#IT WOULD STOP. HALFWAY THROUGH. NO MATTER WHAT I DID

[buckysleftbicep]

soft hands, heavy heart 𐙚 b.b

pairing: inexperienced!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, praise kink (sorta), slow first time, unprotected sex, creampie, a tinge of angst if you squint, the fluff makes up for it

summary: bucky wants you, but he just doesn’t know how to let himself have you. but you’ll spend every second showing him how it feels to be wanted.

word count: 4.5k

author's note: hi my sweethearts! i'd like to think that after bucky returns, he would need a lot of reassurance and tlc, especially after all he has went through. i feel that he would love to be guided and to know he is loved. so i hope this fic encapsulates that 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!

so in love with soft!bucky

It starts with his hands. Or rather, what they don’t do.

They hold yours when you’re walking down quiet halls in the compound, fingers interlocked, the brush of calloused skin a comfort more than anything else. 

They linger at the small of your back when no one’s looking—firm, steady, grounding you when the world gets too loud.

They cradle your face when you’re scared, trembling, coming down from the edge of something violent. Missions gone wrong, intel turned sour, blood on your skin. In those moments, his hands are everything you ever needed. Steady and safe.

But when your lips are on his?

When your body presses into his in the quiet dark of your shared bedroom, heat blooming between the both of you like something long-restrained finally breaking free?

That’s when they stop.

Always. Just… stop.

Bucky, your boyfriend, your partner, the man who has grown to be your person. He kisses you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, but somehow, he never touches you when it matters most.

And it’s not like you haven’t tried. You have, god you tried.

More than once, lying against his chest at night, your fingers ghosting beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. Kissing along the sharp cut of his jaw, whispering how much you want him. How much you need him.

Each time, his breath hitches, his body goes rigid. Then, slowly, carefully, almost apologetically, he pulls away from your touch. 

Not with disgust, not with rejection. There’s no coldness in the way he moves. No sharp recoil.

But there is something worse that you have come to realise. Fear.

The first time it happened, you brushed it off.

He’d had a long day. The mission briefing with Val had been rough, all sharp orders, bad intel, and barely contained frustration within the team, Walker had quite literally stormed out of the meeting room.

Bucky had come back tense, shoulders tight, jaw set, that look in his eyes that meant he was still somewhere else. Still halfway in a fight.

So when you leaned in that night, pressing soft kisses under his jaw, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, and he stilled beneath you, gently shifting away with a quiet murmur of your name, you let it go.

You curled into his side instead. Told yourself he was tired. Told yourself you were tired too. You ran your fingers lightly along his arm until his breathing evened out, steady and slow.

And when sleep finally took him, you whispered a kiss to his shoulder and closed your eyes, thinking, hoping, maybe next time.

The second time, you wondered.

It was a few nights later. He wasn’t tense then, he wasn’t distracted or moody or freshly back from some dark place.. He was relaxed, even, the kind of rare, quiet ease you didn’t always get from him.

You both had laughed over dinner, some home cooked lasagna you had whipped up after finding the recipe online. You had teased him until he smiled into his fork and shook his head, muttering about how much trouble you were.

He’d watched you like he always did, like you hung the moon and the stars, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, to deserve you.

And when you kissed him that night, slow and lingering, your hands soft on his jaw, you felt that same warmth in him. The way he kissed you back, like he meant it.

So you tried again. Slid your hand beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the firm lines of his stomach.

He flinched. Not much. But enough.

And then, just like the first time, he shifted away. Pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

You froze. Pulled your hand back like you had touched something sharp.

And then you nodded, smiling just a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You turned onto your side, curled up with your back to him.

Tried your hardest to not let the sting behind your eyes show.

His arm came around you a few moments later, his chest pressed to your back like nothing had changed. Like everything was still okay.

You didn’t say a word.

But that night, long after you were sure he was asleep, your eyes stayed open. Staring at the shadowed wall. Wondering what it was about you that made him pull away.

The third time, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

It had been an easy day, all things considered. No missions. No debriefs. No emergencies. Just the two of you, and the rare kind of quiet that settled into the compound like a blanket.

You ate dinner in bed, greasy takeout balanced precariously on Bucky’s lap while some forgettable movie played low in the background.

You stole bites from his container; he rolled his eyes but let you. Laughed when you misquoted a line. Kissed your cheek. Brushed rice off your shirt with the softest smile.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because everything had felt right. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of night that warmed you from the inside out.

It was late when the movie finally dwindled into credits. You stacked the empty containers on the nightstand, slid back under the covers, and curled against his chest with a sigh. His arm came around you like it always did, instinctive, easy. Protective.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the screen lit the room in soft, flickering blue. Your legs were tangled with his. Your cheek rested against the cotton of his t-shirt. He felt steady beneath you. Safe.

So when you tilted your head up and kissed him, it wasn’t with expectation. It wasn’t about sex, or hunger, or even want.

It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you were in love.

He kissed you back, of course he did. That part was never the problem. He always kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that could anchor him.

But the moment your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, everything changed.

Just the pad of your fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Just a touch.

And still, he tensed.

You felt it the way someone feels a tide turning, quiet, sure, inevitable.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil. He just went still. Careful. Measured. One hand lifted to catch your wrist and gently moved it away from his skin, like it wasn’t a rejection. Like it didn’t mean something.

But it did.

He turned slightly, as if he meant to settle back into bed like nothing had happened. Like you could pretend this wasn’t the third time in a row.

But you didn’t follow.

Instead, you sat up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest, the sheet falling across your thighs. You stared at the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line, throat tight.

You heard the shift in his voice before he even finished asking.

“Hey,” he said softly, already sensing the change. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was thick. Still. The kind of quiet that feels like the moment before something breaks.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out low, shaky.

“Do you want me?”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on your hands, twisting your fingers in the blanket like it might keep the rest of you from unraveling.

“Because I want you,” you continued, quieter now. “And every time I try, you pull away. I know you care about me, I know you do, but I can’t help wondering if maybe I’m wrong about all of it.”

He went very, very still.

Then, “Stop.”

His voice was sharp, and the suddenness of it made you blink.

You turned, startled.

He was sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like your words had opened something he hadn’t meant to expose.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—just. I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Ever.”

You stared at him.

“Then talk to me,” you said softly. “Because it’s getting harder not to take it personally.”

He didn’t look at you.

His gaze dropped to the sheets. His fists were clenched in his lap. The vibranium hand trembled slightly. The other, human and scarred, looked like it was holding on to something invisible.

You sat beside him again. Close, but not touching.

Your voice was quiet. Measured, ounded, but not accusatory.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” you asked. “Like you’re in love with me?”

You swallowed hard.

“Because you do. Every day.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“And then I touch you, and you freeze. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Like I’ve done something wrong.”

There was something in your chest pulling tighter with every second of silence. Something raw and anxious and aching.

His hands stayed clenched.

You reached for him, carefully, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. The human one. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “What is it? You can tell me.”

He exhaled. Rough. Uneven.

For a second, you thought he might deflect. That he might dodge this like he had before — with a soft kiss or a change of subject. But then he swallowed hard, eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before dropping again.

“I haven’t…” he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. “I haven’t done anything since before the war.”

The breath caught in your chest.

He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. Embarrassed.

“Not just sex,” he said. “Anything. After HYDRA… after everything. I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly ashamed. Smaller, somehow. Like admitting it out loud took more from him than he’d expected.

“It’s been over eighty years.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “You’re here, and you’re kind, and you’ve never pushed. But I get so far and then it’s like—like my body just shuts down. Like some part of me still thinks I’m not allowed to want things.”

Your heart twisted.

Not from pity. But from the weight of it. The quiet devastation he carried like a second skin.

Then, more quietly:

“You think I don’t want you?” His voice dropped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I want you so bad it hurts. Every night I lie here hard as a fucking rock just thinking about you.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.

“But I’m—” He shook his head. “I’m scared.”

You moved then.

Not away. But forward.

You reach for his wrist again, let your fingers slide gently down to his hand. His pulse was racing. His breath shallow.

“Scared of what?” you asked, softer now.

He looked at you. Finally. Really looked. And what you saw in his eyes made your chest ache, something wide and raw and terrified.

“That I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “That I won’t know what I’m doing. That you’ll want someone who’s not stuck in the goddamn 40s when it comes to this stuff.”

Your face softened. A small, aching smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, even through the tightness in your chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

You climbed into his lap carefully, like you were afraid you’d spook him. You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones.

“You’re already everything I want and more,” you said, steady and sure. “But I need you to believe that.”

His breath hitched.

“And if you let me,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “I’ll show you everything. I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes searched yours. Guarded, hopeful. Terrified. Like part of him still thought this might not be real.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

And when he did, something in you finally, quietly exhaled.

You don’t rush him.

After everything he’s said,  every word laced with fear and heartbreak and hope, the last thing he needs is haste. Or pressure. Or you moving too fast for him to feel safe.

So you just breathe for a moment.

You stay in his lap, arms curled gently around his neck, your forehead resting against his. And you breathe.

His chest rises beneath yours, shaky and tight. His hands are still in his lap, fists curled like he doesn’t know what to do with them,  like he doesn’t quite believe this is real, like one wrong move will send the whole thing crumbling to pieces.

So you start small.

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth. Once. Then again, slower this time, letting your lips linger against his skin.

His breath stutters. His lips part.

You kiss him properly next, slow, deep, but gentle, your mouth moving against his with no urgency, no push, just quiet devotion. Like he’s something sacred.

His hands twitch in his lap. He doesn’t lift them yet, but he doesn’t pull away either.

You murmur against his mouth, “Can I touch you?”

He swallows thickly. Nods.

You kiss him one more time, a promise, before you shift in his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and reach for the hem of his shirt.

The moment your fingers graze the fabric, he tenses.

You pause. You meet his eyes.

“I’ll stop any time you need me to,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.

He holds your gaze. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he nods again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

You offer a gentle smile. “Okay.”

You lift his shirt carefully, baring him inch by inch. You don’t rush. You kiss every strip of skin you uncover, the ridges of his ribs, the warm slope of his sternum, the sharp cut of his collarbone.

You take your time with it, as if mapping him out with your mouth, like you’re memorising every inch with intention.

When the shirt is high enough, he lifts his arms, stiffly, hesitantly and lets you pull it over his head. You toss it aside and look at him.

He’s bare from the waist up. All muscle and scar tissue, strength and survival. The room’s low light catches on the vibranium, glints over old wounds, highlights the long-healed lines across his chest and side.

You let your gaze roam.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He looks away, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

You reach out, slow, deliberate, and place your palm against his chest. Right over his heart.

He flinches. Just a little. A twitch in his shoulder. A held breath.

But he doesn’t pull away. You lean in and kiss the skin just beside your hand.

“Is this okay?”

His voice is low and rough. “Yeah. Feels nice.”

You smile against his skin, then keep going.

Your mouth trails lower, painting a path down the plane of his chest. You kiss over his heart again, then rest your cheek there for a moment.

“Still beating,” you whisper, a soft marvel. 

You feel it stutter beneath your lips.

Your hands slide lower, down his abdomen, his skin warm, twitching under your fingers. You follow the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, fingertips brushing gently, not demanding. Just exploring.

He exhales shakily, stomach tensing, hips shifting just slightly.

“There’s not a single part of you I don’t want to touch,” you murmur, kissing along his ribs.

He turns his face, like he’s trying to hide, like the intimacy of your words is too much.

“Hey,” you say softly. You reach up, cupping his jaw, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me say it. Let me mean it.”

His lips part like he might argue, but he doesn’t.

You rest your forehead against his.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So strong, You’ve been through hell and still came of it.”

His eyes flutter shut. His breath catches.

Your lips brush his softly, like reassurance. Then again.

And this time, when your hands slide down to the waistband of his sweats, he doesn’t flinch.

You look up at him. “Can I take these off?”

His voice is strained. “Yeah.”

You move slowly, tugging them down inch by inch, watching his face the entire time. He lifts his hips to help, barely, and you kiss the inside of his knee as you go. Then the other.

By the time you’ve got them off, he’s flushed all over, from his chest to his ears to the very tips of his fingers. And trembling.

His cock is hard and leaking, resting against his stomach. Big. Heavy. Throbbing.

He tries to close his legs out of instinct. Reflex.

But you shift forward between them and place your hands gently on the outside of his thighs.

“You’re doing so good,” you say softly. “Are you okay?”

His nod is jerky. “Just—don’t look too long.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He swallows hard. “’Cause you’ll know I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”

You smile, warm, never mocking.

“Baby,” you say gently, “I already know.”

You lean in, kissing the inside of his thigh, slowly, gently..

“But it’s not a problem,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin again. “It’s a privilege.”

His head drops back, his fists clench the blanket. You trail your mouth up his thigh, closer and closer, and then wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.

He jerks under your touch, breath catching sharp in his throat.

“Fuck—” His hips twitch. His mouth opens, like he’s trying to say something and can’t find the words.

You stroke him once, slow, deliberate, and his entire body shudders.

He’s flushed dark at the tip, leaking already.

“Nobody’s ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You look up. “Ever?”

He nods, barely. “Not like this.”

You smile. “Good.”

You stroke again, firmer now, and his jaw clenches, breath ragged.

Your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the slick, and he whines, high, desperate, like he’s trying to hold everything in and failing miserably.

You kiss just below the head and he moans, low and broken.

“Holy shit—sweetheart, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

You press a kiss to his hip. “That’s okay. That’s why we’ll take our time.”

You climb back into his lap, hand still wrapped around him, your other resting at his cheek to keep him grounded. He looks dazed, overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart in your arms.

“Can I ride you?” you whisper.

His hands shoot to your hips like a lifeline. “Please,” he breathes. “I want you to. So bad.”

You guide him to your entrance, your slick soaking him already, and ease down, slow, careful, inch by inch — until he’s fully seated inside you.

Bucky’s head drops back, a strangled moan caught in his throat.

“F-fuck, baby—” he gasps. “Too much. Feels too—”

You don’t move.

You stay still in his lap, your hands on his chest, letting him feel you. Letting his body adjust. Letting the moment settle between you like something holy.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. I—just give me a second.”

You wait. When his eyes open again, they’re soaked with emotion. Glassy and bare.

“You okay?” you ask.

“I think you’re killing me,” he says hoarsely. “But I don’t wanna stop.”

You smile.

Then you start to move.

Slow, gentle, rocking your hips, letting him feel everything, every squeeze, every inch, every slow drag of your walls around him.

His mouth falls open. He moans your name like a prayer.

“Feels too good,” he pants. “I’m not—fuck, I’m not gonna—”

You lean in, your forehead pressed to his.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. And he does.

With a choked cry, he spills inside you, body tensing, arms wrapping tight around you, hips bucking helplessly. His hands shake against your back as his breath catches in your hair.

He clings to you like he would fall apart without you.

And even after it’s over,  even after he’s finished, breathless and wrecked, he doesn’t let go.

He just holds you. And for the first time in years, he lets himself be held, too.

He’s still trembling.

You don’t move. You don’t shift or speak right away. You just stay where you are, wrapped around him, your body cradling his, the last aftershocks of his orgasm still echoing in the taut lines of his body.

His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the slick, overwhelming closeness of it all—it makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.

Your fingers stroke through his hair, trailing through the sweat-damp strands at the nape of his neck. Then down his spine. Slow, comforting passes, like you’re coaxing his body back into itself.

He clutches you tighter.

His arms are around your waist, strong and firm—not bruising, not panicked. But desperate. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, this will all vanish. Like maybe none of this was real, and holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded.

You don’t pull away.

You let him hold you. Let him shake. Let his breath shudder against your neck while your hand keeps moving slowly down his back.

His face is buried against your throat, and when he finally speaks, it’s muffled—barely audible. Raw.

“I didn’t mean to finish so fast.”

Your heart breaks for him a little, even as your lips tilt into a soft smile.

You press a kiss to his temple—tender, grounding.

“I know.”

His voice is barely there. “I just—fuck, I couldn’t stop it. You felt so good. I couldn’t think."

You hum softly, stroking his hair again. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”

He lifts his head, just a little, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, glassy, dazed, those perfect cerulean eyes soft and unguarded, boyish, almost.

His cheeks are flushed. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-swollen.

He looks completely ruined. Completely beautiful. Yours.

“But you didn’t—” he starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops. “You didn’t finish.”

You don’t stop smiling. There’s no hurt in it, no impatience, just quiet warmth.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Tonight was about you.”

His brows pull together, like he doesn’t quite know how to process that.

“That’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“You already do,” you murmur, your nose brushing his. “But if you really want to keep going…”

You pause deliberately, shifting your hips slightly.

Just enough for him to feel the movement, just enough to tease.

He gasps, high and sharp, his body jolting.

“…we can.”

His hands flex at your waist. His eyes flutter. His lips part like he’s trying to speak but can’t form a single thought.

“I’m still—,” he whispers, like it’s a warning. But there’s no hesitation in his tone. Only want.

“But I want it,” he adds. “I want you.”

You kiss him again, slow and deep, and begin to move. Barely. Just a gentle roll of your hips, enough to stir friction between your bodies again.

He moans into your mouth, soft and aching.

You rock slowly, dragging your walls against his still-sensitive cock. He twitches inside you, starting to thicken again already. It’s slow, but unmistakable.

“Okay?” you whisper.

He nods frantically, hands gripping your waist like he’s drowning in sensation. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just—shit. I’ve never… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smile against his jaw. “You wanna come again for me?”

His moan is barely a sound. His eyes flutter shut.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes. Please—”

You tighten your thighs and roll your hips again, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

“Such good manners,” you whisper, kissing his throat. “So sweet for me.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You start to circle, slow, wet, just enough pressure to build your own heat.

He watches you.

Like you’re made of stars, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“Touch me,” you murmur. “Please, Bucky. I want your hands on me.”

It’s the only encouragement he needs.

His hands move slowly, softly, trembling,  sliding up your sides, grazing your ribs, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you moan, arching into his touch.

The sound makes him groan, deep and wrecked.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby—can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

You’re slick around him now, your arousal mixing with the mess from earlier. Every slow rock of your hips has him thickening more, twitching inside you, inch by inch.

His thighs are shaking. His jaw clenches.

“Feels so good,” he whines. “I don’t wanna stop. Don’t wanna come yet. Wanna feel you forever.”

You ride him harder now, the heat in your belly rising faster.

“You feel that?” you gasp. “How close I am?”

His hands tighten on your hips. His breath turns ragged.

“Please—please come around me, sweetheart—need to feel it—need to feel you—”

You bury your face in his neck. And let go.

Your whole body seizes around him, a white-hot wave crashing through you, stealing your breath, your balance, your thoughts. Your moan is broken, helpless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your walls clamp down hard around him.

And that’s all it takes.

He thrusts up once. Then again. Deep, desperate. A cry tearing from his throat as he comes again, shaking, gasping, flooding you with warmth.

His arms wrap tight around you.

He holds you close. Close enough to feel your heartbeat thunder against his. Close enough that the tremors in your bodies blur together, indistinguishable.

This time, his grip is softer. Still strong, but different.

Not desperate. Tender.

His hand strokes up your spine. His lips press to your temple, then your hair, then your jaw. Like he can’t get close enough.

You stay there, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingled and unsteady and you don’t rush to move.

Not yet.

“Jesus,” he whispers eventually, voice raw. “What the fuck just happened?”

You laugh softly, breathless, dazed. “That was called good sex,.”

He groans into your neck. “That was more than good. That was—fuck. That was divine.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair.

You collapse gently against his chest, boneless and warm, and he doesn’t let go. His arms stay around you, wrapped like a shield, like a promise.

Neither of you move for a long time. There’s nothing left to prove. Nothing to say.

Just the slow hum of your heartbeats and the safe, sacred space you’ve made between the two of you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky feels wanted.

And safe. And home.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, drop a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves, your support means the world to me! <3333333

[ghwostcult]

Canada comfort

Paring: Lando Norris x Reader summary: After the incident in Canada, you find your self trying to comfort you boyfriend

Canada. The stupid Canadian Grand Prix was a horror show. It felt like a never-ending memory, the crash repeating itself in your head. Over and over and over again. And you knew for a fact it was even worse in Lando’s.

Lando loved racing. It was his whole world. So when he did not finish at a race that really mattered to him, the championship, it felt like everything relied on this one event. Everything relied on this moment.

He had crashed. It was all his fault. He caused both himself and Oscar to crash, costing them both a podium. Costing himself points. So he locked himself away from the world, hiding in the driver's room as the race came to a finish.

He knew he needed to apologise. To Oscar. To the team. To the fans. To you. Because he had screwed up. He had ruined both his and Oscar's chance of gaining any points. It hurt. It truly hurt to think about.

You knew Lando better than most people. Better than you knew yourself. And as you saw him exit the driver's room, you could immediately tell what was wrong. You could read his thoughts, see the pain in his eyes.

You watched, hidden among the crowd of orange. Watching from afar as he apologised to Oscar. He slowly made his way to his driver's room while you made your way there too, getting there first. Lando had been stopped by a few members of the team.

You watched as the door opened and you were immediately pulled into a hug, his arms wrapping around your waist, his head tucked into your neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice broke halfway through the words. "I don't know why I did it. It was so stupid," he added, his voice weak. You said nothing, knowing anything you said in that moment would be ignored.

All you did was rub his back and run your hand through his hair, letting him calm his mind before you spoke softly, whispering in his ear.

"It's okay. You're okay. That's all that matters," you said gently, and Lando shook his head.

"It's not okay. I cost the team." His voice almost made you cry. It hurt to hear him speak like that, especially about himself.

"The team only cares that you're okay. It's just one bad race, and you're doing so well in the others," you whispered. You felt him relax in your hold. Not completely. He did not take your words as a solution to his mistake.

He took the words as they were. Just sounds. Just letters trying to make sense of everything. He did not relax because of the words. He relaxed because you were there. You gave him what he needed in that moment.

A reminder that he was not alone. A reminder that you were there. That you always would be.

[jellyfishsthings]

The Things You Say

navigation , dc navigation

Summary: Jason yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions, he doesn't understand shit and they have to look stuff up constantly trying to keep up with her

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason knew pain. He knew the taste of blood and the sound of a heart flatlining. He knew what it was like to dig his way out of a grave with his bare hands, lungs full of dirt and rage. He knew war. Loss. Fire.

But none of that prepared him for the experience of falling for someone like you.

He also knew two things for certain:

One: he was not, and never would be, a science guy.

Two: he was completely, helplessly in love with the weird girl who never stopped talking about subatomic particles like they were fairy tales.

He met her in a bookstore, because of course he did. Gotham’s oldest secondhand shop, tucked between a closed-down deli and a tattoo parlor. She was in the nonfiction aisle, holding a hardcover titled Quantum Entanglement and the Fabric of the Cosmos, murmuring to herself while frowning at the margins.

Jason should’ve walked away. Should’ve grabbed his Hemingway and gone.

But instead he found himself saying, “Is that English?”

She looked up.

Big glasses. Hair half-up, half-falling. A tiny scowl, like he’d just insulted her childhood dog. “It’s physics.”

He blinked. “I gathered. Still looks like math’s evil cousin.”

That got a laugh. Or something like it. A half-smile, crooked and unsure, like she didn’t laugh often and wasn’t sure she should now.

Jason tilted his head. “You work with this stuff?”

“I study it.” She pushed the book against her chest. “I’m trying to understand quantum coherence in biological systems. Mostly theoretical. I bore people.”

“I don’t mind theory,” Jason said, which was a lie, but a nice one.

She stared at him for a long second. “You’re trying to flirt with me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “How am I doing?”

“Terribly.”

He grinned. “You want coffee?”

She hesitated.

“Not a date,” he added quickly. “Just... if you want someone to listen while you explain quantum thingies.”

“Quantum thingies,” she repeated. “Tempting.”

It was supposed to be one coffee. It turned into four. Then dinner. Then late-night texts, where she sent him screenshots of new studies and he replied with bad memes and pictures of books she’d made him read.

Jason wasn’t used to this—whatever this was. There was no game here. No dramatics. Just this girl with a constellation of freckles and a mouth that moved too fast when she got excited.

She’d sit cross-legged on his couch, hair up, socks mismatched, spouting things like:

“Did you know cephalopods can edit their own RNA in real time?”

Jason, who was halfway through re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, would look up and go, “Cepha-what?”

“Octopus brains. They’re insane.”

He had a notes app. No joke. It read:

Quarks (ask which one is the cute one)

Octopus RNA = science magic

Don’t say atoms are tiny planets—she hates that

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to understand. He did. Desperately. Because her eyes lit up like stars when she talked, and Jason wanted to know what it was like to hold a universe like that in his head.

Because you talked about neutrinos over coffee. Neutrinos. Subatomic particles. And you said it with a smile like it was common small talk, like most people spent Sunday mornings curled up reading quantum mechanics papers instead of the funnies.

Jason pretended to get it. He even nodded sagely.

He did not get it.

"They're fascinating," you said once, feet tucked under you on his old beat-up couch, eyes lit like they held galaxies. "Like these ghosts of matter. They pass through everything, almost impossible to catch. It's like trying to bottle a secret."

"Uh-huh," Jason said, staring at your lips. Not because he was being disrespectful. But because they moved when you talked, and sometimes he understood those more than your words.

He googled them later. Spent two hours falling down a scientific rabbit hole so steep he got a headache, just so he could maybe ask the right question next time. So he could deserve to be in the same room as your mind.

You never made him feel stupid.

You never made him feel like he had to prove himself. But Jason was built of sharp edges and pride. He came from alleys, from blood-streaked streets and textbooks that were ten years too late. You were made of stardust and curiosity, of words that leapt like fire from your tongue.

He wanted to meet you there.

So he read. And re-read. Fell asleep listening to science podcasts he barely understood. Texted Tim questions like, “What the hell is a muon?” and got responses like, “Why are you asking me this at 2AM?”

You were working on something new. Something about microfluidics, which sounded made-up but wasn't. Your whiteboard was filled with squiggles and Greek letters, and Jason stood behind you one afternoon just... watching.

"You know," he said finally, leaning a shoulder against your wall, "I'm starting to think you might be the smart one in this relationship."

You turned, brow quirked. "Only just starting?"

Jason laughed. It cracked something open in him. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you said, crossing to him. You had ink on your fingers. Pen behind your ear. Your shirt was inside out. Jason thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "But I'm not in love with me. You are."

He blinked.

You kissed his cheek, then went back to your board, humming. As if you hadn't just sent his soul straight out of his body.

Jason spent that night learning about laminar flow.

Sometimes, you talked so fast you forgot to breathe. You’d get this wild look in your eyes, like the whole universe was cracking open and only you could see it.

Jason lived for that look.

You told him about CRISPR once, gesturing wildly with a fork in a shitty diner, eggs going cold.

"It’s gene editing," you said. "Like molecular scissors! You can cut DNA—literally edit life. Isn’t that insane?"

Jason chewed his toast. Nodded. Took a mental note to google "molecular scissors" the second you hit the bathroom.

He didn’t get it. Not really.

But he loved how your face lit up. Like discovering was your religion and you were halfway to ascension.

He wanted to believe in something like that.

The problem, of course, was that he kept falling harder.

It hit him slow at first—like rain soaking into the collar of your coat. He’d look up in the middle of a lecture she didn’t know she was giving and realize he hadn’t heard a word.

Because she was smiling. Because she was alive in that moment in a way that made the world blur.

And then one night it hit him all at once.

They were on his fire escape, watching the sky turn blue-black over Gotham. She had her legs pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, talking about something called CRISPR and how gene editing could eventually reverse certain degenerative conditions.

Jason lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Just let it sit in his hand.

“You ever wonder,” he said, “how you ended up where you are?”

She blinked. “All the time.”

“I used to think I was supposed to be something. Like... some big cosmic screw-up happened and I got turned into this.” He gestured vaguely. “A walking wreckage.”

“You’re not a wreck.”

Jason didn’t answer. Just watched her through the smoke.

“You read the books I send,” she whispered. “You ask questions. You try. That’s more than most.”

He looked away. “You make me want to try.”

She leaned into his shoulder, quiet.

That night he dreamed she was stardust and he was gravity. Always falling toward her.

Jason didn’t call it love. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

But he was the one who brought her soup when she got sick, even if he burned the rice.

He was the one who asked her to explain particle spin six times and still got it wrong.

He was the one who, during one of her meltdowns about failing a grant application, cupped her face and said, “You’re brilliant. If the world can’t see it, that’s not your fault.”

She cried into his shoulder for an hour.

One night, you fell asleep with your notes scattered across his bed. Jason gathered them carefully, reading snatches as he did.

"Theoretical modeling of fluid behavior in low-gravity environments..."

He smiled.

You’d joked once that you were building something for NASA. He wasn’t sure if you were actually joking.

He sat beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. You sighed in your sleep.

Jason Todd, child of Gotham's gutters, held your research like it was sacred.

He didn’t understand the math. But he understood what it meant to love something so fiercely you stayed up nights chasing it.

He understood what it meant to chase you.

It wasn’t easy.

You didn’t always get his silences. His scars. The way he sometimes drifted mid-conversation, haunted by a past he couldn’t shut up.

But you waited.

You asked.

You never made him feel like a puzzle to be solved. Just a story worth reading slowly.

One day he caught you reading War and Peace. Not for class. Not for work. Just... because.

"You know that’s, like, a thousand pages, right?"

"Only 1,225," you replied without looking up. "You should try it."

Jason chuckled. "You trying to turn me into a nerd, sweetheart?"

You looked at him then, all sharp eyes and soft affection. "You already are. You just don’t know it yet."

When you said "I love you," it was after explaining something about black holes.

Jason had no idea how you got from "gravitational collapse" to "I love you," but he wasn’t complaining.

He’d spent so long being angry. Being alone. Being something sharp and armored.

You cracked through it all with equations and post-it notes, with quiet mornings and whispered facts about tardigrades.

You made him laugh. Think. Google shit.

You made him feel.

He didn’t always understand what you said. He never fully grasped string theory.

But he learned her favorite coffee order, and the way she curled her toes when she was focused, and how to tell when her anxiety was starting to spiral.

He learned how to love her without needing to understand every atom.

Because she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a cosmic mistake after all.

He was just a man. With a girl. And a heart that beat a little faster every time she said, “Hey Jay, guess what I learned today?”

And that?

That he understood perfectly.

And that was enough.

[doturnaround]

What you would it take for you to skip out on a date with your crush?

1.7k words, explicit language, and fluff. Alternate AU where Clark is a late bloomer.

If  he'd known, maybe he'd come sooner. The absolute dickhead. You slightly crush the cup in your hands, glancing over the place like he'd magically appear. Where the hell was he!? You feel your emotions boil over, and decide to find out for yourself. 

You trudge through the party, pushing past gyrating youngins till your heels started to sink into the front yard. Blowing your lips into a pout, you start at Kent’s house.  Stomping down the gravel and dirt road, ignoring the slowing cars as you walk on the street, gently pushing away someones herding dog as you spot the yellow house peak through the tree line.

Your heels sting, but the house was in full view now, and you took long strides up to the door. 

“Clark Kent! I thought your mama raised a gentleman, but leaving me at the McKennin’s? Are you crazy!” You shout as you bang on the door. 

You knock not-so-politely a few more times, before continuing around the porch. Thanks to the wrap around porch, it was easy to find the back door, letting your heels clack loudly. 

“Hiding now ain't gonna do nothin when I eventually find you!”  You hope your voice carried through the house, you were going to find Clark Kent! Today or tomorrow so be it!

Your gaze landed on the windows, and you contemplated shouting through them. But a sudden thud drew your attention behind you. Collapsed on the stairs was none other than your ditch date.  You drew in a deep breath as you studied him. His shirt was burned in precise holes, and his jeans were still on fire, it had already burned off a chunk off his pants, and a large hole in his shirt gave you a view of his smooth chest.

“What the fuck.” You say blankly, walking over to stomp out the fire on the pocket of his jeans. 

“Ow- Is that you?” He pants as you essentially kick him repeatedly in the ass.

“Who’s you? If you mean the girl you'd decided to ditch, then yeah!” you throw your arms up exasperatedly, now noticing that his eyes were tightly shut.

“Can't even look me in the eyes you.are.so.dumb!” you punctuate each word with another stomp on his butt.

“Wha-no! I can explain- jus not right now I swear.” He shuffles onto his knees, hands groping along the top stair. “Can you please get my ma? I-I, there's something wrong with my eyes. And stop stampin on my ass!” His voice trails off, and empathy pangs in your gut.

“Fine, but this isn't the end of this” You glare at him, leaning your weight onto him one more time before lifting your foot. 

You were going to look for his ma, but met her halfway back around to the front.

“Were you the cause of all that unnecessary racket?” She asked you as soon as your gazes were laid.

You roll your eyes “Yea, but-” 

“Honey, that aint my boy to go on doin that! Something musta happened, but no matter- there was no need to go a’banging all along my house now!” She says, interrupting you.

“Im sorry but your-” 

“Always ‘bout me! What about you? My son mighta had some reason if he even did leave ya.”

“Your little son’s half naked at yer back door!” You couldn't help the volume you reached, tired of her interruptions.

“Why didn't you say so earlier!” She cried, jogging to the back. You hesitated to follow. Still you return to Clark, Martha already wrapped around her son.

Martha was quick to console Clark, hugging him tightly before helping to his feet. His eyes were still welded shut, Martha leading him in through the back door. The door hung open a second as she looked over her shoulder at you, then quickly nodded for you to ‘get inside’.

As you step inside, you feel guilt swarm your gut. Clark did look worse for wear, and it was a reason to leave you if there were any. Clark was sat down at his dinner table, gripping the top of his chair tightly.  You bite your lip, waiting for his man to give you orders. So you lean against the sink and watch Clark shiver.

“Are you sick?” you question, noting the fact he would shudder every few seconds. 

“I uh, it sure feels like it” He responds, using a hand to wipe at his eyes. He sniffles heavily, and Martha rounds the corner.

She had a towel and a small tin box in her hands, of which she quickly deposited on the table. She wizzes past him to you, staring at you so suddenly you realise she wanted something behind you. You side step as she pulls out a bowl, then actually turns to you.

“Fill this with warm water darlin”.

You follow her instructions, placing a hand under the faucet as it warms up. Watching lazily, you glance at Martha coddling Clark. Everyone knew Martha and Johnothan truly raised Clark like he was something different. He was a real sweet boy, but it was clear he was a bit spoiled. Not like he wasn't on the plow with his father each Saturday, but Martha was always “pickin something up for my boy ya’know.” or “just a little reward for how hard he's been workin lately.” 

You hiss, pulling your hand from the faucet. It was well over warm now. You push the bowl over to fill it, turning carefully once it was.

“Got your water ma'am.” You place the bowl in front of her at the table, sitting opposite to her. Clark was sitting at the head, but was angled to the side Martha was at, so all you saw was the sweat stained back of his shirt 

Martha nodded at you warmly, throwing the towel in the water, then standing in front of Clark with her hands buried in his sleeves. 

“This is ruined, give it here” She said, pulling his shirt off of clarks raised arms.

You stared at his back, watching impressive muscles reveal themselves. Clark seems to notice, shrinking in on himself as his mom goes to get him a new shirt. She isn't gone for long, returning with a sigh.

“Clark, quit actin like you weren't fixing to date this young lady.” You blush at Martha's statement, and by the hand on the back of his neck, you assume Clark feels the same. 

She wacks him with the shirt, leaving it in his lap for him to pull on. Instead, she pulls out the towel from the bowl, and turns back to Clark.

“What's goin on baby?” She asks, using the damp towel to start rubbing soot from his body.

“Its- my. My eyes.” Clarks voice drops into a low whisper, seemingly trying to hide it from you. He puts his elbow on this table, and turns a bit farther from you. 

Martha's eyes register into deeper concern, glancing at you quickly. There was something here, although the obvious sensitivity of the topic, you could help but feel a bit saddened at their reaction. You weren't supposed to be in the room to hear this conversation.

“But, im. I don't know what is happening?”

“Is that why your eyes are closed?”

“Yeah..”

“Try for me baby, please.?”

Clark nodes apprehensively, shifting in his chair as he lifts his head. His eyelids flutter as he nervously opens his eyes. He blinks a few times, glancing around the room with eyes wide open. Relief is on his face for a moment, before pure beams of red emit from them. He burns two melting holes into the wooden cabinets, a streak of flames following his gaze down the room. Finally finishing as he closed his eyes.

Shock didn't seem to kick in very fast, you and Martha staring at each other for a second before you leaped from your chair.

“Excuse my language but what the fuck!? Ma your house is on fire!”

“Shit!” she runs off, not towards the door, where you were dragging Clark, but deeper into the house.

“Are you crazy!?” you screech from the porch, watching her figure return through the smoke. Then,through a flurry of white, the smoke and fire were gone. Fire extinguisher, nice! 

You stayed outside, letting the extinguisher flow into the air. Then you turned your head to Clark apprehensively. He was turned away from you, most likely sensing the complete shock on your face.

“You just shot lasers outta your ¡Goddamn eyes!” You say, eyebrows threading, and a hand on his shoulder. 

“What planet are you from Clark? Truely!” you place your other hand on his other shoulder, your voice lifting with the start of a laugh.

You do your best to turn Clark, which he does on his own account, and shake his shoulders. You laugh lightly, bewildered and curious. Your date ditched you to gain lazer eye powers. What the fuckkkkkkk. You pull yourself against him to hug him, Clarks hand up to cover his eyes, so you're hugging him and his arms. 

You feel him drop them as Martha comes out of the house, coughing. 

“I did not expect that to happen at all!” Martha says, using her hand to swat away any leftover extinguisher cloud.

“We are going to have quite a conversation once your father gets back.” She says, looking at Clark, but cutting to your own eyes with a sly grin.

“Sweety, i'll call you tomorrow, we can. Talk about this.” Martha's voice drops into a register southern ladies only use for business, and your grip loosens around Clark.

“Yeah,” You say, adjusting to Clark putting his own arms below yours in a proper hug. His cheek grazes your neck for a second, leaving a burning trail as he starts to walk off with his mom.

“It would be best if you didn't-” Martha started, and you finished her statement, knowing what she, or anyone would want in this type of situation.

“Tell anyone, yeah, I got it. I just? Can I get a ride home please?” Your tone becomes softer at the removal of the clark. And whiplash from today's events. And a lot of other things.

Martha nod profusely, “Let me get him up stairs-” she grab Clark by his Bicep “Safely”

You nod, following them back into the house. 

“See you.” Clark waves behind himself awkwardly, being escorted up the stairs.

You hum a yes, sitting back down at the table, watching the still smoldering cabinets, and wait for Martha to return and give you ride.

[sleepyblr-heart]

I'm Losing My Mind

spring parts hehe

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 “𝐖𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊” 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄��

“We need to talk,” you say, trying to keep your expression serious as you stand before Xavier.

Rather than responding, however, he simply extends his hand toward you.

“Xavier? Did you hear what I said?”

Without a word, he gently pulls you toward the large beanbag in the corner of the room. Before you can protest or explain that your serious tone was just a joke, he’s already settling into the cushion, bringing you down with him.

“This... not now,” he murmurs, positioning you against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. His deliberate movements make it clear—this is his strategy for avoiding whatever discussion you’re trying to initiate.

“I was just—” you begin, but Xavier has already closed his eyes, his breathing starting to deepen in that familiar pattern.

You sigh, realizing he’s purposely choosing sleep over conversation. As his arms tighten slightly around you, keeping you securely against him, you can’t help but wonder if he saw through your playful ruse or if he simply decides that any conversation beginning with ‘we need to talk’ isn’t worth staying awake for.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

“We need to talk,” you announce as Zayne walks through the door.

He pauses mid-step, his eyes immediately fixing on yours. He sets down his belongings without a word and takes a seat beside you, giving you his full attention.

“Go ahead,” he says simply.

You hadn’t expected such immediate, focused attention, and your planned joke suddenly feels less humorous under his intense gaze. You hesitate, considering whether to continue the prank.

“I’m listening,” he prompts when you don’t immediately speak.

You decide to come clean. “There’s nothing serious to discuss. I’m just happy to see you.”

His expression doesn’t change, but he holds your gaze for a long moment before rising from his seat with a relieved sigh. “I’m happy to see you, too,” he smiles before adding, “But, please, don’t start conversations with ‘we need to talk’ next time,” he says. “Those words create unnecessary anxiety.”

He moves toward you, his demeanor softening slightly. “If you want my attention, you have it. No need for dramatic preludes.” He caresses your head briefly before heading to the kitchen.

Later, he brings you a cup of coffee and sits beside you. “Now, did you want to talk about something else? Or was the goal simply to see me worry?”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

“We need to talk,” you announce from the doorway of Rafayel’s studio.

The faint smile that usually dances across his face when he paints vanishes instantly. His whole body seems to stop functioning—even the glass of water halfway to his lips remains suspended in air, forgotten.

His eyes—wide and alarmed—fix on you with such intensity that your playful mood instantly evaporates. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just stares at you with growing dread.

“What—” he finally manages, voice barely audible. “What did I do?” he whispers. “Did I miss something important? Was I supposed to be somewhere?”

You can almost see the memories flashing behind his eyes—all the times he’s flaked on commitments to his art exhibition, all the responsibilities he’s brushed aside for spontaneous ocean swims for inspiration, and all the times he’d flee from social gatherings.

“It was a joke,” you interrupt his thoughts quickly. “Just a silly joke. There’s nothing wrong.”

Relief floods his entire body. “Why would you scare me like that? Now my mind’s blank and I can’t paint anymore,” he huffs.

He ‘punishes’ you with all-day cuddles to make himself feel better.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“We need to talk,” you say, entering Sylus’s office with a deliberately somber expression.

There’s the briefest pause in his movements before his composure returns completely.

“Do we now?” he responds, leaning back in his chair. “What is it, sweetie? Enlighten me about this matter that demands such a grave introduction.”

He gestures to the seat across from him, watching you closely as you sit down. His expression reveals nothing, though you catch the slight narrowing of his eyes as he studies your face, preparing responses for various scenarios.

“I’m waiting,” he says after a moment of silence.

You can’t maintain the charade under his intense scrutiny and break into a smile. “Actually, there’s nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you trying to see how I’d react? I assure you, I was completely unaffected.” Despite his claim, there’s a hint of relief in his posture as he leans forward.

“Your mind stopped working for a split second there, didn’t it?”

“Careful,” he murmurs, reaching across the desk to brush his fingers against yours. “Next time you cry wolf, I might just show you what happens when I’m genuinely concerned.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

“We need to talk,” you announce, keeping your voice serious as you enter Caleb’s room.

He looks up from his phone, and for just a moment, his demeanor falters. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the concern vanishes behind a bright smile.

“Nooope. No, we don’t,” he declares, tossing aside his work. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait until after dinner. Or tomorrow. Or never.”

You try to maintain your serious expression. “Caleb, I’m being serious here.”

“And I’m seriously not having this conversation,” he replies, already guiding you toward the door with an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s go get some food instead. Or watch that new movie at the cinema. Anything but ‘talk.’”

“You’re aware that avoiding the topic only makes me more curious, right?”

“Of course,” he grins, “but if I keep you entertained long enough, you might just forget about it.”

“You were scared,” you tease.

“Absolutely not,” he insists, though his grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I just have a strict policy against conversations that start that way. They’re banned in this relationship, effective immediately.” He pulls you closer, his playfulness restored now that the perceived threat has passed.

Two posts for today 😼

[pucksandpower]

All the Way Home

Toto Wolff x Lauda!Reader

Summary: growing up, you were the closest thing to a princess the paddock had, but then your Opa died and your father stole everything that was supposed to be yours while making sure to ship you far away from everything you called home … until a chance encounter with Toto brings back hope you were too afraid to feel for years

“You know,” Toto mutters, flicking a drop of latte foam off his blazer, “I think this is the universe telling me to stop drinking oat milk.”

You blink up at him, brows lifted, expression somewhere between mortified and amused. “Or maybe just … stop walking while texting.”

The coffee has already started to soak into his shirt. You’re holding what’s left of yours — lid cracked, brown ring around the rim, paper sleeve twisted halfway off. The crowd of students on Harvard Yard swirls around you like you’re a rock in a stream.

He squints at you. There’s something — some flicker of recognition behind his eyes. And for a moment you think maybe you imagined it, but then he tilts his head. “I know you.”

You’re already taking a step back. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” he insists. “I do. That voice. That accent.”

“Lots of people have accents,” you reply, sharper than you meant. It’s reflex. That blade in your voice — that edge you honed after years of learning how to disappear without actually vanishing.

He studies you more closely now. Tall and deliberate. Eyes narrowing like he’s squinting through fog.

You turn. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“Wait-” He reaches for your arm but doesn’t touch. “Please. Just a second.”

You stop. Only just. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way he says it. Not commanding. Not pushy. Just … asking.

He exhales. “You’re her. You’re Niki’s-”

“Don’t,” you cut in. Quietly. But it lands like a punch.

Toto’s mouth snaps shut. You stare at him for a moment, jaw tight, chest taut with that old ache that always finds a way to crawl back up your throat.

You don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

He clears his throat, gestures vaguely to the now-soggy sleeve of his shirt. “You owe me a new coffee.”

You arch a brow. That old Lauda move. He sees it and his expression flickers. Something like heartbreak and wonder at once. “I don’t owe you anything,” you say, but it doesn’t have bite this time. It’s … tired.

“I was joking,” he says quickly, raising both hands. “Of course.”

You sigh. The cup in your hand is still warm, but it doesn’t comfort you. You glance down at it. Then back up.

He looks older. But grounded. Solid. He doesn’t wear grief like you do, but you can see it. There. Behind the smile lines. In the slower way he breathes.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he says, after a long pause.

“Clearly.”

“You’re a student?”

“Yes.” You hesitate. “A bit over a year left.”

Toto’s brows rise, impressed. “What are you studying?”

“Finance.”

He chuckles. “Of course you are.”

You shift, uncomfortable. “Why are you here?”

“Guest lecture,” he says. “Leadership series.”

You nod, even though you don’t really care. Not about that, at least.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he adds, softer now. “None of us knew where you went.”

“That was the point.”

His jaw ticks. There’s silence between you again, thick and humming. The background chatter of students, birds, bikes zipping by — it all fades for a second.

“I looked for you,” he says. “After Niki passed.”

You feel that pang in your chest again, sharp and raw. You push it down. “Well,” you say, “my father made sure no one would find me.”

Toto’s face hardens. “I know.”

You cross your arms. “Do you?”

“I know what he did. I tried to intervene, but-”

“But it wasn’t your fight,” you finish for him. You don’t mean to sound bitter, but maybe you do.

He takes that. Doesn’t flinch. “I wish I’d made it mine.”

You blink. That hits somewhere unexpected.

“I’m sorry,” he adds.

You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“It does.”

“No.” You take a step back. “It really doesn’t.”

He watches you, carefully. “Let me buy you another coffee.”

“I don’t want a coffee.”

“Something else, then.”

You hesitate. For a beat too long. He sees it.

You don’t know what it is. Something about his voice? His presence? The way he says it like it’s not an offer, but a peace treaty?

You look away. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t.” He shrugs. “I want to.”

You almost laugh. “What, out of guilt?”

“No,” he says. “Out of care.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

There’s a pause. He glances at your hand. The way your fingers tighten around the cup. The way your nails dig into the paper sleeve.

“How long has it been since you spoke to anyone from the paddock?” He asks.

You laugh. Just once. Dry. “Since the day I was forced to leave.”

“Anyone?”

You shake your head. “I cut everyone off.”

“But why?”

You look him dead in the eyes. “Because it was easier.”

His expression falters. Just slightly.

“I had to survive,” you continue. “And no one was going to save me. Not back then.”

He breathes out slowly. “I’m sorry we didn’t.”

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad.”

“I know.” A pause. “But I still do.”

You look at him. For a long, quiet moment. This man who used to call you “mäuschen” when you would wander around the Mercedes garage in your soundproof headphones, gripping Niki’s hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. This man who used to sneak you chocolate and sit you on the pit wall during debriefs, even when it pissed everyone off.

You exhale.

“It’s been a long time,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not the same person anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

You nod slowly. “You should change your shirt.”

He grins. “That bad?”

“Very.”

“Will you be at the lecture?”

You snort. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have three final projects, a CAPSTONE defense, and a job offer for next summer I haven’t decided if I’m taking.”

“Impressive.”

You shrug. “It keeps me busy.”

“Where’s the offer?”

“London.”

That surprises him. He doesn’t say anything for a second. “You’d be closer to the team.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not why I’m going.”

He smiles. “Still. It’s a nice thought.”

You fidget with your sleeve. “I don’t know if I’ll take it.”

“Well,” he says, “if you do … maybe we talk again?”

You hesitate. That familiar voice in your head wants to say no. The one that’s protected you for years. But you look at him. And suddenly you’re eight again, in the paddock, sitting on Niki’s shoulders, watching Toto yell at a race strategist with one hand while handing you a juice box with the other.

Maybe you’re allowed to want a sliver of something soft again.

“Maybe,” you say.

He beams.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes. “Goodbye, Toto.”

He gives you a little wave as you turn to go.

But just before you vanish into the stream of students, you hear him call out. “Hey!”

You stop. Half-turn.

His smile is lopsided. “You look just like him, you know.”

You don’t ask who. You don’t have to. You nod. Once. And then you’re gone.

But he’s still standing there, dripping coffee and smiling like someone just handed him back something he thought was lost forever.

***

It starts with an email.

You’re curled up in a library armchair, shoes kicked off under the table, your laptop balanced on your knees. The screen glows with half-finished spreadsheets and a cruelly blinking cursor in the middle of a thesis sentence that refuses to write itself.

Your phone buzzes. You glance down, expecting a reminder or another notification about graduation regalia, but it’s an email.

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

Subject: An Apology, Properly This Time

You stare at it for a full ten seconds before clicking.

Dear Y/N,

I wanted to say again how sorry I am — for the coffee, for the past, for losing track of you when it mattered most.

It was a surprise to see you, but a welcome one. If you’re willing, I’d love the chance to talk properly. Maybe I can buy you that replacement coffee after all.

Wishing you a good rest of the semester.

Warmly,

Toto

You roll your eyes. Warmly. He always did try too hard to be approachable in emails. You and Niki used to laugh at that.

Your fingers hover over the keys. You type three words.

I’m fine, thanks.

And hit send. Done.

Or so you think.

***

A day later, another email.

This time, the subject line is just your name.

Y/N,

I hope you won’t mind me writing again. I keep thinking about what you said or didn’t say. I know you don’t want to talk about Niki. Or the past. But not seeing you at races has been … strange.

The paddock still feels like it’s waiting for you to show up. Sometimes I catch myself turning, expecting to see you sitting in your old seat on the pit wall.

You were always there. Every race. Every season. You were a part of this world.

I suppose I just wanted you to know … we noticed when you disappeared. And I’m sorry we didn’t say so sooner.

- Toto

This one sits in your inbox all afternoon. You reread it between lectures. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Just nostalgia. But something in your chest cracks open just a little — hairline, nothing dangerous — and you find yourself hitting reply.

Fine. One lunch. You pick the place. I pick the time. You’re paying.

Don’t get used to it.

***

You meet at a little café near campus — somewhere he won’t be recognized, you hope. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the outdoor patio, awkwardly tall in a chair clearly not built for someone with his legs.

He stands when he sees you.

“You came,” he says, as if surprised.

You shrug, sliding into the seat across from him. “You wouldn’t shut up.”

He grins. “Persistent, not annoying.”

“Debatable.”

The waitress brings menus, but you barely glance at yours.

Toto peers over his. “You know what you want?”

“Anything that’s not ramen,” you mutter.

He chuckles. “That bad?”

“I’ve had instant noodles for dinner every night this week.”

There’s a pause. Then he looks up. “You don’t have to-”

“Don’t,” you say, sharply. “Don’t offer money. Or help. Or sympathy. This isn’t a rescue lunch.”

He nods slowly, lips pressing together. “Understood.”

A beat passes. The air between you cools. You open your menu again, mostly to avoid his eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, “we would have taken care of you.”

You don’t look up. “You didn’t get the chance.”

Toto lets that hang in the air for a moment. He doesn’t push. That’s always been his thing. Niki used to call him the tactician. Playing the long game.

Finally, you sigh. “You know, I thought maybe the F1 world would forget about me. Or pretend I was never there.”

He tilts his head. “You really think that?”

You glance up. “Don’t tell me I’m some legendary mystery now.”

Toto smiles faintly. “Actually, yes. Sort of. You vanished. No one knew where you went. People asked.”

“Who?”

“Lewis. Nico. Valterri. Everyone at Brackley. People from Ferrari. Red Bull, even. You were … part of the paddock.”

“Were,” you say. “Past tense.”

He shakes his head. “Not for us.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.

The waitress returns. You order something with actual protein and real vegetables, just because you can. Toto gets a quiche. You hand her the menus and fold your arms on the table.

“Fine,” you say. “You want the story? Here it is.”

He straightens slightly. He doesn’t interrupt.

“My father,” you begin, “never wanted me. Not when I was born. Not ever.”

Toto’s jaw tightens, but he nods for you to go on.

“I was an inconvenience. An accident. Opa … he took one look at me and decided I was his. That was it. He raised me like I was a second chance.”

Toto smiles, almost wistfully. “He adored you.”

You nod. “I know. I know he did.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard.

“He brought me to every race. Every meeting. Every single Grand Prix. I knew the names of every mechanic before I could spell my own. You were all my family.”

Toto doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then he died. And everything stopped.”

You pause. The air turns heavier.

“My father used a loophole in the will. Something buried in the Austrian estate law. It took a week — one week — and everything was gone.”

Toto’s brows furrow. “Gone?”

“Everything Opa left me. Every cent. Every asset. The houses. The trust fund. Gone.” You laugh, short and bitter. “He even took the watch Opa gave me on my sixteenth birthday.”

Toto looks like he’s going to be sick.

You go on. “Next thing I knew, I was on a plane to Geneva with a suitcase and a pre-paid tuition slip. No more phone. No contacts. No access. Just silence.”

“But the team-”

“I wasn’t allowed to reach out,” you say. “He made it very clear. And honestly? I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

Toto’s face hardens. “You were a child.”

You smile faintly. “Not really. Not after that.”

He runs a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

You tap the table. “So yeah. That’s how I went from the paddock to scholarship kid eating ramen.”

There’s a silence after that. A deep one. Then Toto says, voice low, “We would’ve fought for you.”

You meet his eyes. “It would’ve ruined you.”

“I don’t care.”

You believe him. But it doesn’t change anything.

“You’re here now,” he says. “That’s-”

“I work three jobs,” you interrupt. “One in the library, one at the student union, and one grading econ papers. I live on black coffee and stolen WiFi.”

His mouth opens, then closes again.

You smirk. “Still think I’m the girl from the pit wall?”

“I think you’re stronger than anyone I know,” he says, quietly.

That hits somewhere it shouldn’t.

The food arrives. You both pretend to eat.

Finally, you say, “Why did you really email me?”

Toto blinks. “I told you.”

“No,” you press. “Not just guilt. Not just Niki. Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I think you still belong with us.”

You laugh. “You don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“I think I’m getting a pretty good picture.”

You sit back, watching him. Measuring. “Lunch doesn’t mean anything,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not coming back.”

He nods. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Then don’t take it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You always this persistent?”

He smiles. “Only for people who matter.”

You look away. Pretend the food matters more than the ache in your chest. But for the first time in years, the ache feels just a little less lonely.

***

Toto doesn’t sleep that night. He tells himself it’s the jet lag. Or the speech he has to deliver tomorrow. Or the espresso shot he downed at 8 PM like he wasn’t fifty-something with a tendency toward insomnia. But it’s not any of those things.

It’s you. It’s the way you said it — flat, matter-of-fact, like you were reciting the weather. My father stole everything. I work three jobs. I live on coffee and WiFi.

He’s haunted by the image of you sitting across from him at that little café, shoulders squared like armor, voice steady in a way that only people who’ve had to grow up too fast can manage. Niki would’ve lost his mind.

Toto rubs a hand down his face and opens his laptop. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for at first. Then he types:

Niki Lauda probate case.

The search results light up instantly. Austrian court records. Legal filings. Estate dispute. It’s all there — cold, clinical, digitized.

He clicks through, heart in his throat. And then he sees it. Niki’s will.

Filed one week after the funeral. A scanned PDF, official letterhead, stiff legalese.

To my only granddaughter, Y/N Lauda, I leave all personal assets, properties, and financial holdings under the Lauda Family Trust …

Toto’s mouth goes dry. There. In black and white. Niki left you everything. Just like he said he would.

But there’s more. A new filing. Contested. Your father’s name plastered all over it. Lawyers arguing that the will was “not consistent with existing family arrangements.” That Niki was “mentally compromised” in his final months. That the Lauda Trust should revert to the immediate heir under Austrian inheritance law.

And somehow they won.

Toto leans back in his chair, stunned. The legal gymnastics are breathtaking. Technicalities stacked on loopholes stacked on decades-old clauses Niki probably never even remembered existed. And no one fought it. No one even appealed.

You were seventeen. Still in shock. Still reeling. And they took everything.

He exhales sharply, pushes away from the desk. Stands. Paces. Swears under his breath. Then he grabs his phone.

***

You’re still half-asleep when it buzzes. Four times. You groan, roll over, slap at the screen until you find the call.

“Toto,” you croak, voice hoarse. “It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

“I read the will.”

You sit up. “What?”

“I pulled the court records. Niki left everything to you.”

Your stomach drops.

“Toto-”

“They stole it,” he says. “Your father. His lawyers. They-”

“I know,” you snap.

Silence.

You rub your eyes. “I know. Okay? I read it too. Years ago.”

“You didn’t tell me-”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

He makes a strangled sound, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It matters.”

“No, it’s over,” you say. “The case is closed. It’s done.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then, “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“You’re lying.”

You grit your teeth. “Toto, I swear to God-”

“He left it to you,” he says again, quieter now. “He meant for you to have it. Every bit of it.”

You exhale, long and shaky. “And he’s dead. And I didn’t have the money or the power to fight them. So I lost.”

“But I do,” he says.

You freeze.

“No,” you say quickly. “Don’t.”

“You know I can help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not some lost cause you need to fix!” Your voice breaks. “I’m not a team project, Toto. I’m not a race strategy you can outmaneuver.”

His breath catches on the line.

And then, softly, “That’s not what this is.”

You close your eyes. “I can’t do this again. I can’t lose more.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Another long silence.

Then he says, quietly, “You’re allowed to let someone help you.”

You hang up.

***

You avoid him for two days.

It’s childish, maybe, but you’re exhausted. From finals, from pretending, from carrying this thing like it’s not heavy. And now there’s him. Toto. This immovable force from your past suddenly crashing back into your orbit, and he’s not like you remember.

He’s worse. He’s older, yes — but not in the way you expected. Not smaller. Not dimmer. If anything, he’s more. More commanding. More composed. But also warmer. Gentler.

It throws you off balance.

The Toto you remember barked orders, clapped shoulders too hard, handed you protein bars and told you to “eat something that isn’t sugar.”

This one … This one looks at you like you matter. Like you still belong. And that’s worse than anything.

Because you don’t. Not anymore.

***

You’re walking across the quad when you spot him.

He’s standing near the gates, sunglasses pushed into his hair, hands in his coat pockets like he’s trying to look casual but failing spectacularly.

You stop. Groan. “Seriously?”

He turns. Smiles.

“I thought you were leaving,” you say.

“Tonight.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk,” he says, clearly lying.

You walk past him. He falls into step beside you.

You glare. “You don’t know how to quit, do you?”

“No,” he says. “I really don’t.”

You sigh.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just footsteps on pavement. Then he says, “I talked to a friend in Vienna.”

Your jaw tightens. “Toto-”

“She’s a probate lawyer. And a pain in the ass. She took one look at the filings and said they reek of manipulation.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

You stop walking.

“I said no,” you say, firmly.

“I know.”

“And you did it anyway.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And not in that polite, professional, Toto way. This is something else. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Every wall, every scar.

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone,” he says.

You hate how it sounds. Like kindness. Like care.

You look away. “You don’t get to care now.”

“I never stopped.”

That makes your breath catch.

He softens. “You think we all forgot. We didn’t. We were told you were … taken care of.”

You snort. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not the way you deserved.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, cold despite the sun. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This,” you say. “This thing where you swoop in like some — some savior. You’re not responsible for what happened.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I can still do something about it.”

You shake your head. “I’ve already rebuilt everything from nothing. I have a life now. A plan.”

He steps closer. “And what if you could have your life back?”

Your eyes meet. The air shifts. You don’t say it, but he sees it. That flicker of longing. The one you’ve buried so deep it hardly breathes anymore. But it’s still there.

You look away. “You should go.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“Goodbye, Toto.”

He nods, once. “For now.”

***

That night, you sit on your bed, staring at your ceiling. Your laptop is still open to your resume draft. You have a final in two days. Your phone is dark.

And still — you can’t stop thinking about him. The way he stood there. Solid. Unshaken. Like he’d tear the sky apart if it meant fixing this for you. Like he cared. Really, really cared.

You remember being ten, sitting on his shoulders after a podium, Niki laughing beside you, champagne sticky on your shirt. You remember Toto carrying you out of the garage when you fell asleep under a desk during FP2. You remember trust.

And now? Now he’s a man. And you’re a woman who’s spent the last six years learning not to want things she can’t have.

You close your laptop and turn off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to let someone fight for you.

Even if it’s him. Especially if it’s him.

***

The subject line of the email reads:

Austrian Grand Prix — A Terribly Unconvincing Excuse to Kidnap You for a Weekend.

You open it, already sighing.

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

I think you should come.

Not for the politics. Not for the will. Not for me. Come because it’s Austria. Come because it’s Spielberg. Come because the garage still has your name written into its bones.

Take a break. We’ll call it … strategic recovery. I’ll arrange everything.

- Toto

You stare at it for a long time. Your cursor hovers over “delete.”

You hit reply instead.

This doesn’t mean anything.

Y/N

Two minutes later:

Understood. But I’m still putting wine in your hotel room.

- Toto

***

The private flight makes you uncomfortable. Too much legroom. Too quiet. The kind of luxury you were once too used to and now don’t know how to exist inside. The flight attendant offers you fresh berries and coffee in a porcelain cup. You accept both out of guilt.

When you land in Austria, the air hits you differently. Sharper. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

It’s been six years. Six years since you left the track in tears and didn’t return. Since the headlines turned to nothing at all. Since you buried Niki and yourself all in the same summer.

Toto meets you at the entrance to the paddock.

“Welcome home,” he says.

You give him a look. “It’s not home.”

He lifts a brow. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

***

The moment you step through the paddock gates, time collapses.

People stop in their tracks. A Mercedes engineer drops his clipboard. Another one — the tall one with the silver hair, you can’t remember his name — just stares. His lip trembles.

You nod politely. Keep walking.

Toto walks beside you, a steady presence. Subtle, quiet, unmistakable. His hand never touches you, not quite, but it hovers behind your back like a safety net. Invisible unless you’re paying attention.

You are.

The Mercedes garage comes into view.

You stop. Your breath catches.

And then the crowd parts.

“Y/N?”

The voice is soft, stunned.

You turn. Lewis Hamilton.

He’s in red now — Ferrari. The suit fits him differently, like he’s carrying someone else’s legacy for a while. But his eyes are the same. Kind. Knowing.

“Holy sh-” He doesn’t finish. Just crosses the space between you in seconds and hugs you.

Hard.

You freeze for a beat. Then you melt.

He smells like sweat and tire rubber and something that’s always felt like safety. He pulls back to look at you, eyes wet. “You disappeared.”

“I know.”

“No one knew what happened.”

“I know.”

He studies your face. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Then nod. Barely.

“You’re here now,” he says.

It shouldn’t matter that much. But it does.

***

More people come. Mechanics. Engineers. James Vowles, now in Williams blue. Even Nico Rosberg takes a detour from reporting in the pit lane. They all say the same thing.

We missed you.

Where have you been?

Is it really you?

You smile until your face hurts. Nod until your neck aches. When someone asks if you’re back for good, you excuse yourself.

Toto finds you five minutes later behind the hospitality unit. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Just offers a bottle of water and waits.

You take it.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just a lot.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of a storage crate. He leans beside you.

“You knew this would happen,” you say.

“I hoped,” he admits.

You glance at him. “You’re not even pretending this was about rest.”

“Wasn’t my best lie.”

“No,” you say. “It really wasn’t.”

He grins.

***

By the time the day winds down, your nerves are shot. You let Toto walk you to your hotel room because you’re too tired to argue. It’s nice. Warm. The lights glow low. The view faces the hills.

There’s wine waiting. Of course.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says at the door.

You hesitate. “You could … stay.”

His brow lifts.

“I mean for a glass,” you say quickly. “Just a glass.”

“Right,” he says, smiling. “Just a glass.”

***

The wine is good. Too good. You’re on your second glass before you feel your shoulders loosen.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He’s in the armchair, his jacket shed, tie loosened. He watches you like he used to. Carefully. Kindly.

“So,” you say. “This was your plan.”

“Plan is a strong word.”

“Plot, then.”

“I prefer ‘gentle manipulation.’”

You laugh. You didn’t expect to. It surprises both of you.

You sip your wine. “It was nice. Today.”

He nods.

“Also horrible,” you add.

He nods again.

You stare into your glass. “I really loved it here.”

“I know.”

You trace the rim of the glass. “I was going to work for the team, you know? After university. Opa wanted me in strategy. Said I had the right kind of cruel.”

Toto smiles faintly. “He did say that.”

You swallow. “It’s like I lost him, and then I lost myself.”

You don’t mean to say it. But it slips out, raw and quiet.

Toto puts down his glass. You keep talking.

“And I didn’t know how to fight them. His lawyers. My father. They talked about trust funds and family trusts and implied Niki was confused when he wrote that will. And I was seventeen. I didn’t know who to call. I just … I shut down.”

Your hands shake. You place your glass on the table carefully. Toto says nothing. Just listens.

“I hate them,” you whisper. “And I hate myself for not fighting harder.”

He leans forward. “You were a child.”

“I was supposed to be smarter.”

“You were grieving.”

You blink hard. “I thought I could make it all mean something. Like if I just kept going. Got good grades. Worked hard. Became someone worth the Lauda name — maybe it would matter less that I lost everything else.”

Toto doesn’t speak.

You curl your fingers into fists. “But I still wake up sometimes thinking about the garage. The smell of rubber and champagne. Opa yelling at me in German because I forgot to zip up my jacket. You picking me up after I got too close to the pit lane.”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

“I miss being part of something,” you say. “I miss belonging.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. You don’t know why it breaks you.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s just him. But the tears come fast. You curl in on yourself. Press your knuckles to your eyes. Try to swallow it down.

And then Toto is there. He moves carefully, slowly, like you’re a deer in the woods. He sits beside you on the couch and opens his arms.

You don’t hesitate. You fold into him like you’re made to fit there.

He holds you. Not tightly. Not possessively. But completely. Like you’re something precious. Something once lost and newly found.

You cry until your throat hurts. Until your chest unclenches. Until all that’s left is the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you.

Eventually, your breathing evens. Your hands unclench. And you whisper, “Thank you.”

He says nothing. Just brushes his thumb gently over your shoulder.

You don’t move. You don’t want to. Nothing happens. But everything changes.

***

Cambridge looks different after Spielberg. Quieter. Greyer. Like someone turned down the saturation on the world.

You sit at your desk, textbooks spread open, half-read papers blinking on your laptop screen, but nothing sticks. Not the words, not the purpose. Everything’s a fog of too-late thoughts and echoing memories.

You haven’t responded to Toto’s last message. It’s not that you’re avoiding him — though, if pressed, you’d admit that you are. It’s just that being near him feels dangerous. He makes everything feel too sharp and too soft at once. He makes it harder to pretend that you're fine with the scraps. With the half-life you’ve built out of what was taken.

So you pull back. You don’t text. You don’t email. You don’t call.

He doesn’t chase. But he doesn’t vanish, either.

***

The package arrives on a Thursday. A long, sleek box in matte black with no return address.

You almost don’t open it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. A mistake. You set it on the corner of your desk like it doesn’t matter. But an hour later, when your nerves fray and your hands won’t stop fidgeting, you reach for it.

Inside is a leather-bound book, thick and heavy. Handmade. The cover is etched with the words:

LAUDA: A HISTORY IN MOTION

Your chest tightens. It’s not just any book. It’s yours. Photos you didn’t know existed. Notes in Niki’s handwriting. Marginalia from strategy meetings, race notes, printed-out emails between you and the engineers when you were sixteen and insufferable.

You flip to the first page. A card rests inside, handwritten in firm, slanted script.

For when you miss home.

No pressure. No agenda. Just memory.

- Toto

You put the book down. You pick it back up a second later. Then you cry for the first time in a week.

***

Three days later, a message lights up your phone.

I’m in New York for business. If you happen to feel like taking the train down … dinner’s on me.

You stare at it.

You type: I can’t.

You delete it.

You type: Maybe.

You delete that, too.

You end up sending just: When?

His reply is instant.

Tomorrow. 8pm. I’ll send the address. No pressure. Just food.

***

The hotel is expensive. Of course it is. Glass and stone and sleek grey walls with too many sconces. You feel out of place in your jeans and boots. But when you knock on the suite door and Toto opens it, he smiles like you’re exactly what belongs.

“You came.”

“You invited me,” you say, shrugging.

“You still came.”

You glance around. “This room costs more than my monthly rent.”

“Technically,” he says, stepping aside to let you in, “it costs more than your yearly rent.”

You snort. “You’re disgusting.”

He pours wine. “I’ve been called worse.”

***

Dinner is on the coffee table, not the dining table. You’re both cross-legged on the rug, barefoot, chopsticks in hand, picking at spicy tuna rolls and soft dumplings like it’s a sleepover.

Toto watches you closely. You try not to look back too much. But it’s hard. He looks stupid good in casual clothes — black t-shirt, dark jeans, hair a little messier than usual. His laugh is soft and infrequent, but when it happens, it’s like heat curling in your chest.

He tops off your wine. You sip too fast.

“You okay?” He asks after a long silence.

You nod. He waits. You cave.

“I’ve just … never been looked after by anyone who didn’t think they were owed something.”

The words hang there. Soft and sharp at the same time.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s seeing every version of you at once. Then, slowly, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You never owed me anything,” he says.

Your breath catches. It’s stupid, but that one sentence hits deeper than any gesture anyone’s made in years.

You blink quickly. “You’re going to ruin me.”

He smiles faintly. “No, you’ve done that part already.”

You laugh. You don’t mean to. It spills out broken and surprised. You’re still laughing when you kiss him.

It’s instinct. Gravity. You lean forward without thinking. One hand on his cheek. His fingers on your wrist. His mouth is warm. Familiar and new all at once. He kisses you like he’s never known another language, like this is the only word he’s fluent in.

But just as you start to fall into it — just as your hand slips down his chest and he moves closer — he stops. Pulls back. Breath ragged.

You freeze.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “Shit. I-”

“No,” he says, firm. “Don’t apologize.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I want this,” he says. “God, I want this.”

You’re holding your breath.

“But not like this,” he adds, softer. “Not while you’re still unsure. Not while you think this is something you don’t deserve.”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t think that.”

He tilts his head, eyes searching yours. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Because yes. Yes, you do.

Not always. Not when you’re with him. But the second he leaves, the doubt comes crawling back. That you’re broken. That you’re baggage. That you’re something people have to carry, not choose.

“You deserve to be kissed,” he says, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, “like you’re not a weight.”

You open your eyes again.

He’s still close. He kisses your forehead — gently, like a promise — and leans back.

You sit in the silence for a while. Breathing.

“You could’ve taken advantage,” you say quietly.

“I’d never.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s what breaks me.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch. He covers you with a blanket. Turns off the lights. Leaves a bottle of water on the table.

In the morning, there’s a note.

Didn’t want to wake you.

I’ll be back in Cambridge soon.

In the meantime …

Remember you were never lost. Just waiting.

- Toto

You fold the note and tuck it into the back of the book he gave you. It’s the first thing you’ve kept in years.

***

The call comes while you’re walking out of a seminar, your phone vibrating insistently in the pocket of your coat. You answer without checking.

“Hello?”

“It’s done.”

Toto’s voice is calm. Steady. There’s something final in it.

You stop on the steps, heart stuttering. “What do you mean, it’s done?”

“Check your inbox.”

You already know before you open it. You already feel it, like a shift under your skin.

The subject line on the email reads Final Settlement Agreement - Lauda v. Lauda

Your stomach flips.

“You didn’t,” you say. “Toto, tell me you didn’t go behind my back-”

“I told you I would take care of it.”

“You said-” You press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady your breathing. “You said no pressure. That you wouldn’t interfere unless I asked.”

“I lied,” he says, bluntly. “I’m not sorry.”

You close your eyes.

***

It started two months ago.

You had mentioned it in passing — how your father’s lawyers had buried Niki’s will under a pile of counterclaims, how no one fought back. Because there was no one left to fight.

You remember the silence that followed. Heavy. Intentional.

Then Toto, voice like steel wrapped in velvet, had said, “Let me make this right.”

You’d shaken your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It should be.”

“It’s over.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You’d stood then, pacing, angry and cornered.

“I don’t want you to do this out of guilt. Or obligation. Or because you loved him.”

“I’m doing this,” he said evenly, “because someone should have the decency to protect you.”

You winced.

Toto took a breath. “I’m not asking for permission,” he said. “I’m just telling you you’re not alone in this.”

***

The legal battle is fast. Brutal. Clinical.

His team — six lawyers, two forensic accountants, and someone who used to work for the Austrian Ministry of Finance — descends like a controlled fire.

You never attend a single meeting. Toto won’t let you. Instead, he updates you in short bursts. Texts. Occasional calls. Never too much.

He’s panicking.

Tried to get the press involved.

We stopped it.

The judge reviewed the original will. It’s solid. Your father never stood a chance.

You don’t respond to most of them. You’re scared to feel hope. But it creeps in anyway.

***

When the settlement is finalized, your father demands a private meeting. Toto insists on being there.

It’s held in a sterile conference room in Vienna. You watch your father walk in, sunburned and stiff-jawed, flanked by two suits and an ego that’s been allowed to rot in peace for too long.

He doesn’t look at you. Just nods once at Toto.

“She wanted to waste it all,” your father says. “Planes. Champagne. Charity. That’s not what he built the company for.”

“She was seventeen,” Toto replies coolly. “What she wanted was time.”

Your father sneers. “You think this is noble? Giving it all back to a little girl who hasn’t worked a real job in her life?”

“I think,” Toto says, standing slowly, “that if you ever say her name with that tone again, I’ll bury you so far in litigation your great-grandchildren will need passports to find you.”

Your father laughs — short, bitter. “I could’ve gone to the press,” he says.

Toto slides a folder across the table.

“NDA,” he says. “If you breathe a word of this, the penalty clause will leave you selling furniture on Willhaben by spring.”

There’s a beat. Then your father signs. And just like that, it’s over.

***

The accounts transfer. The assets are returned. Property titles. Investments. Control of the Lauda Family Trust.

You are, technically, one of the wealthiest young women in Europe.

You should feel triumphant. You don’t. The moment the final document is notarized, you sit in Toto’s car in front of the legal office, staring at the streets you grew up knowing.

Vienna hasn’t changed. You have.

He’s silent beside you.

“You okay?” He asks eventually.

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t look okay.”

You laugh under your breath. “What does okay look like, exactly?”

He doesn't answer.

“I keep waiting to feel like her again,” you admit, finally. “The girl I was. But she’s gone.”

He turns to you. “You’re not gone.”

“I don’t know how to be her anymore. She trusted people. She believed the world would take care of her.”

“She was allowed to believe that,” he says gently.

You glance at him. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, “you don’t have to trust the world. You just have to trust me.”

That breaks something open in you. Quietly. Invisibly. Because it’s not a grand promise. It’s not a vow.

It’s a fact.

***

You don’t go back to Cambridge right away. Instead, you stay in Vienna for a few days. Walk old streets. Visit the empty house Niki left behind.

You don’t cry. Not until you find a scarf of his — still faintly smelling of aftershave — and sit on the edge of the tub in the master bathroom, holding it like a life vest.

Toto gives you space. But he doesn’t go far.

He cooks most nights. Texts you to remind you to eat. Doesn’t press when you go quiet, but he’s always there when you emerge, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

On the last night, he pours you a glass of wine and hands you the scarf you left folded on the table. “You should take it.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

You hold it for a moment. Then press it to your face.

“It still smells like him.”

Toto nods. “Sometimes I still wait for him to walk around the corner.”

You look up. “Me too.”

He smiles, faint and sad. “He’d be so damn proud of you.”

You shake your head.

“No, really,” he insists. “He’d be furious about what happened. But he’d be proud of how you survived.”

You take a long sip of wine.

“It doesn’t feel like surviving,” you admit.

He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.

“It is,” he says. “And soon, it’ll feel like living again.”

You don’t believe him. But God, you want to.

***

You fly back to Massachusetts with a new bank account, a new title, and a legal team on retainer.

Everyone treats you differently now. You hate it.

So you don’t tell anyone. You don’t flaunt it. You keep wearing your old boots and your beat-up coat and sipping your $2 coffee because it still tastes better than the espresso in Vienna ever did.

But you write one check. One. To a foundation in Niki’s name. Quiet, unpublicized. Enough to fund STEM programs for underprivileged girls across Austria and the U.S. for the next ten years.

When the foundation director calls to thank you, you hang up before she finishes. You’re not ready for gratitude yet. You’re still learning how to hold good things without flinching.

***

Toto calls on a Wednesday. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He pauses. “You always say that.”

“It’s the safest answer.”

There’s a beat.

“Come to Hungary,” he says.

You smile despite yourself. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to drag me out of hiding?”

“No,” he says. “It’s become a hobby.”

You laugh. It feels like the first real one in weeks. You say yes. Not because you’re ready. But because maybe you want to be.

***

It starts with a knock at your door. No warning. No text. Just a steady, confident knock like he has every right to be here.

You open it in sweatpants and a t-shirt from the university bookstore, hair unbrushed, a pencil still tucked behind your ear.

And there he is. Toto Wolff. In Cambridge. On a Thursday night.

He’s in jeans and a black sweater, somehow making it look like formalwear, his hair slightly windblown, hands in his pockets.

“You flew here,” you say, deadpan.

“Yes.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did,” he says simply.

“Did you consider texting?”

“I thought about it. Then I thought, no — she’ll say she’s busy.”

You fold your arms. “Because I am.”

He tilts his head. “Are you, though?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

He shrugs, like he can’t help himself. “Also, I missed you.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Then step aside. “Come in.”

***

You don’t go out. It’s raining, and you’re tired, and everything in you resists the idea of putting on makeup just to sit under fluorescent lights and be seen.

So you order in. Italian. Pasta and a bottle of red.

You eat at the small table in your apartment, legs tangled under the wood, like two people who’ve done this a thousand times.

He keeps looking at you. Not in a way that makes you self-conscious, just … quiet, constant awareness. Like he’s memorizing you.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your bowl.

“I know.”

You chew slowly. Swallow.

“Toto,” you murmur, “why are you here?”

“I told you. I missed you.”

“You’re not the kind of man who misses people.”

He nods once. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Silence.

Then you push your bowl away and rest your elbows on the table. “Why me?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Because I care about you,” he says. “Because I remember who you were before the world got cruel. And I see who you are now, and I think you’re even stronger.”

You look down at your hands. “Toto-”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You exhale shakily. “You didn’t see what it did to me. What it still does. You come in and you fix things and you’re kind and capable and impossible not to trust, but-”

You break off.

“But?”

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

He leans in, voice low.

“Do what?”

You look at him — eyes wide, raw, stripped of every defense.

“Let someone care about me without thinking it’ll cost me something.”

He goes still. Then he reaches out, slow and measured, and brushes a thumb against your cheek.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“You don’t owe me gratitude,” he says softly. “You owe yourself peace.”

Your face crumples. God, you’re so tired of being strong.

***

After dinner, he insists on doing the dishes. You try to stop him — he ignores you. It’s so normal it almost feels like something sacred.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Why do you do that?”

He glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Take care of everything.”

He shrugs. “I like it.”

“No, seriously. Why?”

He puts down the sponge, dries his hands, then turns to face you fully.

“Because I’ve learned,” he says, “what it feels like to be taken care of. And what it feels like not to be. And I’d rather be the one doing the taking care, if I can help it.”

You study him. The lines around his eyes. The way he says things without softening them.

“And what if I want to take care of you?” You ask quietly.

That makes him smile, just a little. A flicker of something. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says.

***

You sit on the couch, side by side. The rain taps gently at the windows. Your knee bumps his. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. “I meant what I said earlier.”

He nods, not asking which part.

“I want you.”

He turns his head. His voice is gentle. “You have me.”

“No, I mean-” You sigh, frustrated with yourself. “I mean, I want this. Us. Whatever we’re doing. But I don’t know how to trust it yet.”

He doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t pull or push. He just waits. And somehow, that undoes you even more than if he’d kissed you senseless.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“I know.”

You look down. “It’s not because of you. I just …”

“You’ve had to survive on your own for too long.”

You nod.

“And you learned not to need anyone.”

Another nod.

“But needing someone isn’t weakness,” he says. “It’s just proof that you’re human.”

You huff out a breath. “Spoken like someone who’s never had their world collapse.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You forget, I lost Niki too.”

You go quiet.

Toto shifts closer, but still not touching you.

“I know what it feels like to lose the one person who saw you. Really saw you. And then you’re left in a world where everything feels … too sharp. Too fake. Too loud.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you whisper.

“I noticed.”

You finally look up at him. And when he reaches out, slow and careful, you let him touch you. His fingers trail softly along your jaw, then sweep your hair behind your ear. His hand lingers there, warm and steady.

“I’m not asking for all of you tonight,” he says. “I’m just asking for now. For this.”

You nod.

Then, with aching slowness, you lean in. And he kisses you. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just a gentle submission to something that’s been building for months — years, even.

A truth you’ve both tried to ignore.

His mouth moves against yours with reverence. His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding you. You fist his sweater, afraid if you let go he’ll vanish.

But he doesn’t. He stays. And when the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I won’t let you be alone,” he says.

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch, curled against him. His arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your cheek pressed to his chest.

No sex. No declarations. Just presence. Just the soft, steady rhythm of a man who made a promise without ever saying the words.

You’re safe now.

And for the first time in years, you believe it.

***

The wind coming off the North Sea smells like brine and smoke and burnt rubber. Zandvoort is alive, vibrating, a sea of orange and thunder. The kind of race weekend that doesn’t let you breathe unless you’re used to the air here.

You’re not used to it anymore. Not really. But you pretend you are. Because this time, you’re not sneaking in through a side gate, head low, eyes half-hidden behind sunglasses. You’re not here as a memory.

You’re here as someone real. Someone seen. Someone beside him.

You wear black, but the cut of the trousers is elegant, the blouse soft, and your posture straighter than it's been in years. You walk with Toto into the paddock at 10:47 a.m. sharp, his hand at your back as he nods to mechanics and engineers and PR staff who blink at you like a ghost just walked in and decided to stay.

But no one says it too loud.

Toto’s presence is a shield. And you walk with him like you’ve always walked beside giants.

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away. You belong here. God, you almost believe it.

***

It doesn’t take long for the cameras to catch on.

By FP2, the rumors are viral. TikTok’s already clipped a shot of Toto brushing something — dust, or a leaf, or maybe just a phantom — from your shoulder. There’s a still image of you two laughing at something George says in the garage. A blurry video of you standing just slightly behind Toto during a pre-race meeting with the press officers.

Commentators pick it up like they’ve been waiting for it. By the time the race goes live Sunday afternoon, Sky Sports is in full speculation mode.

“… well, she’s certainly not a new face to the paddock,” one of them says lightly. “If you’ve been around long enough, you’ll remember her-”

But they don’t get to finish. Because Nico Rosberg cuts in, voice hard and deliberate.

“Let’s be clear,” he says. “She’s not some mystery woman. That’s Niki’s granddaughter. She grew up in the garage with us. I remember her playing UNO with our engineers during rain delays.”

There’s an awkward pause. Nico keeps going.

“She disappeared because people failed her. That’s not gossip — that’s fact. She was seventeen when her life got pulled out from under her. And now that she’s back? Maybe the more respectful thing would be to welcome her, not turn her into a headline.”

Even the producer doesn’t know how to cut him off. Nico leans back in his chair like he just did what he’s always done — drove straight through the bullshit with no brakes.

You watch it later in your hotel room, stunned.

Toto grins at the screen. “Remind me to send him a bottle of something expensive.”

***

The paddock changes after that. The questions don’t stop — but they get quieter. People look you in the eye when they greet you. Mechanics you haven’t seen in nearly a decade stop you in the hallway.

“You look like your grandfather,” one says, voice thick. “You always did.”

Lewis finds you again in the back corridor of the hospitality suite on Sunday evening, just after podiums wrap.

He’s still in his race suit, zipped down to his waist, red fireproofs damp with sweat. You’ve barely opened your mouth when he pulls you into a tight, quiet hug that lasts almost too long.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you more.”

He smiles, but his eyes are glassy. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You pause. Then nod again. “Better than I’ve been in years.”

Lewis glances behind you, toward where Toto’s voice carries from the other room. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wider. “I can see that.”

***

It’s late when you return to the hotel. The lights in the hallway hum gently. Your heels click across the polished floor.

He unlocks the suite door for you. You step inside. It’s quiet.

And then-

“I saw you,” he says.

You turn.

Toto stands near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, shirt undone at the throat.

“I saw you today,” he says again. “Really saw you.”

You breathe in slow. “I was terrified.”

“You didn’t show it.”

You step closer. “I didn’t want to.”

He studies you. “You were magnificent.”

Your breath hitches.

He takes a step. Then another. And another. Until his hands are cupping your face and your eyes are locked on his.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he says quietly.

You nod.

His thumbs brush your cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another nod.

He leans in. And kisses you.

***

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. The world stays outside.

His fingers are in your hair, at your waist, guiding without pulling, urging without demanding. You follow. The bed is too soft. The sheets too white. But his hands are steady, and you anchor yourself in the weight of him.

When your blouse slides from your shoulders, you think this isn’t about sex. It’s about being seen.

He doesn’t undress you. He undresses with you. Like it’s a slow collaboration. His mouth doesn’t take. It gives. Praise and patience, murmured reverence.

“Beautiful.”

“Every part of you.”

“You’re not broken.”

You tremble under the weight of it.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says against your neck.

“I want to,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“No,” he says. “You don’t have to want this like it’s an obligation. You deserve to be wanted for you. No guilt. No debts.”

You look up at him — this man who’s so much older, so much taller, so much more — and you don’t feel young. You feel safe.

And when his mouth trails reverent kisses down your skin, when he touches you like he’s been dreaming of it for years — like it’s a privilege, not a right — you understand what people mean when they say worship.

It’s not about power. It’s about surrender. You let yourself fall. You let him catch you.

You lose track of time. Of shame. Of the version of yourself who thought she didn’t deserve this.

After, you lie tangled together in the dark. His hand stroking your hair. Your fingers curled at his chest. He breathes, slow and quiet, like he could stay like this forever.

You whisper, “I don’t know what this is.”

He says, “It doesn’t have to be defined yet.”

You press your mouth to his collarbone. “But it’s real.”

“Yes,” he says, voice low. “Very real.”

You fall asleep there — his arms around you, your skin still humming, your heart finally still. And for the first time in your adult life, the future doesn’t feel like something to brace for. It feels like something to reach toward. With him.

***

The email comes at 3:08 a.m.

You’re awake. Not because you can’t sleep — those nights are mostly over — but because you flew halfway around the globe on a long weekend, the world feels lighter lately, and you’re learning to hold it in your hands without gripping too tight.

You read it twice. Then again.

Dear Miss Lauda,

We’re pleased to offer you a summer position with the Petersen-Welling Foundation. Your application was exceptional, and we’re eager to have your voice on the upcoming F1 Heritage and Inclusion initiative …

You don’t smile at first. You just exhale. Slowly. Like you’ve been holding your breath for a very long time.

***

Toto finds you in the kitchen of the penthouse in Monaco — barefoot, hair tied back, his hoodie drowning you. He’s already showered from his morning run, towel slung around his neck, coffee in hand.

He pauses when he sees your face.

“What happened?”

You hold out your phone.

He scans the screen. His mouth twitches.

“That’s a hell of a line on your resume,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Harvard, Lauda, and now an F1 foundation. Soon you’ll outrank me.”

You roll your eyes. “I already do.”

He hums. “True.”

There’s a beat. You pick at your thumbnail.

He softens. “What’s the hesitation?”

You shrug. “It’s … a lot. Another adjustment. Another version of me.”

“You don’t need to become anything you’re not.”

You glance at him. “Even if who I am isn’t enough?”

His voice lowers. “You are more than enough.”

You look down. Then up again. “Harvard said they’ll work with the Foundation to let me finish the final term remote. Conditionally. Since I’ll need to be based in Europe.”

“And?” He prompts gently.

“I think I want that.”

He nods. “Good.”

You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“I was hoping you’d say yes.” He grins. “I already made a copy of my keys-”

You groan. “Toto.”

He’s smiling too much to apologize.

***

It doesn’t happen all at once. Because nothing between you ever does.

You don’t move into his life like a storm. You settle like sunlight across the floor — gradual, warm, steady.

First, it’s the right side of the bed at his house near Brackley.

You joke that it’s more like a hotel than a home. He tells you to put your books on the shelves. You bring two at first. Then twelve. Then your sweaters. Then the half-finished sketchpad you stopped using at nineteen.

“Is this permanent?” You ask one night, curled beside him.

“Only if you want it to be,” he answers.

Then it’s Monaco. His penthouse. Your toothbrush beside his. Your name added to the concierge’s approved list. The first time someone calls you Madam Wolff, you laugh for five minutes straight. He grins, wide and unguarded, and doesn’t correct them.

Switzerland comes next. The chalet is silent but not lonely. He lights the fireplace. You bake (badly). He eats your too-dense banana bread like it’s gold.

“This is dry,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re lying.”

“Of course.”

You both laugh until it hurts.

***

But Austria is the hardest. The Lauda estate feels frozen in amber. Rooms locked. Curtains drawn. Silence echoing down marble halls.

You stand in the entryway, keys shaking in your hand. Toto waits beside you, quiet.

“I don’t know if I can go in,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

You pause. Then step forward.

The door opens with a groan.bIt smells like dust and memories.

The first room you enter is the library.

You stop cold. Nothing’s changed.

The old desk. The leather chair. The framed photo of you and Niki at age fourteen, covered in grease and pride, standing between Lewis and a smiling Toto.

You sink to your knees. He kneels with you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve-”

Toto catches your face in his hands.

“You were a child. And they failed you. We all failed you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let’s bring it back to life. Together.”

***

You do. Not quickly. Not easily. But you do.

The internship is demanding, exhilarating, and so completely you. You organize roundtables on legacy, inclusion, youth development. You write memos late at night in Monaco, edit presentations in Brackley, fly to interviews from Switzerland, and finally host your first panel in Austria.

At the Lauda estate.

You host something here. By choice. It’s full circle and forward motion all at once.

The old house feels different now. Softer. There are photos of you and Toto on the mantle. A few of your old sketches, framed. Your books. Your grandmother’s piano.

A home. Your home. Not just because it has your name on the deed again. But because you live in it on your own terms.

***

The night after the panel, you and Toto walk the long slope behind the house. The air is cool. The stars are out. You carry your heels in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

“You haven’t stopped working in weeks,” he murmurs beside you.

“I’m trying to catch up.”

“You don’t owe the world an apology for existing.”

You look at him. “Sometimes I think I owe Opa.”

He stops walking. “You don’t.”

You glance down.

“He’d be proud,” Toto says. “But he wouldn’t ask you to pay some imaginary debt to keep his memory alive. You do that just by being you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you say softly.

“Anything.”

You face him fully.

“Do you think I belong here?”

He frowns. “Here as in …”

“In F1. In this world. In your world.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes your wineglass. Sets it on the stone wall.

Then takes your face in his hands. “I think,” he says, “that for six years, this world has been missing something vital. And now it’s whole again.”

You blink too fast.

“I think,” he continues, “that you belong here more than anyone.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “But more than that … you belong in your world. Whatever shape that takes. Wherever you build it. And whoever you let into it.”

You don’t answer with words. You answer with your arms, sliding around his waist. Your cheek against his chest. His heart steady against your ear.

***

Later that night, back inside, you open your laptop. There’s an email waiting from Harvard.

Term completion approved.

Dean’s note: we expect great things. You’ve already begun delivering them.

You sit back.

Toto passes you a cup of tea and slides onto the couch beside you.

“Big news?” He asks, eyes amused.

You look at him. And then you say it. Not for the first time. But for the first time with full, undiluted certainty.

“I’m home.”

He sets his tea aside. Pulls you close. Whispers into your hair, “You always were.”

And for once, the past doesn’t pull at you. The future doesn’t scare you.

Because it’s not just about where you live or what you’ve lost. It’s about what you’ve claimed. What you’ve chosen. What you’ve built.

A home. A career. A future. A man beside you — not in front, not above — but beside.

And a life, finally, that is yours.

All the way home.

[hearts4hughes]

i would love for some ex-bf rafe who learns ur going on a date... oh i'm dizzy

the words didn’t sound right coming out of topper’s mouth. rafe’s brows furrowed, his ears started ringing, and his blood began to boil. “what?” he stifled out a laugh, staring at topper like it was a dare. “say that shit again?”

“y/n, bro,” topper chuckles, slapping rafe’s back like he’s telling the punchline to a joke. “she’s got a date with that douche who’s family owns the country club.” he leans back, taking a swig of his beer like he single handedly didn’t ruin rafe’s night.

“you gotta be fucking kidding me.” he mutters, white fingers clenching around his glass. his heartbeat is loud in his ears. skin hot to the touch. his mind swirls like a tropical storm in his head.

topper stops drinking mid sip. he holds the glass to his lips and looks at rafe who’s staring into space like he’s plotting murder. all amusement drains from his face as he realizes. “yo, man, i didn’t think you’d care. i thought you were broken up with her.”

“the fucks that matter for?” rafe answers fast, defensive. his eye twitches as he looks at topper like a predator waiting to pounce. he places down his glass with a slam that causes the room to go silent.

topper’s jaw hangs agape, eyes wider than a child’s. “n-no, it doesn’t matter. i just don’t want you to freak out or anything.” he says. “johnny’s a good kid, anyway. she’ll be fine-”

“i don’t give a shit. ok, top?” rafe’s voice is thunderous. it bounces off the walls and guests try not to look towards the two boys. “frankly, i don’t care if he’s prince fucking charming.”

topper nods, eyes falling to the floor. a light blush floods his cheeks as he mutters some excuse to get away. rafe doesn’t even acknowledge his voice, just stares him down like he did something wrong.

he doesn’t even blink until topper’s gone. until the echo of his footsteps fades down the hall. then, and only then, does rafe move.

his jaw tightens, grinding like he’s in pain. you’ve got a date. with some clean cut, buttoned up, generational wealth little bitch who probably thinks chivalry is buying you a glass of wine and not commenting on your ass when you walk away.

his girl.

his tongue runs along the inside of his cheek, slow and venomous. you’ve probably already picked out your outfit. probably did your makeup all soft and glowy the way you knows he likes it. probably squealed about it to the same friends who told you to break up with rafe.

his body moves before his mind, and before he realizes it, he’s halfway to your house.

~

you’re swiping on lipstick when the knock hits the door. three sharp raps, fast and aggressive. not the soft kind that says hey, just checking in. no. this knock sounds like a warning.

you freeze, lipstick tube still in hand. a pit forms in your stomach as if your body already knows who’s there. you weren’t expecting anyone. your date isn’t supposed to pick you up for another hour.

you set the makeup down and move through the apartment with that weird feeling that you’re being watched. you already have a feeling, but it still steals the breath from your lungs when you see him standing there.

rafe.

polo shirt buttoned up enough to be classy, and show off his muscular chest. his jaw is tight, hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself back from something dangerous. his eyes drag over you in a way that makes your skin burn, even with two layers of makeup and your prettiest dress between you and him.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just looks at you. looks through you. he’s always been able to read you like a book—it’s one of the things you hated.

“you really goin’ out lookin’ like that?”

you blink. your spine straightens. “you can’t just show up here, rafe.”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t budge. he tips his head, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek like he’s chewing on something bitter. “wasn’t gonna. wasn’t planning on it.” his gaze drops down the line of your body and comes back up slower, meaner. “but then i heard some shit..and suddenly, i couldn’t stay away.”

you fold your arms across your chest, lips tightening. “you heard i have a date. that’s what you mean.”

“a date,” he repeats, scoffing. “yeah. with the fuckin’ golden boy. you got bored of people who make your life messy, huh?”

“i got bored of people who lie, rafe,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. the words taste bitter, too real, and you hate that he still makes you say them.

for a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. something like guilt. something like loss. but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“he’s not gonna know what to do with you,” he murmurs, stepping forward. just one inch, but it makes the air shift. “he’s gonna try and play it safe. ask you about college. open doors. kiss you soft.” he tilts his head again, eyes flicking to your lips. “you gonna let him?” he asks, voice rough and close now. “you gonna let him kiss you like you’re some glass doll?”

you swallow, throat tight. the silence stretches between you, hot and coiled, and he watches you like he already knows your answer. he always does.

“yeah,” he chuckles, breath hot on your face. “that’s what i thought.” his hands find their place on your hips, bringing you closer. now, you were flush with him—the same man you swore never to talk to again. “now cancel that date before i go pay him a visit, yeah?”

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife

[sevikaslady]

"AN INCH AWAY FROM MORE THAN JUST FRIENDS" | vi x reader

a/n: yes, i was listening to chapell roan when i got the idea.

summary: your best friend goes through your old journal, finding out that you used to (still do) have a crush on her.

warnings: gay sex, oh no! / swearing / slight fluff in the end / minors DNI

"Quit going through my shit."

Vi had become bored and decided to rummage through your closet. She had pulled out a few items that were now sprawled around her. "It's like I'm an archeologist, going through loss items -"

You cut off your best friend by launching a pillow at her. "Shut the fuck up."

Vi laughs it off, tossing the pillow back at you. She continued to rummage through your stuff as you went on your phone.

The other woman opened a shoebox that contained a bunch of old notebooks from high school. Curiously, she picked up one of them, flipping through the pages.

You noticed your friend had gone awfully quiet. You looked up from your phone, seeing her read one of your old journals. You recognized the cover of that particular notebook and immediately jumped out of bed. "A little privacy!"

At some point, you had a bit of an infactuation with your best friend. Well, still do. The notebook in your hand contained many journal entries of Vi, and what you wished she would do to you. Perhaps you had gotten carried away with the details.

"What? I didn't see anything." Vi stood up, stretching her arms.

"Seriously? Nothing at all?" If Vi was bullshitting, you truly could not tell.

"Is there something I should've read?" Vi tilts her head at you, blue eyes looking at you curiously.

You put the notebook back into the shoebox, shoving it back into the closet. "No, nothing at all. Clean up this mess, please," you huffed.

♡

After a quick shower, you changed into some comfortable clothes.

Vi had picked a movie that would probably end with both of you falling asleep halfway in.

You got under the covers. "What'd you put on?"

"Does it matter?" Vi snorted, which earned her a hit from your pillow once again. "Stop abusing me!"

"Stop being a smartass," you retorted.

Vi had put on 'But I'm a Cheerleader,' and of course, your eyes were glued to the TV screen. You didn't notice the way your friend had become quiet, and how her brows were knit together as she was deep in thought.

It was complete bullshit that Vi hadn't read the journal entries about her. She couldn't get it out of her head about the things you wanted her to do. Hell, she was completely on board.

She's always had an interest in you but never risked the friendship if the feelings weren't reciprocated.

Vi scooted closer so your arm was brushing against hers. Then, she spoke up, "Hey, remember when we used to practice kissing?"

You didn't tear your gaze from the TV screen, not finding the question suspicious. "Yeah, when we were nine and thought babies are shat out." You let out a chuckle.

Vi rolled her eyes. She was quiet for a brief moment before she took the leap. "Do you want to try it?"

"Try what?"

"Practice kissing."

You tore your gaze away from the TV, looking at the other woman. Did you hear that right?

Then, you realized she had read the journal entries. You smacked her arm. "I fucking knew it!"

Vi let out a laugh, holding her hands up to shield herself. "Come on, I think it's cute you used that many adjectives to describe my eyes."

Feeling embarrassed, you covered your face with your hands, groaning into them. "That was a long time ago."

Vi's grin slowly drops. Quietly, she asked, "So, you don't feel the same anymore?"

You moved your hands from your face, looking at her. You bit your cheek, feeling the way your heart beat faster.

"Because if you still do then..." Vi trails off, letting out a nervous chuckle. "Listen, I really want to kiss you right now."

Your eyes widened slightly at Vi's words. You let out a snort, shaking your head. "You're fucking with me right?"

Vi rolled her eyes once more, closing the gap between the both of you. Her lips were way softer than you had imagined. She pulled away when she noticed you weren't kissing her back. "Sorry, I -"

You pulled her back in for another kiss. You have been waiting for years, and you were not going to let the opportunity pass.

Vi nipped at your bottom lip, her hand moving to your hip as she rolled on top of you. "Fuck," she murmured.

Her shirt rode up, exposing a bit of the inked skin on her back. You held onto her, pulling her closer so your bodies were pressed firmly against each other.

You let out a soft whine when Vi broke away from the kiss, and the sound made her wetter. You watched as she got up from the bed, going over to your closet.

You sat up on your elbows, curious. "What are you doing?"

When she found what she was looking for, Vi turned around, holding your notebook in her hand. A sly grin on her face, "Why don't we make these pages come true, hm?"

♡

You are forever grateful that Violet is a nosy fucker.

The corners of your bedsheets had come undone from the countless times Vi had fucked you tonight.

Vi's head was slotted between your thighs, hands gripping them to keep them open. She lapped at your pussy, trying to coax another orgasm from you. What was it, the fourth? Sixth one? You didn't think it was possible for your body to cum this many times. But Vi was a woman of many suprises.

"Fuck, if I knew how good you tasted, baby," Vi coos. She's practically devouring you from the way she's shoving her face into you.

You were so sensitive at this point that you tried to squirm away, but your best friend is a sadistic fuck - she pulled you back onto her mouth, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs.

"Vi, fuck, I can't," you gasped out. One hand held on tightly to her hair while the other gripped the mattress.

Vi pauses for a brief moment to taunt you. "Isn't this what you wanted? That I bully your pussy with my tongue?" She rubs your clit with the pad of her thumb, earning a short cry from you. "Come on, don't back out now."

The knot in your stomach tightened from Vi's teasing. You could feel yourself getting closer.

Vi resumes licking at your cunt, sucking on the sensitive flesh. She added two fingers into your hole, and you couldn't help but clench around them. "Be good for me, and cum for me." She continued her ministrations, and by then, you had your final orgasm of the night.

You arched your back from the bed, eyes rolling as your entire body trembled. It should've embarrassed you from how much you shook, but you didn't care. Not when it felt this fucking good, and definitely not when Violet looked so pussy drunk off of you.

Vi lazily crawls up, plopping right beside you on her stomach. She drapes one arm around your waist. She leans in to press her lips against yours, getting a taste of your desire on her mouth.

A comfortable silence fell between the both of you until Vi spoke up. "If it wasn't obvious enough, I like you. More than just friends."

"Oh," you began. "This is kind of awkward, I was hoping you could just leave since I called you an Uber -"

Vi pinched your side playfully. "Dumbass."

You let out a laugh, scooting closer to the other woman.

At some point, you both had fallen asleep in each other's arms.

[sagesturns]

˖°. adore - m.s ˖°.

contents: tooth-rotting fluff!

the wind had started picking up again, threading cold fingers through your sleeves. you hadn’t zipped your jacket—because you never did—and matt, walking just a step ahead, noticed instantly.

he turned, already reaching. “seriously?” he mumbled, tugging the zipper up carefully.

“i’m not a baby.”

he grins — that smug, gentle kind of grin he always saves just for you. “i know,” he says, eyes crinkling, “but you’re my baby.”

that part, he said without teasing. like it was just true.

you roll your eyes, pretending not to melt, but it’s useless. he presses a kiss to your forehead before tugging your hood up slightly, fixing it like it matters.

a few minutes earlier, you’d stopped by the corner store. he’d spotted your favourite chocolate on the shelf by the register and grabbed it without a word, tossing it on the counter with his sprite. now you were unwrapping it together as you walked home, sharing pieces one by one, fingers brushing with every pass.

a crumb clung to your cheek, and you were halfway through lifting your hand to wipe it when matt leaned in and kissed it off, casual like it was nothing.

“got it,” he murmurs, lips brushing the crumb off with the gentlest kiss.

you blink. “seriously?” you ask this time more amused and even more flustered.

“would you rather i used a napkin?” he grins.

you shove him lightly with your shoulder. “you’re ridiculous.”

“and you love me for it.”

you don’t deny it.

you shoved him lightly, cheeks warm. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and you’re still walking next to me,” he said, bumping his shoulder into yours.

you didn’t bother arguing.

by the time you turned onto your street, the light had gone golden behind the trees. everything was quieter. softer. you slowed your steps without realizing it, fingers curled into your sleeves.

you turned toward him, ready to speak—but paused.

matt was already looking at you.

and not with a grin or some smug comeback. he looked at you with the softest smile you’d ever seen—one that smoothed out every wrinkle on his face, one that made his eyes look warmer than the light behind you. his gaze rested on you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

you scrunched your nose without thinking. “what?”

he didn’t answer.

instead, he stepped closer, reached out, and cradled your cheek in one hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. his thumb brushed just beneath your eye before he leaned in and kissed the tip of your nose.

your fucking nose.

your breath hitched.

you scrunched it again instinctively. “matt…”

“you always do that when you’re cold,” he whispered, barely pulling away. “or when you don’t know what to say.”

you swallowed. your heart was a mess in your chest.

“you’re such a sap,” you mumbled.

he smiled again. “yeah. But i’m your sap.”

he nudges your nose with his again, barely a kiss this time, more like a touch. “see?” he says, smiling. “you’re not a baby.”

you breathe out, cheeks burning.

“you’re just mine.”

©sagesturns☆

[fuddaround]

this love ⋮ p.b

pairing .ᐟ paige bueckers x reader

summary .ᐟ when paige’s ex comes out to the national championship in support of paige, the two end up rekindling in the most expected way.

warnings/disclaimers .ᐟ this is my first time writing on here but i have written on wattpad before 😭 but this is toxic smut so read only if youre comfortable.

you had promised your ex girlfriend that you would be there for every big milestone. but just because you two were no contact didn’t mean you stopped supporting her.

paige bueckers. the girl who ruined you in the best and worst ways.

the girl you loved too loud, too hard. the girl who loved you when it was convenient.

you told yourself you were over her. swore you meant it. but then march rolled around and uconn was back in the natty. of course she made it.

and of course you were there.

nosebleeds. uconn hoodie pulled up. couldn’t risk being seen.

but your eyes never left her. warmup to tip-off. locked in.

she looked good. stupid good. focused. pissed. like she had something to prove.

typical paige.

you told yourself this was closure. one last moment to hold onto before finally letting go. before deleting the photo album you still hadn’t touched.

but then she looked up.

and she saw you.

dead center. frozen. heart in your throat.

and she smiled. tiny. smug.

you felt sick.

because she knew you’d come.

she always knew you’d come.

the game was somewhat easy for uconn. loud. sweaty. brutal.

south carolina was starting going down easy. but she wasn’t stopping.

you watched her fight like hell. take hits. get back up.

classic paige—icy veins and a fire under her.

your hands were shaking. maybe from the crowd. maybe from her.

and then—buzzer.

uconn on top. confetti everywhere.

she did it. they did it.

you didn’t even realize you were crying.

and then she pointed.

straight at you.

front row. courtside now. like she knew you’d find your way down.

you hesitated for half a second.

she waved you over again, grinning like she just won the whole world.

because maybe she did.

you pushed through security, breath stuck in your chest.

and then she was in your arms.

sweaty. exhausted. glowing.

she kissed you. hard. in front of everyone. teammates yelling, cameras flashing—none of it mattered.

“missed you,” she whispered against your lips, palm low on your waist.

you barely had time to react before her mouth was on your neck, too quick for the cameras, too slow for your sanity.

“you still mine, huh?” she breathed, low, possessive. “i win championships. i win you.”

her hand squeezed your hip. teeth brushed your ear.

“gonna make you scream louder than this crowd later.”

and then she was back with her team. trophy in hand. smile too wide.

like she didn’t just ruin you in ten seconds flat.

like she wasn’t about to do it again. you should’ve pulled away.

should’ve kept it cool, stayed on the sidelines like some casual ex who just happened to show up.

but paige didn’t do casual. not with you.

she had her arms around your shoulders like she owned you. like the championship wasn’t even the real win tonight.

and maybe it wasn’t.

confetti stuck in her hair, jersey clinging to her in all the right places. she was laughing, high off adrenaline and legacy.

but every other second, she was leaning into your ear.

“you’re coming back with me, ma” she muttered, voice dipped low and filthy, “don’t care who you’re with. don’t care what you told yourself.”

you swallowed hard, kept your face neutral as cameras flashed all around.

but her fingers were tracing patterns into your hip like it was second nature.

like she never forgot. and by the look in her eyes, she never did.

you were halfway into a conversation with azzi when paige slid her hand down your back again.

azzi was smiling, talking about how wild the last quarter was.

you tried to focus. tried to nod at the right times.

but paige was behind you now, chest to your back, breath hot against your neck.

“can’t wait to have you choking on my name later,” she whispered, soft enough only you could hear, “bet you’re already wet.”

your knees buckled just a little.

“you good?” kk asked, grinning.

you nodded too fast.

paige just smirked, her arm slipping around your waist tighter.

you watched the two of them celebrate. team huddles, laughter, jumping around with the trophy like kids.

but paige never let go.

not fully.

her fingers brushed under the hem of your hoodie when no one was looking.

her lips ghosted your cheek, your jaw, the shell of your ear.

“this isn’t over,” she said, voice dark with promise, “it never was.”

and god, you hated how true that felt.

because the moment you felt her hand curl around yours, grounding you in the chaos— you already knew you weren’t going home alone.

you didn’t even make it past the door before she had you up against the wall.

paige didn’t say anything. didn’t need to.

her mouth was on yours—urgent, wild, like she’d been starving for this. like the championship was just foreplay.

your hoodie was gone in seconds. she tugged it over your head and dropped it to the floor like it was in her way.

her hands were everywhere—possessive, greedy. like she was making up for lost time.

“take your shit off,” she ordered, voice rough and breathless, “but leave the bra.”

you obeyed.

you always did.

she quickly pulled her jersey from over her head—the one she just won in—and tossed it at you.

“put it on.”

your fingers shook as you slid it over your head. it was warm. still smelled like her. like sweat and gatorade and ego.

“look at you,” she muttered, stepping back just to take it in, “my fucking number on your back again. always belonged there.”

you didn’t get a chance to respond.

she was on you again, hands under the jersey, nails dragging down your sides hard enough to make you gasp.

“missed this,” she said, lips on your neck. “missed how you fall apart for me.”

you hated how fast you were melting. hated how your thighs clenched when she bit down on the spot just below your ear.

“you let anyone else touch you while we weren’t talking?” she asked suddenly, voice dipping lower.

your silence was enough.

paige laughed. dark. bitter, “yeah. that’s what i thought.”

her hand slipped between your legs, fingers ghosting over your underwear.

“wet as fuck and i’ve barely touched you.”

you whimpered—because she wasn’t lying. because this was always what she did to you; wrecked you without even trying.

“get on the bed.”

you moved without thinking. the jersey swayed around your thighs as you climbed onto the mattress. paige stood at the edge, watching you like she owned the moment. like she owned you.

and maybe she did.

she took her time stripping down, all confidence and no shame. championship ring still on. then she crawled on top of you, all heat and pressure and muscle.

“you know i think about you every time i cum?” she whispered, dragging her tongue along your collarbone, “every time. no one fucks me like you do.”

your hips bucked. she laughed.

“you missed this. missed me. tell me.”

“i missed you,” you breathed, barely able to form the words.

she pushed your underwear to the side and slid two fingers in deep.

“say it louder.”

you gasped, back arching. “i fucking missed you.”

her mouth crashed into yours again—biting, bruising, all teeth and tongue.

her fingers curled just right, like she remembered every inch of you. and she did. she definitely did.

“no one makes you cum like i do,” she growled against your lips.

“no one,” you choked out. “just you.”

your body trembled under her—hips rocking into her hand, moans tangled in your throat. the jersey clung to your skin, damp now with sweat and desperation.

and paige loved it. loved watching you fall apart in her number. like you were her prize.

“that’s it,” she whispered, voice thick with need.

“cum for me. make it count. make it loud.”

you shattered.

legs shaking. fists tangled in the sheets. breath caught on her name.

and she didn’t stop.

didn’t give you a break.

she kissed you through it, fucked you through it. like she needed you wrecked.

like she needed proof.

“still mine,” she whispered as you came down, lips brushing your cheek.

“i don’t care who you try to move on with. they’ll never touch you like this.”

you didn’t argue.

you couldn’t.

because you knew she was right.

you barely had time to breathe before she was dragging her fingers back through your folds.

“still so fuckin’ wet,” she murmured, almost to herself, watching the way you flinched under her touch. “you needed this, huh? needed me.”

you nodded, dazed.

“use your words, ma.”

your hips jerked at the name. fuck. she knew what it did to you.

“needed you,” you whispered. “so bad.”

paige leaned in, lips ghosting your jaw. “i know, baby. i know. only i can fuck you like this. only i know this pussy inside and out.”

then she was between your thighs. just gone. mouth on you like it was her last meal.

you cried out—hands in her hair, legs twitching as her tongue worked slow circles.

she moaned into you, loud and messy, like she was the one getting off.

and honestly? she probably was.

“taste like mine,” she muttered, lips slick. “fuck, baby.”

her tongue dove deep, her fingers still inside you, curling just right.

she didn’t give you a break. not even when you were gasping, begging.

“no, you take it. you take all of it, mama.”

and you did.

you fucking took it. came on her mouth so hard your vision blurred.

but she still wasn’t done.

she reached into her bag without a word, pulling out the small black vibe you hated and loved all at once. the one that made you cry. the one she only used when she wanted to ruin you.

you shook your head, already overstimulated.

she laughed. low. cruel.

“don’t gimme that,” she said, crawling back over you. “you wanted to show up tonight like a good little ex, now you gotta pay the price.”

she pressed the vibe to your clit and your whole body snapped. you yelped, legs thrashing, but her other hand pinned your hip down hard.

“stay fuckin’ still, ma. i said still.”

you whimpered, breath hitching.

“look at you. dumb off my fingers. dumb off a lil plastic. ain’t that pathetic, baby?”

the tears came without warning, cheeks wet, head shaking. but you weren’t saying no.

not even close.

“aw, baby,” she cooed, mock-sweet. “you crying? already?”

her hand came down—smack—across your thigh. you moaned, body jerking.

then again. smack. “quiet. or i’m stuffing your mouth next.”

you bit your lip so hard it hurt.

when she finally pulled the vibe away, you were shaking. legs useless. soaked and half-lucid.

and then you heard it.

the sound.

the soft click of her strap being buckled on.

you blinked through the haze, chest heaving, eyes going wide when you saw it.

“yeah, baby. you know what time it is.”

she climbed between your legs, dragging the tip through your folds. slow. teasing. cruel.

“you gonna take it like a good girl?” she asked, leaning in, mouth brushing yours. “gonna let me fill this pussy till you forget every bitch you tried to replace me with?”

you nodded, but it wasn’t enough.

“say it.”

“yes, p. i’ll take it. i’ll be good.”

paige smiled like you just gave her the key to the city.

“that’s my fuckin’ girl.”

she bottomed out in one thrust.

you screamed.

she didn’t stop. didn’t let you adjust. just fucked you, hard and mean and relentless.

“this what you came here for, mama?” she growled, hips slamming into yours. “needed my strap in you again? needed to be reminded who the fuck you belong to?”

you couldn’t even speak.

you were gone.

she wrapped her hand around your throat, just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

“mine,” she spat. “say it.”

“y-yours,” you choked out. “i’m yours, ma. fuck—i’m yours.”

she leaned in, sweat dripping, lips brushing your ear.

“that’s right, baby. you always were.”

and she didn’t stop until you came again. and again. and again. until you were crying into the mattress, the jersey stuck to your skin, her name a broken mess in your mouth.

she fucked you like a championship. and she won.

you were still catching your breath when she flipped you over.

face down. ass up. jersey riding high.

“nah,” she muttered, voice gritty. “we’re not done.”

your stomach dropped.

she pulled you up by the hips, rough and fast, and straddled the strap beneath you. “get on, baby. backwards. wanna see my fuckin’ name when you bounce on this dick.”

you moved like you were drunk. like your body didn’t belong to you anymore. like she owned every muscle. every nerve. with just her words.

you eased down onto the strap, legs shaking, breath hitching as she filled you again. “that’s it. take it like the good little slut you are.”

her hands grabbed your waist, pushing the jersey up until her name—BUECKERS—was clear and bold on your back.

“you look so pretty with my name on you and my dick in you,” she groaned. “this pussy’s mine, baby. branded and ruined.”

you started moving. slowly at first. just grinding, dizzy and overstimmed.

she slapped your ass. hard.

“ride me, mama. make it messy.”

you bounced. up and down, your moans sharp and broken. her hands gripped you tighter, helping you move, her name burned into your skin from the fabric and the heat.

“keep going. make me proud,” she whispered, voice almost soft—but not kind. never kind “wanna watch my girl cum with my name bouncing on her back.”

you did. again. loud. shaky. wrecked.

and she held you after. didn’t say much. just kept a hand on your thigh while your body collapsed forward into the sheets.

the room was quiet now.

lights low. your chest rising slow. the jersey was still clinging to your back, soaked and heavy with sweat and everything you couldn’t say.

paige lay beside you, hand resting on your stomach, championship ring cold against your skin.

you expected her to gloat. to tease. but she just stared at the ceiling, eyes unreadable.

“you always come back,” she said finally, voice quieter than you’d heard it all night.

you didn’t answer.

didn’t need to.

because she wasn’t wrong.

“doesn’t matter who you try to fuck with,” she added, her fingers brushing your ribs now, gentler. “you come back. ‘cause you’re mine.”

toxic. but warm. mean. but careful.

like she wanted to hurt you just enough to keep you.

you turned to face her, eyes tired, mouth dry.

“what now?”

she shrugged, that half-smile tugging at her lips again.

“you’ll leave. like always.”

she leaned in, kissed your collarbone, soft and slow.

“but i’ll see you next season.”

you didn’t know how long you’d been laying there. everything felt heavy. limbs numb, body aching in the best way.

paige moved first.

not far—just enough to disappear into the bathroom and come back with a warm towel and a bottle of water.

she didn’t say anything as she cleaned between your legs.

gentle now. slow.

like she hadn’t just ruined you fifteen minutes ago.

her brows furrowed a little at the red marks on your thighs, the bruises already forming.

“you okay, baby?” her voice was soft. almost tender.

you nodded. barely. your throat was dry and your head was still floating.

“too much?”

you blinked at her. lips parted. “no. just enough.”

she smiled. small and smug.

“that’s my girl.”

she tossed the towel aside and slid back into bed, pulling you into her arms like she hadn’t just degraded you for hours.

her hands moved up and down your back, featherlight, like she was memorizing you all over again.

you let her.

let her hold you. let her bury her face in your neck, still breathing heavy even though the moment had passed.

“you did so good for me,” she whispered. “took everything i gave you. like you always do.”

you exhaled into her shoulder.

“my good girl,” she added, fingers drawing lazy circles on your lower back. “always know how to make me feel like a fucking winner.”

you hummed against her skin.

“you are a winner, p.”

she laughed softly, then bit your earlobe—not hard, just enough to make you twitch.

“damn right.”

then quieter, almost too quiet to catch—

“but you? you’re the only trophy i actually give a fuck about. besides that natty.”

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t. your chest ached in that annoying way it always did after her.

because she said shit like that. because she meant it when it was 3AM and the world was quiet.

her thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your head toward her. she kissed you. slower than before. gentler. but still hungry.

“don’t forget who owns you,” she murmured against your lips.

you didn’t answer. just nodded.

[rainrot4me]

How would each of the creeps react to their partner being severely injured?

✦ . jeff the killer

Freaking the fuck out.

His first instinct is blind panic masked as rage. Blood makes him giddy—but not yours.

“Who did this?” His voice shakes as he crouches beside you, hands trembling. “Who fucking did this?”

Jeff presses his hoodie into the wound, even as it soaks red. He tries to laugh, but it comes out cracked. There’s no humor in the moment no matter how hard he tries to make you giggle, even just a smile would give him some relief.

“C’mon, don’t close your eyes. Look at me. You’re gonna be okay. I’m not letting you die, not when I just got you…”

He threatens every single person in the room. When he can make sure you’re steady, at least long enough for him to get you to EJ, he goes quiet. Deadly quiet. And whoever did it? They’ll wish they’d never been born.

✦ . ticci toby

Absolutely lost, unsure what to do.

He freezes. Just freezes. You’re hurt, and his brain short-circuits. It takes a beat, but then the panic hits like a tidal wave.

“Shit—shitshitshit—okay. Okay. Breathe. You’re breathing, right?”

He hovers, hands shaking, unable to decide whether to pick you up or yell for help. He does both.

When you reach for him, he nearly breaks.

“Don’t move! Don’t move, just—just stay with me, okay? You’ll be alright. I’ll fix it. I pro-promise.”

He carries you like something precious and doesn’t leave your side. Sleep? Eating? Not until you’re better.

✦ . eyeless jack

Goes emotionally numb—long enough, at least.

It’s surgical, controlled, and practiced perfection. He’s done these same movements on the proxies endless times, but his jaw is clenched so tightly it looks painful.

“Lie still. Don’t talk. I’ve got you.”

He’s already halfway through assessing the damage before you can even speak. Blood doesn’t faze him—he knows how bodies work, but watching you in pain has a different effect.

You notice his voice get gentler, more reassuring. That’s how he keeps from freaking himself out.

“This will hurt, but I can’t let you bleed out. I’m going to fix this, love. I swear to God, you’re not dying on me.”

Later, when you’re stable, he won’t say much, but he’ll sit at your bedside all night, eyes never leaving your sleeping form. It may seem possessive, but he needs to be close enough to hear the rhythmic beat of your heart in your chest or he’ll drive himself mad.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Uncontrollable.

He’s angry at everything. At you for getting hurt, at himself for not stopping it, and at whoever’s responsible.

“What the fuck happened?” he barks, already pressing something to the wound.

He doesn’t say it, but you see the tears in his eyes.

“You keep your fucking eyes open. Don’t even think about it.”

Masky becomes hyper-focused, mechanical in his actions, but his hand won’t leave yours. Even as he snaps orders, even as he sews or stabilizes you just enough to clot the blood, and even as he has to forcefully lift you off the guard despite your pitiful crying.

Once it’s over, he drops the mask beside your bed and just sits, rubbing his face like he’s trying to wipe the guilt off. His fault or not, he’s taken it as a personal act against him.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Deathly quiet in the most terrifying way.

He doesn’t say a word. Not at first.

Just kneels beside you, hands already working fast to stabilize. But there’s a tremble in his touch that you can feel despite your state.

“Shh,” he finally murmurs when you cry out. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His tone is so soft—and you never hear him like this.

Brian lifts you in his arms like you weigh nothing, like you’ll break if he breathes wrong. For all he knows, you certainly could.

Later, when you’re safe, he won’t let anyone else near you. His hoodie stays wrapped around you even while you sleep, even as he watches the heart monitor like a hawk. He won’t leave until you’re up again.

✦ . ben drowned

Spiraling.

At first, he thinks it’s a joke. Then he sees the blood.

“No. Nope. Don’t—don’t do this.”

Ben glitches across the room to you in an instant, hands on your face, scanning your injuries like he’s buffering through a nightmare.

“Hey. Eyes on me. Don’t you dare pass out. Don’t you fucking dare.”

There’s real fear in his voice, the kind that cuts through even his arrogance.

Once you’re stable, he clings hard. Refuses to log off the mortal plane until you’re laughing again.

✦ . clockwork

Commanding, as if you could follow the orders.

“What the hell happened to you?” she barks—but it’s fear, not anger.

She presses her fingers into the wound and winces like she’s the one hurt.

“You dumbass. Why’d you take the hit?”

She works fast, precise, muttering curses under her breath as she keeps you conscious. If it takes grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you back awake, so be it.

“You don’t get to die, got it? I didn’t come this far with you just to watch you bleed out.”

Later, she curls into bed beside you when you’re stable, whispering, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

✦ . laughing jack

Tries to find the humor. Fails miserably.

“Oh, look who decided to play with knives and lose,” he giggles, voice unsteady.

But when he sees the blood—real, dark, your blood—his smile falters.

“Oh no no no. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t funny. Not you. Never you.”

Jack doesn’t know how to fix it, but he tries. Hands clumsy, clown outfit soaked. He holds you like porcelain, like pottery crumbling in his arms. All he can do it cry out for help.

When you wake up, he’s humming a lullaby at your bedside, stuffed animal on your chest, eyes glowing like fading candles.

“Next time,” he whispers, “let me be the one who gets hurt, okay?”

✦ . slenderman

Pray to whatever god you believe in, man.

The air cracks. He appears in an instant, tendrils lifting you before you hit the floor.

His presence alone stills time. He doesn’t panic, but you feel the terror in the way his limbs tighten protectively, coiling just a little tighter than comfortable.

“Unacceptable,” his voice hums inside your head. “No one harms what’s mine.”

He doesn’t need medics. You’re healed within minutes by a pulsing energy, but it costs him energy in return. It doesn’t matter, whatever caused your pain has been erased from the universe within seconds.

Afterward, he keeps you hidden, locked in the safety of his realm. He holds you in silence, a powerful force cradling something fragile. It takes a long time before you can go anywhere without the looming presence following you around.

꩜ .ᐟ

[angelx]

I don't Wanna Leave

cw: NSFW! ex-boyfriend!katsuki x fem!reader, exes to lovers, reunion sex, thigh grabbing, unresolved tension, emotional vulnerability, praise, fingering, oral (f!receiving), penetrative sex, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dub-con, sorry for the long intro

You hadn’t meant to see him.

You swore you wouldn’t—had half a dozen plans in your head to dip early or fake a phone call the moment his name popped up on the RSVP list for Class A’s five-year reunion. But now you’re here, hands cold and clammy around a red plastic cup, wishing someone would invent a quirk that lets you go invisible just this once.

But fate—or maybe some cruel cosmic joke—had other plans.

Because Katsuki Bakugou just walked into the party, backlit by the golden glow of the rooftop lights like the universe still had the audacity to make him look good. Black slacks hugging his thighs, button-up slightly open at the collar, that same cocky grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he didn’t leave you behind like an unfinished sentence.

You look away fast, pretending to listen to something Denki says about streaming or crypto or something that doesn’t matter. You do everything you can to avoid him. Laugh a little too loudly with Kirishima. Stick close to Jirou and hide behind conversations you don’t care about. But he keeps drifting closer. Like smoke. Like fire. Like something you thought you’d long since buried. And when he finally corners you by the drinks table, eyes half-lidded and smug?

“Didn’t think you’d show, up” he murmurs, voice thick with heat and amusement.

You shrug. “Didn’t think you’d remember my face after five years.”

His smirk flickers—just for a second. But it’s enough. “Hard to forget the girl I used to fuck against my bedroom door every night.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Still sharp-tongued, huh?”

“Still making you wet with one sentence,” he whispers, leaning in, breath hot against your ear.

You step back like his touch burns you. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t come here to start a fight.”

“Yeah? Then what did you come here to do? Remind me how you disappeared without a word? Or how you chose your damn career over me like I was just—”

“Stop,” he snaps, the cocky mask cracking. “You think I forgot that night? That I wanted to let you go?” Your throat tightens.

“I hated myself every fucking day,” he says lowly, voice raw. “You were the best thing I ever had, and I was too much of a scared little shit to handle it.”

And then— “Let me drive you home.”

The reunion blurred into a haze of polite small talk and champagne, but he kept orbiting you like some kind of gravity-defiant bastard star, and you couldn’t run fast enough. So of course, when the party started dying down and your Uber bailed, it was him standing by his black Porsche, holding out his keys with that smirk that made your chest clench. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“It’s a 45-minute walk in heels, and you drank half the bar.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re stubborn,” he muttered, unlocking the passenger side anyway.

You hated that he was right. Even more, you hated how your feet moved toward the car anyway. You should say no. You should tell him to rot in the mess he made. But you don’t. Because your heart’s a stupid thing with muscle memory—and it remembers how to beat for him.

The ride is quiet at first, the tension thick enough to slice. The Porsche purrs beneath you, sleek and fast—like him. His hand finds your thigh halfway through, firm and warm. Your breath catches.

“You always flinched when I touched you the first time,” he says softly, thumb stroking up the inside. “Like you were scared of wanting it.”

“I wasn’t scared of wanting,” you whisper. “I was scared of needing.”

He glances at you, and his voice is low. “Do you still?”

You should lie. But his hand slides higher, brushing the edge of your panties beneath your dress. Your hips jerk. “…Yes.”

That silence that follows is deafening. Not the kind that begs for words—but the kind that crackles with meaning. His thumb stays there, hovering just beneath the fabric, pulsing with heat. He doesn’t move it. He doesn’t have to.

“Where do you live?” he says quietly and you swallow. You gave him the street name like muscle memory. He drives the rest of the way with his hand on your thigh, fingers ghosting over your skin in slow, idle circles. Possessive. Intimate. Like nothing ever ended between you. You hate how natural it feels.

The car pulls up to your apartment complex, sleek and black under the amber glow of streetlights. The engine hums into silence, but neither of you moves. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. The tension is too real.

“I shouldn’t ask,” he says, low and rough. “But I’m gonna.”

You know the question before he says it. “Can I come up?”

You shouldn’t. Every piece of self-preservation you have left is screaming no. But your hand is already on the door handle. You nod.

The elevator ride is painfully quiet. You’re standing side by side, not touching, not speaking—but your skin is buzzing with awareness. You can feel his heat. Hear his shallow breathing. You can practically taste the restraint burning off him in waves. Your key shakes a little as you unlock the door.

And the second it swings open— He’s on you. No more waiting. No more pretending. You crash into each other like you were pulled by gravity.

The door slams shut behind you.

He’s on you like a storm—mouth crashing into yours, hands tearing at your dress, shoving it up to your waist. Your back hits the wall. You gasp when his mouth latches to your neck, teeth grazing the skin he once called his. “Fuck, you smell the same,” he mutters, dragging his teeth down your throat. “Like vanilla and fuckin’ heaven.”

“You left me,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders.

He growls. “I know. And I’ll never forgive myself. But fuck—let me have you tonight.”

“You’re a fucking jerk.”

“Yeah?” His hand slips into your panties. “Then let me fuck you like one.” His fingers stroke your slit—wet, aching, desperate. You moan. Loud. Shameful.

“You missed this,” he whispers, sinking two fingers in deep. “Missed me.”

“I hate you.”

“Then hate me while you come.”

He drops to his knees. Tongue flat, wide, filthy. He eats you like he’s starving—like it’s the first meal he’s had in five years. You’re a mess in seconds, hips grinding into his face, thighs trembling, tears slipping from your eyes from the overwhelmingness of it.

“Katsuki—fuck—oh my God—”

“That’s right,” he grunts, licking up your orgasm. “God doesn’t hear you tonight, princess. I do.”

He doesn’t stop. Keeps going. Builds you up again. One orgasm melts into the next. Your legs give out, and he catches you, lifts you like nothing, carries you to your bed. You don’t notice if he even put a condom on. All you feel is his hand gripping your hip, the other cradling your face—gentle, almost reverent—and then—

He thrusts in, all at once.

A scream tears from your throat. It’s not pretty. It’s raw—a sound scraped up from five years of aching. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you catch your breath. He drives into you with such force that the bed frame slams against the wall.

"Fuck—fuck, baby," he groans, teeth clenched. “Still the tightest fucking pussy I’ve ever had.”

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, locking him in. You claw down his back, nails dragging angry red lines along old scars and new muscle.

“You always took me so fucking well,” he groans, hips pounding into you, breath ragged. “Your pussy was made for my cock. Still is.”

He fucks you like he owns you. Hard. Deep. Relentless. Your legs are shaking. You’re babbling nonsense. Your eyes roll back as he leans down and licks your tears off your cheek.

“Missed this—missed you,” he pants. “You fuckin’ hear me?”

You can’t answer. You’re moaning, crying, whimpering as he splits you open like it’s the only way he knows how to say sorry.

“You ruined me, y’know that?” he growls into your ear, voice breaking. “I couldn’t touch anyone else without thinking of this—of you.”

He fucks you harder, rougher, like he’s trying to carve himself back into your body.

“I should’ve begged you to stay,” he pants. “Should’ve fought for you.”

“It’s too late,” you gasp.

“No... It's not,” he growls, snapping his hips. “Not if you still come for me like this.” You clench around him and he loses it.

“Still so fuckin’ greedy for me,” he hisses, watching the way your tits bounce, the way your lips part in helpless little gasps. “Drippin’ around me like a whore.”

Your eyes roll back. A sob escapes you. “Katsuki—!”

“That’s right,” he snarls, hand slipping down to press firm circles on your clit. “Say my fuckin’ name when you come.”

And you do. You come so hard your vision whites out, body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. If anything, he fucks you through it—drags you to another high with ruthless precision.

“Gonna fill you,” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Wanna paint your insides. Want you leaking me for days.”

You nod, dazed. Wrecked. Begging without words.

“Fuck—fuck, take it—take all of it,” he groans, and then he’s burying himself to the hilt, cock twitching as he spills into your womb with a broken, guttural growl.

You come again just from the sound. He collapses on top of you, shaking. Breath hitching. He doesn’t pull out. He just holds you. The weight of him grounding you as your chest heaves beneath his. There’s silence—except for your ragged breaths and the sound of rain now spitting against the windowpane.

His lips press to your shoulder. Soft. Regretful. Like an apology too late. His breathing is still erratic. Shallow. Like he’s trying to catch more than just air. You’re both still tangled—his cock softening, your thighs sticky with sweat and slick and everything in between. His forehead rests against yours, skin hot and damp, and for one second… it almost feels like love again.

Until it doesn’t. Until the silence creeps in.

You feel it first. That hollow, cold pull in your chest. The realization, like a slap, of what just happened. What it means—or doesn’t.

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you wince at the loss. The emptiness that follows. The mess he left behind. He walks to your bathroom and grabs the towel to wipe you up. Gentle, quiet. Too quiet.

Then he sits back on the edge of the bed, hunched over, palms pressed against his knees. Naked. Broad shoulders rising and falling like he’s holding back something worse than breath. You watch his back. The scars. The tattoo you don’t recognize.

So much time has passed. And yet, for a second, it was like none of it had.

“...Fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You feel your heart nosedive. “Yeah,” you say, softly. “I know.”

You shift under the covers, tugging the sheets around your bare chest like they could somehow protect you from him—from this feeling that’s clawing its way up your throat. He runs a hand through his hair, messy and sweat-damp, and doesn’t look at you.

“I thought I was over it,” he mumbles. “Over you.”

Your chest tightens. You sit up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, every inch of your skin screaming with sensitivity—from the sex, from the truth.

“Katsuki.”

He finally turns his head. Just slightly. His eyes meet yours—red-rimmed, tired, and… afraid. You’ve never seen that look on him before.

You swallow. “What do we do now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares. And for a moment, you think he’s going to get up. Get dressed. Walk out.

But instead—He says, voice barely above a whisper:

“…I don’t wanna leave.”

Your breath catches.

“Then don’t,” you whisper back.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

I think this could have more drama in it, but I'm trying to spare my heart and my readers (╥﹏╥)

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

EMERGENCY WRITING COMMISSION OPEN

[withwritersblock]

More Hearts Than Mine-The Aftermath

~More Hearts Than Mine by Ingrid Andress~ Author's Note: I love angst :) Summary: the aftermath of their argument. Luke asks Jack for advice. Warnings: implied smut for like a sentence Word Count: 3,677 Luke Hughes x fm!reader

Luke didn’t give Jack any heads up. He stood outside the apartment door and raised his hand up and knocked. Luke’s hand tightened around the bag handles. He packed enough to make it to the roadtrip they were heading on in two days. 

Y/N said that would be for the best. Luke tried to apologzie but she did not want to hear it. She said that he was only saying it since it’s what she wanted to hear. And she was right. Luke didn’t see why he needed to apologize for trying to make her life a little easier. He didn’t understand but her feelings were hurt and that killed him. He never wanted to see her like that. 

Jack answered the door, his face fell once he saw that it was Luke. “You are not my smoking hot girlfriend,” Jack said jokingly. Luke’s cheeks were flushed red and his eyes were red from trying not to cry. “Dude, you alright?” he asked. His gaze dropped down towards the bag in Luke’s hand.

“My old room still has a bed right?” Luke asked barely above a whisper. His voice cracked in the process. Jack nodded as he stepped aside letting Luke inside. 

“Shit, did you and Y/N break up?” he asked urgently. 

“No, no,” Luke mumbled as he dropped the bag beside him. “Y/N and I got into a bad argument and she kicked me out,” he explained as he finally met Jack’s gaze. 

“I thought you and Y/N never argued,” Jack observed as he leaned down and took a hold of Luke’s bag. He nodded towards Luke, telling him to follow him out of the kitchen area. 

“We didn’t–We don’t. I don’t even know how we–I let it get this bad. We normally communicate so easily. It’s like every word I said was getting twisted and everything I said just made her more mad.” Luke sniffled harshly as he sat down on the bed, which appears to be the new guest bedroom for Jack. His brother sat down beside him and rested his hand onto his upper back.

“Walk me through it before my girl gets here,” Jack asked. Luke shook his head as he stared ahead. Exhaustion coursed through his veins as he stared towards the blank wall in front of him.

“I should’ve stayed, how could I just leave her crying like that?” Luke let out as he fell onto his back. Instantly, he covered his face with his hands. Taking in a sharp breath, he stopped the tears that were burning his eyes.

“Well she told you to leave, maybe it’s better that you guys have some space. What happened?”

Luke began retelling the whole argument. Almost word for word, at least from what he could remember. He knows that there were things that he said that were out of pocket and unnecessary. But she did the same thing. And apologized right away. He didn’t do that. He stood firm on everything he said. Maybe that’s the part that she was pissed about. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint the thing she could be mad at the most. 

Maybe it was all of it. Maybe everything he said was wrong and he was a jerk. He had good intentions but clearly that didn’t matter or that it wasn’t what she wanted. From the moment he met Y/N, all he wanted was for her to be happy. He craved seeing her smile, it was a form of fuel for him every day. Seeing her smile or hearing her laugh was the best part of his day. 

The longer he retold the argument, the more he looked at Jack’s exasperated expression. If Jack thinks he did something wrong, then maybe he really fucked up everything.

“All I wanted was for her to be less stressed and not have to worry about meeting me halfway, why is that such a bad thing?” Luke let out while shaking his head.

Jack nodded and took a deep breath. The doorbell rang and Jack’s lips formed into a wide grin. “Little brother, you’ve got a lot of fixing to do. I’ll help you fix this after I go retreive my girl,” 

“Can you be a little less happy about your girlfriend? I am in the midst of the potential end of mine,” Luke said somewhat jokingly, except his tone was serious.

“Okay this is not the end, you’re being dramatic–unlike your girlfriend by the way. Who I believe reacted totally rationally to your dumbass remarks,” Jack explained, his voice progressively got louder as he walked out of the room towards the front door. 

Luke didn’t reply. He knew Jack was right. Maybe he was more stubborn than he thought. He was set in trying to do the right thing, he completely forgot about what Y/N could want. He was an ass and now he needed a way to fix it. Whether that was a genuine, I fucked up I’m sorry or if he needed to plan a huge romantic gesture to fix it. He was going to do it. Perhaps both, probably both. He wasn’t sure.

Luke felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Instantly, he pulled it out to see a text from Y/N. He quickly sat up and stared down at the message.

Y/N: Did you get to Jack’s alright?

Luke: Yes, changed my old room into something straight out of HGTV

Y/N: funny

Yep. She’s pissed, maybe even worse than he thought. She never replied with one word, always had something to bounce back from. He took a deep breath as he typed out the words I’m sorry and I love you. He deleted it several times before retyping it. That’s not how he wanted to fix things. A stupid text can’t fix the way they last spoke. 

Luke: I’ll be back tomorrow, I love you

Y/N: Love you too

He sighed as he closed his phone before he rested it onto the new nightstand by the mattress. He fell onto his back again and a long sigh left his lips. 

“She thinks you're an idiot by the way,” Jack said as he reentered the guest room. He sat at the edge of the bed.

“You told her?” Luke asked as he shut his eyes.

“The very brief summary since we had incredible plans for the night but they will not be happening with you in the other room.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” Luke muttered. 

Jack let out a sudden laugh while he rolled his eyes playfully. “Let me rephrase, she doesn’t want to proceed with my little brother in the other room,” Jack expressed. “Anyways, you know how much Y/N hates when you spend money on her, so what made your big noggin think it would be okay to just take over all of the money responsibilities?” 

“I was trying to be helpful but it turns out I’m an ass that doesn’t think before he does or says anything. I understand that I fucked up and I will apologize for that but what I don’t understand is that she doesn’t want to take a little off of her plate. I’m not asking her to be some–what’s that word that TikTok–”

“Trad Wife!” Sammy chimed in from the living room. 

Luke let out a dry laugh and rolled his eyes. “Thanks Sammy,” he called out while meeting Jack’s gaze. He shrugged letting Luke continue. “I want her to focus on finishing school strong before she starts her career again which I basically said was pointless because she’ll barely make anything. Wow, I really am a jackass huh?”

“Well according to Mom, us Hughes have no filter and say dumb things sometimes,” 

“That’s right, Mr. People Pay–”

“Out of context! Out of context, don’t you dare!” Jack pointed a finger towards Luke while laughing. 

“I want her to have the easiest and happiest life, I don’t see what is wrong with me wanting to take care of her,” Luke said as he met Jack’s gaze.

“Luke, she has taken care of people her whole life. That’s not going to change because you have the means to take care of her. She’s the oldest and she lived a very different life before she met you. She’s not used to being taken care of. You were trying to do the right thing but you went at it the wrong way,”

“I wasn’t trying to go behind her back about anything,”

“I know, Lukey, maybe try and go at it from a different angle? You could just apologize for everything, especially that shit you said about teaching,” 

“Yeah that was fucked, I don’t even know why it left my mouth,” he muttered. He stood up quickly. “I’m going back,”

“What?” Jack looked towards him suspiciously. “I thought you were giving her space.”

Luke took a hold of the bag, “Fuck that, we don’t ever argue and we definitely don’t go to bed angry. This is not how we’ve done things and this is not how I’m leaving things,”

Luke started walking out of the guest bedroom. He waved dramatically towards Sammy as he started walking further to the door. “Dude, she told you to get out. She doesn't want you to come back to your place,” Jack pleaded as he followed Luke towards the door.

“Well, I’m not going to let it simmer, I don’t want her to be pissed with me for another second.” Luke said as he took a hold of the door handle.

“Wait–wait, Sam, if you were mad at me and told me to leave. Do you want me to come back or be there still or do you want space?” Jack pointed the question to his girlfriend, asking for a girl’s opinion.

“Y/N and I are not the same person, you cannot expect my answer to be the same as hers,” Sammy expressed.

“Exactly why I feel it in my gut that she doesn’t want me actually gone, so I will be going back to my apartment–your original plans can commence,” Luke explained as he stepped out of the apartment and quickly darted towards the elevator that led to the parking garage of the building. 

Luke will either massively regret this and make his relationship crash and burn. Right now, he needs to at least try to fix things. He cannot leave things how they are. His mind was full of images of her crying because of him. He hated any time a tear slipped and fell onto her cheek. He hated it even more that he was the reason she was crying and that her feelings were hurt.

He didn’t remember how he got home. The drive usually takes twenty minutes. It probably did take twenty minutes but he was running through everything that he said; every single word or moment he needed to make right.

It was the heat of the moment and he said things that he could never take back but he could apologize for. He could remind her that he loves her and that he wants her happy; no matter her path in life. He needed her to know that he was so madly in love with her that he was better than how he acted.

He didn’t care about the statement she made anymore. At first he was mad. There are a lot of former athletes that have kids that don’t go anywhere in the league. Luke did have to work his ass off and he hated that she even thought for a second he didn’t deserve all of his successes. 

But what’s different about Y/N and Luke. She apologized the second she realized it hurt his feelings. Luke didn’t. Luke didn’t see the error in his ways and that was his final mistake. His final error. He couldn’t let it sit and float between them in their relationship.

He stood outside the apartment he’s called home for over a year and suddenly felt like a stranger who needed to knock. Instead, he made a dramatic act of jiggling the keys and pushing the door open. He stepped inside, his eyes dancing around the kitchen then towards the living room to see Y/N was nowhere in sight. 

A sigh left his lips as he twisted the lock on the door and kicked his shoes off and shoved them to the side near the shoe rack. Delicately, he dropped his bag onto the kitchen counter and made his way towards their shared bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, the only light in the room was the lamp on her side table.

Luke took a cautious breath as he pushed the door open. She was sitting up on the bed with a book in her hand. Quickly, she lifted her head up and wiped her cheeks once she saw it was him.

“I told you I don’t want you here tonight,” she mumbled as she looked back down towards the pages. There was no way she could comprehend what was written. There was no way her mind was clear enough to even see the words on the yellowing pages.

“I know,” he let out quietly as he leaned against the doorway. 

She didn’t respond, she wiped her cheek once more before she flipped the page to the next section of her book. Luke crossed his arms over his chest as he watched her. 

She had showered after he left. He could tell by the way her hair was wet and the glisten of lotion on her skin. She smelled like vanilla and roses, the combination from her body wash and her lotion. He knew of the combination from the moment they first met. After they moved in together, he realized her specific routine was the same every time. Even if she was running late, she made sure she had that combination.

She still hasn’t looked up towards him as she flipped to another page; mainly pretending in to be uninterested in his presence.

“I don’t want you to go to bed upset, Y/N.” he let out quietly. She shook her head while she clenched her jaw harshly. He could see the tension in her jaw from the door. He took a sudden breath while he shut the door behind him. He walked towards the bed, he watched her body straighten and her grip on the book tighten. 

He didn’t try to sit on the bed, instead opted for kneeling beside her on the bed. His heart was beating louder than he’s ever heard it. He could see her staggered breathing, like she’s trying not to cry harder. For a moment he felt as though every bit of air left his body and he was going to passout.

“Look at me, please,” he said as his voice cracked. She shook her head slightly as her bottom lip quivered.

“I’m so sorry for the way that I spoke to you earlier. I don’t have an excuse, I don’t know how to make it better but I shouldn’t have said any of it. I can’t take it back but I am sorry,” he explained with his voice breaking as he spoke.

For the first time in the night, he allowed himself to cry. He felt a tear spill from his eye and he quickly raised his hand up to wipe it away. 

She kept her gaze on the pages while she continuously bit the inside of her lip. Luke careally reached towards her and rested his hand onto her arm. She didn’t yank her arm away from him. He took that as a good sign. Slowly, he dragged his thumb along the skin. 

He waited for her to look at him, he missed looking into her eyes. It’s barely been over two hours without looking into them and he was miserable. The last time she looked into his eyes were filled with so many tears, his heart practically shattered in that moment.

Yet she still didn’t look at him. She kept her gaze on that damn book. Luke wanted to throw the book across the room. 

“You deserve everything that you work so hard for. I am sorry for assuming that you could drop a piece of your life like that. I know you hate that I want to take care of you but I can’t help it. I want to spoil you, I want you to have anything you want in this world because you deserve everything you’ve ever wanted. I’m sorry that I made big decisions without you and I’m sorry that I put you in an uncomfortable position by asking you to give up working. I wasn’t saying to be a trad wife–Sammy said that’s what their called,”

The corner of her lips curled upward at the last sentence. He perked up slightly, so she is listening and taking in what he’s saying.

“If you decide five years down the line that’s what you wanna do, I’ll support it–but if you want to continue to work and go to school at the same time, then I’ll support that too. But only if you want to and not because you feel like you need to. You don’t need to do that anymore, I am not trying to change you or leave you out of money decisions. But you are the love of my life and I want to take care of you because I don’t ever want you worrying about anything in life. I am so sorry for saying that about teaching, I was heated. It’s an incredible career that actually helps society. I just skate around and hold a stick for a job but–”

“Luke,” she mumbled out so quietly. 

He didn’t notice that she had closed the book and rested it onto the side table. She had rolled onto her side and was looking directly towards him. He nodded while looking deeply into her eyes. 

“Get in bed, please,” she whispered before she pressed her lips together. He scanned her features nervously. He stood up from his kneeling position. 

“Can I get into pajama pants or like right now?” he asked while pointing behind him. A small giggle left her lips while nodding. “Cool, cool–one second gorgeous,” he mumbled as he quickly jogged twoards their walk-in closet to change. 

He was gone for all of ten seconds and returned in a pair of red plaid pajama pants as he jogged around the bed. Quickly, he laid down under the comforter and faced her. For a few seconds her back faced away from him. 

Luke didn’t reach towards her, he watched her movements instead. He saw her back rise and fall in a steady pace as he tucked the pillow delicately beneath his head.

After a few seconds, she rolled over to face him. Their faces were only a few inches apart as she delicately rested her hand onto his arm. Luke’s body froze under her touch. 

“I don’t know how to let go of things, Luke,” she whispered. “I’ve spent most of my life working and going to school and nearly killing myself with all of the work but I don’t know anything different. It bugs me how different we grew up sometimes and tonight is exactly why.” she took a hesitant breath. 

“Which is why we need to talk about things like money and our future together. I was scared to death about the aftermath of what would happen if we missed our rent. I know what that feeling is like and I never want to have to feel like that again. I know that you were trying to help and I need to learn to accept it.” she let out a small sigh as she inched towards him. 

“I don’t know how to accept it though,” she mumbled as she raised her hand up and delicately took a hold of his cheek. Luke took that as a sign to finally take a hold of her. He wrapped his arm around the center of her and pulled her towards him.

“Baby steps, okay? I won’t push you on anything but you don’t need to burn the candle on both ends anymore, okay?” he whispered as he leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “We’ll talk about everything from now on, okay?”

She hummed as she leaned towards him and pressed her lips against his so delicately. “We better, I don’t like arguing with you,” she mumbled against his lips. He hummed.

“I really am so sorry,” he whispered as he brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

“I know,” she mumbled as she ran her hand down his jawline. Their eyes connected as her breathing quickened. “Maybe you’re right about me burning the candle on both ends. You’re right that maybe I should take a break,” she whispered. He took a hold of her neck, gliding his thumb along the side. “But I want to think about it for a while first, okay?”

“Okay,” Luke mumbled before he leaned towards her and pressed his lips against hers. Her lips parted, granting him more access as their tongues connected instantly. Her body erupted up in flames as he continued to take control of the moment. “Whatever you decide, my love,” he mumbled against her lips. She hummed against his as she took a hold of both of his cheeks.

“Baby,” she mumbled against his lips. He hummed before he took her lips with his. It took her almost a full minute before she spoke again. “Makeup sex?” she questioned. He let out a breathy laugh as he tossed the comforter lower on their frame.

“You always have the best ideas, baby,” he muttered against her lips as he carefully guided her to lay onto her back. He instantly climbed on top of her as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands glided down his chest as she toyed with the waistband of his pants. His entire body erupted in goosebumps at the delicate teasing touch.

[slutzforbueckers]

can you do “slow fingering during movie night with friends”!! with paige being dom!

it could be where reader just got back to storrs from a long trip and instead of them being able to spend time alone their friends suck them into a movie night! and paige just could not wait any longer so she took matter into her own hands!! 🤗🤗

can’t wait anymore

♡— pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

♡— warnings: smut

♡— synopsis: when you got back from a school trip all you wanted to do was have alone time with your girlfriend but your friends had other plans, leaving paige to take things into her own hands.

❥•°❀°•༢

“god—i’m so glad to be back.” you groaned as you crawled over paige and laid on top of her. her arms wrapped around you immediately, her head tilting to press a kiss to your temple.

“i’m glad you’re back too. i missed you.”

you had been gone on a week long trip with your art class to an “art adventure.” it was fun, sure, but after the second day you were seriously going through withdrawals. you sighed into her neck as you placed a small kiss into her skin—not thinking much of it.

paige let out a small, breathy laugh, her fingers pressing into your waist slightly. “careful, i might not let you out of this room if you keep doing that.”

you laughed but you knew she was only half joking, so you did it again. it was already a little past 8:30 pm, everyone should be getting in bed by now so you figured there would be no harm in a good orgasm to end the night. paige ran her hands down your hips and pulled you closer, her lips parting slightly as you started to kiss her a little slower now.

the air between you was already getting thicker and just as she flipped you over there was a loud knock on the door followed by a string of laughs and giggles. you could recognize those laughs anywhere. having spent so much time in paige’s dorm you’d grown familiar with the sounds of her teammates.

you pulled back from outside and looked up st her, expecting. she just shook her head and buried her head in the crook of your neck, her lips ghosting your skin as her hands ran up your inner thighs. you bit down on your lip to keep yourself from making a noise when she started to suck at the skin on your neck.

there was another knock on the door, this time followed by azzi’s voice. “we’re having movie night, everyone joins!”

“we don’t have to go.” paige murmured, trailing her lips up your jaw and kissing you gently. you hummed against her lips and pulled back, making her chase you.

“yeah we do.” you whispered back, kissing her lips in a quick peck. paige groaned and rolled her eyes, falling into the bed beside you. you laughed and patted her thigh before leaving the bed.

twenty minutes later, you were curled up on the couch with paige, surrounded by her teammates in the common room. the lights were dimmed, a horror movie playing loud on the screen, but you were only half watching. paige had insisted you laid with her under the blanket. you hadn’t questioned it—her arms were warm, and after a week without her, you wanted nothing more than to stay close.

the couch wasn’t that big so you knew it would be a tight fit but what you didn’t expect was her hand to creep between your thighs halfway through the movie. your body tensed and you grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand from moving any further.

“paige—“ you hissed quietly, eyes darting around the room to make sure no one was paying any attention to you. paige hummed like she was completely innocent and kissed the back of your neck. you squeezed her wrist gently, silently reminded her where you were. paige smile against your skin and let her hand relax—she wasn’t giving up, she was simply waiting for you to turn your attention back to the tv.

a few minutes went by and paige’s hand twitched again, her thigh slid between your legs from behind. you knew what she was doing when she did that—creating a small space between your legs so she could slide her hands in your pants. this time you let her, you keep your eyes on the horror movie in front of you and you didnt move an inch.

she managed to untie the strings of your sweats with one hand. when she realized you weren’t going to stop her she slipped her hand down your pants and into your panties. she pressed soft kisses to your necks, shoulder, any part of you she could reach.

you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any sound from coming out when she ran her fingers through your folds. paige let out a soft breath into your ear at how wet you were.

“so fucking wet.” her voice was low and smooth, quiet enough it couldn’t be heard over the screams from the tv. your hips twitched into her hand as she covered your clit with your slick in small circles. you were trying so hard to keep your breathing steady—to focus on the movie, to not give away what was really happening under that blanket.

paige moved her fingers lazily but still radiating that confidence she always had. her free arm was still wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against her like you were just cuddling. you felt her fingers dip lower, one of them pushing into you with the same slow rhythm, knuckle-deep, then dragging out again.

she was going slow on purpose—dragging it out, making it so you felt every second bit of it. your walls clenched around her fingers and you had to bite back a moan. no one was looking still, everyone’s heads were turned towards the tv, soaking up every second of the gore.

paige curled her finger just right and you bit your lip so hard it stung, your hand wrapped around her wrist tight. she chuckled, low and warm against your skin. “right there, hm? that feel good, baby?”

you nodded, barely–just a small, desperate tilt of your head. your lips were parted but you didn’t trust yourself to speak, scared that the second you opened your mouth you wouldn’t be able to help the sounds that would go flying out. the pleasure was tight and pulsing just beneath your skin, lighting your nerves on fire.

something bloomed in your core, maybe a rush of adrenaline from being taken apart right there in front of your friends—paige’s teammates. your thighs closed around her hand as she curled her fingers and adding the thought of being caught, a gasp flew out of your mouth—loud enough that kk turned her head and looked at you.

“girl, what was that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at you. paige smiled against your shoulder as she looked at kk. she curled her fingers again and you shook your head fast, your cunt gushing around her fingers. you were thankful for some of the girl’s horrible hearing; the tv was loud enough it masked the sound your pussy was making as paige fucked into you.

“that was nothing. i just— that part was a little scary.” you rushed out, shrugging your shoulders like you weren’t five seconds away from cumming on her best friends fingers. kk’s eyes darted between you and paige and she made that signature kk arnold face before slowly turning back around. you let out a soft breath of relief and let yourself relax into paige again.

“you almost got us caught, baby.” paige murmured teasingly. you nodded your head, eyes fluttering shut, and your pussy squeezed her fingers tight at her words. paige caught it immediately. “oh, that turns you on, huh? the thought of getting caught, hm, like a fucking slut.”

your breathing was way heavier since you had to hold in your moans. you tilted your head towards the couch to hide your face and your hips jerking forward, chasing her fingers. paige shifted her hand so her palm brushing your clit with each thrust.

your legs shook around her hand and your stomach tightened. paiges teeth grazed your neck and her voice dropped even lower. “you gonna cum for me? make a mess on my fingers with all our friends here?”

that was it. the tight coil in your stomach snapped and you were cumming. your whole body trembled in her arms, your pussy clenching so hard around her fingers it made her groan softly into your shoulder.

she held you through it, her fingers working in you until you pushed her hand away. paige relented, pulling her fingers from your soaked panties and tugging your sweats gently back into place. she kissed the side of your head, licking her fingers clean beneath the blanket before sliding her arms back around your waist like nothing had happened.

“you’re sitting in my lap next time.” paige whispered. you shivered, already thinking about it.

[starktonyx]

Nothing’s gonna stop us - Thunderbolts* x Reader!

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Word count: 4k.

Requested by @doctoriletyougotogalaxy : Soooo what about a karaoke night at the towerrrr the reader can sing "nothing's gonna stop us now" by starship! and lottsss of family dynamic and interaction with bob and yelena and bucky and ava and alexei and john omg i can't choosee.

Description: An attempt at homemade cookies, ridiculous requests to Valentina and a karaoke night will have you finding out you have a hidden singer in your team.

Note: Avengers tower fics are so back. I hope I made your request justice, this is pure fluff and many interactions between our beloved thunderbolts. Loved writing this, hope you enjoy! I recommend listening to the song when the karaoke starts for full immersion lol.

Masterlist

Laidback nights at the Watchtower didn't happen very often. Nights when no one was off on some random mission in the middle of nowhere, no last minute invitations to stupid events, not one single call from Valentina.

It was perfect.

These nights were simple in the way that mattered, space to breathe, to laugh, to learn the little things about each other that didn't come out in broad daylight. And, even if you hadn't picked it in the first place, this had become what you called home.

Not that you would ever say it out loud, or anyone in the team really, but it meant everything to you.

You'd just pulled the last cookie tray out of the oven, the kitchen felt warm as the air filled with the sweet smell of melted chocolate chips. Bob stood beside you, fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie, clearly proud but, as always, kept his thoughts to himself. He had spent the entire week casually hinting at wanting to bake, dropping recipe tiktoks in the group chat, mumbling things like "If anyone wants, we could maybe ... try these?" When passing around the group.

You knew he would never get the motivation to get up and actually do it on his own, and if he ever did, he would drop it halfway through. Maybe that's why he hinted it the whole week. When it came to Bob, who never ever wanted to bother anyone with his needs, you gladly took that as progress.

Now, you didn't know shit about baking. Neither did Bob, really. But if it meant getting him out of his room and doing something other than quietly fading into the background, you were all in.

So, as tonight the whole team would be home to enjoy some homemade cookies, you cornered him in the kitchen and made it happen.

The open kitchen, completely visible from the living room, was a mess. The counters dusted in flour and so many dirty bowls and spoons laying around. Your teammates had been throwing curious glances at you the whole afternoon, and it was funny how John, the one who insists to act like he's the most disinterested person in the building (he goes neck to neck with Bucky on that one) had been lifting his head ever so slightly from the couch to look over the counter way too many times to count.

There had also been complaints about you 'taking too long' but, 6 hours wasn't bad at all for amateurs, right?

All that time for the cookies to end up looking lopsided, but at least the smell was heavenly, and judging by Bob's quiet excitement, they were a masterpiece.

"Cookies are ready, everyone!" you called out, lining up the cookie trays on the counter that faced the living room.

Bob smiled nervously as he scratched the back of his head "Um... take as many as you'd like".

Big mistake, when you had three supersoldiers waiting like hawks.

He didn't even finish his sentence before John took three long strides to reach the counter, leaning over the trays to examine the cookies with his arms crossed.

You rolled your eyes. "You need a magnifying glass or something?" You huffed, and the fucker only fake smiled at you as he used his finger to flip a couple of cookies that looked darker than the others.

"Didn't even burn 'em" he muttered with approval, nodding at both of you before popping two into his mouth without hesitation, despite the fact they were still steaming.

"You angels!" Alexei exclaimed right behind him, grabbing a handful. "You will make strong wives one day" His thick accent muffled by a mouthful of cookies he was trying to chomp down at super soldier speed.

"Wow ... okay" Bob clears his throat as he turned red from the weird compliment.

John snorted at the ridiculous comment, as he kept grabbing one cookie after another like they were infinite. Bucky dragged his feet reluctantly to the counter, offering you a small side smile at you as he approached the tray, muttering a quiet thank you when he grabbed his batch of cookies before turning back to the couch.

"Jeez, leave some for the girls" Ava complained, making everyone jump as she fazed through the kitchen cabinets.

She hid her smirk like she didn't notice, but she loved doing that.

She raised an eyebrow at the almost empty trays, with her signature judging look. She grabs one with casual confidence, took an uninterested bite and froze mid chew. Her face shifted into reluctant surprise.

"I'll be damned" she muttered, grabbing another. "These aren't bad at all"

Bob was beaming.

And if he was beaming, all of you were, too.

You scanned the room, eyes darting toward the hallway before they almost finished the stash.

"Where's Yelena?" You suddenly remember, Bob's eyes go wide.

Right on cue, she makes appearance strutting through the hallway.

"Gather 'round losers, it's karaoke time" Yelena announces as she walks past the group, collective grunts immediately followed.

She stopped dead in her tracks, mid stride, her cute nose wrinkling as she caught the sweet scent coming from the almost empty trays.

"Wait, the cookies were ready and you didn't call me?"

"We literally took them out of the oven five seconds ago" you said, hands up in mock defense. Bob nodded profusely beside you.

"YEH"  "it's true" "sure", the super soldiers tried to back you up, but the crumbs on their shirts made them guilty as charged.

Yelena narrowed her eyes at them, then made her move. "Let's see these–hands off, Walker!"

She smacked John's hand just as he reached for the last two cookies. He groaned, but decided it was better to go back to the couch instead of fighting with the blonde girl for a goddamn cookie.

Yelena took her first bite, eyes widening as she chewed. "Mmm ... oh my god, Bob. These are amazing" 

Another praise that made him visibly shrink a little. "Y/N helped me" he said quickly, deflecting the compliment.

You gave him a sideways glare. He caught it and fumbled a bit.

"Uh ... I mean, thank you, Yelena"

Her mouth was still full, but her smile was unmistakable.

She gave him a little nod, eyes soft as they always were with him. Then, without missing a beat, she turned toward the living room again where Bucky and John were sulking into the couches.

"Alright! Now that you've been fed, it's showtime"

That girl couldn't half ass anything in her life, so if she said it was showtime, it was freaking showtime. And you always backed her up with the same energy you'd bring to a bar fight.

You walked over to the TV and powered on the freshly installed karaoke system, with a whole disco ball included. Val had, very reluctantly, been forced to install it. It had been your demand of the month.

Since Valentina Allegra de Fontaine technically worked for you now, courtesy of the mountain of dirty, dangerous secrets you had on her, you made sure to remind her of the power dynamic whenever possible. Monthly demands had become a tradition.

She hated it of course, which only made it more fun. The team’s demands just kept getting ridiculous at this point.

"Val, I want a fireplace in my room"

"You are on the 29th floor"

"Exactly, gets cold"

"Val we need a private jet"

"You have access to five military grade aircrafts"

"Yeah, but I mean like ... a superstar jet. With champagne and mood lighting"

"Val, I hate the tile in my bathroom"

"It's marble"

"Ugly marble"

"Val, I want to meet Harry Styles”

"...What?"

So yes, in the grand scheme of things, a tiny disco ball and a karaoke machine wasn't the worst of your requests.

The very first karaoke night had been just you and Yelena. No fancy setup, just too many vodka shots that had you standing on the coffee table, using the TV remote as a microphone while screaming lyrics off YouTube.

Bucky had come back from a long mission that night. Exhausted, annoyed, and probably still bleeding somewhere, when he walked straight through the living room just as you both hit a particularly off key chorus of Total Eclipse of the Heart.

"You know" he muttered, barely sparing a glance "all you're missing is a disco ball"

He said it like a joke. But when you told Bob about it, he loved the idea, even if he never participated in the singing.

So, a disco ball was next on Valentina's, or actually Mel's, shopping list.

Karaoke nights were still ... just Yelena and you singing. Mostly. Alexei being the only one willingly joining without you even asking. But at least now, everyone gathered around to watch your performances, and singing or no singing, you were just glad they were there.

Now here you were again, reunited in the living room. The glittery ball spun slowly overhead as the lights dimmed and the first hum of mic feedback buzzed through the speakers.

You always opened karaoke night.

Standing in front of the team gathered on the couches, you took a moment to analyze your audience for the evening.

Bucky sat like a sulky cat on the left corner of the main couch, head supported by his metal arm, elbow resting on the armrest. And, clearly, regretting his life choices once again.

John sat stiff on the opposite end, acting nonchalant, like whatever he was watching on his phone was more important than your song choice tonight.

Alexei, who had disappeared for a few minutes to put on his ridiculous 'New Avengerz' onesie, was now seated in the middle, radianting excitement. Nothing filled his heart more than seeing his daughter happy, enjoying moments like this with her little weird crew. But it was fine, he thought, daughter is also weird.

Bob took the beanbag next to John, the eager smile on his face making your heart pinch a little. He looked like he'd been waiting his whole life to be invited to something like this.

Ava chose to stand, lazily leaning on the wall near John's seat, with her arms crossed. Yelena, as always, sat closest to you, perched on the edge of an armchair.

"God ... if Alexei tries to harmonize again I'm tasing him" Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, his hand already rubbing his temple.

"Hey ... the people love my voice"

"The people called the police last time, Alexei" Ava rolled her eyes, her accent made sarcasm sound dead serious.

"What will they do? Arrest the New Avengerz?" He protested, making sure he emphasized the 'z'.

"Dad, please" Yelena sighed, already embarrassed by his outfit.

"I guess we'll find out if Val's soundproofing system works now" John muttered, eyes still glued to the phone.

"Alright alright, don't get too excited" You joked, holding your hands up to calm down the 'crowd'. "For tonight's performance, I have decided to grace your ears with my very own rendition of 'Nothing's gonna stop us', our new signature song" You announced enthusiastically.

Bob was the only one who clapped, sinking deeper into his beanbag when only Alexei's heavy claps followed.

"Since when is it our signature song?" Ava questioned, her head tilting to the side.

"Since Bucky was humming it in the jet last mission..." Yelena teased, shooting you an amused look.

Bucky exhaled sharply. You'd been pestering him about that song ever since you heard him hum it. And of course, you'd dragged Yelena into it too, you two were basically a single chaotic unit at this point.

"You have to be kidding me"

You ignored him completely as Yelena pressed play. The lights shifted to a soft pink hue, bouncing across the room thanks to the disco ball.

The beat of drums kicked in, followed by the soft melody. You started swaying from side to side, and from the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob doing the same. John unconsciously began tapping his foot to the rhythm, as he scrolled through muted reels. Bucky sat completely still, fighting with his inner demons not to join in.

"Looking in your eyes, I see a paradise

This world that I found is too good to be true..."

It didn't take longer than the first verses for yelena to ditch the chair and join you, taking another microphone as the pre chorus played.

"Let them say we're crazy, I don't care about that

Put your hand in my hand, baby don't ever look back..."

The others looked mildly amused as you and Yelena swayed in perfect sync.

"Look at them" Ava chuckled, whispering to John. "Deadliest couple in at least three time zones, and they perform like their lives depend on it"

"They're cute. In a 'definitely killed people' kind of way" Bob added softly, barely audible over the music. But Yelena caught it.

"See, Bob has taste" Yelena interrupted her singing to flip Ava off. She just rolled her eyes.

By the time the chorus hit, Yelena and you were giving it your all.

"And we can build this dream together, standing strong forever, nothing's gonna stop us now..."

"Come on Ava, let us hear you!" You called to her, fully expecting to be ignored.

You hadn't managed to convince Ava into karaoke yet. She was definitely one of the girls, someone you could always count on for advice, or you know, a quick murder. But you weren't at 'let's perform like lunatics in front of the group' level just yet.

Or so you thought.

Maybe it was the sugar rush from the cookies she had earlier, cause she didn't protest. She just shrugged like she had absolutely nothing better to do and walked over to the TV, picking up another mic.

You blinked as she tapped it to check it was on. Everyone leaned in, waiting.

"I'm so glad I found you, I'm not gonna lose you

Whatever it takes, I will stay here with you"

To everyone's horror and awe, her voice was perfect. Like, radio perfect. Smooth, clear, and effortless.

John finally looked up from his phone, his jaw threatening to drop to the floor. Even Bucky raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued.

"Beautiful ... like funeral" Alexei thought out loud, earning a sigh from Bucky, it was his fault for being interested in the first place.

"What the fuck, Ava" John cursed as she wrapped up her solo, his eyebrows furrowed trying to understand how that angelic voice came out the most insufferable woman he'd even met.

"I spent years alone in a lab" Ava replied casually. "Singing passed the time" she shrugged like it didn't matter in the least to her, and returned to her usual spot by the wall.

"You were like ... singing singing" You emphasized, as the instrumental continued alone in the background. "And here I thought I was the talent"

"You are" Yelena said, patting your shoulder. "Just not vocally" You blinked at how that was supposed to be a compliment.

"You guys are missing the song" Bob pointed out, gesturing to the screen where the lyrics kept scrolling by.

You extended the mic to Bucky, but he didn't take it. He stared at it, then at you, then back again at the mic. "Come on Bucky, it's your song" You whined.

"Sing, sing, sing!" Bob chanted enthusiastically, until Bucky shot him a death glare and it died down mid cheer.

With a long suffering grunt, Bucky stood up. He wasn't about to let this drag out any longer, it was better to get it over with so you'd all leave him alone.

Bucky took the mic like it offended him. Like he might throw it across the room, but he'd already committed, no way was he backing out now.

"Okay, but I'm only doing one verse" he said, like this was some negotiation.

You and Yelena just nodded excited in unison.

Alexei leaned towards John and whispered, "What if he sings like sexy ghost?"

"What does that even mean?" John muttered, his face scrunched up.

And as the bridge kicked in, Bucky sang.

"Oooh, all that I need is you

All that I ever need"

His voice cracked a little at first, like it hadn't been used like this in years. But then it was rough, smoky, deep. It suited him.

"And all I want to do is hold you forever

Forever and ever"

By the time he sang the last line of the bridge, you saw the shift in his posture, his eyes half closed, his shoulders loosening, the furrow in his brow easing.

Yelena gasped dramatically and tapped his shoulder with both hands.

"James Buchanan Barnes" she said, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. "Was that emotion I just witnessed?"

"Shut up" he muttered, handing the mic back and slumping into his seat .

Bob, not scared this time, clapped gently, as if trying not to startle him. "That was really, really good"

Even Walker had the decency to nod, raising his eyebrows. "Okay. Didn't expect that".

Bucky didn't reply, but at least he didn't look miserable anymore.

You smirked, eyes scanning the room until they landed on your next victim. You extended the microphone towards Walker, your other hand making a grabbing motion in the air.

"You're up, soldier" you said.

You could see it in his eyes, he wanted to. He'd never admit it, but he'd been waiting for someone to invite him.

"I don't sing"

You rolled your eyes. My god, why did this man try so hard to act like he doesn't care. You knew he did. You glared at him, and it surprisingly it seemed to work the first time.

Huh. Looks like sugar really was the solution all along.

He recluctanly, not really at all, took your hand and jumped in front of the group, as the chorus hit one more time.

"And we can build this world together..."

His rendition was... decent. Maybe a little too much air punching, but honestly? He was selling it. You and Yelena danced behind him for support.

Alexei didn't take long to get up to dance beside you and yelena, not without offering his hand to Ava to bring her along as well. You did the same to Bucky, dragging him towards the dance floor as he shook his head amused.

You all moved to the beat of the guitar while John finished his verse and joined the dancing, mic still in hand. Bucky finally started loosening up, throwing in a few of his old 40's moves. God, he really had been a dancer back then.

You giggled when he grabbed your hand, twirling both you and Yelena at once. Across from you, John twirled Ava. And Alexei? He twirled... himself.

"Can I ... C-Can I try?" A quiet request from the beanbag in the corner made you all freeze in place.

Somehow the music suddenly paused, and the disco ball stopped spinning.

Bob. It had to be Bob. Everyone turned to look.

And there he was, slowly rising from the beanbag, hands wringing nervously, covered by his hoodie sleeves that were way too long.

Yelena blinked. "You've never ever joined us before"

"I know" Bob said quietly. "But... you all looked like you were having fun"

John smiled gently and handed him the mic. "Take it away, Bobby"

The music kicked in again, courtesy of Bob, and the final chorus began. He brought the mic to his lips.

And it wasn't just a timid little try.

No, Bob sang like a miracle. Your very own Bob, who got startled if someone opened a soda can too fast.

You'd expected soft and shy, and maybe a little out of tune. But instead, you got his entire soul poured into every word. He gave Sam Smith. He gave Adele. His voice was deep, haunting, like all his pain had been laced into every note.

"Nothing's gonna stop us now..."

Bob finished the chorus with his eyes closed, holding onto the mic for dear life with both hands as the song died down.

You could've heard a pin drop. Or Yelena's jaw hitting the floor.

"I'm never singing again" you whispered.

"You're our lead singer now!" Yelena yelled, launched into a side hug.

"Seriously" Bucky said, pointing. "That was something special, Bob" He admitted, patting his shoulder.

Bob blinked up at everyone, wide eyed. "I just... wanted to be part of it”

"Part of it? Bob you are it!" you said, grinning. "Next time, you're opening the night, if you'd like to of course"

"We've been listening to these two lunatics for so long" Ava shook her head, gesturing between you and Yelena "and all this time we had you just sitting there"

John clapped a hand on Bob's shoulder. "Well Bobby, looks like you're officially promoted"

"To what?" Bob asked innocently, face flushed from all the attention.

"Karaoke King”

Bob just smiled, quietly thanking everyone as they patted his shoulder. He looked like a kid on the playground who'd just been told he was cool for the first time in his life.

As the adrenaline wore off, the group began to scatter. John and Ava went straight to the kitchen in search of water. Bob followed behind, as Yelena and Alexei congratulated him again for the cookies.

You collapsed onto the couch next to Bucky, head draped over the back cushion as you caught your breath.

Your fingers found their way into his long, wavy hair, absentmindedly playing with a few strands. Bucky didn't even flinch, he was used to random hands in his hair ever since Valentina's infamous "makeover".

His eyes stayed glued to his phone, thumb scrolling through what looked like an eternal flood of congressional updates. Completely zoned out, his foot tapped against the floor as he began quietly humming to himself.

"Huungry eyes..."

Your hand froze mid-stroke. His voice did too.

He closed his eyes, and slowly turned his head towards you. The horror on his face said it all.

You were already on your feet, rising like a cartoon, microphone in hand and a wicked smile blooming on your face.

"Let's go, Barnes" you said, extending the mic like a challenge. "The stage is all yours"

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