that resigned sigh that only came from dealing with idiots too often. “She’s the smartest person I’ve ever worked with. Some men just don’t know how to handle seeing a woman be better than them.”

“I just—” Lando exhaled hard. “She doesn’t even know. She trusts these people. And it’s like… she deserves to feel safe. Not watched. Not judged. Just—respected.”

“You can’t fight every battle for her.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

Max chuckled under his breath. “You sound like me in 2021.”

“She’s my wife,” Lando muttered. “And she’s growing my kid. I don’t care if it makes me look soft or dramatic. She deserves better.”

“You’re not soft,” Max said. “Well, maybe for her, but we all are, aren’t we?”

Lando laughed quietly. “She’d murder us both if she heard this.”

“Oh, absolutely. We’d be six feet under.” Then Max said, “You want me to have a word with Christian? Make sure this kid doesn’t try to abandon camp and find refuge with us?”

Lando smiled faintly. “Thanks, man. But I’ve got it.”

“Alright. Call if you need me.”

Lando paused, glanced toward the closed bedroom door. “Yeah. Night, mate.”

He hung up. Stood. Crossed the room and slipped back into bed beside Amelia, who stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

He lay there for a long time, eyes on the ceiling, thinking of all the things she’d never know he protected her from.

And how proud he was that she never needed him to; but how damn sure he was that he’d do it anyway.

[alisonsfics]

the stupid one

pairing: ex-bf!bucky barnes x reader

summary: your breakup with bucky had all been his fault. he got scared and called it quits. and he regretted more than you knew. but he’d never admit that to you. at least, not while sober.

inspired this lyric ~~ “i know i’m the stupid one who ended it. now i’m the stupid one regretting it. it took me a couple drinks to admit it” (“moving along” by 5sos)

a/n: we’re ignoring the super soldiers can’t get drunk plot point just fyi

word count: 2.3k

warnings: alcohol, mentions of smut

Fuck— Bucky was drunk. When he’d walked into the bar an hour earlier, he told himself he would only have a drink or two.

And he stuck to that promise…until he got a jarring notification on his phone.

1 year ago today, look back at your memories, from his photos app. As soon as he opened it, he knew it was a mistake.

It was photos from one of his date nights with you, at a fancy Italian restaurant he picked out.

The first photo was a selfie of the two of you, Bucky pressing a kiss against your cheek. The second photo was a picture he’d taken of you showing off the specialty cocktail you’d ordered— which you’d only ordered because it came in a glow in the dark glass. When it came out and was the side of your head, Bucky couldn’t stop laughing.

Before he knew it, Bucky felt that tight feeling in his gut. The one that couldn’t help but pop up when he thought about you.

When Bucky broke up with you, it was like he cut off his air supply, and he’d been struggling to survive ever since.

He still wasn’t entirely sure why he did it. All his friends asked him, and he never had a good answer.

All he knew is that if he’d kept dating you, he probably would’ve married you. He didn’t know why that scared him so much. Probably because he’d lost everyone he ever loved. He thought if he could break up with you before he fell deeper in love with you that somehow he’d be spared the heartbreak.

He knew now that wasn’t true.

All of sudden, he’d been at the bar for hours and scrolling through pictures of you the whole time.

His fingers were shaking as he clicked your contact and pressed call.

The decision was entirely fueled by the alcohol swimming through his system and not his brain. He didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he wanted to hear your voice.

On the other side of town, you nearly jumped out of your skin when Bucky’s name popped up on your screen. It rang and rang and rang, all while you were frozen still.

Bucky was starting to think you wouldn’t answer. I mean, hell— he wouldn’t even blame you.

Then he heard a quiet “hello?”

“I uhh— oh, hi. I’m surprised you answer.” He mumbled, stunned.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” You asked, noticing the obvious slurring in his words.

Bucky felt a tear slip down his cheek. Hearing your voice again was like magic. His heart swelled in ways it hadn’t in months. “I just really miss you, doll.” His voice broke in the middle of the sentence.

He waited for you to say something anything. He’d even let you yell at him if it meant he could hear your voice for a little longer.

“Have you been drinking?” You asked.

He stalled. “Just because I have doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. I messed up, doll. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize.” He told you, nervously.

“Do you need a ride home? You shouldn’t drive.” You breezed over the confession.

It pained you to talk to Bucky. He’d broken your heart and never really given you a reason for the breakup. You knew he was scared of getting hurt, but he hurt you in the process.

Despite the aching in your chest from hearing his voice, you still wanted to make sure he was safe.

“You always take such good care of me. I don’t know why I threw that away. God, I’m such an idiot.” He mumbled.

You focused on taking deep breaths. The emotion in his voice tugged on your heart. It’d been so long since you’d seen that side of Bucky. The side that adored you.

“Bucky, promise me that you’ll ask someone for a ride or call a cab?” You asked, feeling your voice get caught in your throat.

“Yeah, I promise I’ll—” his voice got cut off by his phone dying.

Bucky stumbled aimlessly through the bar. All he wanted was you. He wanted to feel the way you clung to him when you slept. He wanted to taste the peach lipgloss on your lips. He wanted to hear you tell him you loved him.

The pit in his stomach only got deeper as he hopped in a cab and headed towards his empty apartment.

He tried to pretend he was heading home to you— that he’d somehow never screwed things up and you were at home waiting for him.

By the time the cab pulled up outside his door, heavy raindrops were thudding against the windows.

He chucked a few loose bills in the driver’s hand before stumbling out of the car.

The rain instantly soaked his body— a cold freezing rain. It coated every inch of his skin and clothing.

He stood there, eyes closed. The cab drove away, and he just stood. Wanting the rain to wash away this nightmare.

His shirt clung to his chest as he felt the cold seep into his bones.

He opened his eyes, slowly— and they landed on you, sitting on his doorstep.

Had he done it? Had his prayers actually been answered? Had he gone back in time?

The familiar warmth of your eyes pulled him in. He felt like he was walking in slow motion as he crossed the sidewalk towards you.

“What’re you doing here?” He yelled over the rain. You stood before him in a rain jacket with your hood up. You’d been standing in the rain waiting for him to get home.

“I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” You told him.

Relief washed over him. He felt around his pocket, searching for his house key. Noticing the look of panic on his face, you grabbed the spare key from under the doormat and unlocked the door for him.

He stumbled inside. Instinctively, you held onto his hips to steady him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He slurred, failing to instill any confidence in you.

“C’mere, Bucky.” You said, simply. You wrapped your arm around his waist and led him up the stairs.

He threw his flesh arm around your shoulders, leaning into your touch. “I love you s’much, sweets.” He mumbled into your neck. He nuzzled his nose against your neck, softly kissing your skin.

You fought every ounce of your nature that wanted to melt into his touch.

He was drunk. He wasn’t thinking straight. You reminded yourself.

“Let’s just get you up to bed.” You redirected his affection.

He wasn’t so easily distracted. His hot breath blew against your neck. Reminding you of quickies together in his car. Or even sleepy mornings in bed when you’d both been too tired to do anything. So, he’d just perfectly jut his hips against yours, both of you still completely clothed as he would groan and whine in your ear.

“Perfect, you’re jus’ perfect,” he mumbled, continuing to kiss your collarbone.

You lowered him down onto his bed. You wanted to run out the door. To never see him again. It was certainly preferable to the specific torture of having your ex-boyfriend, who you still had feelings for, drunkenly profess his feelings for you.

But, you saw him lying on his bed in soaking wet clothes from the rain. And you saw the hurt in his eyes. The same one you often saw when you looked in the mirror.

Before you could change your mind, you peeled his wet shirt off of him. Next, you took off his shoes, socks, and jeans.

He watched silently as you ventured into his closet and emerged with a pair of sweatpants and a dry shirt.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he mumbled, as you pulled the dry clothes onto his body.

After you’d finished, he leapt towards you, clinging to your frame. Your arms were pinned to your side as he hugged you. “Can you stay tonight?” He mumbled against your skin.

You wanted really wanted to. To curl into his side under the sheets and drown in the smell of his citrus cologne. To forget about the lonely nights and tears shed.

“I shouldn’t.” You said, trying to pull out of his grasp. But, he was still a super soldier and much stronger than you. “I’m a mess without ya, sweets.” He said, looking into your eyes.

Those damn eyes.

You gave in immediately. “I’ll sleep on the couch, but only to make sure you’re okay.” You resigned. He pressed a chaste kiss to your temple before whispering goodnight.

After he got into bed, you retreated downstairs to the couch. Part of you was hoping that when you woke up, it would be a dream.

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. You sat up, stretching the sleep out of your muscles.

“Morning,” Bucky entered the room holding two cups of coffee.

“Good morning,” you mumbled, the events of last night coming flooding back to you.

He sat down beside you, this thigh brushing up against yours. He handed you one of the mugs. His fingers brushed against yours in a way that made you jump and nearly spill your coffee.

“I only remember bits of last night, but I feel like we should talk.” He said, nervously.

“I should probably go.” You tried to excuse yourself.

Bucky placed his hand on your knee. “Please, stay,” he begged softly.

“This is too much for me, Bucky. I can’t go through all this again.” You said, looking up at the ceiling trying to will away the tears.

As soon as a tear rolled down your cheek, he brushed it away with his thumb. “Please, don’t cry, doll.” He whispered. Heartbreak was written all over both your faces.

“I need to apologize for last night. I crossed a line, but I want you to know that everything I said last night was true. I meant it all. It wasn’t drunk nonsense, I swear. But I know that I shouldn’t have dumped that all on you. I’m really sorry.” He said, genuinely.

His eyes were trained on your face— watching for any reaction. Any hint of a smile or a frown.

You felt a chill run down your spine. You didn't know what to say. Of course you still loved him, but getting hurt again haunted you.

He sensed a rejection coming. He leaned his head slowly onto your shoulder. It took everything in his power to not fall apart. “I know it’s not fair, but I just need to know, doll. Have you missed me the way I miss you?” His voice creaked.

“Why should you be allowed to miss me? You called it off. Cause yeah I’ve missed you like hell, but that’s because you decided you didn’t want me in your life anymore.” You finally snapped.

“I swear on my life, that’s not why I ended things. Of course I wanted you in my life and of course I loved you. That’s not why,” he defended. As much as you didn’t want to, you believed him.

“Then why? Please just tell me because you’ve never given me a straight answer.” You begged him for the closure you’d chased for months. You couldn’t even grieve your relationship because you still didn’t know why it ended.

Bucky’s eyes turned glassy, and he bit the inside of his cheek. You could see how much these past few months had weighed on him.

He reached over— slowly, hesitantly— and interlaced his fingers with yours. “I don’t know how to be a husband— or, a dad. I barely knew how to be a good boyfriend.” He confessed.

You gently squeezed his hand. “I wasn’t asking you to do those things yet. We weren’t even at that point.” You told him.

“But I knew how much I loved you. I fell harder for you everyday. I knew if I stayed, I would end up marrying you. Which sounds like a dream, like a beautiful dream— but a really fucking scary dream too. I didn’t want to disappoint you and have you resent me. I figured it would just be easier to end it before we got to that point. It would be so much harder to lose you when there’s a ring on this finger.” He said, looking down at your hand in his.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, not having time to kiss you back before you pulled away. “You were never going to lose me. You said you weren’t a good boyfriend, but you were. You’re the love of my life, and you made me feel so special and seen. I know you feel all these expectations, but those aren’t mine. I just wanted you.” You promised him.

“I’m not enough for you.” He admitted, weakly. You shook your head, cupping his cheek with your hand. “You are all that I need.” You said.

He closed his eyes, a few rogue tears rolling down his cheeks. The relief was written all over his face. Forgiveness. Finally.

He felt your lips press against his cheek, kissing each one of his tears away. “To answer what you said last night, I’m a mess without you too.” You told him simply.

He smiled at you before leaning down to kiss you. There was familiarity but also a little bit of exploration. He didn’t waste a second before letting his hands roam your body. You melted into his touch like the first time.

Your bodies jumped back to old habits as you laced your fingers through his hair and he pulled you into his lap.

His lips still fit perfectly against yours. Like you both were built for each other— and no one else.

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[withwritersblock]

More Hearts Than Mine-Their First Real Argument

~More Hearts Than Mine by Ingrid Andress~

Author's Note: so sorry (not really) for ruining the perfect couple image but I fear I needed some angst... ;) Summary: Luke makes a financial decision without Y/N and several arguments spiral out of it Warnings: raised voices, brief description of childhoods Word Count: 1,683 Luke Hughes x fm!reader

She’s been panicking since her last class ended. The entire drive home took nearly forty minutes for three different accidents on all three different routes back to their apartment. The rent was due today and at every hour on the hour, her half of the rent had yet to leave her account. 

She thought that maybe her card was declining and that the money in her account was too low. She had a two hundred dollar buffer for the rent, she was fine. But somehow the money has yet to leave her account. She’s been living in that apartment complex since she started college; not once has she missed rent. 

But now she has and she was on the verge of crying and having a panic attack over the money that should have left her account. She flew into the apartment, her breathing was heavy. Luke was eating a bowl of cereal when she walked in. His eyes widened as he instantly stood up from the barstool chair that was with their kitchen island.

“Hey baby, are you okay?” he asked as his mouth was still full.

“Did the rent come out of your account today?” she asked breathlessly. Quickly, swallowing his food he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay–”

“The whole thing? My half didn’t come out of the account,” she took a deep breath as she scanned his features. 

“Yeah, you were talking about how you worried about buying coffee before class and how you didn’t want to waste money. So I thought you could use that half and save up some fun money or whatever,” Luke explained nonchalantly. Y/N nodded and blinked slowly as she delicately dropped her bag by the door. Carefully and silently, she took off her shoes and rested them beside the shoe rack. 

“You did that without talking to me? Luke, I’ve been freaking out all day about thi–”

“Okay, yes, I probably should’ve said something first–”

“Probably? Luke, it’s eight hundred dollars! You can’t make decisions like that without me,” 

“Well, I was trying to be nice, Y/N,”

“Luke, I appreciate that but you seriously cannot just assume that I would be okay with this,” she said while shaking her head. She tugged the jacket from her frame in the process. “When it comes to money, you cannot keep me out of the decisions. This is our life together,” 

“Okay but Baby, you’ve been stressing yourself out with work and school and money. You deserve to treat yourself to coffee everyday. I have the money, so I wanted to give you a break. I just thought that if you cut back a little then maybe–” he trailed off as he met her gaze and noticed the furrowing of her eyebrows.

“What do you mean cut back, Luke?” She rested her hands on her hips. He took a deep breath as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Okay, this isn’t exactly how I wanted to have this conversation but–uhm. I was thinking that maybe I would handle all of the bills we have and you would just focus on school.” he offered to avoid her gaze for a few seconds.

“Sounds like you’ve already made that decision for me, honey,” she scoffed as she walked past him and faced away from him.

“No,” he drew out the word as he took a few steps towards her. “I am trying to have the conversation with you right now,” 

“It shouldn’t be a conversation, Luke. Has the thought ever cross your mind that maybe that I like working, that maybe I like making my own money,” 

“I understand, baby, I’m not saying never work again but maybe give yourself some time to have a life,” he explained as he rested his hand against the countertop.

She spun around quickly on her heels, a frown on her lips. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Luke dragged his tongue across his bottom lip as he took a hesitant breath. “Before I moved in, you were working almost full time and going to school full time. You were miserable, baby, so moving in helped but I hate seeing you push yourself so hard when you don’t need to. I have more than enough money to handle the bills and you could just focus on your classes,” 

She nodded slowly while her bottom lip quivered. “Thank you, I’m so glad to hear that moving in together was out of convenience instead of starting our life together. That’s very reassuring, Luke,” she explained sarcastically. 

“That’s not what I said, Y/N, and you know it,” he let out with a dry laugh leaving his lips. 

“No, Luke, but that’s how you sounded.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Y/N!” he let out while shaking his head.

“I am not going to stop working.”

“Why is that such an awful idea?” Luke let out with an exasperated sigh. Y/N walked away from him again.

“Because I don’t want to depend on you! I am not going to be one of those WAGS that stay at home and cooks and cleans and just waits for you to come home. I am not going to be one of those girls, Luke. I’m just not,” 

“I’m not asking you to do that! I’m saying that you slow down for a few months. Then when you're done with school. We’ll revisit this conversation.” he said as if it was the most obvious thing ever.

“There is nothing to revisit. I am not going to stop working. I like being busy. I like having a job. I am going to start a career after I graduate. Luke, I am not going to change that,” 

He shook his head, “Yeah, like teaching will be a huge pay increase,” he mumbled under his breath.

Her eyes widened as her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “Oh, I’m sorry that I wasn’t handed my career by being born with the last name Hughes,” she shot back, not afraid to say it with her chest. 

“Y/N, what is that supposed to mean?” he stepped towards her as he looked deeply into her eyes. 

She took a deep breath as she raised her hand up and wiped a small tear that started to fall onto her cheek. “I’m sorry, Luke, that was out of line, I’m sorry,”

“It was but you said it anyway, so what is that supposed to mean?” Luke said while running his fingers through his hair. 

“You were lucky to have parents that were able to give you every resource you could ever dream of. Luke, you didn’t have to think about money until you signed an NHL contract. You didn’t have to think about food on the table when you were eleven years old. You didn’t have to hear your parents worry about the heater turning off for missing one too many bills. You are so lucky not to have to get a job at fourteen to help your parents pay the bills.” she explained, pointing her fingers towards him. 

“You are so lucky, so yes I like going to school and working. I like it because I earned it. I worked my ass off to get my career. I know it is a small fraction of what you’ll make. But I deserve to be happy about getting a degree and having a job. I deserve to be happy about what I have earned! I’m not saying you didn’t work hard because I know you did. You worked so hard to get where you are. I am so proud of you for that. But you don’t get to degrade what I want to do with my life because it barely pays the bills,” 

Luke got his gaze low as he tilted his head to the side. Their eyes connected and Luke took a deep breath. “Y/N,” he let out barely above a whisper.

She took a step towards him while their eyes remained connected. “I am sorry that I implied that you didn’t deserve to be where you are. You and your brothers worked so fucking hard to get into the league. You deserve everything that is coming your way,” she rested her hand onto his chest. He looked down towards her, the corner of her lips curling upward. 

“You should go sleep at Jack’s tonight,” she finished as she walked past him towards the kitchen. She took a bowl of the half eaten cereal and began draining the milk into the sink.

“What?” he let out harshly as he spun on his heel watching her movements. 

She lifted her gaze resting the bowl onto the counter, their eyes connected again. “I never thought that you would belittle my future plans by saying such a thing. So I do not want you here tonight,” she explained through a teary expression. 

“I wasn’t–”

“You haven’t apologized for a single thing that you have said in the last–half an hour. Which tells me that you don’t see a single thing wrong with what you’ve said or done. So please, pack a bag and go stay at Jack’s.”

“Y/N, I’m not going to stay at–”

“Your old bedroom still has a mattress, right?” she asked as she dumped the cereal into the trash before she placed it into the sink. 

“Y/N,” 

“Go use it, Luke,” she said as a sob rose in her throat. 

“Y/N, please,” he let out as he walked towards her. 

“I never thought that you would say anything like that to me. So please, I do not want you here tonight,” she let out as their eyes remained connected. She sniffled another sob as she walked towards their bathroom. 

Luke stood in front of the kitchen island as he watched her walk away from him. He tilted his gaze towards the ceiling. He squinted his eyes harshly as he ran his hand across his eyes. He shook his head as he stared towards the hallway that she walked through. So much for being the perfect couple that never argues.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | first kiss

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : first kisses with the grid

୨ৎ : word count : 800

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : an on-time upload.. woah T-T

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

he hesitates for a second, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s making sure this is okay. then it’s slow, a little intense, and he lingers like he’s memorizing the way you taste. no teasing—just genuine, quiet passion.

yuki tsunoda

it’s sudden, right in the middle of you laughing too hard. he grabs your face, flustered and bold, and kisses you before he can overthink it. pulls back all red and goes, “shut up,” even though you weren’t even talking.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. it’s after a long night, when you’re both a little tired and he’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. hand on your waist, forehead pressed to yours, and then he leans in.

kimi antonelli

nervous, soft, and clumsy in the sweetest way. he’s grinning before and after, probably says something dumb like “that wasn’t too bad, huh?” but his ears are so red and he won’t stop smiling for hours.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

a little breathless, full of build-up. he brushes your hair behind your ear, eyes searching yours, then leans in like he’s giving in to something he’s felt for ages. kisses you like he’s saying finally.

lewis hamilton

gentle and incredibly tender. maybe it’s after he compliments something small about you, then you look at him like you’re about to say “thank you,” but he just kisses you instead. soft music playing, hearts racing.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

it’s cheeky at first—he makes a joke, you roll your eyes, and suddenly he’s leaning in. quick, then slower when he realizes you’re kissing back. pulls away and goes “that was cool,” trying to play it off, but his smile gives him away.

oscar piastri

surprisingly smooth. he’s quiet, watching you talk about something random, and then just goes for it. it’s calm, confident, and sweeter than you expected. when you ask why now, he shrugs: “felt like the right time.”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

teasingly slow. he waits until you’re annoyed with him, then cups your face with a smirk and kisses you like he’s been planning it all along. pulls back with a raised eyebrow like “you good now?”

lance stroll

soft and shy. it happens while you’re cuddling or talking quietly. he leans in slowly and almost chickens out halfway, but you close the gap. his hands stay at your waist the whole time, grounding himself in the moment.

ʚ・williams

alex albon

warm and playful. probably after he’s been making you laugh, and he catches you mid-giggle. the kiss is light, smiley, and makes you both laugh right after. he kisses you again immediately, softer this time.

carlos sainz

confident but caring. he leans in close, makes sure you’re looking at him, and kisses you slowly—like he knows what he’s doing and wants you to enjoy every second. murmurs “bien?” against your lips.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

absolutely panics internally but tries to be cool. gives you a shy little grin, then just leans in and goes for it. surprisingly good at it, but turns bright red after and starts rambling. “was that okay? i mean—obviously, but—”

esteban ocon

thoughtful and deliberate. he makes sure the moment feels right. kisses you like he’s been thinking about it for a while but wanted it to be perfect. afterward, he just holds your hand tighter.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

mischievous and flirty. he says something like “you keep looking at me like that, and i’m gonna have to kiss you,” and then actually does. it’s cocky for about two seconds, and then very soft when he realizes how serious it feels.

isack hadjar

a little hesitant, but once he’s sure you’re into it, it’s full of emotion. he touches your face, almost reverently, and kisses you like he’s scared it might be the only one. spoiler: it’s not.

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

oh he makes it a moment. dim lights, soft music, his arm around your shoulder. it’s slow, smoldering, and just a little showy. he pulls away with a smug smile and goes “you’ve been thinking about that too, right?”

franco colapinto

innocent and genuine. it happens during a quiet, wholesome moment—maybe while stargazing or lying on the couch. he brushes his thumb over your lips like a question, then kisses you like he’s dreaming.

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

surprisingly sweet for someone so blunt. it’s simple, nothing flashy—just a quiet lean-in when you're standing close. he kisses you like it’s obvious, like this was always going to happen eventually.

gabriel bortoleto

excited and a little rushed. he just has to kiss you. maybe after you say something cute or smart, and he can’t help himself. pulls back with a sheepish grin and says, “sorry, i’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[luviisabella]

‘why don’t you.. ?’

WARNING: smut smut smut smut smut

FWB¡Katsuki who swears he can’t stand how needy you are.

Always whining about how you’ve never finished with your ex and how you wanna know what it’s like.

FWB¡Katsuki who sometimes treats you like you’re just a brat but in reality when you look at him with those bedroom eyes he’s hanging by a thread.

FWB¡Katsuki who’s biting his bottom lip so hard it almost bleeds when he overhears you playing with yourself next door. The walls are too thin for your own good but he’s not at all ashamed to say he’s gotten off to the sound of your moans.

FWB¡Katsuki who you notice is more than just a friend with benefits because the way he comes knocking on your door asking for sunscreen and he’s wearing black and orange swimsuit bottoms with his abs just begging to be admired, you start thinking..

->

“why don’t we have sex ?”

His head immediately turns from the sound of someone walking up the stairs to your dirty expression.

“What”

“You heard what I said.”

“The fuck are you talking about”

He looks over again as he hears the person getting closer.. the only other person aside from you besides Bakugou is Denki and Bakugou would rather die than have Denki taking this interaction as something to tease him about.

Before he can act you’ve already grabbed Bakugou in and shut the door, his back now to the door and your hands on both sides of his waist.

Fuck.. he’s looking at you and he’s realizing that if you’re being serious he’s gonna end up giving in easier than he’d like to.

A grin spreads across his face once he realizes you are serious.

You gasp as he picks you up, hands on both sides of your ass and your legs wrapped around him while he carries you to the bed.

He places you on your back and you can’t help but softly bite your bottom lip at the perfect view you have of him and his body that you swore up and down was crafted by the Gods.

He let out a low groan when your hand trailed down from his pecs to wear his swimsuit met his v-line.

He leaned down to whisper in your ear.. something that would haunt you later but in the moment made your core tighten.

“You gonna moan for me the way you do when you’re alone ?”

“You- shit, you can hear that ??”

“You’re fucking loud.”

You smirk because deep down you have thought about it. If he could hear you. If he would be getting off to your moans. If he could hear the way you quietly moan his name.

You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him closer.

“I think of you so if anything you’ll be getting the real deal since you’re the one doing it for me”

Fuck.

The minute you told him that he began trailing his hands along your body, your breast, waist, hips, he placed himself between your thighs. His hands giving them a firm squeeze as he was face to face with your pussy.

FWB¡Katsuki who knows this won’t be just friends with benefits once this starts, but he could care less because he knows how it’ll end.

“Mm katsuki-“ your head immediately falls back against your sheets once his tongue glazes over your clit. Slow and teasing strokes while he gently inserts one and then two fingers inside you.

He can’t help it, he starts sucking on your clit.

Eating you like he’s been put on death row and this is the last meal he’s being served.

Your hands gently tug at his scalp as you run your fingers through his hair, the gesture earning low groans from him and the vibrations only adding to your pleasure.

He was such a fucking tease, his opposite hand gently rubbing your inner thigh as if he wasn’t acting in the filthiest way possible.

“Oh God, im gonna-“

Your grip on his hair tightening and your hips instinctively grinding on his face, the sight was enough to make him finish in his swim shorts but he couldn’t. Not yet.

You cried out his name as you finished and the sound was embedded in his head like a broken record player that could only play one song.

He stood up, his figure towering over yours and from the needy look on his face you knew you were in for it.

Your legs felt weak and before you could protest he pulled you closer towards him, your pussy brushing against the obvious boner in his shorts.

You look up at him..

he’s waiting for permission.

that’s so hot.. you could feel yourself getting worked up again.

“Katsuki” you try to get his attention, his breathing heavy, his hands gripping your thighs, and you could tell how hard he was holding back because you both knew if you told him ‘no’ he’d immediately step back.

But you didn’t want him to. You knew what you wanted.

“It’s okay, I trust you, im comfortable”

Despite his pain in the ass attitude, he still cares for you, he knows your past with guys, and while he’s wanted you for only time knows how long, he also never felt bothered about being patient with you.

“You’re sure ?” He lifted your right leg a little higher, because the moment you said ‘yes’, he wasn’t going to hold back.

You softly smile at him..

“I am. I’ve wanted this.”

Fuck.

He pulls the strings of his swim shorts and removes them before bringing his tip to the entrance of your soaking cunt. The feeling alone was enough to make him melt but he was holding out because he’s been waiting too damn long for this.

He teases your entrance for a bit before slowly getting comfortable, scanning your face for any signs of discomfort or disinterest, but you reassured him.

When he was fully in you both let out a heavy sigh. He leaned down to kiss your temple. The gentle notion made your heart melt, you cupped his face and ran your thumb along his cheek.

“I like you, kats’” your breathing was still heavy but you managed to make your sentence clear

His heart nearly stopped, I mean he had some sense that you could’ve but never let his hopes get up, it felt like all the weight on his shoulders had been lifted

He leaned down to kiss you, not a rough kiss, but something that said “I’ve been waiting to hear that”

He pulled back and grinned,

“I like you too. Now remember that, because im about fuck you like I don’t.”

That was the hottest thing you’ve ever heard him say.

His eyebrow quirked up when he felt the way you had tightened around him.

Shit.. your pussy was being a snitch.

He lifted your legs over his shoulders, the anklet he bought you for your b-day dangling prettily against his ear.

He glanced over at you again then placed his hands on both sides of your waist before slowly moving and drawing out soft moans from your pretty lips.

“Mm.. feels s..so’ good suki” your back slightly arches off the bed and he takes the opportunity to start sucking on your breasts.

You slap your hand to your face hoping to have covered up the whine that dared left your mouth.

But he definitely heard it.

He leaned down to kiss your collarbone and trace kisses along your jawline..

“Don’t get shy on me now, this is what you wanted right ?”

Your eyes slam shut as his pace quickens, drawing out moans from you like a madman.

He leaves a bite mark on your shoulder and a hockey on your collarbone. He was gonna completely ruin you. He didn’t plan on walking out that door otherwise.

“Need ya to cum for me pretty girl”

It was like a command because moments after your second orgasm sent your body into a bliss you didn’t know existed.

He kissed you through your orgasm, the vibrations of your moans only egging him on and keeping a firm grip on your ass as he continued to fuck you.

He only pulled back to admire the fucked out expression on your face.

“So fucking pretty”

->

erm.. it was a very long night for reader.. and let’s just say Denki most definitely did press Bakugou about this later because when Bakugou came to the pool with scratch marks down his back Denki couldn’t keep his mouth shut and almost ended up getting drowned.

@luviisabella 🎀

[littledes1re]

Hii love. Can you write something about Joel getting you pregnant.

Maybe at first he didn't want kids (but because of his age, he thought he wasn't gonna be the best dad for them). He always knew you wanted, and one day he saw how good you are with them, and desire in your eyes. Maybe some smut thaanks

Makin’ you a mama

Pairing: Old!joel miller x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, BREEDING KINK, praise, pet names, soft!joel, talking about pregnancy, pinv, unprotected sex (obviously), age gap! (62 x 26), one time joel calling himself ‚daddy‘

A/N: thank you anon for making me write this. I‘ve always wanted to write something like this but never had the balls lmao

It‘s been two years since you and Joel came to Jackson. And you couldn’t believe how well everything was going. After surviving hordes and hordes of clickers, runners and raiders, having to put up with the temperature that keeps on changing, searching for a place to rest and the fear of losing Joel even tho at that time, you two weren‘t even together. He was a grumpy, mad, annoyed man who never let his feelings out. Surviving with him meant also surviving him.

In all kinds that was just the past and a story to tell whenever you were invited to gatherings. Joel and your relationship was strong, you were scared that people would get shy away from the age gap, but apparently they have seen worse in the apocalypse. Whenever you two were together, people looked at you with admiration, asking themselves why their relationship wasn‘t going that well. Joel was overprotective, always made sure you were well taken care of, always listened to you, never argued. Other men had none of that in them. You were happy, content but there was one thing swimming around in the back of your head that you—no matter what, couldn‘t forget.

„You really think I would fit into the father role with my 62 years once again, baby?“ his eyes were gentle, looking at you, searching for enclosure in your expressions.

„Yea, why not? You make me feel taken care of, you are a great man, I know that you would very well fit into that role.“ your voice was just above a whisper. There was a sigh leaving his lips and then he took his glasses of, running trough his hair at the same time.

„I—I don‘t think I can do that. Just give me some time to think about that okey?“

Yet, the answer never came. And you never wanted to push him. So you let it rest. He lost his child once, he once had all of that and went trough a traumatic event, you knew that he was still scared.

And if you were honest with yourself, did you really want to have a baby in this god forsaken place? You really want to have that baby go trough the same traumatic things you two went trough? It wasn‘t easy living here. It wasn‘t easy living else where.

Maybe it was the end of the world. You didn‘t know that.

So you forgot that idea. Out of your mind.

You concentrated on your job. Daycare. Not really the best way to let that thought out of your mind, huh? But you loved it, you loved the kids, the pretty toys that were scattered everywhere, the colourful rooms and the sweet parents that came in and picked their kids up. It was a great way to forget the outside world, to really come close with the humanity that was forgotten for some many years.

Joel was going to pick you up, like he always does after doing his construction work around Jackson. When he came to your workplace tho, he had to stop and was completely lost in his thoughts.

It was you. Having a toddler on your hip, while swinging from left to right, singing to him. Your eyes were full of love, the toddler was laughing with you. His small hands gripping your shirt, tangled in your hair, feeling comfortable with you. Joel subconsciously started to smile, standing there and really thinking about how you would look like as a mother. There was something so effortless about the way you moved, how you instinctively cradled that child with your warmth and certainty. As if motherhood always lived within you, waiting to be embraced.

What if it was your kid in your arms? What if your house was filled with the laughter of having a child. Joel stood there and pictured you, soft glow in your cheeks, carrying the baby beneath your heart. How perfect you would look with a belly, how perfect you would fit into that role.

Joel longed for that feeling. He would do everything in this world to make you happy, to make you comfortable. He would not let you work, he would be there and raise that child with you. He would love you two unconditionally. And suddenly— there it was. The longing to become a father and make you a mother.

„J-joel—what the hell has gotten into you.“ you muttered out, out of breath as joel abruptly pulled you to him, kissing you, just seconds after going inside the house. He didn‘t answer, too hungry to think straight. You yelped as he threw you into the coach, going on top of you and spreading your legs.

„Joel.“ you whined, his hands quickly unbuttoning your shirt, then your bra, his fingers landing on your nipples, gently pinching the nub. You whimpered, too lost in the sudden pleasure, your hips starting to move up against his crotch.

„Pretty breasts are gonna filled with milk.“ he groaned out, your eyes widening. What was he talking about?

„Joel, what the hell are you even talking about?“ his hands stopped on your tits, gently moving to your belly, stroking around, smiling to himself.

„gonna make you a mama, baby.“

„Wait, really?“ you weren‘t sure if you heard that right. The man who was just scared of being a father again, was telling you that he was going to make you a mother. Joel chuckled at your reaction, unzipping his pants, taking his cock out. It was all red, his tip pulsing as he started to jerk off, squeezing it and releasing a moan from his lips.

„Mhm. Ain‘t that what you wanted? C‘mon now, open up.“

„Joel, are you sure? Look I don‘t want to pressure you—”

„I‘m sure. Now don‘t make me wait or I ain‘t giving you anything.“ he teased, your face lighting up as you giggled. Quickly, unbuttoning your jeans, while joel focused on pumping his cock and kissing and biting down your neck line. You spread your legs further, pulling your soaked panties down and running your hands trough your mans hair.

„That‘s right. Look at you, already so soaked. Gonna let me give you a baby, hm?“

His cock rubbed along your slit, your breath coming to a stop as you looked into his lust filled eyes. He slowly fed his cock into your cunt, your mouth falling open at the stretch and fullness you were feeling. His thumb coming at your little clit, slowly rubbing, making you whimper into the silent room.

„shh, I know, I know. That‘s it. Look at you letting me in. Little cunt needs this, baby. Needs me to fill her.“

And you can do nothing but moan and whimper around him as joel sets a rhythm with his thrusts. His cock going in and out of your pussy, the squelching sounds filling the room. Your tits moving up and down, his thumb never letting up on rubbing your clit. His gaze never left you. Concentrated on your fucked out expression, while also focusing on the hard but gentle thrusts he was giving you. Your knees trembling, thighs quivering—he was fucking you with all he had.

Your heels dug into the couch under you, your hips going closer to him, wanting to feel him just a little bit deeper. His cock meets your spot this way, making you cry out.

„That‘s the spot, yea?“ he groans out.

„Mhm.“ you whimper as an answer, too lost in the pleasure to even look into his eyes. You squeezed them, putting your hands on your tits playing with them.

„Gonna be a gorgeous mother, I know it, angel.“

Joel knows you are close as he sees your tummy clenching, your thighs shaking. He feels himself coming closer too, so he pulls you just closer into him, his thrusts concentrating on that spot in you, his hands holding your back so he stays as deep as possible in you.

„Daddy‘s gonna fill you up, but I want you to cum with me. C‘mon.“

He whispers into your ear, your toes curling as you feel the orgasm coming closer to you in your tummy.

„Doing so so well f‘me aren‘t you?“

His thrusts were growing sloppy as he breathlessly whispered praises into your ear.

„Belly gonna swell, tits gonna be full of milk. Letting that old man fill her up to the brim. Yea, my good girl, baby.“ And that what it all took for you to snap. You cried out, gripping his shoulder, feeling his cock twitch in your cunt, releasing rope after rope of cum into you. You clench, squeezing him for all of his worth, while biting into his shoulder and coming down from your orgasm.

While catching his breath, he gently lays you down again, caressing your tummy but doesn‘t pull out. Without a word he suddenly grabs you, his cock still in you, he carries you to the bedroom.

„Need it to take, baby.“

And you know that it‘s going to be a long night.

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @kyloispunk @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner

[lonely-moons]

⁀✶comfort of you | bucky barnes x reader

title: comfort of you

pairing: bucky barnes x reader (can be whatever era you want if you take it as an au where the avengers compound is still thriving. rip.)

warnings: mentions of a nightmare

summary: when you wake up to find your friend bucky sleeping on the floor of your bedroom, it's safe to say you're confused. but, hey, the guy doesn't have an abundance of comfort, so you're more than okay with being it for him.

wc: 1,380

notes: haven't posted in ages but i am down so bad for this man goodbye (or ig hi? lmao). thank you thunderbolts for taking me back to 2021 as i read bucky fics daily 🙏

masterlist

you wake with a sharp inhale that borders on a gasp. it takes a moment for the images of your recent failed mission to disintegrate. you're plagued by a screaming woman - a roaring fire - and then the darkness of your room.

but something isn't quite right. after so long in this job, your senses stay awake even when you aren't. they ring now, heighten even more when you hear a movement on the ground beside your bed.

you switch your bedside lamp on in record speed, prepared to pounce or kick or whatever it is you have to do to eliminate the threat. but your poised stance falters when you see what's on the ground. or rather, who.

bucky barnes is laying there, propped up on his elbow as he looks up at you. his expression is sheepish but tinged with concern, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be and now he isn't quite sure how to react.

you blink once, twice, trying to come to terms with the image in front of you. the guy is your best friend, sure, but you don't quite know what to make of this. he's wearing what he typically sleeps in: a simple t-shirt and sweats, his eyes a little bleary like they'd been closed for a while.

had he been sleeping on your floor?

"um..." you say ungracefully, the only thought that's bouncing around in your head right now.

the sound of your voice seems to snap him to action. he sits up further, the chain of his dog tags shifting along with him. "sorry, i -" his arm comes up to rub his neck as he cuts himself off.

"impromptu sleepover?" you ask.

it's light but unsure. you want to know what the hell is going on, but the way his face scrunches, as though guilty, makes something in your chest ache. if this had been anyone else, you would have long since thrown a pillow at them, let your voice raise in exasperation. but this is bucky. while you don't tread around him on broken glass, knowing he hates it and deserves more, you also vividly remember how long it had taken for him to open up to you in the first place. you never want to ruin that.

he stares down at his hands, unable to look at you any longer. which means he must be really flustered, because one thing about bucky barnes - he has a staring problem.

"you okay, buck?"

he huffs out a laugh, but it's weak, like it gets caught in his doubt on the way out. "i should be the one asking you that. nightmare?"

your confusion had almost made you forget about why you were awake in the first place. now you smile, slightly rueful. "guess so. you, uh... got precognition or something?"

he copies your expression. "guess so."

a silence lands between you, not quite comfortable but not yet in the territory of awkwardness. you both have things to say, but they're evading you. unspoken words seem to fly between you as you watch each other, waiting to see who will break first. but this is your room, your space, which provides you with a home advantage.

"i wasn't sleeping well either," he finally admits. "came to see if you were awake and when you weren't... well, i doubt i wouldn't have been able to get through to you with all the snoring anyway."

"i don't snore!"

his shoulders shake with the small laugh he releases, and it's as though the movement throws some of the tension right off. you think you'd let him throw out jabs like that forever if it meant he'd relax even a little further.

"sure," he says. "you don't talk in your sleep either."

"you," you point a finger at him, "are a horrible person."

"i know." a small smile appears, but neither it nor his words are self-deprecating. they never are anymore, at least not with you. "it keeps me awake at night.

an exasperated huff escapes you. "whatever. i can't believe you coming in here didn't wake me. i'm usually a pretty light sleeper."

"never has before."

"wait - what?"

"uh - shit."

the lightness of the previous few minutes evaporates in an instant. bucky runs a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. you, on the other hand, do not feel bad enough to spare him from a grilling.

"you've come in here before? when?"

"no, it's not like that, i don't..."

"don't what?"

he opens his mouth to answer, but instead of speaking he rises to his feet. "look, i'm sorry, this was... i'm just gonna -" he points to the door, then immediately begins to bolt for it.

"wait!"

your voice stops him, which you're vaguely surprised about. in his current state, you thought he's been in a full-fledged flee mode. tunnel vision, feet on a set path, hearing only tuned into his self-derogatory thoughts. but it seems the sound of you has managed to break through.

he doesn't turn around, though. you think you've managed to figure out what's been going on now, even if you don't quite understand it. bucky tends to prefer harder surfaces to anything cushy. you've seen it before, when you've gone to his room to ask to borrow something and he was sitting on a blanket on the floor beside the bed. after you'd finally taught him how to play mario kart on one of tony's huge tvs, and he'd chosen to sit on the ground by your legs as you sunk into the dreamy sofa. he'd said he was able to concentrate better down there, that the plush comfort would just send him to sleep.

you'd called him an old man but silently wondered if it was something else. eventually the pieces had seemed to align and you realised the truth: whether he really didn't like it or didn't think he deserved it, bucky did not like the comfort of those soft things. that explains why he's on the floor, but as for why he's on your floor...

you speak quietly but firmly, watching his back and trying to picture his face.

"you can lay back down if you want."

he hesitates. not even a full second, but you know him well enough to just catch it. "no, that's okay. i'll let you get back to sleep."

"seriously," you press, before he can reach the door handle. "i don't mind. honestly, i... i wouldn't mind the company."

he looks back over his shoulder, guarded like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. even though he's known you for years now, knows your kindness, bucky isn't used to such a carefree affection that you give him. "really?"

you nod. "besides, i'm gonna need someone to listen to my sleep talk and report back to me. could be some really important stuff going on there."

his lips twitch slightly and you mentally cheer. he's giving in. he doesn't allow himself that luxury much, but it seems you have a certain knack for getting it to happen.

he falters as he heads back to his position on the floor, looking between the blanket - that he'd brought with him and planned on abandoning in his haste to leave - and you, on the bed. his eyes study you, a question in them that only takes a moment for you to decipher. you think he's wondering about your offer, about whether lay back down means the bed or the floor, about which he wants, about which might seem rude. but you say nothing as he thinks, only sending him a brief, reassuring smile, then avert your eyes to let him decide as you turn off the light.

he chooses the floor. you certainly wouldn't have minded him in your bed, but all you want is for him to be comfortable.

"night, buck."

"night, doll."

as the sound of your breathing syncs up, you shift to the very edge of the bed. your hand blindly reaches down, feeling around. he jolts slightly when you make impact with his flesh hand, but then he intertwines your fingers without a word.

bucky may not be ready for the comfort of a mattress or pillows, but he's certainly learning to love the comfort of you.

[headspace-hotel]

any other autistic people have to drop out of college and have stories to share about what they did/how they managed to find a job and a bearable life?

I'm considering it again and there's a good chance I'm actually gonna do it

I'm only a year away from graduation, but...I've been having this deep sense that "this is wrong, I'm on the wrong path" for a while. I've never been able to convince myself that I should stay because it's what I want, only push down the feeling and try to convince myself I have no choice.

Despite many good things that happened, 2024 was almost definitely the worst year of my life (which is saying something, considering how 2021 went for me) just in terms of how much of it I spent utterly miserable.

I'm about to turn 25. I am so sick of being around 19 and 20 year olds, not that there's anything wrong with them, I'm just starting to struggle to connect with people who haven't been around the block a little bit and lived outside of the regimented, narrow constraints of school.

My school situation is difficult to explain but it's unlikely I will ever be given a better chance to graduate without debt. However, my school has proven completely rigid and inflexible in regards to several crucial disability accommodations, and I have fought so incredibly hard to make this situation work for me and it just isn't and every time I think it's finally going to be okay there is some other bullshit that happens and I am tired of running myself ragged fighting to survive in a place I don't want to be.

Not only do I not want to spend another year feeling like my life is a black hole of despair, I don't want to wait any longer to get my driver's license and figure myself out and learn who I am and form meaningful relationships and escape the narrow little crevice my college life is. I am so exhausted all the time when I'm in school that I can't work on myself, and I feel stunted. I feel like a plant in a too-small pot where its roots are all bunched up along the edges.

I was hopeful about getting some kind of career related to studying plants or working with plants or something, but right now my only career goal is for the pain to stop.

Family says they will support me no matter what I do, but seem to lack faith in me to take steps toward independence or something I want to accomplish. My mom just seems to live in fear that I will go back to how I was in the Burnout Year where I just laid in bed for months, as if this is all I'm capable of without the external structure of college. It leaves me doubting myself and whether I've actually grown any.

Family also seems to think that I'm naive to how hard a job would be, to which my honest answer is Jesus if this is the easiest my life is going to be I am just not going to make it. Parents keep saying college is hard, it was hard for me too but I think I just completely fail to communicate how much they don't get it. It's not that my classes are hard, it's not that the work takes effort. If anything it's not enough work, not enough stimulation. It's just...the stressors. The exhaustion of having to go to class every day for hours and participate in group projects and presentations and having to go to different meetings and appointments. Not having any control over anything in my life. Not knowing whether I'll have good food to eat every day, not knowing if the kitchen will be free for me to boil a pot of goddamn noodles, not knowing if my energy budget is free enough that I can hang out with a friend or make a dentist appointment without fucking up and contributing to an ongoing backlog of exhaustion that nothing, nothing, nothing but time ever can fix. The hyper-vigilance I have to maintain to avoid locking myself out of my own room.

I'm just...not 20 anymore. I can hardly stomach Ramen noodles and microwave mac and cheese anymore. I feel gross and nasty when I don't eat green things and fresh things and things with fiber in them. I get too exhausted to stay awake by 12:30 and wake up at 8:30am whether I set my alarm or not. I can't skip meals anymore, I can't just roll out of bed, stuff down a granola bar and function until lunch anymore.

I don't know what's right. I just know that what I'm doing right now is wrong. If I ignore this, I might as well never listen to a "gut feeling" ever again because I've never had one so strong or so persistent.