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unintentionalseductress · 11 months ago

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Telling The LADS Men to Ditch The Condom

Them reacting to you saying you want them to fuck you raw. Warnings : MDNI, sex, oral, handjob, and general smut These banners are mine, please do not reuse them.

Zayne, as a doctor, preached safe sex. He appreciates the responsibility and nothing is more attractive to him than a woman who is aware of her birth control options and doesn’t mind communicating openly with him about these decisions. After all, having sex was such an intimate act for him that he wouldn’t even think about it until you’d been dating for at least a month. He likes the exclusivity and the closeness of sex, and that includes being held accountable for the choices both of you made in the bedroom. So when you tell him to lose the condom, he blinks, making sure he hasn’t misheard you.

“You…want to do it without a condom?”

His head is between your thighs, kissing and nibbling the soft flesh as he edges his way towards the moist and sensitive folds, and he raises up on his elbows to ensure his ears aren’t being obstructed by your legs.

You nod slowly, blushing as his dark eyes fixated on yours, the flecks of amber in them lightening at the idea. His pupils dilate at your affirmation, and he hoists himself up a little higher, resting on your belly, gently stroking your flanks. “You’re sure about this? There’s no pressure you know.”

“I know. But I feel like we’ve been together long enough to allow ourselves to go one step further. And I’m on the pill. We can monitor the situation later if you want to but honestly Zayne, I think any step I take with you isn’t going to be something I regret.” You say the words candidly, reaching down to stroke his black, silky, locks of hair, heart skipping a beat as he plays with the squish of your belly, nuzzling his face into the softness. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

His eyes flutter closed for a second, the ebony eyelashes resting like fans on his cheekbones before he sighs, the little puff of air sending a shiver across your middle. He crawls up towards your face, capturing your mouth in a tender kiss, tongue sliding across the slit of your lips before entering inside. You cup his face and deepen the kiss, heat gathering in your body. Zayne pulls away only to come to your ear, hot breath tickling you as he speaks.

“I don’t think I’ll regret this either.” He licks the shell of your ear, making you twitch. “But remember, if you change your mind, I’ll stop. No questions asked.”

His words are so sincere and spoken with love, adding fuel to the fire. Zayne, patient and considerate, is looking at you with those sharp eyes as if you’re his last meal on earth. He kisses his way down, pausing briefly to shower some attention over your perked nipples, giving them soft licks and kisses that make you mewl and whine with need. Once he’s back at his original spot between your legs, your arousal has increased a hundredfold, your sex soft and swollen, leaking fluid as he parts your folds.

His tongue darts out, tasting you, licking slow lines from cunt to clit, before slurping the swollen pearl into his mouth, suctioning it with his lips. His middle finger flirts with your entrance, teasing it until it starts sucking in his fingertip, drawing a moan from you as he strokes it along your upper wall.

Zayne knew his anatomy and he never wasted a second in touching you exactly in the spot that made you feel like you were turning into a pile of goo. Never in a hurry, always taking his time, coaxing orgasms from you like a hobby, the breath tearing from your throat, your core spasming from the pleasurable waves that radiate throughout your body. Zayne nudges you through the final vestiges of your orgasm before stroking himself, readying his hardened cock.

He’s done this before but what gets to him as he aligns his tip with your hot entrance is how heightened the sensation is, the absence of latex allowing him to profoundly feel every muscle contract and fully experience how wet and welcoming your body truly was. He grits his teeth, his balls throbbing, desire surging through his veins, almost snapping his self-control.

He inches in slowly, splitting you apart, marveling at how you stretch to fit him, the little noises that leave your throat music to his ears. Once fully sheathed, he looks at you, hair tousled and splayed across the pillow, a flush across your face. He thrusts with care, drawing a moan of longing from you and softly rolls his hips, adjusting himself at an angle he knew you liked.

Every movement brushed his mushroomhead against your gspot, soft sighs filling the air, his lips descending onto yours, his thumb working your clit, gradually bringing up your pleasure to another peak.

“You feel so good darling,” he pants, his thrusts becoming steadily faster, his willpower fading away to primal need. “Taking me so well,” he whispers, capturing your lips in another passionate kiss.

Your body is reeling from the stimulation and with Zayne’s gentle ministrations on your clit you cum with a cry, his hips stuttering as he feels the orgasmic spasms of your core around his cock. He tries to hold on, but it’s too much, his head growing sensitive as your second orgasm sucks him in deeper into your warmth, his balls tightening up and the coil in his belly compressed to a limit until it snaps, and with a grunt, he spills himself into your body.

Afterwards, he holds you tenderly, gently easing out, and cleaning up your messy slit with a warm washcloth, playing with your hair until the both of you fall asleep.

This is a man who’s been taught condoms are the best way to avoid complications. It’s a golden rule that he will not have unprotected sex for both health reasons and to avoid making the person he’s with uncomfortable. You don’t have condoms? He’s running to the pharmacy to get some. He takes these things seriously and understands that it’s simply gentlemanly to be the one to buy condoms. Xavier wants to feel like he can be relied on in situations like this and that you should never feel awkward asking him to make a condom run or any kind of run.

He’s reaching for the box to roll one onto himself when you hold his wrist. Curiously, he looks at you, a sight to behold, a heavenly sight laying on his bed, lips plump and swollen from his kisses, body glistening with sweat from your recent orgasm.

“Ditch the condom Xav,” you murmur, tracing his arm with your fingers, causing goosebumps to bloom on his skin, his usually slow heartbeat picking up a few paces.

“Are you sure angel?” He lays down gathering you in his arms, his erection tickling your belly as he breathes in the perfume of your hair.

“Positive.” You stroke his cheek reassuringly, feeling like you could drown in the depths of his blue eyes, unable to control the little giggle that leaves your throat as he blushes at your confirmation.

“Xavier.” You grasp his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I’ve never been more sure. I know I can trust you, rely on you. And right now, I can’t think of anything I want more than to feel you inside me, no barriers.”

He’s shy, his smile so awkward and his face so pink. This was new to him, and the fact that you’re asking so sweetly is pulling at his heartstrings. After hesitating for another moment he places the condom back on the nightstand.

“All right angel. Since you're sure. But tell me if you feel uncomfortable at all ok?” Xavier rubs his thumbs over your cheekbones in circles, a sweet and tender gesture, carefully laying over you, his chest coming into contact with yours as he tips your face up for a kiss, his hands slipping under you and clasping your shoulder blades to bring your body as close to his as he could.

While his tongue explored your mouth, he raises slightly on his knees and effortlessly finds your moist entrance with his tip savoring each tiny inch that envelopes his cock with aching warmth. He's unable to control the sigh that escapes his lips, lost in your mouth as he feels the wet muscles contract around him, pulling him in. The feeling is inexplicable, the intimacy of skin on skin making him feel heady and light, heart racing in his chest.

His brilliant blue eyes begin to darken at the edges, turning into a darker shade of midnight as he bottoms out, little noises of contentment resounding in your throat as you feel the hot velvet column of his cock fill you, feel the way it pulses as he occupies your pussy.

“Xav… You feel amazing,” you gasp as you pull away from his mouth, his hips coming to lay flush against yours as he thrusts into you, stroking your inner walls and teasing all the right spots inside you. He's hot and flushed, watching your face as it contorts in pleasure, his blush settling across his cheeks and nose like adorable pink freckles. You smile hazily as him and his head dips down to suckle as nipple, his tongue caressing the little bud, turning your moans into sighs of longing.

When his thumb starts to circle your clit you almost cry out from the pleasure of it all, every sensitive spot being hit at the same time with aching perfection. His breath mingles with yours, sweat forming on both your bodies as you rock against each other, creating delicious friction, matching the other rhythm for rhythm, strike against long stroke.

The edges of your vision blur as your climax grows nearer and Xavier’s jaw grows tight, a moan escaping his lips as he tries to hang on, determined not to climaxes before you. His thumb picks up its pace and with a shaky gasp, your orgasm hits, the sweetness of it making you sob as it grips you, feeling your core spasm, and with a final push of triumph, he allows himself to succumb to his own desires, cock twitching and spasming along with your pussy as he cums, coating your walls with his seed.

Tired, he collapses on top of you as gracefully as he can, your hands and soothingly rubbing over his back, kissing his hair, murmuring praise to him as he floats down from his high.

“Angel…you're so wonderful. The best.” his head is on your chest, listening to your heartbeat as he tries to grasp into reality. You can't help but laugh lightly. Xavier always gets pussy drunk and now without the condom it appeared to accelerate to an entirely fucked out state.

His eyes gleam like sapphires as his breathing returns to normal. “Well how am I supposed to be the guy making the condom run now after knowing what it feels like without one?”

You roll your eyes affectionately at him and flick his forehead.

Rafayel isn't unfamiliar with sex and intimate relationships but he doesn't often engage in them. He's quite shy and doesn't tell you what he's thinking. With patience and a little experimentation, Rafayel slowly came out of his shell and learned to feel comfortable enough with you to express his desires and wants. However, he's nervous about how you'll react to him admitting he's been wondering how it would be without a condom so he clams up.

His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are half lidded, whining as he rests between your legs, his back against your chest as you pump his erection with aching perfection.

“Feeling good baby?” You coo at him as he writhes under yourself ministrations at your mercy.

“Yeah… So close… Don't stop… “ he pants, hips desperately thrusting up to meet your strokes, feeling his thigh muscles quiver and his abs growing tighter with each passing second.

“Talk to me Raffy… how good am I making you feel?”

“So good…” His eyes, a lovely shade of lavender gray are starting to turn into smoke as his impending climax builds and rises. His cheeks are flushed and there's sweat on his forehead and chest from the exertion, the gentle crescendo of pleasure building to a steady peak.

He gazes up at you in a haze, those adorably plump lips parted as he gasps for air.

“You're so pretty when you pout you know?” you ask teasingly and as predicted his brow furrows, displeased at your amusement.

“Don't… say things like… that!” the color in his cheeks rises and your own control slips slightly as you lean down to give an admonishing nibble on his lower lip. The extra stimulation is enough to push him over the edge and with a groan he pulses, his cock warm and needy in your palm, spilling his cum into your hand.

Your clean hand plays with his pretty hair as you continue to pump him with care ensuring he rides out every drop of his orgasm, a few more more spurts of viscous fluid leaking from his tip before stopping.

Rafayel relaxes on your lap as you reach over to grab a tissue and wipe off your hand. His eyes linger on your messy hand, sticky with his arousal and he feels his cock twitch despite having just cum.

“I wonder what it would look like slipping out of your pussy instead of your hand,” he says in a quiet pondering voice that has you pausing, a wicked grin forming on your face.

“Raffy… Did you just say you wanted to fuck me without a condom?” You emphasize the word ‘fuck’ on purpose because of how flustered he gets when he hears it and sure enough, he pouts, a noise of embarrassment escaping his lips, rolling onto his side to hide his face.

You quickly discard the used tissue and lay down to face him, pulling his struggling hands away from his face which looks like a setting sun now, adorably flushed, eyes bright and averted.

“Raffy tell me what you want.” You reassuringly pull closer to him, nuzzling his warm neck.

His cheek rests on the top of your head and with a sigh he admits with a hint of bashfulness, “I fantasize about it sometimes. But we don't have to,” he adds quickly.

Your laughter is muffled by his neck as you lean back to look at him. “I think we've been together long enough to discuss doing it raw.” You look at him imploringly.

“Cmon baby. We can ditch the condom today. I kinda want to know what it feels like too.”

His smokey lavender roam over your face, still carrying hints of hesitation in them. “You're sure? You're not just doing this because I want to right?”

“Oh Raffy. There's never been a day where you've made me feel forced to do anything. I'm very sure.” You cup his face between both your hands and gaze at him lovingly.

He laughs awkwardly, smiling shyly and you feel his erection press against your thigh as the both of you draw in for a kiss, Rafayel pulls your knee over his hip, stroking your moist folds with his cock. You whine in pleasure as he holds his cockhead up to your clit and you slide along his length, both of you sighing passionately at the intimate touch. His engorged tip cups the base of your clit so perfectly and you feel your core clench in anticipation.

Rafayel drags his length between your folds one more time before sliding down to your needy hole, groaning as your wet heat circles his tip. You push down on him, feeling the heat of his member, enjoying the way he fills you so wonderfully, his head sitting snug against your gspot.

The thrusts were shallow in this position but it allows you to snuggle into his chest, look deeply into his eyes and kiss him at leisure, each stroke hitting that sweet spot inside you with aching precision. He toys with your clit , pinching and rolling it for your pleasure.

He's amazed at how good you feel, how tight you are around his length, how wet you really are. The condom almost dulled this sensation and it feels like he's woken from a dream and experiencing reality for the first time.

Your orgasm hits sharply, making you cry out and cling to him the combined fondling of your clit and gspot too much for handle. As it starts to settle down you moan in his ear.

“Baby… Give it to me. I want to know what your cum slipping out of my pussy feels like too. Please… Cum for me… Like how I came for you…”

Your voice is whiny and pleading and Rafayel's hips stutter as he reaches his peak, letting out noises of his pleasure into your ear as he cums, and you feel his hot seed fill your eager pussy. As the both of you catch your breath, kissing each other in the afterglow, everything feels right.

Rafayel's erection softens and as it happens you feel the unmistakable feeling of your combined cum sliding out of your pussy, pooling at the crevice of your thigh.

“That's so hot,” you murmur and from Rafayel's expression he's thinking the same thing. He gathers a little bit of your mixed fluids on his finger, fascinatedly tasting it, his eyes intoxicated at the flavor.

“See what happens when you tell me what you want?” you strokes his arm. He nods then gets close to your ear.

“I don't think I want to use a condom ever again.”

Sylus is that guy who loves going in raw but only if he's sure you're into him. And despite the talk of him being the ruthless leader of Onychinus, he's a true gentleman and would never bring the topic of having unprotected sex unless you initiate it. He prides himself on being someone you look to for security amidst the chaos in the N109 zone.

His fingers are knuckle deep into your pussy, wet squelching noises filling the air as his long fingers expertly tease that bundle of nerves inside you while his thumb rubs circles on your clit drawing out a moan of longing from you, your walls clenching around his thick fingers.

“That's it good girl… Give it to me,” his deep voice rumbles in approval as you writhe desperately on his fingers feeling your body tense in anticipation at what was to come.

His lips hover over your collarbone nibbling leisurely and you roll your hips, moaning as your climax washes over you, pussy spasming from the gratification.

He licks his fingers clean, savoring the tang of your arousal before pulling you in for a deep kiss, pulling you snugly against his chest, and pressing kisses to your hair. You taste the musky flavor of your orgasm, transferred from his tongue to yours.

Your hands are already busy with his cock, tickling his thighs and cupping his balls drawing a chuckle from him.

“Easy kitten. We have all night.” His tongue slips between your lips again and gives you a sloppy kiss, a noise of delight leaving you as you stroke the hot velvet of his cock.

“Sylus?” you stroke him in a steady rhythm that has him humming, the noise sounding like a cat purring, his abs contracting in response to your touch.

“Yes doll?” he licks and nibbles down the side of your neck making you shiver. His crimson eyes fixate on you as you hesitate to speak.

“What is it? You know I'll do anything for you right?” He grasps your chin firmly and makes eye contact, feeling flattered when you blush, your nipples perked from your recent orgasm, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, looking divine.

“I was thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Um… How would you feel if… we didn't… Useprotection?” the last few words are said in a rush, and your cheeks grow hot as you make your request. It's not normal for you to feel so shy, after all Sylus was incredibly open to experimentation and exploring kinks with you. But there was something so personal about asking this of him, letting a part of him sit within you so intimately and the vulnerability made you feel exposed.

Sylus rises a contemplative eyebrow, his lips curling into an indulgent smile as he sees how flustered you're getting.

“The kitten has gotten bold,” he says approvingly. “You wish to have all of me? Feel my cock in all it's exposed glory inside your wet little cunt?”

The crudeness of his words sends a rush of arousal straight into your already dripping core. Heat fills your cheeks and you slap his shoulder.

“Don't say it like that!”

“isn't it the truth though?” Sylus rolls you on top of him as he lays back against the pillows, enjoying the view of your soft body. “Don't you want to feel every inch of my veiny cock fill you, rub your sensitive walls and fuck you senseless? All the while your tight little pussy keeps getting wetter for me and you can't do anything except helplessly moan and let me stuff you with my seed?”

His ruby eyes glitter sinfully as he watches you squirm under his gaze. How cute. His fingers idly stroke your sides, your hands full of his cock but momentarily frozen from his teasing.

“Don't feel like you have to stop on account of me sweetie,” he prompts, then can't stop himself from laughing as you hasten to continue with your strokes. “You fluster so easily.”

“Anyone would if spoken to that way!”

“Oh no sweetie. I doubt anyone else would have such an adorable reaction. Why can't you just admit that you want me in you, no barriers, just raw and primal like animals?”

Your nails scratch over his abs, feeling them quiver. “If you don't want to just say so.”

“Don't be that way.” His red eyes narrow, hands tightening around your waist. “You know I want to.” His large hands cup your breasts and squeeze.

“Then why do you keep laughing like it's funny?” you whine as he twists your nipples, and grind his upper thigh.

Sylus's eyes soften slightly before he leans up to kiss a nipple and pull it softly with his lips. “Mhm… Sy…” your nails scratch his scalp as you cradle his head.

He lets go and blows a puff of air over the hardened peak, causing it to perk up more before circling it with his thumb. “I adore you doll. It’s not that I find it funny. I'm very flattered that you want me that way. But if I let my desire for you consume me, you may find yourself pushed to a limit.”

He traces a finger from between your breasts down to your navel. “You may find me… being rough. More than you're used to. Because kitten…” he leans up with you balanced on his body and with a soft tickle of hot breath on your ear that has you jerking slightly in surprise, he says in a feral whisper, “the thought of burying myself in your cunt with no condom on, feeling how you clench and get turned on for me makes me want to eat you alive.”

Blood rushes to your face and Sylus watches with satisfaction. He caresses your cheek. “Ride me kitten.”

His eyes darken as you glance at him under lowered lashes. You crawl over his body on your hands and knees hovering your slick core over his hard length. He sucks in a breath as you lower your hips, teasingly brushing his tip against your wet hole, the sensation of so inviting it takes all his willpower not to slam into you mercilessly. He knew he wouldn't be able to control himself if he was on top, wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking. Putting you in control was the wise choice here.

“Fuck kitten,” he growls, his fingers digging into your hips. “You feel so good. So wet for me.”

Sylus's cock stretches you deliciously as you take him in, feeling his veins and heat pulsate achingly inside you. You whine as you fit him in, you whine each time because he's just so big, and it takes a while to adjust and take him. It never fails to make him smirk but today he's watching intently wondering how he's supposed to last with your pussy gripping him like a glove and enveloping him with your needy heat.

When you finally bottom out, both of you take a collective breath and feeling so full, feeling how he fits inside you. Resting your palms on his chest you start to move, lifting your body up feeling him stroke your inner walls and start to ride him.

You start slow, setting a pace that has him groaning, holding your hips so tightly it hurt but you continue, angling your body until you feel his engorged head brush your gspot. His teeth are gritted as he slips a finger between your legs and finds your hardened clit, stroking it to match your movements.

The texture of his cock has you moaning, his gentle movements on your clit pushing you closer to him edge. Sylus lets out a hiss of air, trying not to disturb your pace but his will is being ripped to shreds.

You were so warm. So tight and wet. And claiming you without a condom in his opinion only solidified further that you were his. Marked, claimed, and rightfully his in the most biblical sense.

Your pace picks up as you ride him, needing more friction pathetic noises leaving your throat as you chase your orgasm. Your thighs quiver and burn from the effort but you're so close that you push through the pain, gasping as Sylus firmly presses into the little bud.

“You're so cute like this, struggling on my cock. Let go for me sweetie… Make a mess all over me.”

His words are a sinful request mingling with the sounds of slapping skin and lewd noises of need. With a loud breath of desire, you cum all over him, eyes squeezing shut at the pleasurable spasms that rock your body.

It's too much for Sylus to handle, and taking advantage of your momentary lack of movements, he thrusts upwards into you, fucking you through your orgasm desperate to cum with you.

The absence of the condom aids him and with a loud bark he feels his balls tightening and his orgasm hits him like a train, holding you tightly as pleasure flows through him, his seed filling into your needy pussy.

Fuck he was addicted. He rolls you onto the bed and holds you close to him.

“You're going to be the death of me kitten.”

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syrecjh · 20 days ago

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‧₊⋅♡⋆The Emergency Contact

˚🎀༘⋆ || Pro Hero Dynamight x reader |

Your phone rang at 2:47 AM.

Unknown number. Hospital line. A voice on the other end—calm but urgent.

“Are you Katsuki Bakugo’s emergency contact?”

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t even remember throwing on shoes. Your jacket was half-zipped. The cab ride over was a blur, your hands cold no matter how hard you wrung them.

You knew the risks. Loving a hero meant knowing one day the call could come. But it’s different when it does.

The hospital light was too white, too sterile. A nurse led you down the hall. “He’s stable,” she said gently. “A few bad hits. Cracked rib, minor burns. Shaken, not broken.”

Still, your stomach didn’t settle until you saw him.

Room 412. Curtain half-pulled. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, bandaged, bruised. Hair flattened on one side. Arms resting on his thighs, head bowed.

He looked up.

The relief hit his face so fast, so visibly, that it startled you. For someone who always had a sharp word loaded, he suddenly looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“…Didn’t mean to scare you,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Knew you’d come.”

You stepped in. Closed the door behind you.

For a moment, there were no jokes. No ego. Just the soft beep of the heart monitor and the hitch in your breath when you sat beside him and took his hand.

“You listed me as your emergency contact?” you said, voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“You’re the only one I trust with the aftermath,” he said, fingers curling around yours. “Figured you should know if I ever got my dumb ass blown up.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. Pressed your forehead to his shoulder — carefully, avoiding the bruises.

“I’m here,” you said. “You scared the shit out of me, but I’m here.”

He exhaled hard, like that truth let him breathe again.

You sat in silence after that. No pressure to talk. His thumb traced circles into your palm. You watched the slow rhythm of the monitor, the rise and fall of his chest. And when the nurse peeked in, he glared until she backed out with a whispered, “Sorry.”

“You staying?” he asked, too casual.

You tucked the blanket higher on his chest. “Always.”

And in the harsh light of that sterile room, nothing ever felt more real than the way his hand gripped yours — like even Dynamight needed someone to hold onto, too.

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vunblr · 3 months ago

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Terms of Attraction

Pairing: CEO! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Some fluff. Slight Angst. Mutual Pinning. Mention of sexual activities.

Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretary’s dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines aren’t meant to be left uncrossed.

Word Count: 13.2k.

notes: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "CEO AU".

Also, this piece is to participate in Grem's 20 Characters with 20 Questions for 20 Tropes Challenge by @gremlin-girly Using Bucky Barnes' character, "When were you going to tell me about this?" question, and mutual pining trope.

Bucky Barnes never wanted to be here.

He never wanted to be in this office, suit, or life. But fate had a funny way of forcing people into the things they swore they’d never become.

The room was dim since the heavy curtains were drawn shut to block out the midday sun. The only light came from the glow of his monitor, casting long shadows over the polished surface of his desk. He sat hunched over it, resting his forehead against his crossed arms.

A soft sigh broke the silence.

“Again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

“This is the fourth migraine this week,” she continued, with an edge of exasperation. “I’m making you an appointment with a neurologist. You like it or not.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, mixing a scoff and a tired chuckle. “You’re overstepping.”

“Oh, it is not in your best interest to start talking about overstepping,” she shot back, arching a brow. “Want me to make a list? Ten years under you, since you were a manager, mind you. It will take a couple of pages.”

Bucky grunted in response, looking for the right words, but she was already moving, pushing the coffee table aside and clearing a space on the plush carpet.

“Come on,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You have the meeting with Schwarz in forty minutes. You know, the one I had to postpone twice already?”

Yeah. He knew. He just didn’t care.

He stayed put for a second longer, staring at the dark wood of his desk. His head throbbed, and the pressure behind his eyes seemed to crush everything. He could still hear his father’s voice in the back of his head “Headaches? You think I got to where I am by whining about a fucking headache?” but right now, George Barnes could go to hell.

With a slow, resigned sigh, Bucky pushed himself to his feet. He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, rolling his shoulders as he made his way over to the open space she’d cleared. Lowering himself onto the rug, he sprawled out on his back, letting his arms rest loosely at his sides. As the exhaustion dragged him down like quicksand, he closed his heavy-lidded eyes for a moment.

She knelt behind him, pressing her cool fingers into the pressure points at the base of his skull. He tensed on instinct, prepared to anticipate pain, even from something meant to help.

“Jesus,” she muttered, working her thumbs into the knotted muscles of his neck. “You’re tense as concrete again.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, letting her hands do their work. The pain sharpened for a moment before it started to dull, releasing the pressure just enough to make his migraine a little more bearable.

“Speaking of overstepping,” she continued, “you should really hire a professional masseuse, Bucky. Have them come in three times a week and-”

“I don’t want a stranger rubbing me up and down while I’m ass-up and vulnerable on a pansy cot.”

She snorted. “So dramatic.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bother correcting her. If she was talking, it meant she wasn’t hovering with that worried look in her eyes.

She worked his knots, kneading the tension from his neck and shoulders before her fingers traveled upward. With a gentler touch, she started rubbing slow circles into his temples, easing the pressure that had settled deep in his skull.

“Rebecca called, again.” She said casually, but he could hear the warning under her words. “Says you had her bloc-”

“Not now,” he groaned.

She sighed but didn’t stop. “I know you don’t want to, but just meet with the guy for ten minutes, and you’ll get her off your back.”

“I won’t waste even five minutes listening to her new fucktoy ramble about some ‘revolutionary’ idea for industrial inputs,” Bucky muttered. “I know it’s going to be some half-baked high school powerpoint with stock photos and shit. That’s the kind of man she likes to have around.”

She scoffed, still working her fingers against his scalp. “He is cute, though.”

His eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move or say anything right away, but his gaze was locked on her now, sharp, unreadable, and just a little too intense. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the way she said it.

“Is he, now?” His voice came out pretty even, but there was something underneath it. Something edged.

She smirked, unbothered. “Not my type, but I can see why she’s… fond of him.”

His jaw ticked, and he exhaled slowly through his nose before letting his eyes fall shut again, but the tension in his body didn’t relent in the way it had before.

Yeah. The headache wasn’t going anywhere.

Just as he was starting to relax again, the door creaked open without so much as a knock, and a head popped inside: the new intern. The kid was his father’s friend’s grandson or something, which meant he had about three functioning brain cells and the audacity to use them in the worst ways.

“Sorry to interrupt your… erm-”

“Get out,” Bucky muttered, not even opening his eyes.

“But I just wanted to know-”

Bucky sat up so fast that the guy flinched. “Get the fuck out and close that door before I send you to count staple hooks in a basement, kid.”

The intern squeaked, stumbling back before the door shut behind him in a not-very-subtle way.

"Moody, aren’t we?” she sighed, shifting her weight as she sat back on her heels. “You’re still a Sarge at heart, it seems. Poor kid almost pissed his pants.”

His jaw worked slightly at the title, but he ignored it.

“The door is there for a reason. Besides…” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, shifting his gaze away.

He didn’t say what else he was thinking, but didn’t have to. She already knew. The way the intern had found them -he sprawled out on the floor, and she knelt behind him, hands on his body- it was enough to set off the office rumor mill.

“Don’t worry. Even if you don’t get out of your dungeon very often,” she mused, stretching her arms over her head, “you do know there’ve been rumors for a couple of years now, don’t you?”

Bucky turned fully toward her, narrowing his gaze. “What?”

“Come on, like the one where I was sucking your cock on that video call with that Japanese exec from the thermoplastics deal? With the guy watching it all because the camera was badly angled?”

His face twisted, and he waved his hands. “You weren’t even there that-”

“Or, my personal favorite” she continued, “that a window cleaner saw us on full display as you rammed my ass against the glass one afternoon?”

Bucky’s expression darkened into something truly menacing. “Bullshit. The cleaning crew comes on fucking weekends-”

She snorted. “People who gossip don’t care much about facts, Bucky. That’s just how things are.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” he asked with irritation.

She smirked, unfazed. “What for? It’s not like it was going to change anything. And you firing people left and right over some rumor no one even knows where it started… Not a good look.”

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, ready to argue with her, but before he could, she glanced at the clock.

“Ten more minutes, and Schwarz will be here.” Her tone was all business now, but then her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and assessing. “How’s your arm?”

Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line.

She sighed. “That bad, huh? Lemme see.”

“You don’t-”

“I do,” she cut him off, already shifting. “It’s probably one of the things that’s got you so moody lately. And the reason I’ll probably have to send the Germans a very nice basket of goodies after you mistreat their guy.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, but when she just stood there on her knees, arms crossed, waiting, he reluctantly popped open a few buttons of his expensive shirt. As he slid it off his shoulders, the scent of his cologne -warm, woodsy, with an edge of spice- assaulted her senses.

Beneath, he wore a pristine white tank top. And, his bad arm.

Irregular scars marred the skin in a twisted canvas that sprawled up to his shoulder, a reminder of the Syrian shrapnel that had nearly cost him the limb entirely. Inside, a lattice of titanium plates and screws that held together shattered bones and torn muscle.

Bucky exhaled sharply as he rolled his shoulder, feeling the familiar grind of metal and bone, and the fucking pain. Most days, he could push past it. Ignore it. But some days, like today, it devoured him, made everything sharper, his patience thinner, and his temper shorter.

She reached out. He could see the way her gaze softened slightly as she took in the limb, hovering her fingers just above the scars. She was softer, yes, but never pitied him.

He let his head tip back against the edge of the couch, closing his eyes as her hands worked their magic over the worst knots of his upper arm, easing some of the strain. He hated how easy it was for her to do this, to get him. To handle him. It should piss him off. Maybe it did.

But he didn’t tell her to stop.

As she gently rubbed on the offending limb, his mind drifted to the hospital bed, to his suspended arm buried in a mix of cast, pipes, and pulleys.

A bitter taste rose in his throat. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the cold bite of metal restraining his ruined arm, the dull pain buried beneath layers of medication. His mother crumpled at the foot of his hospital bed, clasping her hands in silent prayer. And his father… standing rigid, arms crossed, and a voice edged with finality.

"Well, now that you’ve had your share of independence and adventure, I assume you understand that you are meant to be with us. To serve the family the way we prepared you to."

Not a “You’ll be ok”. Not a “We’re glad you made it home alive”. Just “You’ve learned your lesson.” A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched as he stared at the ceiling, willing the memory away.

Her fingers pressed into a tight knot near his bicep, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled through his nose.

“Where’d you go?” she asked, softly.

His lips parted, with the instinctive lie ready on them -Nowhere-. But when he turned his head to look at her, he caught the way she was watching him, with that usual awareness, so he let out a breath and closed his eyes again. “Nowhere important.”

She hummed and started pulling his shirt back into place, her touch lingering a second too long on him as she smoothed the fabric over his shoulders.

“Well, master,” she teased, the title laced with mockery, “it’s almost time to see the Germans.”

Bucky huffed, dragging his hands down his face before starting to button his shirt. She moved to stand, but before she could, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Firm, warm, just enough pressure to make her breath catch.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She swallowed, willing her face to stay neutral, to ignore the way warmth curled in her stomach at the roughness in his tone.

“You know there’s no need,” she said, carefully measured, as if saying anything more might give too much away.

His grip loosened, and she pulled back, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. If he noticed the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, he didn’t say a word. Once she finished straightening her clothes, she turned on her heel and strode toward the office door.

“I’ll let them in in ten, okay?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder once more before nodding. “Yeah.”

----

She had suspected it wouldn’t go smoothly, but even so, when the heavy wooden door finally clicked open, the Germans’ expressions were unreadable, stern and tense.

She cursed inwardly.

Even if the meeting had been rocky, she hoped they’d at least reached an agreement. Otherwise, in ten minutes, her phone would be ringing with George Barnes on the other end, barking at her because Bucky refused to pick up. And, as always, she’d have to endure his tirade until he inevitably demanded she put his son on the line.

With a sigh, she pulled open a drawer, curling her fingers around a blister pack of Tylenol.

Then, smoothing her expression, she knocked gently on his office door.

A low, muffled groan was the only response she got before she stepped inside.

The sight wasn’t unfamiliar. Bucky sprawled on the couch with his shoes off, covering his face with a cushion like it could somehow block out the world. She knew how this went. If the headache was bad enough, it wouldn’t be long before he was hunched over the bathroom sink, pale and nauseous, cursing under his breath. And, as she suspected, he hadn’t brought anything to help.

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Should I expect a call from Barnes Senior in the next few minutes, or can I focus on other chores?”

Another groan. “I think he won’t call, but who the fuck knows? Nothing’s ever enough for him. Maybe he has a few things to say about the deal, things even a fresh graduate should know.” His voice was thick with irritation, but there was something else underneath. Resignation.

She tsked. “Good thing you don’t listen to him. Much.”

“Hmm.”

She stepped forward, holding up the blister pack between two fingers. “Here. I bring an offering that might change your mood.”

“Whatever it is, leave it on the desk. And don’t give me any calls.”

“Are you really rejecting Tylenol?”

A single half-lidded eye peeked out from behind the cushion, scrutinizing her like she’d just asked him to sign over the company. Then, he muttered, “Fuck, what would I do without you?”

She smirked. “Probably chomp the heads off the few people who still have the balls to speak to you.” She leaned against his desk, watching him sprawl across the couch, with the cushion still covering his face. “Speaking of your stellar social skills,” she said, The signing for the Research & Development Collaboration deal with Prescott got moved from Tuesday to Friday. You still haven’t told me which day you want your plane ticket booked.”

Silence.

She frowned. “Bucky?”

He exhaled sharply against the cushion before finally shifting it just enough to mutter, “About that.”

That tone set off a flicker of suspicion in her chest.

“I know a couple of the board members are going just to play court jesters,” he continued, voice still thick with exhaustion. “But…I want you there.”

Her brows furrowed. “Sorry, what?”

He let the cushion fall away just enough to glance at her. “I want you there.” A beat. “I need you there.”

Something in her stomach twisted. Not at his words -no, she was used to being indispensable- but at the tone he used.

“I need to see-”

“You handle logistics, and you filter out unnecessary conversations. I'd rather not waste my time listening to a bunch of suits trying to kiss my ass. You keep people in check.” He sighed, tilting his head back onto the couch.

She raised a brow. “So you need me as a buffer?”

He shot her a dry look. "I need you to make sure I don’t tell the wrong person to go fuck themselves."

A flicker of something -something warm- stirred in her chest before she pushed it aside.

“Fine. I’ll book my ticket too.” she said, trying to sound unaffected. “But I want juicy compensation for being away from home in non-working hours. And, I won't babysit you the whole trip".

Bucky huffed a laugh, still sprawled on the couch, with the cushion resting against his temple instead of covering his face. “You’ll do it anyway, even when it’s not part of your job.” He gestured vaguely toward the blister of Tylenol still sitting in her hand. “You’re like a mother hen.”

And fuck, how did he like that? How much did he like her, always two steps ahead of him, anticipating his worst moods and dealing with them before they could ruin his day completely? It should drive him insane, how easily she handled him, read him, but instead, he was perfectly fine with it. He craved it.

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “Well, this time mama is getting a compensation, James,” she shot back, drawing out his name like a warning. “Because I had plans for Friday night.”

He schooled his expression, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Yeah? With who?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

Just like that, something in his chest twisted, sharp and possessive.

“Must I remind you that you signed an availability clause two years ago?” His voice was measured, but there was an edge beneath it. “You agreed to be available if the firm needed you.”

If I need you. His eyes seemed to say it, even if he didn’t.

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Wow. This is the first time you’ve ever thrown that in my face. But don’t worry, I don’t need the reminder.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’m pretty sure availability doesn’t mean ownership, Bucky. But it’s fine, I’ll see my godson another day.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the cushion.

Her godson.

He exhaled through his nose, and his voice came out controlled. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “You know, you could’ve just asked nicely instead of throwing corporate fine print at me.”

He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the dull ache still throbbing behind his eyes. “I know.” A pause. His fingers dragged over his temple. “Sorry, I… this is killing me.”

She hesitated for a beat, caught off guard by the unusual admission.

“I’ll approve the extra compensation,” he muttered, reaching for the Tylenol she still hadn’t handed over.

“Nah,” she waved him off. “As you said, it’s already covered in the clause. That’s why my salary was increased in the first place. I was just messing with you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “Not many people can get away with that, you know.”

“Oh, but this mother hen knows she can.” She smirked. “Just a little.”

He huffed, watching as she poured a glass of water and handed him the blister pack.

“None of that scotch after taking these, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, amused despite himself.

She squeezed his good shoulder before heading for the door, and the warmth of her touch persisted where her fingers had pressed against him.

----

The lobby was a mess of tired travelers and frazzled staff, as the storm outside cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wind howled, rattling the glass as Bucky ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “A place with this many stars and a price tag that could feed a small country, and they can’t even keep track of reservations?”

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. “It’s just one night, Bucky.”

He shot her a look. “That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that we’re exhausted, it’s almost midnight, and I’d rather not spend the next hour arguing with the poor guy at the front desk when we both know they’re fully booked because of the storm.” She gestured toward the rain hammering against the glass. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the lobby, in which case, be my guest.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed the key card off the counter with a glare, muttering under his breath as he turned toward the elevator.

She sighed again, following. This was going to be a long night.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching as she took in the room with wide eyes. The Renaissance-style decor, the heavy carved furniture, the ridiculous four-poster bed with actual curtains… it was over the top, even for a place like this.

“Well, this is… something,” she murmured, slowly turning in place before making a beeline for the bathroom.

He heard her sharp inhale, then -God help him- a pleased little hum that was dangerously close to a moan.

His bad mood tempered just a little.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped further inside, glancing at the coffee table stacked with neatly packaged luxury treats. He had no doubt they came with a price tag steep enough to make even him scoff.

She poked her head out from the bathroom, grinning. “You think they’d notice if I just sat in the tub and refused to leave?”

For the first time since the airport delays, he almost smiled. Almost. Then he sat in an oversized armchair. The long flight, the delays, and the cold air outside had worsened the stiffness in his arm.

She eyed him knowingly, arms crossing. “Speaking of the tub, why don’t you take a shower? Or an immersive bath? Heat those bones a little. You’re tensing the arm a lot, you know.”

He seemed to consider it for a second, rolling his shoulder slightly. But then he shook his head. “After you. You’re cold too. Ladies first.”

She arched a brow. “I appreciate the chivalry, but you need it more-”

“All I hear right now is a hen clucking.” He cut her off, smirking as he kicked off his shoes and sank deeper into the chair.

Her eyes narrowed. “Endearing.”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well, since you offered,” she huffed, “I’m going to test the tub. And don’t expect me to be out in less than thirty minutes because I won’t. If you need the bathroom, I don’t know, use a vase or something.” She said as she started to rummage on her suitcase, looking for her nightgown.

Bucky snorted, “So regal, just what this place needs.”

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, she let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped as she finally dropped the facade. Out there, she had to keep up the usual push and pull, the teasing deflections, the confidence that made it seem like sharing a room with him -sharing space with him- was just another minor inconvenience.

But alone in here, she could let herself feel the weight of the situation.

She set her nightgown on the counter, running her hands over the silky fabric before reaching for the faucet. The deep tub groaned as steaming water rushed in, the sound filling the room as she braced herself against the edge of the sink.

This shouldn’t be affecting her so much. It wasn’t the first time they’d traveled together, and it wasn’t even the first time she’d seen him this exhausted, this raw from the day. But something about tonight, about his request for her to be here, about the way his voice softened when he said he needed her there -it’s killing me- stirred something deep and restless inside her.

She swallowed hard and reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them slowly. He didn’t mean it the way she wanted him to. He never did.

She reminded herself of that fact as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, shivering slightly at the rush of cooler air against her skin. Bucky was… Bucky. Intense. Guarded. Possessive, sometimes, in ways he didn’t even realize.

But never hers.

She sighed, pushing down the stupid, persisting ache in her chest as she reached for the zipper of her skirt. This wasn’t new. She’d spent years training herself not to hope for something that wasn’t there. And yet, every now and then, he’d let something slip -a look, a word, a need- and it would take everything in her not to lean into it.

The tub was nearly full now, and the steam curled in soft ribbons toward the mirror. She inhaled deeply, letting the warmth settle over her body, soothing and distracting all at once.

Bucky wasn’t doing any better.

He sat in the oversized armchair, socked feet planted firmly on the carpet, drumming his fingers idly against his knee. The tension in his shoulder hadn’t eased, not even a little. He rolled it again, flinching at the dull throb radiating from his arm.

Maybe he should’ve taken the damn bath first. Maybe the heat would’ve helped more than sitting here, stewing, staring at the closed bathroom door like some lovesick idiot.

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t into him.

He knew that much.

Women who wanted something more -who wanted him- they left hints, like breadcrumbs leading straight to their intentions. He’d seen it a thousand times in the circles he frequented. The way they gravitated toward him, playing coy with soft laughs and lingering looks. Subtle touches under the table, fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. The way they’d beam at the expensive gifts, their smiles slipping the second he showed more interest in his bed than in whatever designer bag they were parading around.

And then there was her.

She didn’t play coy. She didn’t bat her lashes or leave accidental touches to test the waters. Instead, she petted him. Nursed him. Brought him Tylenol like it was her goddamn job -which, technically, it was-. And he liked it. At first, it had been enough, her dependable presence that kept him from losing his mind when everything else was chaos.

But eventually, it wasn’t.

Eventually, he started watching for the crumbs, the hints, waiting for something, anything, that told him she saw him as more than just her boss or her friend.

And he found nothing.

Because a woman who wanted something more wouldn’t massage the knots from his arm like it was second nature, without hesitating, without blinking. Wouldn’t press her fingers into the scarred muscles like she wasn’t touching the part of him that made most people flinch.

He huffed, rubbing his palm over his face.

She was comfortable with him. Too comfortable.

And fuck, it was funny, in a twisted way, how every other woman he’d been with tried not to look at his arm -careful not to let their revulsion show- but she touched it like it was just another part of him.

Because that’s all he was to her. Just another favor.

Nothing more.

----

After exiting the bathroom in her red silk nightgown -a gift from her friends- she thanked her past self for not just throwing in an old cotton camisole.

“Well, I emptied the tub and started filling it again,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “Maybe you should go check the temperature. It’s one of the last things I don’t know about you.” She tried to keep it light, casual.

Bucky stared at her longer than necessary. He had seen her in professional clothes, casual clothes, even bundled up in thick sweaters during late nights at the office, but never in something like this. It wasn’t even that revealing, but the way the silk fell against her body, catching the dim light, made his thoughts go places they shouldn’t.

He forced his gaze away, scoffing.

“Bucky, don’t tell me you didn’t even unpack pajamas.”

“Don’t use ’em,” he said, watching her expression shift.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You’re joking.”

His smirk deepened. “Nope. I’m more of a… natural type of guy.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to suppress a reaction. Interesting.

“Well, I hope you at least brought sweatpants or-”

“Wasn’t supposed to be sharing a room, remember?” He shrugged, stretching out in his chair. “Didn’t think about it. But don’t worry, I still have underwear. Are boxers still scandalous to you?”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “I can manage a slutty pair of boxers, thank you very much”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, turning to his suitcase. He rifled through his things, pulling out the garment in question. “Relax. I was planning on wearing a robe -there are always robes in these places- to protect your maidenhood.” He smirked, but his fingers tightened around the fabric.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck.

“Take the bed. You’ll probably be dead asleep by the time I get out.” He suggested.

“Nonsense.” She waved her hand in a dismissive tome. “That couch is too damn small for you. You take the bed.”

Bucky frowned, standing up straight. “How the fuck could I send you to the couch? It’s irritating that you could even consider me capable of that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t be stubborn, your body-”

His expression darkened, and his voice cut in sharp. “I’m not crippled, doll. I let you play mama all you want, but at the end of the day, I’m a grown man who can sleep on a damn couch without whining like a bitch.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw her expression shift. Surprise, hurt, and something more guarded sliding into place. He had sounded exactly like his father just now, and the realization made his stomach churn. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Just… don’t be stubborn, okay?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

And as soon as he was alone, he cursed himself.

----

As she slipped under the covers, feeling the crisp hotel sheets' cool against her skin, her mind replayed the moment over and over.

The sharpness in his tone. The way his eyes darkened, his jaw set tight like he was bracing for a fight that wasn’t even there. She had only meant to be practical; his body did take more strain, whether he liked it or not. And yet, the way he snapped felt like she had crossed some invisible line she hadn’t even known existed.

She stared at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. I’m not crippled, doll. Had she made him feel like that? She had never pitied him, and he knew it. Bucky was the strongest person she knew, even when he was constantly grumpy and in pain.

Maybe that was why she did it. The taking care of him. Because no one else did. No one else noticed the stiffness in his shoulder after long days hunched on his desk or the way he rubbed at his temple when a migraine was creeping in. People either feared him, admired him, or wanted something from him. But who was actually in his corner, making sure he was okay without expecting anything in return?

Maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe, to him, she was just another person putting him in a box he didn’t want to be in. She had assumed he liked it, the way she doted him, the way she noticed him. But what if, in his mind, it only confirmed that she didn’t see him the way he wanted to be seen?

----

The water lapped at his collarbones as he sank deeper into the tub, letting the heat work through the persistent tension in his muscles. His head tipped back against the cool porcelain, and he closed his eyes.

He shouldn’t have snapped at her. She hadn’t meant anything by it; she never did. She was just looking out for him, the way she always did, and he’d thrown it back in her face like an ungrateful asshole.

With a sigh, he dragged a hand over his face, water dripping from his fingertips and wetting his scruffed face. He wasn’t mad at her, had never been mad at her. He was mad at himself. Mad at the way the frustration curled in his gut over things that weren’t her fault. She didn’t deserve that. He’d make it up to her in the morning. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he would.

----

At 3 a.m., she stirred awake, blinking against the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. Her gaze landed on his silhouette, sitting rigid on the couch, outlined by the streetlights below.

She frowned, pushing the covers aside and padding toward him. “Hey.”

He startled slightly as if he hadn’t heard her coming, too lost in his thoughts. “Hey.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“Rough night?” she asked, quirking a brow, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glanced at her, then quickly averted his gaze. “Yeah.” A beat passed before he exhaled heavily. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Normally, she would’ve brushed it off, waved away his apology like she always did. But this time, she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my tantrums,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before. “Seems like it’s becoming a habit lately, having to apologize for them. But really, doll, I’m sorry.”

Something in her chest softened. It was unfair how easily those simple words soothed the discomfort that had been eating her since their argument. She wanted to reach for him, reassure him. “I know you’re nervou-”

“No.” He cut her off, shaking his head. “I’m nervous and frustrated by this deal, yeah, but that’s not an excuse to be an asshole. At least not with you.” He let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand down his face. “So don’t do that. Don’t… justify me the way my mother did with my father when he beat her up on a weekly basis.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Well, you were kind of an asshole, if that’s what you want to hear.”

He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, but she wasn’t done.

“But you also know we have the kind of relationship where I call you out when that happens. How many times have I told you to fuck off?”

His lips twitched. “Never.”

“Okay, not in those exact words, but you know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass now.”

Bucky bit his lip, letting her continue.

“I know you’ve been working on this deal for over a year. I also know your father’s been breathing down your neck about it, just waiting for you to slip up so he can shove his twisted version of ‘tough love’ down your throat. And on top of that, I know this damn weather is making your arm and shoulder miserable. So, I’m letting it pass. You already apologized; why wouldn’t I accept it?”

His face was unreadable now, all traces of amusement gone as he nursed his glass of scotch.

She quirked a brow, aiming for levity. “Or what? You got some kind of kink? Want to be punished for being a bad boy?”

Bucky choked mid-sip, coughing as the liquor went straight up his nose.

“Oh my God, you do!” she gasped, grinning like she’d just uncovered some deep, dark secret.

“No!” Bucky spluttered, still coughing, his face red as a beet. He barely managed to set his glass down without spilling it.

She knew he was probably telling the truth, but she also knew how easily he embarrassed over certain things, and there was no way she was letting this pass.

“You couldn’t sleep because you were craving a spanking? A little pinching, maybe?” she cooed.

His head snapped toward her, eyes wide with horror. “My God, woman, stop it.”

She smirked. “Tell you what: I’ll stop if you take the bed.”

“I told you I-”

“I’m still taking it too.”

That shut him up. He blinked at her, clearly thrown back.

“It’s so big my whole damn living room could fit on it,” she pointed out. “We can share, so you don’t have to hurt your masculine pride, and mother hen here gets to be happy knowing you’re not miserable on that fancy couch.”

Bucky exhaled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know…”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Tell me one good reason why this is a bad idea. We’re both exhausted, and there’s enough space on that mattress to fit two more people between us.” She raised a brow. “I promise I won’t steal your virtue.” She winked, and he nearly groaned.

Oh, but he wanted her to take it, not his damn virtue, but something else. And that was the problem.

He couldn’t even use the excuse of propriety, he was already sitting there in just his boxers, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him shirtless before. Hell, she’d been massaging his arm and back for years without batting an eye.

So, really, what was he holding onto?

“Will you shut it if I say yes?” he muttered.

“Just for tonight.” She grinned.

----

She climbed into bed, doing her best to act casual, like this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Like she wasn’t hyperaware of the fact that Bucky was standing just a few feet away, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, no robe in sight.

“We have to be there at nine,” she said, adjusting the blankets around her. “So we’ve got, what… maybe four hours of sleep?”

The mattress dipped as he sat down, and she felt the shift beneath her. She told herself not to look. But when he moved to lie down, she turned her head, catching his gaze, and ended up on her side.

He hesitated for a moment before mirroring her, rolling onto his side so they were facing each other in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Even with the shadows softening his features, she could still see it, the stress in his brow, the weight pressing down on him. The doubt.

So she leaped.

Hesitating, she reached across the space between them, palm up. “You’ve got this, Bucky,” she said, in a soft but firm tone. “You’re going to do great.”

His eyes flicked to her hand, and surprise flashed across his face, but it only lasted a second. Without hesitation, he reached out with his scarred hand, wrapping his fingers around hers, and gave a small squeeze. “Thanks.”

----

The deal with Prescott went just as expected, some rough patches here and there, but overall, both sides walked away satisfied.

As requested, she had sorted through the attendees beforehand, making sure Bucky knew exactly who he could afford to ignore and who required his attention. Not that he always followed her lead, but to her surprise, he was in a much better mood than the night before.

Maybe it was the decent night’s sleep. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his nerves, he had handled the negotiations flawlessly. Or maybe it was just that he finally let himself lean on someone for just a little.

Bucky stepped out of the conference room, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension from the negotiations. His gaze landed on her instantly, curled up in one of the lounge chairs, with a coffee cup in her hands, looking perfectly calm. She raised a brow when she noticed him watching her.

“We have a cocktail party tonight,” he announced, coming to stand beside her chair.

She took a sip before answering. “We?”

“Me. The board jesters. A bunch of industrial guys.”

“Right. So, you,” she corrected, setting her cup down.

He huffed. “I want you to come.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Are you sure it’s not just for you and the board members?”

“I’m sure.”

She leaned back, studying him. “Bucky, I don’t exactly have cocktail-party-appropriate clothes lying around.”

He shrugged. “Neither do I.”

That made her snort. “Yeah, somehow, I doubt that.”

“No, really,” he said. “I didn’t pack for this, which means I gotta go get something to impress a bunch of snobs. You might as well come with me.” He caught the hesitation in her body language instantly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “That’s your only reason for doubting, right?”

She exhaled, knowing there was no way to wiggle out of it. “Yeah, that’s the only reason. But…” She opened her mouth, then hesitated. How was she supposed to explain that their budgets were galaxies apart? That the tie he’d pick out probably would cost as much as her monthly groceries?

“But what?” he pressed.

Fuck it.

“But, we are almost at month’s end, and I still have to pay the-”

“Wait. No, no,” he cut in, shaking his head. “I’m not expecting you to buy a fucking dress, doll. The company will.”

She frowned. “Bucky, I don’t think that’s appropriate-”

“I, the director, am the one making you attend this shitty event,” he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Obviously, it’s a company expense that my secretary looks good there, because if she doesn’t, the company image looks bad too.”

She gave him a flat look. “Did you just say I dress poorly in a roundabout way?”

His jaw dropped. “That is not what I said.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Mmhmm.”

Bucky groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just let me do something nice without fighting me on it?”

She sighed. “Fine.”

“Great,” he said, already dialing a number. “We leave in an hour.”

----

The last thing she expected when he said they were going shopping was to find herself standing inside a Prada store. She had anticipated something fancy, sure, but Prada? This was a whole different level. She was almost afraid to breathe too hard, worried she’d somehow stain or break something just by existing.

A perfectly dressed clerk approached them, and the moment the woman’s eyes landed on Bucky, her posture shifted: poised, interested, appreciative. She on the other hand, might as well have been invisible.

“What can I do for you?” the clerk asked, with a voice all smooth with professionalism and something more.

Bucky barely glanced at her. “We need a cocktail dress for her and a suit for me.”

Immediately, the woman waved over a co-worker, passing her off while keeping Bucky’s attention firmly on herself.

“Were you looking for something specific?” the second clerk asked her while signaling her to follow.

“Uh, yeah. I was thinking an empire dress with a V neckline.”

“Let me show you what we have.”

----

After trying on two options that didn’t feel quite right, she slipped into the third dress. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, elegant but not over-the-top, and when she pulled the curtain open, she froze.

Bucky was standing there, dressed in a black suit so well-fitted it might as well have been tailored for him on the spot. His ivory dress shirt contrasted against his sharp features, and there was something about the way he wore the suit -confident and powerful- that made her stare.

What she didn’t realize was that he was staring right back, caught off guard as he discreetly bit at his bottom lip.

“Guess that’s the dress,” he said, his voice just a little rough.

“You think so?” She did a slow spin, letting the fabric swirl around her.

“Definitely.” He managed to say.

She grinned. “Guess that’s the suit?”

He didn’t say anything, just gave her a pleased half-smile that sent warmth curling into her chest.

After purchasing the medium heels and the purse that she tried hard not to think about the cost of, they had lunch at an upscale restaurant.

----

By the time they reached the hotel, she was still reeling a little from the whole shopping trip. The Prada bags felt almost radioactive in her hands, she could barely process the fact that she now owned something so expensive, let alone the fact that Bucky had made the entire thing seem as casual as buying a cup of coffee.

As they approached the front desk, the receptionist greeted them with a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. We have the second room available now if the lady would like to move in.”

Before Bucky could respond, she beat him to it. “Good. Can I take it now?”

“Of course, ma’am,” the receptionist said, eyes flickering to Bucky for a moment, then back to her. “I’ll send someone up to move your belongings.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” she replied quickly, trying to play it off with a small smile. “It’s just a small suitcase and is already upstairs.”

“Very well, ma’am. Please enjoy your stay,” the woman said, giving her the magnetic card.

As the elevator ascended, Bucky crossed his arms and shot her a dry look. "That was fast."

"Huh?" she blinked, shifting the shopping bags in her grip.

"You practically threw yourself over the door card." He chuckled, but there was something almost edgy beneath it.

"Well," she shrugged, "I was supposed to be there from the start, Bucky. Now you won’t have to miss my… how do you call it? Clucking?" She winked.

Bucky scoffed, but his jaw worked like he was trying to stop himself from saying something. And maybe he was. Because the truth was, he would miss it.

He had no business getting used to her presence, to the way she looked after him. But those few hours they’d shared in the same bed? Dreamless. The first time in a long time his mind had given him peace. And now, standing here, the thought of losing that -even just the simple comfort of her being near- felt… wrong.

He glanced at her and found her watching him with an amused tilt of her head. He swallowed down whatever mess of thoughts he was having and shrugged instead. "I’ll survive."

----

The message came through: "Ready?"

She took a breath, smoothing her hands down the dress that still didn’t feel entirely real. "Yeah, coming out now."

Stepping into the hallway, she turned and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Bucky stood there, waiting, a few doors down. The same suit from earlier, yes, but now fully put together. His hair was neatly combed back, his scruff freshly trimmed, and the addition of a sleek watch and cufflinks only added to the devastating effect. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a high-end catalog, the kind of man people turned to look at the moment he entered a room.

Her pulse stuttered.

He caught her staring, but he didn’t call her out for it, probably because he was doing the exact same thing.

She looked stunning. That dress had already been perfect in the store, but now, with her makeup done, her hair styled just so, and the soft glow of the hotel lighting catching on her skin? He was fucking dying to close the space between them, to inhale and find out which perfume she’d chosen tonight. Would it be the one he liked the most?

His eyes briefly dipped to her neckline before he could stop himself, and his traitorous cock twitched in interest. Damn it. He forced his gaze back up, schooling his face into something composed just as she started toward him.

"You look good, sweetheart," he managed to say.

She smirked, sliding her hand into the arm he offered. "You cleaned up good yourself, boss."

----

The ride in the limo was... interesting.

The board members who had come along were in high spirits, congratulating themselves and Bucky on the deal, clinking their glasses of expensive whiskey as they rehashed key moments from the negotiation.

And yet, somehow, she was left out of the conversation entirely.

Not just the business talk, that she understood. She wasn’t part of the board. But even the petty, circumstantial chatter, the kind of polite small talk that people filled silence with, never once included her. It was as if she were just there, a piece of decoration beside Bucky, an accessory rather than a person.

Of course, to them, that’s exactly what she was.

Just his secretary. The one everybody knew he was fucking.

Now, he’d simply taken it a step further and brought her to the cocktail party, dressed up in Prada and heels, just like a good mistress should be.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

He was fully engaged in conversation with the others, discussing projections, potential expansions, and other things that weren’t meant for her ears.

She knew this would happen. The moment he asked her to come, she’d known she’d feel out of place. And yet, some naïve part of her had thought -hoped- it wouldn’t be this bad.

She wasn’t sure why, but something about the way the man across from her kept glancing up from his phone, barely acknowledging her except for those quick, assessing looks, made her stomach turn. His fingers moved smoothly over the screen, typing something, then pausing -another glance, another smirk- before resuming.

She forced herself to sit still, to smooth her dress over her lap, to ignore the creeping feeling at the back of her mind that something about this moment would come back to haunt her.

----

As they stepped into the reception, they blended seamlessly into the elegant crowd. The board members exchanged greetings with familiar faces, shaking hands and making small talk. A few acquaintances took notice of her, flickering their gazes between her and Bucky before curiosity got the better of them.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” one of them asked with a polite smile.

Bucky barely hesitated. “My dutiful secretary.”

There was always a beat after that -just a split second of realization- before the inevitable, knowing oh followed.

If he noticed the shift in people’s expressions, he didn’t show it. Either he was oblivious to it or, more likely, he just didn’t care. He was too used to these circles, to their assumptions, to their judgments. But she felt it. Every curious glance, every subtle flick of the eyes that said, so, he finally brought her along.

At some point, he made a passing joke “Ten years dealing with me, just for that, someone should give her an award,” which earned a few chuckles from the men around him. She mustered a polite smile, but inside, she could already feel the exhaustion creeping in.

She needed a drink. Or a few.

Slipping away, she made her way toward the bar and ordered a Gancia cocktail, sitting in one of the fancy stools.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still deep in conversation when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. His brows furrowed immediately -he wasn’t fond of being touched- but as he turned, his irritation sharpened into something heavier.

His father.

George Barnes stood there, exuding effortless charm as always, but he knew better. He braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Good job, son.”

For a moment, it almost sounded… honest, proud. But then, just as predictably as the sun rising, he leaned in ever so slightly, voice lowering so only Bucky could hear the next part. “You managed not to ruin it.”

Bucky's jaw ticked. But he exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his expression neutral.

George straightened, turning back to the small group with a practiced smile. “Gentlemen, if you don’t oppose, I’d like to steal my son for a moment.” The group murmured their good-natured agreements, stepping aside as the older man clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder again, making his muscles coil with irritation.

"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked, words laced with aggression but softened enough to avoid drawing attention.

His father’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head slightly. "It's a corporate party. Why wouldn’t I be here?"

Bucky’s brow furrowed, and his tone grew colder. "Because it's three states away, and you have no business here."

George chuckled lightly, as if this conversation was little more than a minor inconvenience. "Oh, but you are wrong, I do have business here. I have shares in Prescot & Co. Surprised?"

"In the bare minimum," Bucky replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He took a flute of champagne from a passing waitress, keeping his expression carefully neutral, tightening his grip around the delicate glass as his eyes remained fixed on his father.

George’s lips quirked into something like a smirk, clearly unfazed by the tension. "I know I gave you the industrial input branch to play with, James. And you’ve been doing a decent job. But it’s never bad to be aware of what’s going on there."

Bucky’s gaze flickered momentarily to the crowd around them, trying to gauge how much of this was being overheard. He wasn’t sure if his father’s presence here was meant to make some kind of point or just another round of his usual subtle power moves. Either way, he hated the feeling that his every step was being watched and scrutinized.

"Well, I’m doing just fine without your input," Bucky said, taking a sip of his champagne, trying to sound controlled.

His father’s eyes never left him, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. "Hm, and speaking of knowing what’s going on the firm..." George drawled, glancing toward the bar where she sat. "When were you going to tell me about this?" he asked, with a casual tone but loaded with implication.

Bucky’s body went rigid at the mention of her. His eyes shot toward her, but he quickly masked the tension creeping through his body. "What is it to tell?" he shot back, trying to downplay the situation.

George sighed, like he was explaining something to a child. "Some little birds keep me informed about your affairs on the firm, son. And they’ve been signing songs about you two for years now." His gaze flickered over to her, still perched at the bar, before he looked back at his son with a smug expression.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He could feel the familiar sting of being patronized, and it fueled his growing irritation. He leaned in slightly, keeping his voice calm but laced with the growing sharpness of his frustration. "It’s all bullshit, Dad. Maybe you’ll need to pick better your little spies." He hated the insinuations, the familiar condescension that George always slipped into conversations like these. The man always had a way of making his son feel small, of making everything seem like some petty game.

George didn’t flinch. His smirk only deepened. “Oh, I know about your escapades, James. Those bimbos you dated, the ones you dared to bring home. That last one, Mandy, or Marney...” he waved a hand. “But always, always, the songs about you and that ‘secretary’ of yours remained.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he fought to keep his composure. “Jesus, Dad. It’s my fucking secretary. At this level, it’s like having a work-wife. We never asked or told you anything about Esther in what, forty years working with her?” his voice was tight, defensive.

The old man quirked a brow, looking almost amused. “Exactly.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve been fucking Esther on my desk for the last thirty of those forty years, and no one had said a word or suspected anything. Why? Because I have brains, son.” His expression hardened. “It seems I keep overestimating you, thinking you could mask an office affair as it should be.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

His father smiled. “I know more than you think.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Then you’d know that if we were a thing, I wouldn’t hide her,” he stated in a low but firm tone. “I’d parade her at every opportunity, make damn sure everyone knew she was mine.” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, more like a warning. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”

George scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d be the talk-”

Bucky cut him off with a sharp smile. “Your last name would be the talk. And that’s what concerns you, isn’t it, Father?” His voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it. “But since you know me so well, you already know that I couldn’t care less about the tabloids, your social circle, and, lastly, your opinion on this matter.”

His father’s expression flickered, and something dark flashed in his eyes, but Bucky didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he drew on that well-practiced smile, the kind that could fool any onlooker into thinking this was just a polite conversation between father and son. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode into the crowd, leaving George standing alone in the wake of his words.

----

As she nursed her drink at the bar, she became aware of someone approaching. A tall man with a confident, almost cocky stance settled beside her.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, flagging down the bartender without even glancing at her.

She turned slightly, taking in the sharp suit, the perfectly styled blond hair, the smug air about him. John Walker. She recognized him from a few previous company functions, one of George Barnes’s people. He wasn’t part of Bucky’s branch of the company, but he had enough pull to be a nuisance when he wanted to be.

“Well, here I am,” she replied coolly, lifting her glass to her lips.

John smirked. “Must be nice. Traveling in style, all expenses paid…” His gaze flicked briefly to her dress, then the Prada bag she’d set down by her feet. “Guess it pays to be the boss’s favorite.”

Before she could respond, another voice cut in.

“There you are.”

Bucky.

His presence was commanding. He stepped between them, close enough that John had to shift back, barely masking his irritation. Bucky didn’t acknowledge him, his eyes were only on her.

“I need you to reschedule the Montgomery call for next week, now.” he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue easily. A perfect excuse, a simple reason to pull her away.

She blinked, catching on quickly. “Of course, boss.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, Barnes. You really don’t let her out of your sight, huh?” He took a slow sip of his drink, then added, “You should loosen the leash a little.”

Bucky went still.

It was subtle, the tic on his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides but she could feel the shift in the air.

John had no idea how close he was to getting his teeth knocked in.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a little smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I was just thinking about tightening yours.” His voice was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the threat beneath it.

John’s smirk faltered, but before he could respond, Bucky turned to her and offered his elbow. “Walk with me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

He barely spared Walker another glance as he guided her toward one of the balcony doors. The noise of the party dulled as they stepped outside, and the cool night air contrasted with the heat simmering beneath his skin.

"What did he tell you?" His voice was low and measured, but she knew better. He was seething.

She let out a small sigh. "Ah, just some silly banter we usually have," she tried to deflect, stepping closer to the railing.

Bucky stayed near, and his gaze flicked to hers. “Which consists of…?” he pressed, his voice quieter now but no less sharp.

She sighed, realizing there was no way he was going to let it go. “God, Bucky, it’s just stupid.”

“If it’s stupid, you can tell me.” He pushed.

She hesitated, but under the weight of his stare, she relented. “Some stupid thing about being the boss’s favorite.”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, and the muscle in his jaw ticked again. "That fucking bastard," he muttered. He started to turn back toward the party, and she recognized the intent in his posture. He was going to find Walker and probably, without subtlety, give him a piece of his mind.

She reached out instinctively, wrapping her fingers around his inner elbow. "Don’t you dare cause a scene over some juvenile taunt."

"He disrespected you," Bucky bit out with restrained anger.

She exhaled, trying for humor. "Did he lie? Am I not your favorite employee?"

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “You know what he meant by that.”

She smiled a little. "I do. But I just don’t care, Bucky." Her fingers lightly curled against his arm. "I know who I am and the place I occupy. John Walker’s opinions are not relevant to me."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The place you occupy?"

“Yes. As your secretary, as a friend.” She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the simplest truth. “You and I both know there’s nothing between us. It’s just so stupid. He’s seen the women you associate with; how could he even presume-”

Bucky’s chest did something stupid. He wasn’t sure what, only that it felt tight and hot and made him irrationally irritated. “What kind of women?”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, come on, Bucky. The Vogue cover type.”

Bucky stared at her. “The Vogue cover type?” he echoed, like he was tasting the words and finding them bitter.

She let out a small laugh. “You know what I mean. The ones with the perfect hair, the designer wardrobes, the endless legs-” She gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “The ones people expect a man like you to be with.”

Bucky scoffed. “A man like me?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re rich, successful, powerful, and on top of that, handsome. It’s not exactly shocking that you’d go for-”

Bucky let out a sharp breath. “For what?” he interrupted, voice edged with something dangerously close to frustration. “A goddamn mannequin?”

She blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. “Bucky, that’s the only kind of woman I’ve ever seen enter or exit your office in ten years. The only kind you arrange dates with. The only kind you send flowers to,” she pointed out, her tone laced with incredulity. “Did you never notice a pattern in your partners?”

He said nothing. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He couldn't deny it. Couldn’t, because that was the kind of woman that always approached him. The kind of woman that fit neatly into the world he operated in. The kind of woman he was expected to have perched on his arm. The kind of woman who made sense.

And the kind of woman who was so different from her.

Because he couldn’t dare to be with someone who even resembled her. To be what? A cheap replacement for the luscious body and sharp tongue he really wanted in his bed? No. That would’ve been pathetic. Even for him.

And maybe he was delusional, but he could’ve sworn there was something there, an edge in her voice when she spoke about his so-called type, as if she had already decided for the both of them that they could never be a thing.

And God, he was tired.

So tired of this stupid dance that had lasted years of what-ifs, blurred lines, untold truths, and all the office gossip that never seemed to die.

His patience snapped.

“What, do you think it’s so impossible for us to be something more?”

She froze, and her eyes widened with surprise. “Well, I never perceived anything resembling -um- interest from you,” she stammered.

Bucky let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Do you think I would let anyone touch me the way you do if I didn’t feel something?”

She went speechless for a second, parting her lips, scrambling for an answer. “Well, maybe-”

“No,” he cut her off, low and heated. “And you know it. Tell me one person you’ve seen me with who has that level of intimacy with me. One person who can approach me, who can touch me, who can nurse me like a fucking child and I let them.” His chest rose and fell with the force of his words, the frustration thick in every syllable. “You won’t find anyone.”

Because there was no one else. Only her.

Bucky moved in, crowding her against the cool balcony railing, his body was a wall of heat and tension. His hands weren’t on her -yet- but he was close enough that she could feel his breath, the scent of his cologne mixed with champagne, wrapping around her like a slow burn.

His voice was low, almost rough. “The question here is… do you feel anything else besides ‘friendly’ empathy when you touch me?” His blue eyes were searching, desperate for something he wasn’t sure she could give. “Have you ever wanted this to be something more?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

His jaw flexed, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides like he was barely holding himself back. “Am I the only one who thinks that- fuck.” His head dipped for half a second, as if frustrated with himself, before he looked at her again, with a dark, unreadable gaze. “The only one of us that feels like us could be a thing?”

His words were a shock to her system, leaving the air thick, charged between them. His hands found the railing on either side of her body, bracketing her in without touching her.

And she was also tired, so goddamn tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of thinking about what was proper.

Tired of believing she could be nothing more to him than his dutiful secretary.

Tired of swimming through dates and relationships that, even with effort, never felt fulfilling.

She looked up at him, the man she had spent endless hours working for, hours that seemed to pass in a blink. The man marked by scars, both physical and psychological. The ruthless wolf who ruled a company he never truly wanted, yet refused to let go of. The man who, in the deepest corner of his mind -even if he never admitted it- wanted to be seen by his father.

The man she had learned to read so many years ago, whose moods, silences, and tells she knew by heart.

The man she couldn’t stop caring for because no one else did. Not even himself.

The man she was in love with.

And she couldn’t deny him.

"You are not the only one who feels all of those things," she heard herself say, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She averted her gaze quickly, suddenly aware of the distant noise of voices and clinking glasses behind them. But before she could step away, he leaned in, still caging her against the balcony railing.

Bucky turned his head slightly, scanning their surroundings. There was no one. And fuck if he cared if there was.

His intense gaze snapped back to hers. "Do you mean it?" His voice was low, almost rough. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply and took a fraction of a step back, and his hands ghosted over her arms as if forcing himself to give her space. "Aren’t you feeling pressured right now? By my position? By our… dynamic?"

She scoffed, shaking her head, "You know me well enough to know I don’t let myself be pressured. I think my first week under you made that clear."

A dry chuckle left his lips. "God. You dared to lecture me about not being a servant just for asking for a coffee."

Her lips parted in disbelief. "Oh, don’t you dare play the victim here," she shot back, jabbing a finger lightly against his chest. "You barked at me to walk eight blocks in those fucking heels just because you wanted that petroleum filth they called gourmet espresso. You had five excellent coffee shops between here and there, but no, you had to have that one, which charged you double for dirty water."

Bucky let out a low, amused hum, catching her hand before she could retreat. His grip was firm but soft, and his thumb glided absentmindedly over her knuckles. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

"I thought of firing you on the spot," he admitted, almost reflectively.

Her brows lifted. "Oh, how gracious of you not to."

His smirk deepened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his other hand, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with the rough pad of his thumb.

"But then I realized," he murmured, tilting his head, "I got so fucking turned on when you didn’t cower and spoke your mind."

Her breath caught as his fingers slid back, cupping lightly the base of her neck.

"It’s so goddamn rare," he continued, dipping his voice into something huskier, "to find someone in these circles who actually says what they mean. Who doesn’t just… bend."

His grip tightened at the back of her head, and his fingers fisted in her hair, undoing part of her hairstyle as he tugged just enough to tilt her face up toward his. His pupils were blown wide, dark and consuming, the pale blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the heat behind them.

"But I'd be lying," he murmured, as his breath brushed against her lips, "if I said I haven’t thought about bending you in other… more pleasurable ways."

A tingle ran down her spine, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The heat rushed to her face, completely unaccustomed to this side of him, this raw, unveiled hunger. The daily life they shared, the comfort they had built over years of working side by side, had nothing to do with the way he looked at her now.

Like a predator.

A handsome, fucked-up predator, ready to consume her whole.

And she was going to let him.

Far in the back of her mind, the worries of what this would mean, of the implications of crossing this line, of the scandal and gossip if anyone found them like this, all of it faded into irrelevance. The only thing that mattered was the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his body crowded hers against the railing, and the way his gaze locked her in place like she was something he had no intention of letting slip through his fingers.

She tried to feign a little nonchalance. "Is this your pickup line for fancy cocktail parties? Telling a lady you want to bend her?"

His low chuckle rumbled against her, his amusement laced with something far more dangerous. He didn’t pull away when she tried to call him out. No, he attacked.

"Oh, I think this lady enjoyed it very much," he murmured, brushing the shell of her ear with his lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "The way she squirms under my gaze tells me everything I need to know."

The warmth of his breath made her shiver as his manicured stubble grazed her cheek, rough against the softness of her skin. Strands of his loosened hair tickled under her chin as he slowly turned his face, skimming his lips over hers, just the ghost of a touch, but it set her entire body on fire. Without thinking, she pressed the softest peck to the corner of his mouth.

And that was all it took.

He let go.

To hell with the party. To hell with his father, the endless charade of appearances, and whoever might walk through those balcony doors.

His other hand fisted the fabric at her lower back, yanking her against him as his lips crashed onto hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, deep, possessive, and unrelenting. His expensive suit wrinkled under her desperate grasp as her fingers clawed at his lapels.

Her purse tumbled from her shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when Bucky was pressing her against the railing, caging her in, one large hand tightening its grip on her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.

He kissed her like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else. Like he was sealing something between them, something untold but inevitable. His tongue parted her lips and swallowed the soft gasp that escaped her own.

Her knees weakened, but he was there, securing his grip as if daring gravity to try and take her from him. A deep, satisfied groan vibrated against her mouth as she arched into him, digging her nails into his shoulders.

Without even thinking, he pressed a thick thigh between hers, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.

Bucky felt it, her body’s reaction, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened their hold on him. His grip on her waist grew firmer, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to imprint himself on her, to make sure she felt him everywhere.

"That’s it, doll," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, his lips barely leaving hers as he spoke. "I can feel how much you want this."

His thigh flexed, pressing up against her just right, and she bit down a whimper, tilting back her head against the railing. Bucky took advantage, latching his mouth onto her exposed throat, scraping over the delicate skin with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

Her hands fisted his suit, wrinkling the pristine fabric even further, but he couldn’t care less. Not when she was trembling against him, not when she was letting him take control, letting him push, pull, and claim in ways neither of them had dared to acknowledge before tonight.

His breath was uneven when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his pupils blown wide, hunger and something far more dangerous swirling in that stormy blue. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growled, his grip constricting on her waist as if he might just drag her away.

For a moment, she teetered on the edge of saying yes, of letting him whisk her away and finish what they started. But then reality seeped in: the clinking of glasses, the sound of conversation just beyond the balcony doors, the weight of eyes that could turn at any moment.

She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to press against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. “We… we can’t.”

“Like hell we don’t,” he countered, as he dragged his thigh between hers again. The friction made her bite her lip, shifting her hips instinctively toward him, betraying her resolve.

“Don’t be a brat,” she murmured. “You’re here to make connections, to pretend you give a damn about these people. Not to mention your father’s just waiting for you to slip.”

“I don’t give a fuck-”

“Bucky.” She exhaled, calming herself. “This is good for you. A couple of hours, and then we can go.”

His exhalation was sharp, and his grip faltered for just a second before his forehead came to rest against hers. He felt dejected. She let her fingers trail down his lapels, smoothing out the wrinkles she had put there.

“Honey,” she murmured, softer now, “I want this as much as you do.”

His lips parted, ready to argue, but she pressed a finger to them, shaking her head. “No. You told me you wanted me on this trip as a buffer, to help figure out who you can be a dick to and who you can’t.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Maybe I just wanted you close.”

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it. Instead, she dragged her hands down his arms, squeezing his wrists before stepping back just enough to force some distance. “Shush. I’m doing what I’m supposed to.” She smirked, playful now, tilting her head. “Don’t be stubborn. Be a good boy and talk to those people. We have plenty of time for ourselves once this ends.”

His nostrils flared, and for a second, she thought he might argue. But then, with one last lingering touch along her waist, he huffed a quiet curse and pulled away.

She was right. He knew she was right. But seeing her all disheveled against the railing, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in uneven little gasps, none of it helped his restraint.

Which was exactly why, instead of stepping back into the party like a man with self-control, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward a darker corner of the balcony.

“Bucky! What-”

She barely had time to protest before her back met the cool stone wall, and his body caged hers in, shielding her from view.

“I’m being a good boy,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You failed to perceive how you -and probably I- look right now.” His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, tilting her chin up, and his eyes swept over her face and down her neck, to where her dress was slightly askew from his hands. “We can’t walk back in there looking like two horny teenagers who made out while the adults were talking,” he said, ghosting his lips over her temple, in a teasing but firm tone.

She swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver as his hands roamed her body, smoothing over the wrinkles in her dress and fixing his own tie with a frustrated sigh.

“And whose fault is that?” she muttered, smoothing out the lapels of his suit jacket before reaching lower to straighten the part of his shirt that had somehow come untucked during their little ordeal.

Bucky chuckled, watching her fuss over him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare throw this on me when we both know you were pretty damn excited a minute ago,” he teased.

Her hands stilled, lips parting in protest, only to be cut off by a sharp gasp as one of his hands abandoned its pretense of decorum and slid down to cup her ass, squeezing with deliberate firmness.

She yelped, smacking his chest, but his smirk only widened.

“Now stop being so bossy and help us look mildly demure,” he murmured, all mock innocence, though the way his hand rubbed slowly at her rear said otherwise.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she batted his hand away, not that it did much, considering he was still crowding her against the wall like he had every intention of misbehaving again, and his scent clung to her like a second skin.

“Demure? After what you just pulled?” she scoffed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on her dress. “The nerve you have,” she muttered, running her fingers through her hair, trying futilely to regain some composure.

Bucky chuckled, slow and smug, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as he watched her. “And yet, you let me and enjoyed it. And… you’re still here,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

She exhaled, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “For now.”

His eyes darkened, and his amusement flickered into something deeper as he leaned in, fanning his warm breath against her temple. “For good.”

Taglist: @civilbucky

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #4bbingo #grem's 20 questions #CEO! Bucky Barnes

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itneverendshere · 8 months ago

Text

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong.

None of it was a choice you should have to make.

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give.

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah.

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through.

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister’s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone.

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people.

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean.

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you.

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?”

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.”

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either.

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you.

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

“You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset.

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical.

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t—"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle.

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y’all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over.

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you.

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break.

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people.

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day.

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby.

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away.

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach.

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel.

Rafe.

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you.

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle.

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms.

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face.

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect, all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes.

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else.

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience.

“Put me down!”

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate.

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit.

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here.

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours.

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall.

"Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape.

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much.

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over.

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him.

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over.

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode.

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige @rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron @serrendiipty @sunny1616

@yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog @psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

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pitlanepeach · 18 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, birth, post-birth emotional disconnect.

Notes — Feeling sentimental. I really love you all so much. Thank you for your support and interest in this fic. It has meant the world to me. That said... TWO MORE CHAPTERS TO GO

2024

This was not the plan.

Barefoot was not the plan. Leggings soaked through with amniotic fluid and pain spiking low in her back like white-hot wire as her mom helped her out of the car was not the plan.

Thirty-eight weeks wasn’t pre-term. Everyone kept reassuring her, saying that she was full-term. Normal. Fine. But it wasn’t the plan. Her spreadsheet had said forty weeks. Her due date was still two weeks away.

Her brain had been prepped for forty. And this — this was chaos.

The private maternity wing at Northamptonshire General was everything she’d asked for. Calm. Modern. Quiet.

But not now.

Now it was too bright. Too noisy. Too uncontrolled.

Amelia flinched as the double doors to the ward opened automatically, the high-pitched whirring mechanical sound cutting sharp through her head. She shrank in on herself as the fluorescent lights bounced off polished linoleum and made her vision haze.

Her hands fluttered in midair, then pinched hard at the inside of her elbows. Over and over. She knew it was going to leave bruises. She didn’t care.

“Contraction,” she gasped, one hand bracing the wall. “Stop. Wait—”

Tracey was there, one hand between Amelia’s shoulder blades, the other pressing the call bell. “You’re okay, baby,” her mum whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

Amelia shook her head rapidly, breath catching in her throat. The pain wrapped around her middle like a vice and pulled. The floor tilted. The lights burned through her skull. Her mouth opened but nothing came out except a panicked inhale.

“Amelia?”

The voice was low. Calm. Warm, but neutral. Controlled.

Fiona.

Familiar. Early 40s. Irish accent. Quiet shoes. Soft jumper. Smelled like vanilla and Dettol. Amelia had met her a handful of times now, for appointments. She liked Fiona. Fiona didn’t make her feel like she was wrong for needing things said twice, or for needing silence, or for asking for bullet points on birth options.

“Alright. Hi, honey. It’s good to see you. I’ve got you,” Fiona said, stepping in close without touching her. “You're safe. The lights are bright, I know. We’re going to move to a quiet room, and there’s some fairy lights strung up in there. Would that help?”

Amelia nodded so fast her braid whipped against her shoulder.

“Can I take your hand?” Fiona asked gently.

Another nod. Shaky this time.

Fiona’s hand was warm. Dry.

They turned the corner into a private room, and as soon as the door shut behind them, Fiona moved with crisp efficiency — lowering the lights, drawing the blinds, speaking to the nurse in a clipped whisper. The temperature adjusted. The tones softened.

Still, Amelia kept stimming — fingers now tapping the underside of her chin in fast, repeated bursts. The pain was stealing her words.

She needed Lando.

“I’m going to say everything out loud before I do it, okay?” Fiona said. “Your blood pressure, then we’ll get you on the monitor. You’re safe. Nothing’s being done without your say-so.”

“Where’s—” Amelia rasped.

“Lando?” Tracey translated from her side, rubbing her shoulder. “He’s coming, baby. Three hours. Your dad just text. They're already on the plane.”

Amelia shook her head again, furious tears springing to her eyes. “He should—he should’ve answered the phone. Why didn’t he—he should have answered my call.”

“I know,” Fiona said softly, and she meant it. “I know. But you’re doing this. And you are not alone. Do you want your headphones?”

Amelia blinked.

“I remember you had sensory overload in your birth plan. I’ve got noise-cancelling ones I can give you. Music, white noise, or just silence.”

“White noise,” Amelia croaked.

Fiona pulled them from the drawer. Slid them on gently. Adjusted them without touching her ears.

The static hum clicked on and it helped.

The room dulled. The air stopped buzzing so loud. Her limbs stopped flinching like she was being shocked.

“Better?” Fiona asked.

Amelia gave a thumbs up.

“Okay, love. We’ll time the next contraction together. You just let it happen. I’ll talk you through everything. Then I’m going to pop your legs up, and we’ll see how dilated you are, okay?”

Amelia nodded.

Squeezed her mom's hand with bone-breaking force.

And held tight to the image of Lando — messy curls, warm eyes, that breathless voice — walking through the door.

He would come.

She just had to hold out until he did.

—

Lando was pacing.

Still in his race suit, hair matted to his forehead, jaw locked so tight it ached.

The garage was quiet—the kind of quiet that only follows an early retirement. It wasn’t peace. It was tension. It was post-mortem silence.

It was stunned mechanics and snapped radio comms and the faint echo of tyres being wheeled away.

On the overhead screen, Oscar was being handed the P2 trophy on the podium.

Lando couldn't even look.

He was still reliving Turn 3.

The outside line. Max. The squeeze. The goddamn nudge.

The second he felt the contact, he knew it was done.

Puncture. Floor damage. Game over.

Both of them out. Two DNFs. No points. Just fury.

He’d thrown his gloves across the garage the moment he climbed out.

Now his hands were still shaking, chest still tight with adrenaline and rage.

“Fucking dickhead,” he muttered under his breath, pacing. “Every time. Every single fucking time—he can’t help himself.”

No one said anything. No one dared.

The media would already be writing the headlines.

‘Norris cracks under championship pressure.’

He didn’t care.

His phone had buzzed three times. He didn’t look at it.

He didn’t want to see who the hell was brave enough to be the first one to call him.

Didn’t want to deal with PR or statements or apologies.

He just wanted to scream. And maybe punch Max in the face.

He spun again—too fast. Nearly walked straight into Zak.

“Jesus, Lando—” Zak grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” Lando snapped, still breathless, still fuming. “Sorry. I just—Max—he fucking ruined it.”

Zak didn’t even flinch. “Forget Max. You need to listen to me. We have to go. Now.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What?” he said, blinking. “Go where?”

“Home. To England. Amelia just called.”

The words hit harder than the collision.

His face drained. All the heat of his anger snapped to cold panic.

“What—what's wrong?” His voice cracked.

“She’s in labour. Tracey’s with her. She tried to call you—she’s okay, far as I know—but it’s happening. Now.”

Lando staggered back a step, pulling out his phone with shaking hands.

Three missed calls. Two texts. One from Tracey. One from Amelia.

Amelia:

IN LABOUR!

Tracey:

She’s okay. We’re on our way to the hospital. Northamptonshire, as planned. Get here fast.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing the phone to his forehead. “I didn’t answer—she called, and I didn’t—fuck.”

The guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

Two weeks early.

Was it the crash?

The stress?

She was watching. She always watched. She was on the comms today too, wasn’t she?

Did watching him get taken out—watching the car spin, the team panic—did that trigger something?

Did he do this?

His throat felt raw. “Is she in pain? Is she scared?”

“I don’t know. All she did was tell me to come and get you,” Zak said quietly. “That’s all. But if we don’t move now—”

Lando didn’t wait.

He ran.

Helmet abandoned. Suit unzipped. Gloves forgotten.

Sprinting down the paddock like the lights had gone green again and everything was on the line.

He nearly collided with Oscar, fresh from the podium, champagne still drying on his suit.

“Lando?” Oscar said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Amelia’s in labour.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. “Wait—now?”

“Yes, now!” Lando barked, eyes wild. “And I missed her call. I missed it. I’m not there, and she needs me—fuck—”

Behind them: rapid footsteps. Heavy breathing.

“What the fuck is going on?” Max, fresh from media, damp curls plastered to his forehead. Still in his suit. Still furious—until he saw Lando’s face.

“Amelia’s in labour,” Oscar said, breathless.

Max went still. “Shit.”

“She’s on her way to the hospital,” Lando said, voice cracking. “And I’m not there. I didn’t answer—I was so fucking angry, and I didn’t check, and she—” He clenched his fists. “What if it was the race? What if we stressed her out so much that it happened early? What if I fucked this up too?”

“Hey—no,” Oscar said quickly, stepping forward. “No, mate.”

Max grabbed his arm. “Fuck the race. I don’t give a shit. We need to go.”

“You just crashed into me,” Lando snapped. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Max didn’t even blink. “Because she’s my family, mate.”

There was a beat of silence. Lando swallowed.

“My jet’s at the airfield,” Max added. “Fastest way to England. No bullshit. Let’s go.”

Zak jogged up behind them, car keys in hand. “You can bring the whole damn grid for all I care. But we leave now if you want to make it in time.”

Lando’s lungs hurt. His heart was racing.

Oscar beside him. Max right behind. Zak in front.

Don’t let me miss her, he thought, over and over. Please. Please don’t let me miss her.

—

The receptionist barely looked up before buzzing the doors open.

Lando didn’t wait. He shoved through them, sprinting.

His shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.

His heart was hammering. His brain was a mess of white noise and guilt and prayer.

He was too late. He was too late.

He should’ve answered the phone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve been there.

The midwife at the station looked up just as he rounded the corner.

“Norris?” She asked knowingly.

He nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes. I’m—yes. I’m Lando. My wife—Amelia—”

“She’s okay,” the midwife said quickly, already standing. “Room 307. I’ll take you.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving.

The lights were too bright. The walls too white. His skin itched with leftover adrenaline and travel-sweat. He still wore his fireproofs under his hoodie, and he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin.

You weren’t here.

He turned a corner.

She needed you.

He reached the door.

And stopped.

He could hear her.

Not words—just breath. Short, shallow, uneven. The sound of someone trying not to panic.

He opened the door.

Amelia was there. On the bed.

Half propped up on pillows, her hospital gown pulled tight over her belly. Her hands fisted in the thin blanket. Her face flushed with pain.

A yellow golf-ball in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she saw him.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You took so long,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Lando crossed the room in three steps, already shaking. “I know. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t check my phone—I was—I was pissed off with how my race ended and I didn’t think and I should’ve known—fuck—” He dropped to his knees beside her, pressed his forehead to her arm. “I thought I’d be too late,” he said into her skin.

Amelia reached out—tangled her fingers in his hair—and tugged, sharp. “Stop,” she said, voice hoarse. “None of that.”

His eyes were already red. His cheeks wet. He didn’t know when he’d started crying.

She looked exhausted. Pale under the flush. But she was here. And so was he. Finally.

“You didn't miss it,” she said. “She waited for you.”

“Of course she did,” he whispered. And then he kissed her. “And you. You’re the strongest fucking woman in the world. You know that?”

She exhaled a laugh. “I’m also five centimetres dilated and out of patience, so if you want to be helpful—please hand me that cup of ice.”

He did. With shaking hands.

“My mom braided my hair,” she added after a moment, voice softer now. “You missed that part.”

“I’m not going to miss anything else,” he promised.

He kissed her forehead. Her temple. Her knuckles. Gave her mom a small smile.

Tracey was sat in the corner, near the window, working on a knitting project. They looked like tiny booties from what he could see.

He’d hug her later. Thank her a million times just for being there — even though he knew she wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world rather than at Amelia’s beck and call.

“I ran through the paddock,” he murmured. “Max and Oscar came too. We took Max’s jet. Your dad nearly had a coronary at the airport.”

Her eyes softened. “They came?”

“Yeah.” He brushed her damp hair back. “They’re all downstairs. Waiting. Your dad wasn’t sure you’d want him here, didn’t want to overwhelm you. They’re freaking out. Because they love you.”

“I want them to come and say hi after,” she said. Her face twisted with discomfort. “But— I just it want it to be you and my mom, okay? Until she’s here.”

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” His fingers slid over hers. “I— I need to call my parents.”

“I already took care of that, honey. They’re on their way.” Tracey said.

Lando exhaled with relief.

Then he leaned in and kissed his wife and said, “You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.”

—

It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a cry.

And then hands, gentle, practised, passing something small and slippery and impossibly alive onto Amelia’s chest.

“Here she is, Amelia,” Fiona said softly. “You did it. She’s here. Healthy and pink.”

Amelia couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

Because everything in her brain was screaming: “this isn’t real.”

This wasn’t how she’d rehearsed it in her head. In her spreadsheets. In the checklist she’d kept taped to the fridge.

This wasn’t theoretical.

This wasn’t a due date or a biometric scan or the size of a cantaloupe at 38 weeks.

This was weight. Heat. Movement.

A baby. Her baby.

On her. In her arms.

Not inside anymore.

The disconnect hit her like a crash.

Amelia flinched; only slightly, but enough that Fiona paused, watching.

And so did Lando. And her mom.

Her breathing had gone shallow again. She was blinking fast, trying to recalibrate.

The baby; the baby, the baby — it wasn’t a concept.

It was a person. With skin and breath and a heart that was beating fast.

A heart that had come from her.

Amelia’s whole body trembled. Not from pain, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.

Ada.

Her name had been a theory. A hope.

Now it was a face. A body. Tiny hands.

But faces were hard. Faces moved. Eyes blinked. Skin flushed. Tiny limbs twitched.

And she was touching her. Skin to skin. The warmth was overwhelming.

Every sensory processor in Amelia’s brain screamed. She wanted to dissapear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to understand — and she didn’t.

“You’re okay, baby,” Lando whispered from beside her, voice cracked and reverent. “Just let yourself have a few minutes. Just… just look at her.”

Amelia’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, a few inches away from Ada’s damp, curled back. She couldn’t bring herself to touch.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, voice paper-thin. “I don’t—I don’t know her.”

Fiona gently nudged Ada higher. “She knows you. Smell, heartbeat, voice. She knows you, Amelia.”

But that made it worse.

Because Amelia was so full of love she couldn’t speak — but she was also full of fear, static, disorientation. Her brain was desperately trying to map a new universe with no manual.

Lando leaned in. Rested his forehead to hers. One hand on Ada’s back. One over Amelia’s hand, still hovering.

“You’re doing it,” he said softly. “You’re already doing it.”

Ada made a small sound — nothing loud, just a hum. A nuzzle. A twitch of her mouth.

And Amelia finally, finally, laid both hands over her daughter’s back. Just fingertips.

Ada shifted, rooting instinctively.

“She’s a hungry girl,” Fiona said, voice warm and gentle. “Would you like some help?”

Amelia nodded, but her eyes stayed locked on Ada — this tiny, impossible thing who had been an abstract dream for nine months and now weighed heavy and warm on her chest.

She guided her with Fiona's aid, shaking slightly; and Ada latched like she’d done it in a past life.

“Look at that,” Fiona whispered. “First try.”

Lando made a choked sound. “Daddy’s girl.”

Amelia didn’t even look at him. She reached blindly, grabbed the empty bedpan from the table beside the bed, and whipped it in his direction.

It bounced harmlessly off his leg. He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he murmured.

Amelia still didn’t look away from Ada.

Her fingers, once frozen, were now stroking her daughter’s back. Tentative. Learning.

“I don’t understand how she’s real,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Lando said, voice barely a breath. “You’ve got a lifetime to learn her.”

Amelia’s throat closed. A single tear slid down her cheek, hot and sharp.

Ada suckled rhythmically, peacefully. Her skin flushed. Her impossibly tiny hands curled into fists.

And Amelia fell in love.

—

The room was quiet.

Tracey had slipped out to tell the world that Ada Rossella Norris had arrived safely. That Amelia was okay.

In the soft lamplight and afterbirth hush, everything stood still.

Lando sat half-on the bed, one arm wrapped around Amelia’s shoulders, the other curled around her waist.

Ada lay nestled between them, tiny cheek resting against her mother’s chest, her breath a faint whisper of warmth.

Amelia hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not since the first latch. Not since the bedpan throw.

She was staring down at Ada like she couldn’t possibly look away. Like if she blinked, this would all turn out to have been a dream.

Her fingers moved slowly—carefully. Memorising. Mapping. A tactile inventory.

“She has your nose,” Amelia murmured, her voice cracked and reverent. “But flatter. Less of the Norris ski slope.”

Lando huffed a laugh against her temple. “I don’t have a ski slope.”

“You do,” she said, brushing a finger over the curve of Ada’s. “But it’s endearing. Especially in winter photos.”

She stroked over Ada’s tiny forehead. “And my pouty lips. Poor thing.”

“Baby.”

“It’s okay. She’ll grow into them.” Amelia paused, then added, “Her ears are yours. Exactly. Same tilt. Same soft cartilage. She’s going to hate them in school and love them by the time she’s an adult.”

Lando’s grip on her tightened, just slightly. “She’s perfect.”

“I know.” Amelia’s voice cracked. “She’s so real.”

Ada squirmed softly, stretching a hand, and Amelia caught it — thumb gently placed against tiny fingers.

“She has fingernails,” she whispered, as though it shocked her. “Actual fingernails.”

Lando kissed her hair. “Yeah. She’s a whole person.”

Amelia was quiet again, but only for a second. And then, still not looking up, she began to speak.

“Ada,” she said, voice low and even, like she was introducing the baby to the room, to her own existence. “You were born on a Sunday. In a maternity ward in Northamptonshire. At 38 weeks and three days. You came early because you are, apparently, impatient. Or maybe just a bit dramatic. Your dad swears it had nothing to do with the fact that he and Max crashed and stressed your mummy out. I’m not convinced.”

Lando groaned softly, head tilted back against the wall. “Don’t blame her dramatic entrance on my DNF.”

“I’m just saying,” Amelia murmured, brushing Ada’s cheek, “the timing is suspicious.”

Ada twitched, shifting closer into her chest.

“Well, then, let’s see. You’re part British, part Belgium, part American, but I’m not sure you’ll be jumping to claim that last one. You have a Formula One driver for a daddy. And an engineer for a mummy.”

Lando chuckled. His hand came up to rest over hers, both of them cupping their daughter together.

“You’ll grow up in paddocks. You’ll learn to walk in motorhomes. Your first sunscreen will be whatever your mummy can find in the team stash. Everyone’s going to spoil you rotten. Oscar, well, that’s your Uncle Ducky — he’s already bought you this sweet little onesie with a hundred tiny little cartoon ducks on it. And Max, Verstappen, well, that’ll be your uncle too. I don’t have a brother, but he’s the nearest thing.” She whispered. “But you’ll have another Uncle Max too, and that might get a bit confusing for you, but we’ll be patient.”

Amelia leaned her head on Lando’s shoulder. Her voice dipped lower, like she was confiding a secret to Ada, or maybe to herself.

“You’ll be so loved,” she said. “So much. By people who’ve waited their whole lives to meet you. By a daddy who would cross the continent in race boots to get to you in time. By me, even when I’m tired and anxious and unsure of how to be your a mummy and a person at the same time.”

She sniffed hard, blinking fast again. “You’ve been born into a world that’s chaotic and messy and fast and loud—but it’s ours. And we’re going to make sure it’s yours, too.”

Ada breathed. Soft and slow. Eyes still closed. Tiny fist curled against her cheek.

Lando rested his chin on top of Amelia’s head.

—

Dim afternoon light pooled in soft gold across the linoleum floor, filtered through thick hospital curtains. Machines beeped softly in the background, steady and forgettable.

Amelia was sleeping.

Not deeply — her body too raw, her brain too wired — but enough to rest. Enough for her face to soften, for her lashes to flutter, for her breath to even out against the pillow.

Lando hadn’t taken his eyes off her for hours.

But now — just for a moment — he was pacing near the window, his arms full of something precious.

Ada.

Swaddled and warm and impossibly small in his hoodie-covered forearms, her tiny head nestled into the crook of his elbow, mouth parted, breaths soft. She smelled like hospital linen and baby powder. Like nothing and everything.

Lando couldn’t stop looking at her.

He kept glancing back to Amelia, as if to make sure she was still there — still breathing, still safe, still his. And then back down to Ada again, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d made it out of someone so extraordinary.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d miss it.”

He swallowed. Looked down at the little bundle blinking slowly up at him — unfocused, unaware, content.

“I was so fucking angry. You wouldn’t believe it. Max and I — well, you’ll hear those stories when you’re older. But I was in the garage, ready to murder someone, and I missed three calls.”

He shifted Ada gently in his arms, pacing another slow length of the room.

“And then your grandpa Zak came in and told me your mum was in labour and I…” He laughed under his breath. It cracked in the middle. “I think my heart actually stopped.”

Ada scrunched her nose, then relaxed again.

“I thought you might be born without me there. And I would never have forgiven myself.”

His voice dropped to a hush, as though even the words themselves were too loud.

“And knowing that your mummy was in pain, and overwhelmed, and everything would be moving too fast and she needed me — and I wasn’t there.”

Lando exhaled, slow and ragged.

“But she waited. You waited. And now you’re here.”

Ada shifted slightly, a little sigh escaping her lips like the smallest secret in the world.

Lando smiled, tears pricking at his lashes again. He bounced her gently, rocking her as he gazed out the window, the hospital grounds bathed in quiet light.

“I don’t know if I’m going to get this right,” he admitted, voice barely audible now. “Being your dad. Being your mummy’s husband. Balancing all of it. But I swear to you, Ada—” He glanced down again, kissed the side of her velvet-soft head. “I swear I will love you so much that even on the days I get it wrong, you’ll never doubt that part.”

Behind him, Amelia stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Lando turned, adjusting Ada one-handed so he could settle into the armchair beside the bed, still cradling her close.

She was falling asleep again.

He watched her eyelids flutter.

“Everyone’s going to want to meet you soon. Oscar and Max and your grandpa Zak. My mum and dad are coming too, and they’re your other grandparents. Nanny Cisca and Grampy Adam. You’ve got a whole army of people who love you already.”

Ada didn’t respond, of course. But Lando smiled anyway.

—

There was a soft knock.

Amelia stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open.

Lando was beside her, Ada nestled in his arms, both of them silhouetted against the low amber light from the window. He turned toward the door at the knock, but didn’t speak.

Tracey peeked her head in first. “They’re climbing the walls out here. You ready for visitors?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away — just nodded, slow and small.

The door opened.

Her dad entered first, still in team gear, face flushed and drawn with tension that hadn’t quite released. Max followed close behind, jaw set, eyes scanning every inch of the room. Then Oscar, quietest of all, hovering in the doorway, his hands clenched around the hem of his t-shirt.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Zak exhaled sharply — a sound that came out almost like a sob — and crossed the room in four long strides.

“She’s here,” Lando said, voice thick with emotion.

He was smiling — tired, tearstained, messy-haired, beaming. His hoodie had been peeled back at the chest, skin-to-skin with Ada, whose sleepy face peeked just above the blanket.

Zak made it to them first. He didn’t ask permission — just leaned in, reverent, pressing one palm gently to Ada’s impossibly small back.

“Wow,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

His voice cracked.

“She’s healthy,” Lando said. “They both are.”

Max stood frozen for a beat, as if unsure if he was allowed to move — then his whole body softened, and he stepped forward, too. No jokes, no bravado.

He leaned down and kissed the top of Lando’s curls — and just like that, the tension of the day, of the collision and the angry team-radios, were forgotten.

Then, he looked at Ada.

“Dag meisje,” he murmured, voice low and Dutch-soft. Little girl. “What a beautiful girl you are.”

Amelia blinked over at them; Lando, crying silently, Zak with both hands now cradling the baby’s tiny back, Max brushing a finger over her little cap of dark hair.

But Oscar hadn’t moved.

He stood just inside the door, eyes locked on Amelia. Not the baby. Not Lando. Just her.

She gave him a nod.

And in an instant, Oscar crossed the room. No words — not yet — just a deep, shaking breath as he dropped to his knees beside her bed and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

He was warm and real and trembling just slightly.

“I thought—” he choked on the words. “I didn’t know if you—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

Oscar nodded into her shoulder.

“Sorry I made you worry.” She told him.

“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely, voice muffled. “Did you see my podium?”

Amelia let out a breathy laugh and nodded. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed.

Behind them, Max was now peppering Lando with questions — rapid-fire Dutch, mostly — about the birth, the midwife, whether Ada had opened her eyes yet.

Zak hadn’t stopped touching Ada, like if he let go, she might disappear.

Oscar still hadn’t looked at the baby.

“Can I see her?” He asked Amelia softly.

Amelia gave another nod. “Yeah, ducky. Of course you can.”

Oscar stood, eyes wide, cautious like she was made of glass; but when Lando held Ada out to him, he took her without hesitation.

She fit perfectly into his arms.

“Hi,” he breathed, eyes going impossibly soft. “Hello, baby Ada. You look just like your mummy.”

Amelia lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Her dad come and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Max kissed both of her cheeks and told her that she looked beautiful.

And then Ada was back in her arms, all scrunchy nosed and wet-eyed, and the world narrowed down to her.

—

The house was too quiet.

Which was absurd, given they were no longer alone.

But that was exactly the problem.

The silence left too much room for Amelia’s thoughts.

She stood in the nursery, arms crossed tightly over her chest. In a baggy tee and oversized cotton pyjama pants, hair still braided but frizzed at the edges.

She hadn’t let go of Ada in hours — not really.

Even now, with Ada asleep in the crib just a few feet away, Amelia felt like she hadn’t let her go.

Lando stood a few paces behind, leaning against the doorframe in his joggers and a white t-shirt, barefoot and watching her with soft eyes.

“We don’t have to leave her,” he said gently. “Not even for a second. There’s a basket in our room for a reason, baby.”

Amelia didn’t answer.

She rubbed one hand up and down her arm, fast, rhythmic. A stim. Comfort.

“She’s just so small,” she said eventually. “And she was inside me and now she’s not, and my brain hasn’t — hasn’t caught up to the idea that she’s real and separate and still… fine.”

Lando stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. Not because he thought she’d snap, but because she was stretched thin and too full and too raw, and he knew better than to rush her.

“I know,” he said. “It’s weird, right? How quiet she is? How not imaginary?”

Amelia exhaled sharply, a little laugh catching in her throat. “I keep expecting someone to come take her away. Like — like we’re just the transport team.”

Lando reached out, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. “They handed her to us, remember? In the hospital. And no one looked worried. Not a single nurse said ‘actually, we’ve changed our minds’.”

“I don’t feel qualified.”

“You grew her.”

“I did,” she whispered, blinking hard. “And now I’m supposed to… put her in a crib and go to bed like she’s not still part of me?”

“You don’t have to,” he said again. “We can pull the moses basket all the way next to your side of the bed. You can have your hand in there with her, baby, if that’s what you need to do. And we got those little toe clips, didn’t we? To make sure she’s still breathing. I’ll set up the white noise machine. I can hold her while you shower. Or while you lie down. Whatever feels okay.”

She stared at him.

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to stop looking at her.”

“We can take turns.”

“But you need to sleep.”

“I’ll nap tomorrow.”

“Lando.”

“Amelia.”

She cracked a smile then — barely, but real.

And he took her hand, warm and grounding. “Come lie down. Just lie down. I’ll keep one hand on her and one on you. I’ll be right there.”

Amelia hesitated.

Then nodded.

She let him guide her back to their bedroom. Lando had already rearranged everything — bassinet beside the bed, a lamp dimmed low, muslins folded with surgical precision. He lifted Ada gently from the crib and laid her into the basket with infinite care.

Then he slid into bed, propped up by pillows, and held out his arms.

Amelia didn’t need to be told twice.

She curled into his side, one hand reaching instinctively toward Ada’s sleeping form, her fingers resting just beside the basket.

No blankets. No teddies. No safety hazards.

Just a perfectly swaddled baby in a white onesie, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm Amelia was already memorising. A monitor was clipped gently to one of her toes — nothing intrusive, just a soft band — but if anything changed, even slightly, it would ping Lando’s phone in an instant.

“I’m going to check on her every ten minutes,” Amelia mumbled, eyes already heavy but refusing to close.

Lando kissed her hair. “That’s okay. I probably will too.”

She nodded once, almost automatically, and settled deeper against him — but her fingers didn’t move from the edge of the basket. Her mind was moving too fast to follow, darting down rabbit holes.

“Did you ever get nightmares as a child?” She asked suddenly, her voice a little hoarse.

Lando blinked. “Um. Yeah. A few. Why?”

“I read somewhere they can run in families. It’s neurological. Patterns of sleep. And I just… I want to be prepared.”

He didn’t say 'You don’t have to worry about that right now.'

He didn’t say 'Let it go.'

He knew better.

So he said, “Only when I was overtired. I’d sleepwalk too, sometimes. My mum said I used to go looking for my kart in the middle of the night.”

That made her smile a little — soft and crooked. “Of course you did.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What else do you want to know?”

“Did you have a favourite toy?”

“Plastic steering wheel. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. It had a red horn button. I’d sit on the living room rug and pretend I was racing.”

“Were you scared of the dark?”

Lando glanced down at her, at the way her brow was pinched just slightly.

The questions weren’t idle.

They were a defence. A rhythm.

A way to keep the storm in her head at bay.

“I hated the dark,” he said simply. “I used to leave the bathroom light on; on purpose. It used to drive my dad mad, but I didn’t want to admit that it was because the dark hallway scared me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hand still resting near the basket.

“I need to hold her,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t wobble, but her lip did. “Just for a minute. Just to make sure she’s… she’s okay.”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “She’s yours, baby,” he murmured. “Ours. We can hold her whenever we want.”

So he got up and placed Ada gently in her mother’s arms, careful not to wake her.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she pulled their daughter close, cupping the back of her tiny head, pressing her lips to soft baby hair and inhaling like she was trying to fuse them back together.

And Lando just watched.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, eyes still locked on Ada.

“I know.”

“But I love her so much I can’t even — there’s no room left in me for anything else, Lando.”

He brushed her curls back from her forehead. “I know. Baby, I know.”

She smiled at him wetly. “Thank you for giving me her.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle.

—

By day three, the house had softened.

They’d settled into a new kind of rhythm. One shaped around feeds and burps and naps so short they barely even counted. The clock meant nothing anymore. Light filtered in and out of the windows. Lando had stopped checking the date. Amelia had stopped pretending not to be terrified by every sound Ada made.

But the bleeding had slowed. The cramps had faded. The adult diapers were gone — finally, thank God — and Amelia was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants as she sat cross-legged on the couch with Ada against her chest.

The baby nursed noisily, fingers flexing near her mother’s collarbone, head resting in the crook of Amelia’s arm.

In her free hand, Amelia held her iPad — an older engineering article open, written by Adrian, full of dense paragraphs and complex diagrams about brake duct airflow and thermal optimisation. She read it aloud like a lullaby, her voice soft but steady.

“‘By increasing the front duct’s diameter by 2.3 millimetres, the delta in peak rotor temp dropped below critical thresholds in high-deg circuits, including Catalunya and Marina Bay…’ You hear that, Ada? Heat efficiency. That’s how we stay fast and safe.”

Ada made a small noise — halfway between a sigh and a snuffle — and latched more firmly.

Lando passed through the room with a laundry basket in his arms. His curls were still wet from a rushed shower, and he wore mismatched socks. But he smiled when he saw them.

“She asleep yet?” He asked, pausing.

“Almost.” Amelia didn’t look up from her screen. “We’re learning about regenerative braking.”

“Alright, baby,” Lando said, and disappeared toward the washing machine.

The doorbell rang just as Amelia was settling Ada into the bassinet. Ada didn’t flinch, but Amelia suddenly startled and stared at her little sleeping form with a frown.

Was she too cold? Was her neck at the wrong angle? Had she been burped properly—

“It’s okay,” Lando said, his voice low. “She’s fine. I’ll get the door. You stay and watch her.”

She nodded, stepping back, watching the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And then: voices. Familiar ones.

Max (Fewtrell) and Pietra. Their laughter was gentle, not loud — filtered with care.

“Hey,” Max said, stepping into the living room with a Tupperware box already in hand. “We’ve both antibacced our hands. We come in peace.”

Pietra went straight to Amelia, arms already open. She didn’t say anything, just wrapped her up in a firm hug — grounding, real, warm — and kissed the side of her head.

“You have done so well,” she whispered.

Amelia didn’t cry, but her throat caught. “Thanks. She’s… she’s perfect. I’m just tired.”

“We know.”

Meanwhile, Max clapped Lando on the shoulder, hard. “Mate. You look like you’ve seen things.”

“I’ve seen things,” Lando muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Go sit down. We’ve got this.”

They didn’t ask to hold Ada. Didn’t hover or coo or crowd. Pietra pulled on rubber gloves and started wiping down the kitchen counters like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max took out the bins. Then he came back in and started unloading the dishwasher without asking where anything went.

Amelia watched all of it from the couch, stunned by how quickly the air changed — less pressure, more breathing room.

“You don’t need to do all that,” she murmured.

“We want to,” Pietra said, straightening up with a dish towel in her hand. “This is the bit no one helps with, and it’s the bit that matters.”

Lando appeared beside Amelia, dropping onto the couch, sliding a hand over her knee. She leaned into him automatically.

“Tell them thank you,” she whispered, eyes half-shut.

He did. She already knew he would.

And for the first time since Ada’s birth, Amelia let herself fully exhale. Not just a breath. A letting-go. Just a moment.

The baby was sleeping.

The house was quiet.

And they were not alone.

—

They took Ada out for her first proper walk on a Tuesday.

The sky was low and soft, pale blue smudged with thin clouds. Not warm, not cold. Just… fresh. There was the smell of cut grass in the air and the quiet hum of summer insects returning to their business.

The pram rolled smoothly along the country trail, thick tyres handling the uneven gravel without so much as a jolt. Lando had triple-checked the suspension before they left the house.

Now he hovered two steps behind Amelia, a muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, spare dummy in his hoodie pocket, checking the pram’s hood every three seconds like the sun might have suddenly grown sharper.

“Do you think it’s too bright?” He asked, squinting up. “Should we have brought the other hat?”

Amelia didn’t break stride. “She’s fine.”

“What if she gets cold?”

“She’s in a fleece-lined sleep suit and the foot muff, Lando. She’s not cold.”

He hesitated. “I just—she’s so little. Doesn’t feel right to have her out here.”

Amelia’s expression softened, but only a little. She didn’t stop walking. “Fresh air is important for newborns. It regulates their circadian rhythm. Improves lung function. Strengthens immune development.”

Lando jogged a step to fall in beside her, peeking into the pram. “I know. I just feel like she should still be wrapped in bubble wrap. Or, I don’t know… a titanium exosuit.”

Amelia side-eyed him. “She’s a human baby.”

“Yeah. But she’s our human baby.”

Amelia finally looked over at him, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes still scanning the trail ahead. “Lando. She’s okay. I promise.”

He huffed, shifting closer to peer into the pram again. “I know. I—I do know. But she’s just… so small.”

“She’s also fast asleep.” Amelia nodded toward the pram. Sure enough, Ada’s tiny features were slack with the soft stillness of newborn sleep, one fist curled near her chin and her lips parted slightly, breath feathering.

Lando smiled, almost reluctantly. “She really is perfect.”

Amelia slowed a little, letting the rhythm of her footsteps match the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Her hand brushed against his, and when he didn’t pull away, she laced their fingers together.

“She’ll be okay,” she said, softer now. “I’m going to be good at this part. The structure. The systems. The planning. Schedules. Routines.”

“You’ve been good at all of it,” Lando said without hesitation.

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not all of it.”

“Name one thing you’ve been bad at so far,” he challenged, raising a brow.

“Holding her while she cries,” she replied instantly, too fast and too honest. “I never know how to help. I just freeze.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t count. You can just wear your ear defenders.”

“I think they scare her,” she admitted, glancing away. “She cries harder when I put them on.”

Lando nudged her shoulder gently. “Nah. She’ll get used to them. Babies cry. That’s literally their job.”

She gave a quiet laugh, tugged closer by his steadiness. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They walked in silence for a minute, the trees rustling softly around them, the path dappled in filtered light.

“You want me to push her for a bit?” He asked.

She nodded and handed over the pram with a small sigh of relief, flexing her fingers. “My arms were starting to ache, and I don’t even know why. I wasn’t carrying her.”

“It’s the new mum muscle fatigue,” he said knowingly. “Totally scientific.”

She snorted, then went quiet for a beat. “I’m so glad I’m not, like, constantly peeing myself anymore. That was weird.”

Lando nodded. “Honestly, I think you handled it really well.”

She gave him a side-glance, almost shy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached out and squeezed her hand again. “I was expecting way more tears. And not from Ada.”

“There were tears. I just cried in the shower.”

He smiled, but it was soft and genuine. “I know.”

Amelia exhaled, some of the tension rolling off her shoulders. The walk, the fresh air, the steady feel of his hand wrapped around hers — it all helped. Ada stirred once in her sleep, a tiny sound escaping her lips, and they both stopped walking for a second, listening.

Still asleep.

They exchanged a glance — equal parts relief and awe — and kept walking.

—

Later that evening, their house glowed with the golden warmth of soft lighting, the scent of something mildly burnt wafting from the oven (Lando insisted it was “crispy” on purpose). The table was already set — half by Lando, half by Cisca, who had taken it upon herself to silently reorganise the cutlery the moment she walked in.

Dinner was simple. Pasta. Store-bought garlic bread. A pre-made chocolate tart that Adam had brought with a proud grin and a whispered, “Don’t let Lando see the packaging — he’ll think his mother spent hours making this.”

Ada had just gone down in her bassinet upstairs.

Amelia hovered in the hallway, half listening, half pacing, fingers twitching at her sleeves. She’d made it through dinner prep, through greeting Lando’s parents and making small talk, but her ears were tuned in a thousand different directions — to the baby monitor, to the creak of the upstairs floorboards, to the faintest imagined cry in the silence.

“She’s okay,” Lando said gently, coming to stand beside her. “She’s asleep.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Amelia said, clutching her elbows. “Or she was and now she’s not. Or she will be and then she won’t be, and then they’ll all want to hold her and I’ll have to say no because she’s finally down and they’ll think I’m rude—”

“Okay,” Lando said, calm and sure and already moving past her.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her.”

“Lando—”

But he was already climbing the stairs. Moments later, he reappeared with Ada bundled in her swaddle inside her moses basket, blinking in that newborn stunned way, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He paused only to press a kiss to the top of Amelia’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.

Amelia followed him, heart caught somewhere between panic and confusion — until she saw what he’d done.

He’d cleared the centrepiece from the kitchen table. Moved the salt and pepper. And right in the middle, like the guest of honour, was Ada. Swaddled and content, her moses basket taking pride of place between the lasagna and the chocolate tart.

Everyone paused.

Then started to laugh.

“Lando,” Cisca laughed. “You did not just put the baby on the table.”

“We can keep an eye on her,” he shrugged, completely deadpan.

Even Amelia, still frazzled, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. Her shoulders dropped. Her heart settled.

“Okay,” she said softly, moving closer and brushing her fingers across Ada’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But she’s calm. And you’re calm too. So I win.”

The rest of dinner was easy. Light. Ada stayed asleep, safe in the middle of it all. Lando’s parents only peeked at her — no passing her around, no unsolicited advice. Just gentle smiles and hands folded in laps and the occasional, “She’s so beautiful.”

Amelia stared at her daughter as she ate her lasagna.

And there would be photos passed around in fifteen years time. Of a baby in the middle of the dinner table, in different outfits during different times of the year. Easter and Christmas and Birthdays. Newborn and then not.

Ada Rossella Norris, fifteen years old, will blush and squeak and say, “Mum, that’s so weird! Why was I on the table?”

And Amelia will swipe her hand across her daughter’s freckled cheek and say, “Where else would you be?”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the couch, one of her old engineering textbooks open in her lap. It was more comfort object than useful now — dense equations and fluid mechanics — but it gave her something to hold, something to do.

From down the hall, the sound of water running filled the quiet.

She turned a page absently. Then another.

Then paused, head tilting slightly.

Lando’s voice drifted out from the bathroom. Soft. Muffled. A kind of singsong narration.

“There’s your little foot… and here’s your other one… look at those perfect toes, Ada-bug…”

Just her husband. Bathing their daughter.

Amelia closed the book, the spine pressing into her palm.

She didn’t need to go check. Didn’t need to see with her own eyes to know he was being gentle, and cautious, and silly, and Lando.

And the realisation landed with no fanfare, no dramatic swell of emotion — just a quiet, settled truth.

She trusted him.

Completely.

With the most precious thing in the entire world.

She tucked the book beside her and got up slowly, padding barefoot to the doorway of the bathroom, where Lando knelt beside the little tub, sleeves rolled up, Ada’s soft, soapy body cradled between his careful hands.

He looked up and grinned when he saw her.

“Hey,” he whispered. “She loves the water.”

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her eyes soft.

“I like it too,” she said. “And I like you. Like this.”

He flushed a little, smiled wider. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

Ada squealed and splashed her fists in the water.

Amelia smiled at her little girl.

—

The paddock was quieter than it would be on race day — a lull before the storm.

Just the low hum of cameras, the occasional mechanical clatter of a forklift, and the shuffle of early-arriving team personnel cutting through the cool morning air. But even that — the muted version of Silverstone — pressed in around Amelia like static behind her eyes.

Too many overlapping sounds.

Too much motion at the edges of her vision, flickering like faulty headlights.

Ada shifted against her chest with a soft grunt, the wrap keeping her snug and swaddled, the rhythm of Amelia’s heartbeat her steady metronome. One of Amelia’s hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s back, her thumb tracing a repetitive pattern she didn’t consciously register. A grounding mechanism. Something to keep her tethered.

Her dad met them at the back entrance of the McLaren motorhome, face gentle, voice pitched low like he was afraid to set something off.

“Hello, my beautiful baby girls,” he said, already holding the door open. “We’ve cleared the top floor. Everyone knows to stay out. You’ve got total privacy.”

Amelia gave a small nod. Didn’t speak.

Her whole focus was on getting inside — away from the press of noise, the open sky, the potential germs and the unknowns.

Lando was already there.

The moment she stepped through the doorway, he turned as if pulled by a thread. His whole expression shifted — softened in an instant — as his eyes landed on them. His daughter, safe and warm. His wife, upright and moving, even if she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world and then some.

“You made it,” he breathed.

“I said I would,” Amelia murmured. “I made a plan.”

And the plan was always the comfort.

He didn’t crowd her, just hovered at her side as she allowed herself to be guided up the narrow staircase to the engineer’s meeting room. It had been transformed — not sterile, not chaotic. Just… still.

The blinds were drawn. The harsh fluorescents replaced with soft lamp lighting. A white noise machine hummed gently in the corner, masking the distant clatter of wheel guns and rolling crates. Someone had set up a chair by the window, a footstool just beneath it, a bottle of water and sanitiser waiting on a little table nearby. She didn’t know who had prepared it. Probably more than one person. That thought, strangely, comforted her.

Amelia sank into the chair and exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.

Lando crouched beside her, fingers light on the edge of the wrap. He didn’t try to take Ada. Just looked at her like he was memorising the details — her milk-drunk mouth, the dusky pink of her cheeks, the faintest tuft of dark hair under her little hat.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “Welcome to Silverstone. A week old and you’re already in the paddock. You know how crazy that is?”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her shoulders loosened slightly.

“We’re only staying for an hour. Maybe less. I just want to go over the strategy notes with Tom. I’ve already emailed them, but—”

“You want to go over them in person,” Lando finished. “That’s fine. That’s perfect.”

She adjusted the wrap slightly, fingers brushing Ada’s tiny back. “It’s too soon for her to actually be here for the full weekend. Her immune system, her ears…”

“I know,” Lando said gently. “She’ll be ready soon.” Then, quieter, “Maybe in a kart.”

Amelia’s eyes snapped to his. “Only if she wants to. Only if it’s her idea.”

He lifted a hand. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door.

Oscar stood just beyond it, holding two coffees and that neutral expression he wore when he didn’t want to spook anyone.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Amelia. “I can come back later?”

Amelia glanced at him, then at the room, then back to Ada — still sleeping, undisturbed. She gave a small nod.

Oscar stepped in with careful movements, like he knew what it cost her to allow anyone near the baby (because he did). He crouched beside the chair, not quite close enough to breach her space.

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

“Amazing, innit,” Lando murmured, standing up to take one of the coffees from him.

Oscar didn’t take his eyes off Ada. “You’re a machine,” he told Amelia. “For coming here. Thank you.”

“She slept the whole car ride,” Amelia said. “I packed enough supplies for three days rather than three hours.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You think that’ll be enough?”

“It's fine. My dad’s probably stashed nappies all over this motorhome,” she said dryly. “You can call Zak Brown a lot of things, but you can’t call him unprepared.”

That made both men laugh, the sound low and soft enough not to wake the baby.

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long Amelia stayed.

Long enough for her to sit in on the strategy meeting, long enough to pass off her annotated packet of data to Tom with a few muttered clarifications. Long enough for her to reassure herself that her world hadn’t spun too far off its axis.

She knew it had been twenty-seven minutes because she set a timer on her phone. Not a second longer.

And when they left — quietly, quickly, Lando carrying her bag, Oscar offering to hold the door open — she didn’t look back.

She had a baby girl to focus on.

And Lando would follow her home when he was done.

—

The front door clicked softly shut.

Ada stirred in her basket. Amelia looked up from her book — well, from the same paragraph she’d read six times — just as Lando stepped into the living room, damp curls flattened beneath his McLaren cap and a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Oscar hovered with two takeaway bags and a sheepish shrug. “He called me stupid for planning on going to the team hotel,” he said. “I didn’t fight that hard.”

Lando dropped a kiss to her temple as he passed. “She’s been awake?”

“Two feeds,” Amelia said, adjusting the blanket draped over her lap. “Four nappy changes. She’s settled now.”

Oscar was already crouching beside the basket, peering in at Ada like he hadn’t seen her just a few hours ago. “She’s still so small.”

“She’s seven days old,” Amelia pointed out. “She’s supposed to be small.”

“I know. But like… look at her.” He grinned, voice hushed. “She’s smaller than my forearm.”

Amelia blinked.

Lando had taken the food into the kitchen. She could hear the fridge opening, the rustle of takeaway containers. Oscar was now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Ada, humming softly under his breath.

The room felt full. But not crowded.

She marked her place in the book — something about fluid dynamics and downforce — and looked around.

Lando came back in with three bowls of food and no cutlery, because he always forgot the cutlery. He kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the sofa beside her, and pulled her close with a casualness that would’ve stunned her thirteen-year-old self.

Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.

She thought about being thirteen. About hiding in the corner of the school library, rereading the same paperbacks while her classmates whispered and passed notes about their crushes.

She’d never understood the obsession. Never wanted the chaos of it.

She’d convinced herself she wasn’t built for any of it — romance, affection, softness. She figured she’d grow up and live alone in a quiet flat with neat shelves and a routine no one could break.

And now she was here. Baby in a basket. Working in the sport she adored. Married. Her best friend sitting on her living room floor, humming to her daughter as she slept.

It made her chest ache, a little. With disbelief. With gratitude.

“Hey,” Lando said softly, glancing down. “You okay, baby?”

She nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable and full at once. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Lando’s brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want it. I thought I wasn’t… wired that way.” Her voice was even. Gentle. “I have never been so relieved to have been wrong about something.”

He kissed her again, this time on the side of her head. “Love you.”

Oscar, still on the floor, looked up with a half-smile. “Is this a bad time to ask if you’re willing to half your naan bread with me?”

Amelia laughed. Then she tore it in half and gave it to him.

Lando passed her a fork.

She hadn’t even noticed him go get it. But of course he had.

And as Ada shifted softly in her basket, a tiny sigh in the quiet, Amelia thought, ‘This. This is what home is.’

And she hadn’t even known to hope for it.

541 notes · View notes

chrisstvrns · 14 days ago

Text

you and chris' first time having sex since you gave birth to madi and nicky ⋆˚꩜｡

in which: you and chris have sex for the first time since you gave birth.

warnings: soft/slow sex, p in v, use of y/n, please let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 1.5k

the monitor hums quietly beside the bed, a faint blue glow casting soft shadows across the room. you glance at it out of habit, heart tuned to every small sound, even though your now four months old twins have been asleep for over an hour. you’re still learning how to relax again, if that’s even possible.

you hear the bathroom door creak open. chris steps out, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and curling at the ends. he looks tired, but when he sees you lying there, propped up against the pillows in one of his old shirts, something changes in his face, it softens.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the dark.

“hey,” you reply, eyes following him as he crosses the room and slides into bed beside you.

his hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers brushing tentatively before lacing through. you don’t say anything right away. neither does he. there’s comfort in the silence now, in the weight of his palm and the warmth of his skin.

“you okay?” he asks softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

you nod. “just… figuring out how to be in my body again.”

chris’s gaze drops for a second, and then he’s sitting up slightly, shifting closer. “you’ve been doing so much. i think about it all the time. how strong you are.”

you blink, not expecting the sudden sting behind your eyes. he doesn’t rush you. just leans forward, brushing a kiss against your forehead, then your cheek, his lips lingering longer this time.

“i miss you,” you say, voice quiet but honest.

he pulls back enough to look at you, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand. “i miss you too. not just like this,” he gestures vaguely between your bodies “but all of you. us.”

there’s a moment of breathless stillness between you. you nod once. that’s all it takes.

he leans in again, slower this time. when his lips meet yours, it’s not hungry. it’s reverent. patient. his hand slides to your waist, then hesitates.

“tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he says, eyes locking with yours.

you nod. “i will.”

your body’s changed, so has your heart. but as chris lowers you gently onto your back, kissing down your neck, careful hands exploring with rediscovered wonder, it doesn’t feel like trying to get something back. it feels like finding something new. together.

and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel wanted. not as a mother. not as a caretaker. just as you. his girlfriend, the love of his life, the mother of his children. his person.

as his lips trail lower, every kiss feels like a promise. unspoken, unhurried. chris moves as if he's listening not just to your breath, but to something deeper. the kind of listening that doesn’t require words.

your hands move on instinct, brushing over his shoulders, the familiar slope of his back, the damp ends of his hair curling under your fingers. his body, too, feels changed. not in shape, but in weight. in intention. like he’s holding something sacred. not just you, but the moment.

when he finally undresses you, he does it slowly, reverently, his eyes never leaving yours for long. there’s no rush, no pressure. just a quiet understanding that this, this reconnection, is something that needs gentleness, not urgency.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like he’s reminding you of something you’ve forgotten.

you laugh, breath catching a little. “i don’t always feel that way lately.”

chris shakes his head, leaning down to kiss the curve of your hip. “doesn’t matter. i see you. always have.”

your heart thuds, not with nerves, but with something warmer, steadier. you feel like crying again, but you don’t. instead, you pull him closer, fingertips tracing familiar lines on his back, like a map you’re learning all over again.

when he finally enters you, it’s slow. like you’re both relearning a language you used to speak fluently, but now every word, every motion feels more intentional. you breathe together, finding rhythm, finding each other.

you gently hiss as he bottoms out, cradling your face in his hands as he whispers. “i’ve got you, baby. tell me if you want me to stop.”

you softly shake your head, hugging him as he continues to move in and out of you.

there’s no need to fill the silence. the soft hum of the baby monitor, the creak of the mattress, your joined breaths. they became the soundtrack. and underneath it all, a quiet truth. this isn’t about returning to who you were before. it’s about becoming something new, together.

“chris” you gently whine, scratching his back as the familiar yet unfamiliar feeling pools in your stomach

“close, sweetheart?” you whispers, burying his face in his neck, softly sucking a mark into your shoulder

you nod, stuttering as you gently arch your back. “c’mon, baby. cum for me.”

you let out a soft whine, feeling your tummy snap, releasing around his cock, hugging him tightly

“good girl, y/n. good girl.” he whispers “feels so good.” he mutters, pulling out and pumping his dick, groaning as he releases his thick, white seed on your stomach.

you sit up, watching him in awe. he scoops you up, carrying you bridal style to the bathroom, setting you on the counter. he soaks a rag in water, softly cleaning your thighs. he cleans your stomach, while you keep your eyes glued to him.

“y’did so good for me.” he whispers, kissing his way up your stomach, finally pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “i love you.”

“i love you, too. thank you” you whisper

later, when you’re both tangled in the blankets, your body tucked into his, his hand resting over your stomach as if still remembering where your babies grew, you feel a peace you hadn’t realized you were missing.

chris kisses your temple and murmurs, “we’re still us.”

you nod, eyes fluttering shut. “yeah. maybe even better.”

outside, the wind brushes gently against the window, a reminder that the world is still turning, even as everything inside this room feels suspended in warmth and stillness.

chris’s hand strokes small, absent-minded circles over your skin. you can feel the subtle shifts in his breathing behind you, chest rising and falling against your back. he’s not quite asleep.

neither are you. but it’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

you shift slightly, enough that your fingers can find his under the covers. he squeezes back, like he was waiting for it.

“i was scared,” you admit softly, barely louder than the hum of the monitor. “not just about… all this. about us. about losing something we wouldn’t know how to find again.”

chris presses a kiss to your shoulder. “me too.”

his honesty doesn’t surprise you anymore. it only deepens the ache in your chest—an ache that’s not pain, but something closer to relief.

“but then i’d look at you,” you continue, “and i’d feel it. that it was still there. just buried under all the exhaustion, the chaos. the bottles and laundry and midnight cries. us… we just needed a moment.”

chris hums softly in agreement, shifting so he can nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck. “i know. i kept trying to fix it all. but maybe what we needed wasn’t fixing. just… space to find each other again.”

you don’t speak. you don’t need to. the words have done what they needed to. now there’s just the quiet of knowing you’re both still here.

a rustle crackles through the monitor. not a cry, just a soft coo, maybe a stretch or a sleepy sigh. you both turn your heads toward the small speaker on the nightstand, instinctively in sync. after a moment of silence, the monitor settles again. the twins stay asleep.

chris chuckles quietly. “i still can’t believe we made two of them.”

you smile, turning slightly so you can see his face in the soft blue light. “i know. feels like a dream sometimes. a really chaotic, messy, beautiful dream.”

his thumb brushes across your cheek, gentle and reverent. “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “and them. you gave me a family.”

you blink slowly, the emotion rising again like a tide. “so did you.”

the silence that follows is heavy with meaning. he leans forward, brushing a kiss to your lips. this one softer, slower than any before. less about passion, more about gratitude. a sealing of something unspoken.

eventually, your eyelids grow heavy. you tuck yourself closer to him, letting his warmth wrap around you like armor. you feel his breathing slow, his hand still resting protectively over your stomach like he can still feel the life that once grew there.

and before sleep takes you, you whisper into the dark, “we’re gonna be okay, right?”

chris doesn’t hesitate. “yeah, baby. we already are.”

────────────୨ৎ────────────

aurora's notes: currently 8:14 pm on monday, june 2nd. dk when im gonna post this but!!!

- aurora ᯓ✮⋆˙

likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated! ੈ✩‧₊˚

to be added to my taglist, comment on this post!

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er1nne · 1 month ago

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let him speak

summary: it’s just another chaotic shift in the pitt—until carter tries to speak up during a trauma case and gets talked over, again. you weren’t planning to say anything, but watching him get shut down one too many times pushes you past your limit

warnings : none just standard fluff, a bit of cursing nothing crazy though

word count : 1.2k

author's note : watching ER for the first time & I hate how life + everyone treats Carter for the first season or too, as though life hasn't been harsh enough already. he just needs someone to step in for him :( also, the medical terms and prognosis might be wrong, sorry not in medical school. but you're not here for that anyways

(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)

The trauma room is full. Too full, but honestly, what's new.

It’s the kind of full that doesn’t just crowd bodies—it suffocates focus. Every inch of space is taken. Nurses are shoulder to shoulder, interns squeezed between trays and carts, and the air is thick—humid with breath, sweat, and the stench of blood and antiseptic clashing in the fluorescent light.

The monitors are screaming now, not beeping. The pitch spikes, falls, screams again. No one’s silencing them. Gloves snap onto hands that are already damp with adrenaline, wrists slick, hearts pounding. Every voice is raised, not out of panic—but because no one can hear over the storm.

On the center table lies a man in his early forties—barely conscious, drifting in and out. There’s a fresh, angry scar running down his sternum, ribs mottled in bruising so deep it looks like ink. His gown’s been cut away, exposing a chest that’s rising unevenly. Shallow breaths hitch in his throat. The left side of his body barely moves.

A cold sweat glistens across his forehead. His fingers twitch against the sheets. His blood pressure’s free-falling, oxygen saturation dipping below seventy, and no one’s really processing it. They’re just reacting. Fast. Frantic. No rhythm. No hierarchy. Just noise.

You press gauze to the open wound across his ribs, trying to clear the visual field. Benton storms in next—gloves already on, eyes scanning the room like it’s not moving fast enough. “He’s circling the drain,” he says sharply. “I want a central line, chest tubes prepped, and someone get me a damn ultrasound.”

At the crash cart, two interns are fumbling through drawers, knocking saline vials loose, whispering to each other like they’re afraid to be wrong out loud. Chaos in white coats.

And at the foot of the bed—

Carter.

At the foot of the bed, Carter stands stiffly with the chart tucked under his arm, brows furrowed as his eyes scan the vitals again. The patient’s breathing is shallow, asymmetric. Something’s off. He shifts his weight like he’s about to speak.

He sees it. The pattern on the monitor. The bruising. The shallow breathing that doesn’t match the chest rise. Something’s off. Something subtle but important. He doesn’t look lost. He looks like he sees something no one else is looking for. But he hesitates.

“I think we should—” he starts, voice quiet, uncertain but grounded.

Benton cuts across him immediately. “Push another liter. I want that central line started now. Somebody get surgery prepped. He’s crashing.”

Carter takes a breath, tries again. “I think there’s—”

Carter starts to speak—again—and that’s when your head snaps up.

Because you’ve been watching. From the moment the chaos started, you’ve seen how his words keep getting swallowed whole. He’s not guessing. He’s reading the room. The chart. The patient.

“Get an ultrasound in here,” Doug barks, flipping through the chart. “We need to confirm pulmonary collapse before we put in a chest tube.”

Carter frowns. “But I think it might be—”

You’re across from him, inserting a second line. You glance up at the hesitancy in his voice, the way his shoulders hunch just slightly after each interruption. You catch the way he looks at the screen—like he sees something no one else does.

Your voice cuts in—not harsh, just clear. “Let him finish.”

No one hears you. Or maybe they do, but they don’t care.

Doug’s already turned to an intern. “Go ahead and prep bilateral chest tubes. He’s spiraling.”

“Wait—” Carter steps forward. “If we decompress without checking for tamponade—”

“I said move!” Benton snaps to the team, ignoring both of you now. “Pressure’s dropping—he’s circling the drain!”

You raise your voice slightly. “Guys, just hold up—”

Nothing. Not even a glance.

Carter’s jaw is tight now. His voice lowers, meant just for you. “They’re about to decompress the only lung still compensating.”

You watch him for a second. He’s right. You know he’s right. And they’re still talking over him like he’s not even in the damn room.

You try one more time, sharper now. “Would anyone like to listen to the guy who actually read the chart?”

Benton doesn’t even look up. They keep moving.

“Will someone move?” Benton snaps. “He’s crashing.”

And your hands go still at the IV. You stare at the patient. At Carter. Then back at the room full of men playing hero. Your jaw clenches. Because you’re one second away from ending all of this noise yourself.

“Shut up!”

It tears out of your throat—louder, sharper, and more final than anything else that’s been said all shift. It doesn’t rise above the chaos—it ends it.

The room freezes.

The clatter of the crash cart halts. Gloves pause mid-pull. Even the beeping monitors feel like they retreat, dropping to the background as every head slowly turns. Your boots scuff against the tile as you round the foot of the bed. You don’t yell again. You don’t need to. The fire’s already burning. You cut your gaze across the room—past Doug Ross, who raises his brows but wisely says nothing. Past the pair of interns who now look like they want to melt into the floor. And finally, you land on Benton. Cold. Direct. Daring him to shut you down.

“Would one of you self-important geniuses give him a damn chance to speak? He's here to learn, not stand around like a coat hanger.”

Silence. Dense. No one breathes.

Carter looks like someone just physically removed the pressure from his chest. His eyes are wide—surprised, but underneath that, something else: stunned gratitude and disbelief. Like he’s not used to anyone stepping in, let alone someone like you. He didn't even think you noticed him the way everyone around him is acting like he isn't even here.

He doesn’t speak at first. No one does.

You hold Benton’s stare for another beat. Then, without turning away, you tilt your head slightly in Carter’s direction.

Your voice is steady, clipped, controlled. “Proceed, Dr. Carter.”

That formality isn’t lost on anyone in the room.

He swallows, nods once, then takes a step forward, straightening the chart in his hands like it’s suddenly worth holding again. His voice isn’t loud—but it’s clear now. Confident. Present.

“There’s fluid in the pericardial sac,” he says. “If we decompress the chest now, we risk collapsing the only functioning lung. The right side is already gone—we need to confirm tamponade before we open anything. That means ultrasound. That means draining—not cutting.”

Doug frowns, reaching back for the ultrasound probe. “Right, right. Why didn't I think of that.”

He moves the probe across the chest. Adjusts the screen. Then nods, face shifting from skepticism to focus. “That’s not lung shadowing. That’s cardiac. Look at the compression on the left ventricle.”

Benton doesn’t speak. But his jaw flexes tight. He glances at the screen, then gives a curt nod to the nearest nurse. “Prep for pericardiocentesis.”

No argument. Just movement.

The entire room shifts—like someone yanked it out of autopilot and shoved it back into awareness. Everyone pivots. Everything clicks into place. The chaos doesn’t disappear, but for the first time all shift, it aligns.

You step back from the center, letting the team work. Letting Carter lead.

And in the middle of the motion, Carter glances at you.

It’s brief. No dramatics. Just a look—quick and sharp, like he’s trying to say something he’s never had the space to before. He blushes faintly. Not from embarrassment—but something quieter. More personal. He still clutches the chart like it might vanish if he lets go. His voice is soft. Just for you.

“…Thank you, Doctor.”

You meet his eyes. Hold them just a second longer than necessary. Then nod once, like it’s nothing.

And then the work goes on.

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tradebirddigital · 1 month ago

Text

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myivcannula · 8 months ago

Text

#pressure monitoring line #pressure monitoring line specifications #pressure monitoring line types #medical pressure monitoring line #monitoring line

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honeyandruin · 6 days ago

Text

Seared - Firefighter!Joel Miller x Reader

🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦

Pairing: firefighter!Joel Miller x Reader (modern AU)

Summary: You triage trauma. He runs headfirst into it. But nothing prepares either of you for what happens when restraint finally snaps.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Mutual pining. Rough, desperate oral (f!receiving). Semi-clothed sex. Overstimulation. Praise kink. Slight manhandling. Breathy filth. Joel is obsessed and possessive but soft where it counts.

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: Firefighter Joel owns me. This is a slow, burning collapse into obsession, filth, and the softest kind of ruin. Blame the wall. Blame the pie. Blame him. (Also… the firefighter Joel pic??? Excuse me??)

🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦

You remember the first time you met Joel Miller like a scar—ugly, sharp, and still sensitive to the touch.

He came through the ER doors at a sprint, boots pounding tile, smoke curling off his jacket like he’d dragged the fire in with him.

There was blood. Soot. The sharp tang of scorched plastic. And a man—mid-twenties, barely conscious, bleeding fast from a shredded leg—half-slumped under Joel’s arm.

You were in the middle of a controlled chaos—three beds full, a psych hold screaming in bay six, and the urgent, endless ping of vitals slipping. But everything in you snapped to attention the second you saw that leg.

You were already moving.

“Over here!” you shouted, waving down the trauma team. “Get him on the table—move!”

Joel didn’t let go.

You grabbed for the gurney, but he was still holding him, like he didn’t trust you.

“I said I’ve got him—let go!”

He finally released his grip, and the rookie slumped into the arms of two med techs.

“Vitals are dropping,” someone called. “Pressure’s tanking.”

“Push fluids, get a line in—hang a unit, now!”

You were halfway through barking orders when you realized he was still there. Standing in the middle of the trauma bay like a goddamn statue. Covered in soot. Eyes locked on the kid being wheeled away.

You turned on him, voice sharp.

“Hey. Outside the bay. Now.”

He didn’t move. Not right away.

“I’m not leaving him.”

You stepped closer—just enough for him to register the authority in your voice.

“You’re in the way,” you said. Low. Firm. “You wanna help him? Let us do our jobs.”

His jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he might argue again. But then his eyes flicked to the team crowding the table, to the rookie fading fast on the monitor, and he backed up.

Just two steps.

You followed. Got him clear of the curtain.

“Are you hurt?”

He blinked. Like he hadn’t even noticed. Then looked down—blood soaked through the arm of his jacket.

“Split it on rebar,” he muttered. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” You gestured toward the empty cot behind you. “Sit. Jacket off.”

He moved stiffly. Shoulders tight, face unreadable.

You grabbed gloves and gauze, snapped a packet of sterile saline, and started cleaning the wound without waiting for permission.

“You always this friendly?” He asked, voice low and flat.

“You always this dramatic?”

That got a huff of a laugh. Not quite a real one.

You wrapped his forearm in silence. Neat, quick, no-nonsense.

When you were done, you looked him in the eye and said, “You’re good to go.”

He didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t even nod.

Just stood. Walked out the same way he came in—like a storm that hadn’t finished.

And now, he’s back.

You smell him before you see him.

Burned plastic. Charred wood. Sweat and smoke and the unmistakable sharpness of blood just beginning to dry. The scent curls into the trauma bay like a warning, coiling around your ribs before he even rounds the corner.

Your shoulders stiffen on instinct.

You don’t have to look up. You already know.

Joel fucking Miller.

And then—there he is.

Framed in the doorway like he owns it. Same goddamn turnout jacket, open at the chest, the collar dark with soot. There’s blood trickling from his temple, a slow, lazy curl down the side of his face. His shirt’s torn, streaked black with ash and sweat, clinging to the wide line of his chest like it’s holding on for dear life. He’s favoring one side—ribs, probably—but not enough to admit anything’s wrong.

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and pretend your pulse doesn’t jump.

“Tell me you missed me,” he says, voice low and dry, like he already knows the answer.

You don’t look up from the chart. “Tell me you didn’t come in here without a run sheet. Again.”

That huff of a laugh. Deep. Rough. The one that always sounds like it’s been dragged across gravel.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You look up slowly, eyes locking on his like a scope lining up a target.

“Miller,” you say flatly.

“That’s my name,” he says with a nod and a crooked little smirk that makes you want to wipe it off his face with a suture needle.

“What happened this time?” You ask, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Fall into a bonfire? Wrestle a flaming raccoon? Light yourself on fire for the insurance money?”

“Roof collapse.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Took a wrong step. Got lucky.”

You eye the way he’s holding his side. The way his jaw’s set too tight, like he’s trying not to breathe too deep. “Define lucky.”

“Didn’t die.”

“Not yet.”

You jerk your chin toward the nearest cot. “Shirt off. Sit down. Try not to bleed on anything important.”

He walks past you—slow, deliberate—and when he passes, your shoulder brushes his chest. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the heat radiating off him, to catch the scent of ash still clinging to his skin.

He eases himself onto the edge of the gurney with a grunt, then peels off his jacket. You hear the rip of Velcro. The shift of heavy fabric. And then, finally, the sound of him hissing through his teeth as he drags the ruined shirt up over his head and lets it fall.

You glance at him.

Big mistake.

There’s a deep bruise blossoming across his ribs—angry, purple, the kind that tells you he probably cracked something and refused to admit it. There’s soot along his collarbone, streaking down over muscle and tension. A cut over his temple, still bleeding. And somehow—somehow—he looks smug about all of it.

“You got a habit of showing up looking like a cautionary tale,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic.

“You got a habit of pretending that doesn’t bother you,” he fires back.

You dab the cloth to the cut on his brow a little harder than necessary.

He flinches.

“Sadist,” he mutters under his breath.

“I told you last time,” you say. “If you keep playing with fire, it’s gonna bite you back.”

“Fire doesn’t bite,” he says, eyes on yours. “It burns.”

You pause.

Only for a second. But it’s enough.

That look in his eyes—you hate it. The way it lingers. The way it makes your stomach tighten and your hands move too fast, like you’re trying to outrun it.

“You need X-rays,” you mutter. “I’m calling imaging.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Same difference.”

You swear softly under your breath and tape gauze into place with more force than is strictly necessary.

“You gonna keep playing nurse or are you gonna lecture me?” He asks, watching you like a man tracking movement in a fire.

You throw the soiled gauze in the bin. “You wouldn’t listen either way.”

“You don’t know what I’d do.”

Your head snaps up.

For a second, neither of you speak. The hum of fluorescent lights. The beep of distant monitors. The faint hiss of a blood pressure cuff inflating somewhere down the hall.

You meet his gaze and there it is.

That thing you don’t talk about. That static in the air when he walks in. That spark between teeth and tongue, between every insult and half-smile. That thread pulled so tight, it’s one breath away from snapping.

But you don’t say it.

You just strip your gloves off, toss them, and step back.

“You’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung,” you say. “Go to X-ray. Now.”

He stands, slow. His bare chest rises and falls—slow, even, careful.

He reaches for his shirt.

You stop him with one sharp look. “I’ll get you something clean,” you mutter. “Yours smells like arson.”

He smirks. “Like you’d know what arson smells like.”

“Like you wouldn’t be the one who set it.”

He starts to laugh—then winces, one hand going to his ribs.

You don’t smile—you want to, but you don’t.

He grabs his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. “You know my name yet?”

You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure I had to write it on your discharge forms five times.”

He leans just slightly toward you. Enough that his voice brushes the shell of your ear.

“Use it sometime, sweetheart.”

You don’t watch him walk out, but you hear his boots on the tile, and you feel the heat long after he’s gone.

***

It’s almost midnight when he walks in again.

The trauma bay is quiet. Lights dimmed. Monitors muted. You’re charting under fluorescent hum, legs aching, your scrub top sticking to your back from twelve straight hours of triage, blood, and bullshit.

You don’t expect anyone to come through those doors this late—at least, not on foot.

But there he is: Joel Miller.

Still in uniform pants, but the jacket’s gone. His shirt’s rolled to the elbows, forearms streaked with soot and dried blood. His left hand is wrapped in what looks like a torn kitchen towel, soaked red through the middle.

No escort. No gurney. No paperwork.

Just him.

And that look he always wears when he knows damn well he shouldn’t be here.

You don’t speak at first. Just stare across the bay at him like you’re deciding if it’s worth the breath.

Finally: “Dispatch didn’t bring you in.”

“Nope.”

“Not logged on the board.”

“Nope.”

You sigh, setting your chart aside. “So this is a social call.”

He lifts the bloodied hand slightly. “Brought you somethin’.”

You push up from your stool and nod toward the exam table. “You’re lucky it’s a slow night.”

“Figured you’d still be here.”

The words aren’t soft—but they land that way.

You pretend not to hear them. “Let me guess,” you mutter, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Glass? Metal? Or did you try to punch your way through a flaming wall this time?”

He sits down with a grunt. “Wasn’t flaming. Just hot.”

You give him a flat look.

He shrugs.

You take the towel from his hand carefully, peeling it back from the raw mess underneath. Deep gash across the palm. Jagged. Ugly. No active bleeding now, but definitely a few foreign bodies buried in the flesh.

“You didn’t clean this.”

“I rinsed it.”

You shoot him a look.

“With hose water,” he adds.

You sigh again, louder this time, and begin gathering supplies. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it. Barely.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Just watches as you roll a tray over and start flushing the wound.

The room is quiet—just the hiss of saline, the clink of metal tools, the drag of your breath through your nose.

“You didn’t have to come here,” you say eventually. “Could’ve hit urgent care.”

“They’re closed.”

You glance up. “There are twenty-four-hour clinics.”

“Didn’t want to wait around.”

You pause. Eyes narrow slightly. “So you came here. After hours. Alone. No radio call.”

His expression doesn’t shift. “And?”

Your hands still for just a moment. You look back down. “You always show up broken, you know that?”

“And you always fix me.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before. You keep working—removing the last shard, checking the depth. He doesn’t flinch once. Just watches you, quiet, eyes steady on your face like he’s trying to read something you haven’t written down.

“You need a few sutures,” you say.

“I figured.”

You reach for the lidocaine. “This’ll sting.”

He doesn’t react to the needle. Not the pinch. Not the pull of thread through skin. Not even when you apply pressure to knot it off.

But when your fingers brush the edge of his wrist to adjust the angle, you feel it—that little shift in the air. The tightening of his jaw. The way his thumb twitches.

It lingers.

You finish the final suture and cut the thread. “All done.”

You reach for the bandages, wrapping his hand gently, clean and tight.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Just flexes his fingers once, testing.

“Thanks,” he says.

You look up at him. “Don’t make a habit of this,” you say.

He tilts his head. “Of what? Injuring myself?”

You shake your head. “Coming here when you don’t have to.”

His eyes stay on yours, heavy and direct.

“I did have to.”

And that—that’s the part you don’t have a comeback for.

So you toss your gloves, wash your hands, and turn away before he can see the way your throat tightens.

***

They pull you from the ER just after 3 a.m.

You’re halfway through a stale protein bar when the call comes in—mass casualty, three-alarm fire, structure collapse at a chemical warehouse near the river. EMS is spread thin. Triage is failing on scene. Your charge nurse tosses you a trauma pack and tells you to suit up.

No time to argue. No time to think. You grab your gloves, your gear, your clipboard full of vitals and field protocols. The medic van is already idling at the curb when you climb in. You barely feel the bump of tires hitting potholes. Barely register the sirens howling through the dark.

You don’t realize what you’re walking into until you see the sky.

It isn’t black, it’s orange.

The fire’s still active when you arrive.

Smoke curls into the clouds like something alive. Flames flicker from broken windows. The air is thick—acrid, chemical, heavy enough to choke on. You can taste it on your tongue before you even step out of the van. It burns low in your throat, settles in your lungs like ash.

The street is chaos. Water spraying from hoses. Lights bouncing off metal and glass. Firefighters moving fast, shouting over radios and wind. The sound of cracking steel echoes from somewhere behind the wall of smoke. You can feel the heat radiating off the pavement, even through your boots.

You barely have time to assess your surroundings before the shouting starts.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

The voice cuts through the noise like a knife. Familiar. Rough-edged. Furious. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

Joel.

His boots hit the ground hard as he storms toward you. Helmet pushed back, jacket unzipped, eyes locked on you like you’re the fire he’s supposed to put out.

He looks worse than usual—smeared in soot, sweat clinging to his collar, black streaks along the curve of his jaw. His mouth is a hard, angry line.

You square your shoulders. “Nice to see you too.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he snaps. “This is a live zone.”

You shift the trauma pack on your shoulder and raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, well. Sucks for both of us.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“This isn’t the ER,” he bites. “You don’t have gear, you don’t have certification—”

“And you don’t have enough medics. That’s why I’m here.”

He stops, just in front of you. Not touching. But close enough that you feel the heat coming off his gear. Close enough to see the soot melting into the lines around his eyes.

He shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying not to lose it.

“You think this is some kind of field trip?”

You glare at him. “I think people are dying. And if you’re gonna waste your time barking at me instead of letting me help, you can answer to the guy bleeding out behind the truck.”

His nostrils flare but before he can speak again, someone shouts across the lot.

“Three pulled from the northwest corridor—one unconscious, two ambulatory. We need help over here!”

Joel looks toward the smoke—then back at you. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. He just turns and starts running, boots hitting the ground hard and fast. You hesitate for only a second before following.

The scene is chaos.

There’s debris scattered across the asphalt—metal, splinters of glass, a half-melted helmet. The west wall of the warehouse is blackened and skeletal, like something chewed through it from the inside. You can hear the building groaning with every gust of wind.

Joel leads you past a downed ladder, ducking under fallen conduit, motioning for you to keep low. You ignore the sting in your throat. Ignore the sweat already slicking the back of your neck.

Two firefighters are kneeling near the edge of the perimeter, their patients sprawled on burn sheets. One is a teenage girl, barely conscious. Another is coughing violently into a mask. The third is flat on his back, unmoving.

Joel drops to one knee beside him. You drop beside the girl.

She’s pale. Clammy. A nasty burn blooms across her arm, blistered and angry, skin peeling at the edges. Her respirations are shallow. You slip on gloves and call for fluids, reach for your saline, get a vitals check.

Your hands move on autopilot. Triage first. Airway. Burn dressing. You shout orders without thinking, and someone hands you the oxygen tank you asked for before your mouth finishes the sentence.

You hear Joel behind you, yelling for a C-collar. The edge in his voice cuts clean through the haze. He’s snapping orders, coordinating movement—controlling everything.

Except you.

When you reach for a roll of gauze from your kit, the strap on the bag snags. You lean harder, trying to twist free, and your boot slips—wet pavement, blood or water or oil, it doesn’t matter. Your balance goes.

You brace to hit the ground—but you don’t. A hand catches your arm, yanking you back with a force that knocks the breath from your chest. Fingers clamp around your sleeve, hard and unrelenting, like he’s trying to root you in place. Joel’s. You know it before you even look. His grip is tight—too tight—but you don’t pull away. Can’t. His other hand plants against his thigh to steady you both, his body a wall of heat and strength and barely leashed adrenaline. The contact isn’t gentle, but it’s not rough, either. Just solid. Certain. Grounding. Enough to remind you that he’s there. That he saw you stumble. That he didn’t hesitate. You freeze. The space between you crackles with something unspeakable—panic, fury, relief. He doesn’t say a word. Neither do you. The silence hangs heavy, full of everything you’re not ready to face.

Your pulse kicks against your throat.

“I’m fine,” you say quietly.

His fingers twitch once and then release. He steps back, not looking at you again.

A shout rises from behind the firetruck—another firefighter staggering through the smoke, half-dragging an unconscious man.

Joel is already moving.

You catch up just in time to see him ease the man down onto the pavement.

Mid-thirties. Heavy build. Covered in soot. No response to stimuli. Skin cool, lips gray.

Joel’s voice is tight. Controlled. Barely holding it together. “He’s not breathing.”

You’re already moving, dropping hard beside him, fingers searching for a pulse you know you won’t find. “No carotid. Start compressions.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t speak. Just drops to his knees, laces his fingers together, and starts compressions—fast, deep, brutal. Like he’s trying to beat the man back to life with his bare hands.

You kneel across from him, tearing open the airway bag with blood-slick gloves.

“Thirty compressions. One breath. Go.”

He nods, jaw clenched tight, and counts under his breath. Sweat slides down the side of his face, dripping from his temple, his focus unshakable. His shoulders rise and fall in rhythm, harsh and punishing.

You tilt the man’s head back. Seal your lips over his. Breathe.

Once.

Again.

One minute. Two. Time twists, folds in on itself. You lose track. There’s blood on your gloves now—thick and tacky—but you don’t know whose. Joel’s breathing hard, jaw flexing with every compression. His eyes never leave the man’s chest, like he’s willing it to rise on its own.

Then—

A sound. A shift. A cough.

Wet and rattling.

Both of you freeze.

Joel jerks back, bracing on his heels as the man gasps for breath, lungs struggling to remember how to work. You stare, stunned.

“Airway’s back,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He’s alive.

Because of both of you.

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just looks at you. And you look back.

Sirens wail in the distance. People are shouting. The air is thick with smoke and panic. But all of it dulls beneath the weight of that look. His face is filthy—soot-streaked, bloodied, bone-deep tired—but his eyes soften. Just a little. Like something inside him has cracked, and he hasn’t figured out how to put it back together yet.

You don’t say thank you.

You don’t need to.

***

You’re still awake when he knocks.

The shower didn’t help. Neither did the tea. You’ve tried cleaning, pacing, pulling the sheets back and getting into bed, then climbing right back out again. It’s like your body’s still at the scene, lungs full of smoke, hands stained with blood that isn’t yours. The adrenaline wore off, but the buzz underneath your skin hasn’t left.

The knock is soft. Measured.

You almost don’t answer.

But when you open the door, he’s there—shoulders tense, arms crossed, like he hasn’t moved since he watched that man start breathing again. Joel doesn’t look at you right away. He stares past you, like stepping inside might ruin something.

You don’t say a word. Just take a step back, and he follows without asking, crossing the threshold like the decision was made long before he got here. He doesn’t sit. Neither do you. The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence blooms between you—thick and awful, too loud in the quiet. You clear your throat, voice low. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

He sniffs, slow, rubs a hand along his jaw. “Yeah. Well.”

You watch him for a second. The way his mouth moves like he’s chewing on something, jaw tight, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Joel.”

His gaze snaps to yours.

You take a breath, arms folding over your chest. “If you came to tell me I shouldn’t have been there, save it.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m not gonna tell you that.”

“Then what?”

He stares at you for a long time. His voice is quiet when it comes.

“You almost fucking fell.”

You blink. “I didn’t.”

“You almost did.”

You shake your head, exhausted. “I was fine. You caught me. We saved him. End of story.”

Joel’s mouth curves—not a smile. Something bitter. “You always say that. Like none of it sticks to you.”

You step closer. “You think it doesn’t?”

“I think you’d rather bleed out than admit something got to you.”

The words hit harder than they should. And maybe you’re too tired to deflect.

“Why do you care?” You whisper.

Joel doesn’t move.

So you step closer. “Why do you show up like this? Why do you follow me home and act like you're still mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“No?”

“I’m—”

He cuts himself off. Jaw flexing.

You press. “Then what? Because if you’ve got something to say, say it, Joel. Otherwise—”

He’s on you before you finish.

The kiss hits hard—open-mouthed, desperate, more teeth than tongue. His hands slide into your hair, tugging, tilting your head just enough for him to drink from your mouth like he’s been dying to.

You gasp against him, one hand fisting in his shirt. He groans when you pull him closer, his thigh sliding between yours. He walks you back until your spine hits the wall, and he keeps going—hip pressed to yours, his body radiating heat.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he mutters against your jaw, hands at your waist, voice cracked and hoarse. “I saw your foot slip and my fucking stomach dropped. You could’ve fell on a piece of metal, or been burned from some debris–”

You try to breathe, but it comes out a moan instead when he rocks into you, his thigh pressing where you need it most.

“I was fine.” You choke out, words getting stuck in your throat.

His hands slide under your shirt, rough palms on soft skin. He doesn’t ease into it—he grabs, pulls, peels fabric back until you’re gasping against the wall. His mouth is on your throat, biting down just enough to make you arch.

“I should leave,” he breathes.

“You won’t.”

He growls—growls, deep in his throat, his hand sliding your panties down, slow and rough, the drag of fabric scraping your thighs as he falls to his knees like gravity doesn’t give him a choice.

You gasp, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders for balance, your back pressed hard to the wall as he drags his mouth along your hip—hot breath, scratch of stubble, the wet swipe of his tongue just above the seam of your thigh.

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s not a warning. It’s a plea.

He doesn’t respond. Not with words.

He lifts your leg, flings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and pushes you open with both hands—his palms flat against the inside of your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to bruise. You feel exposed, helpless, trembling against the drywall while his mouth hovers just inches away.

Then he licks you.

A long, slow drag of his tongue from the bottom of your slit to your clit, deliberate and unhurried, like he’s been thinking about this for months and plans to memorize everything. Your hips jerk. He presses harder into you, anchoring you to the wall with his body, mouth sealing over your clit like he means it.

The moan that rips out of you is loud—sharp and raw and wet. He groans in return, the sound vibrating through your cunt as he works his tongue in circles, messy and open-mouthed, like he’s starved for it. His beard is already slick with you, the soft scrape of it catching as he drags his tongue lower again, flattening it against your entrance, then back up.

Your head thumps against the wall. You’re gripping his hair now, one hand tangled in the strands at the back of his neck, the other white-knuckling his shoulder.

“F–fuck, Joel—”

He moans again, louder this time, and moves one hand to your ass, grabbing a handful and using it to pull you harder against his mouth. He’s not slow now. He’s feasting—no rhythm, no restraint. Just sloppy, hungry licks and tight suction on your clit, like he wants to make you come so hard you forget what you were fighting about.

You cry out again, thighs shaking, the leg he’s holding twitching against his shoulder.

His eyes flick up, catch yours, and there’s something wild in them—something proud.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, voice wrecked from the inside of your thighs. “Let me taste you.”

He seals his mouth around your clit again and sucks—hard.

You come like he’s dragged it out of you.

Your legs threaten to give, hips stuttering forward as your entire body locks, spasms, shudders against his face. You choke out a noise that doesn’t sound like yours—high-pitched, desperate—and his grip only tightens, mouth still working you through it like he’s not done yet.

He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering—truly shaking—and trying to push his head away, thighs twitching from overstimulation.

Only then does he pull back, mouth swollen and wet, beard soaked with you.

You’re panting. Glowing. Wrecked.

He looks up at you from his knees, gaze heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s been running.

“Turn around,” he growls.

You blink, still dangling from your high. “What?”

His hands move to your hips, already guiding you. “Get your ass up those stairs.”

“Joel—”

He stands in one smooth motion, towering over you, already hard beneath the press of his jeans. He kisses you—filthy, open-mouthed, wet with the taste of yourself—and you moan into him, dizzy.

Then his hands are on the backs of your thighs, and suddenly your feet are off the ground.

You yelp—latch onto his shoulders.

“You said I wouldn’t leave,” he murmurs, breath hot at your ear. “So now I’m staying. Upstairs.”

He carries you like you weigh nothing.

One hand under your thighs, the other on your back, his mouth at your neck as he takes the stairs two at a time. You cling to him, panting, already squirming in his grip. You feel his cock pressing into you—hard, thick, barely contained behind his zipper—and he grinds up into you once with a groan before tightening his hold.

You reach the top of the stairs. Your bedroom door hits the wall. The sheets haven’t even been pulled back.

He throws you onto the mattress like he’s waited forever to ruin you.

The second your back hits the mattress, he’s on you.

Joel doesn’t bother with your shirt—just yanks it up, shoves it over your chest until it’s bunched beneath your arms, and groans at the sight of you laid out for him. You’re already flushed, skin damp, your cunt slick and shining from what he just did to you against the wall. But that’s not enough for him. Not nearly.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost angry. “Fucking glowing. Can’t even sit still.”

You try to answer, but he’s already climbing over you, already grinding his hips down, and it’s the thick press of denim against your bare core that pulls a gasp from your lips. You’re soaked—dripping—and the friction makes you twitch.

He kisses you hard. Messy and breathless. His tongue slides against yours as he fists your bra and yanks it down to mouth at your tits, teeth dragging over one nipple while his hand works the other. You arch under him, panting, moaning, thighs falling open without shame.

Joel groans into your skin.

“Can feel your pussy through my jeans,” he mutters, grinding slow. “You gonna come again just like this? So fuckin’ needy you’ll soak me through?”

Your hips buck. You gasp—louder now. “Joel—please—”

That’s all it takes. He sits up, rough with the button on his jeans, yanking them down just far enough to free his cock.

And God. You see it for the first time—thick and flushed and dripping at the tip—and your cunt clenches so hard it hurts.

He catches the way your eyes go wide.

“What?” He says, almost smug through the grit of his voice. “Thought about this? Thought about what it’d feel like?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He grabs your thigh, pushes it open wider, and drags the head of his cock through your folds—slow and slick, gathering the mess between your legs like he owns it.

“‘Course you did,” he says, low. “Bet you’d touch yourself after work thinking about this. Thinking about me. Weren’t you?”

You nod, frantic, and he smirks—just a little.

Then he pushes in.

One slow, brutal thrust, stretching you wide, stealing the breath from your lungs. You gasp—high, broken—and his jaw goes tight.

“Jesus,” he grits. “Tight as fuck. Squeezin’ me like you’re not ready.”

He pulls back. Pushes deeper.

You arch, crying out, one hand slamming against the headboard for balance.

“Fuck, fuck—Joel—”

“You take it,” he growls. “You take it like it’s the only cock you’ve ever needed.”

He drives into you—again, again—hips slapping hard, rhythm quick and punishing. The sound of it fills the room. Skin on skin. The wet drag of your cunt every time he thrusts back in. Your breath stutters, sharp and wrecked, as your legs shake around him.

You’re already close again.

“Too much,” you gasp. “Joel—too—”

“No,” he demands, grabbing your jaw, holding your face still so you see him. “You can take it. You’re gonna fuckin’ come again. Look at how good you’re doin’.”

Your whole body trembles. You don’t just feel the build—you ache with it. It coils tight behind your ribs, in your spine, threatening to snap.

He sees it.

He wants it.

He leans in, his mouth right at your ear, voice low and rough:

“Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

You do.

You shatter—violently, with a gasp that turns into a sob, your body locking up around him as your orgasm takes you hard and deep. Your cunt clenches so tight around his cock it pulls a groan straight from his throat, and he fucks you through it—never stopping, not even when your legs shake and you beg with your eyes.

“Too much?” He asks again, tone softer now, taunting but fond. “Then why’s your pussy still begging for me?”

You moan, half-sobbing, and he melts for it—his hand sliding down between your legs to rub tight circles over your clit, still thrusting, still buried deep.

You jerk, try to twist away. “Joel—”

“One more,” he pants, voice tight. “You got one more for me. Wanna feel you fall apart while I come inside you.”

You’re crying out now—overwhelmed, skin buzzing, body wrung out and oversensitive—but you nod.

He keeps going. Gentle now, but deep, cock dragging slow and deliberate, fingers working your clit with practiced precision.

You come again—this time silent, lips parted, tears sliding down your temple.

He groans when it hits you. Watches it take you. Then his rhythm falters, jaw clenching, breath turning ragged as he finally loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna come—inside—Jesus—”

He slams in one last time, burying himself deep with a grunt as he comes, cock twitching, hips grinding to a halt. His body shakes above yours, muscles locking, hands fisted tight in the sheets as he pulses inside you.

You feel full. Marked. Claimed.

It’s quiet for a long moment. The only sound is your breathing—his heavier than yours, both of you wrecked.

Then, finally, his weight sinks down, body folding over yours, face pressing into your neck.

You’re trembling. Sweating. Boneless.

But you feel his lips press once, gently, against your collarbone. “You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he whispers.

***

You’re not sure how long you lay there—still panting, the sheets twisted beneath you, sweat drying between your breasts—but at some point, you feel his breath slow. His hands soften.

And when he lifts his head, when his eyes finally meet yours, they’re different.

No edge. No fire. Just something warm and wrecked and reverent.

He swallows hard.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse, thumb brushing over the damp skin beneath your breast. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You expect him to leave the room, to tell you to meet him, to retreat into silence now that the heat’s gone.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts you gently—carefully—into his arms like you’re something breakable. His jeans are still hanging low on his hips, your shirt still bunched under your arms, but he moves like none of that matters. Like the only thing he cares about right now is you.

You don’t protest. You melt.

He carries you to the bathroom in silence, the sound of your slowed breath the only thing between you.

The light he switches on is dim. Warm. The water he runs is the perfect temperature. You barely have time to process the steam rising from the tub before his hands are on you again—pulling your shirt over your head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist as he slips off your bra.

“You okay?” He murmurs, soft as silk.

You nod.

He studies you. Then leans in and kisses your forehead—just a breath of contact, but enough to make your chest ache.

You step into the shower, and he follows.

His hands don’t grab this time. They glide. They trace your skin like they’re memorizing it. He starts with your shoulders, your arms, his palms broad and steady as the water pours down over both of you. He soaps you slowly—fingertips pressing gently into the knots along your spine, rinsing you like you’ve got all the time in the world.

When he moves to your hair, you sigh—deep, content, leaning into his touch without thinking. He lathers slowly, careful not to tug. His hands are strong, but tender. He massages your scalp, brushes suds away from your temples with his thumbs. Every once in a while, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, or the top of your spine, or the back of your neck. Not sexual. Just there. Grounding.

He rinses you. Kisses you again.

You turn, wet hair slicked back, face tilted up.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you in a way he hasn’t before. Like something cracked open back on that bed and he’s still trying to understand what came out.

Then he leans forward—foreheads touching, water dripping down your noses—and whispers, “You feel okay?”

You nod and whisper, “Yeah.”

And for the first time since he walked into your home, he smiles.

It’s small. Subtle. But real.

He kisses your mouth—slow and soft and utterly undesperate—and then towels you off with that same kind of devotion. Wraps you in one of your own oversized shirts. Lets his hands linger a little when he pulls the hem down over your thighs. Not greedy. Not teasing. Just… affectionate.

Then he lifts you again—easily, like you weigh nothing—and carries you to bed.

The sheets are still messy, still smell like sweat and sex, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lays you down gently, then slides in behind you, his arm curling around your waist like it belongs there. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm. His breath fans across the back of your neck.

You reach down and guide his hand up beneath your shirt, settling it over your ribs. His fingers flex just once—then go still.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hmm?”

“You’re really staying?”

His arm tightens. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

And he means it.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing—slow and even, heart thrumming steady against your spine. His nose nuzzles into your shoulder, one thigh bracketing yours. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe tomorrow the world will come crashing in. Maybe it’ll all get complicated again.

But for now—

You’re full. You’re held. You’re his.

And nothing has ever felt so safe.

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vinnyvamppp · 2 months ago

Note

please give us the viltrumite reader 🥺👉👈

"I’ll Breed You Into Loyalty"

A/N: SO! There have been some drastic changes. You guys know I like to keep things in character, having Mark JUST meet an enemy and fuck them two seconds later didn't sit right. This is "The Uncharted Assignment." Reworked.

Synopsis: Lines blur between battle and bedroom, loyalty and lust, love and war. Mark has to face a question worse than betrayal: What if the only person who understands him is the one destined to destroy him?

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tention, Emotional Whiplash, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Fuckbuddies to???, Post Omni-Man Canon DIvergence, HEAVY Porn w Plot, “If you leave me, I’ll chase you” Energy, Hair Pulling, Accidental Choking, Mark Being Overwhelmed But TRYING, Breeding Kink, Powerplay, Overstim, Biting, Hate Sex, Post-Sex Guilt, Emotional Attachment.

"Why do I hate that I'm into you?"

Mark Grayson x Viltrumite!Fem!Reader

WC: 2.7k

You weren’t born to be seen. You were bred in silence on a deep-core training outpost orbiting a red dwarf. The Empire called it Caldera, where the most cunning of your kind were sharpened like blades, not to fight but to corrupt. There was no brute force or grand displays. Just pressure, precision, and patience. You weren’t a soldier but a mere whisper in the skies. That was your role.

And when Omni-Man disappeared—defected and disgraced. Earth became the Empire’s bleeding wound. They sent you not to destroy it. They sent you to turn it in. More importantly… they sent you to turn him. Mark Grayson, the half-human, half-Viltrumite, who's entirely too stubborn for his own good. You were told he was unstable and emotional, susceptible to influence through connection.

You didn’t expect him to be… kind, funny, or infuriating. You didn’t expect to like him. That was mistake number one.

You arrived after Bulletproof disappeared—filed as MIA after a solo recon gone wrong in interdimensional space. There was nobody, nor was there footage. Just static and red.

You weren’t directly responsible. Not… really. The Empire made sure someone else pulled that trigger. Your hands were clean. Clean enough for Cecil to greenlight your placement on the Guardians of the Globe. They needed strength, speed, and control—and you delivered. No questions asked. You did everything right. You even controlled your accent, monitored your energy output, and let your victories look hard-won.

And Mark liked you. Too fast. Too easily. You trained together. Patrolled together. Laughed sometimes. He teased you for never taking your coffee with sugar. You called him a "softhearted liability." He would walk you to your quarters after sparring in a sparking silence. Somewhere between the jabs and near-death experiences, it started to feel… easy… comfortable. That was mistake number two.

The storm had rolled in fast. Static buzzed over the Guardian comms, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the crack of bone under your knuckles. You slammed the alien’s face into the rooftop again—cratered it. His blood was dark purple and sticky on your palm. "Stop!" Mark’s voice cut through the rain. You didn’t, no, not until the alien stopped twitching.

You stood, chest heaving. Blood, rain, and guilt—hushed beneath something sharper, colder. He landed behind you with a wet slap of boots on concrete. "He was already down," he said. "He wasn’t moving."

"He was still breathing," you replied, your voice falling flat. "That doesn’t mean you kill him!" You turned to find his eyes—wide, hurt, and angry—searched your face like he didn’t recognize it. Maybe he didn’t. You didn’t even know if you did. "He would’ve killed you," you said.

"You don’t know that." You stepped closer, now inches from him. "I do." There was something in your tone—something too sure and cold. His jaw clenched. “That’s not how we do things.” You don't respond. You can't, as you’re left staring down at the crater you left behind—purple blood pooling in the cracks—and for a moment, you feel the leash slipping. The one you’ve held tight since arrival. The one that tells you to pretend to be human… almost for his sake.

We. The word hung in the air, heavier than the storm.

You held his gaze and let a bit of the mask crack. “Maybe I’m not like the rest of you.” Something was menacing in your delivery. Or even the way a faint smirk fought the edges of your lips as you basked in his confused and furious expression. And then you left him, soaked in the rain and conflicted. That was mistake number three. This was getting tiring. Time to pivot your strategy.

Guardians Headquarters, it was late. You’re in the med bay. Minimal wounds, just some surface bruising. You don’t bother dressing them; you don’t need to. But routine is good; it keeps your hands busy while your thoughts spiral.

He slams the door open. “What the hell was that tonight?” You don’t flinch. He’s pacing already, wet hair matted to his forehead. Eyes red, not from crying, but from rage. His voice cracks just enough to sting. “You don’t just kill people, no matter what you’ve been through.”

“I saved your life.”

“You executed someone on a rooftop!”

He’s panting like he just finished a sprint. You watch him carefully, in an eerie silence like you were trained to. Like he’s a variable—something dangerous. “Why?” he finally asks, his voice lower now. “Why do you do things like that?”

You let out a breath, slow and measured, despite the circumstances. This is the moment. The file called for phased exposure. Let the truth out slowly. But you’re too tired to lie right now. Too tired to lie to yourself like you wouldn’t slaughter everyone here given their retaliation. Just... rip off the band-aid. So you look him in the eyes. “Because I’m not human, Mark.” He stiffens.

“...What?”

“I’m a Viltrumite.”

The room seems to suck in on itself. The weight of respective heritages is palpable. Comms static hums in the background like a heartbeat, its sound causing your ears to ring. He doesn’t speak but rather stares. “They sent me here after your father left,” you say. “To finish what he couldn’t. Not by force. By logic, persuasion, and connection. Through you.” Your eyes scrutinized his very being, anticipating an outburst. One that never came.

“You used me?” His voice is quiet now, almost too quiet. You nod, “At first.” He turns away from you like looking at you physically hurts him. “Why tell me now?”

“Because I think you’re smart enough to understand the truth. Earth is tearing itself apart. You feel it too. You’ve always felt it.”

“You sound just like him.”

“He was right about the outcome,” you snap. “Not the method. We can do better. You and I—we could shape something that lasts. Together.” He whirls around, gaze narrowing. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t even know who you are right now!”

Your voice cuts through his downpour. “Spare me your self-righteous squawking. I’ve listened to months of you whining about ‘monsters’ while you stand over bodies you helped break. You kill when it’s convenient, Grayson—don’t pretend it’s anything nobler than that.” You suddenly grew intense, and when you spoke, it scathed him. There was no flinching, not even a stutter in the delivery as you stared down your nose at him. “You whine like a martyr and kill like a soldier. Pick one, Mark. Otherwise you’re a hero with a guilt complex.” That was the final nail in the coffin. All the venom he needed to confirm you were the mocking shadow of his comrade. Not the person he once knew— loved even.

His eyes dropped for half a second, then rose again, glassy with disbelief. The shoulders that usually squared in confidence slumped, just slightly. Just enough to betray the weight of your words. His fingers curled into fists at his side— shaking in tandem with his jaw wound tight as if the next sentence couldn’t pass without drawing blood. When he spoke again… behind the fury, he found sadness. He sighed, “You don’t get it…” His words caused you to feel compunctious, yet it was too late. You were staring through him, your expression neutral before furrowing slightly. And for the first time, your silence made him question if you were trying to protect him… or protect yourself from him and the weight of the Empire.

And when you spoke, he realized it was both.

“Then give me a child.” A heavy silence choked him like gravity suddenly doubled in the room. “What the hell did you just say?” You step toward him, slowly. Not with threat, but promise. “If you won’t take your place, give me someone who will. I’ll raise them the way you should’ve been raised. Strong, focused, and loyal to the cause.”

You don’t mean it, not entirely, anyway. But it’s the only way you know how to force a decision. To make him feel something besides hate. And then—like you asked for it—he grabs your arm. “You don’t get to manipulate me like that.”

“Then stop me.”

And he kisses you. It’s angry, teeth-clashing, utterly uncontrollable, and chaotic. The kind of kiss that means nothing and everything. The kind you’ll regret later but crave more of anyway. And when he pulls away, breath ragged, you’re both trembling for different reasons.

“You don’t want to be like him,” you whisper. “Then stop pushing me,” he fires back. The silence that follows isn’t peace. It’s war in slow motion.

“You were my friend,” he says now, voice hoarse. “You acted like you were my friend.”

“It wasn’t an act.”

“Then what was it?” His voice breaks again. “What were you doing? Setting me up? Studying me?”

“Understanding you,” you say quietly. “Trying to see if you were salvageable.” He flinches. Your expression doesn’t change. That hurts more. “I hate this,” he says. “Then walk away.” He looks at you, and everything in his face says he wants to. That he should. That he knows what happens if he doesn’t. His voice cracks. “I hate that you still make sense to me,” he says. “Even after everything.”

“You hate that I remind you of what you are.”

“No,” he says, stepping in. “I hate that part of me wants to believe you. That part of me still—"

“Still what?”

“Still wants you.”

There it is. The words he swore he’d never say. The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed. “Say it again,” you whisper. He’s shaking his head. “Say it.” His brows knit upwards. “I want you,” he says, too quickly. Too honest. “And I hate that I do. I hate you for doing this to me.” You step forward. "Then punish me."

That stuns him, and he stares at you, his breathing growing shallow. “You think this is a game?”

“I think you want to know what it’s like to stop pretending. Just once.” He grabs your wrist, and you let him, but he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t twist—just holds it, trembling. “I could never trust you again.”

“I don’t want your trust.”

“Then what do you want?” You lean in—lips a breath away from his, eyes sharp and conflicted. “Take a wild guess, Grayson.”

And then he kisses you again, but not violently this time. It’s like he’s drowning in everything he’s tried to suppress—grief, lust, confusion, the hollow ache of missing something that never really belonged to him in the first place. He spent months undoing his father's ruin, just for his efforts to unravel like silk.

Your mouth opens beneath his, heat pouring between you like fire through the fractured glass. His grip on your wrist tightens— again, just enough to tell you he’s trying to keep control. But he's failing, and fast.

You push him, watching as he stumbles back and hits the wall with a grunt but doesn’t fall. His eyes burn as you follow, shoulders squared, every inch of you predatory. “You always this easy to provoke?” you whisper. “I told you to stop talking,” he mutters and grabs your face like he’s trying to shut you up with his mouth again. You let him, watching as his hands cage you in, every action like a curse.

He kisses like he fights—too emotional, too much heart. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, dusted a pale pink, and tender despite everything. And what's worse is that made it better. You bite his lip, hard enough to taste copper, and he groans into your mouth. That same sound you’ve heard in battle. That same frustration and need. He couldn’t stop even if he tried, his emotions sharp like a blade that pierced him with every kiss.

Your hand slides to the back of his costume, unzipping it as it drips down his torso. Dragging your nails down the curve of his ribs, he gasps. You feel his body flinch, but not in fear. In anticipation. “You want to hate me?” you whisper against his throat. “Then earn it.” He growls, like actually growls. “You don’t get to control everything.”

“Try and stop me.” And suddenly you’re moving again—he’s lifting you like you weigh nothing, slamming your back against the wall. “There’s the Viltrumite,” you murmur. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” You grin, teeth bared.

He drops you—not gently—onto the nearby cot, climbing over you, breathing hard, eyes wild. You wrap your legs around his hips without hesitation. The friction is instant and delicious as he desperately bucks into your clothed sex. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he yanks your suit down to your waist, exposing your skin to air and heat and the sting of too much touch at once. He tries to not gawk, but every inch of skin revealed was chiseled from marble — made in the image of robust perfection. His fingers immediately paw at exposed flesh and the swell of your breasts. You strip him fast, palms dragging down over his chest and his stomach, until he gasps when you grip him.

He’s hard already. Of course, he is. Your fingers slither down his pelvis, tantalizing, almost. Digits firmly wrapping around his cock— palm warm enough to make him twitch.

His tip is flushed, deeper in color, and sensitive enough that he contracts when you apply just a little pressure. He's long. Uncut. There's something intimate about it. The way his foreskin shifts when you stroke him— tight, smooth, responsive— makes it easy to tease and even easier to control as his abs trembled from the sensation. You open your mouth to speak, and he silences you. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

His gaze lowers to where your moist, velvety cunt beckoned him. A sanctuary of pure, unadulterated bliss. Its arousal nearly glistening enough to see his reflection. And once he finally gets a taste, rubbing the head against your labia… He’s in shambles as he hurriedly presses into you. You cry out—not in pain, not even in surprise—it's because he’s thick. It stretches you open with a slow, delicious ache, the kind that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with a low, desperate moan.

You feel every vein, every pulse of heat. When he thrusts, it’s like being filled to your limit and then some. Perfectly overwhelming. The fact that you’re both half-feral and half-clinging to each other like this was inevitable. His hips rear back— lips pursed together as shaky breaths were all he could muster through restraint. Dragging through gummy, creamy walls—

He thrusts hard, deep, and controlled at first. But it doesn’t last, never does. You meet him thrust for thrust, dragging your nails down his back, pulling him in harder. You bite his shoulder, and he whimpers— teeth gritted— sweat sliding down his temple. He pummels harder, faster, fingers curling tighter in your hair. When he pulls, your head tips back, exposing your throat—and he bites you there. You gasp, ridges clenching around him, and that nearly ends him. “God, you’re insane,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours.

“So are you. You just wear it better.” Your hand drifts between you, finding the right rhythm amongst your clit— clamping in tandem with the tight circles. Then your tongue comes to caress the shell of his ear before nipping it. He gasps again—shudders, actually—and you smirk. “Sensitive?” You tease, pumping slowly just to watch his face twist. “You’re not gonna win this.”

“I already have.” You roll your hips just right, and he chokes on a curse—his body stuttering. You squeeze him tighter, feeling the way his breath hitched. He’s close.

You whisper, “Come on then, Mark. Show me how much you hate me.” And he sure does. His hands locked around your wrists, yanking them above your head as his hips thrust savagely into yours, but you still bucked up against him and ground your teeth against a moan. Every movement was a battle. His strength against your will, your cunning against his need.

With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, hand in your hair, mouth crushed against your neck. He shakes as he spills inside you, his breath ragged, his moan caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief. But you’re still not done.

You flip him—actually, flip him—and he barely catches himself as you straddle his hips and sink back down. He grabs your thighs, trying to slow you, but you ride him with practiced ease. Raw. Overstimulated. And borderline masochistic. He stutters, trying to formulate a sentence. “You—”

“Me,” you finish for him. “You want me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

His head falls back onto the mattress, jaw slackening with groans that border on pain and pleasure. A salacious squelch echoes between you— his cock already creamy from cum and slick, coating your sex in his scent. The way his shape drags along your walls in just the right way to make your toes curl, hips roll, and back arch. Every grind, every stroke that presses deep and nudges that spot inside you that sends sparks flying.

"You like testing me, huh? Keep pushing, and I’ll show you what happens when I stop holding back." He groans, trying to save face. His muscles began aching to match your momentum. Hips pistoning upwards with the slightest swivel, tip threatening to kiss your cervix and then some.

His thrusts stutter, and his dick and balls throb as if about to spill again at any moment. Your fingers dig into his rippling abdomen. Shared gasps fill the gaps of silence; his skin was warm breath your palms. He was taut, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to flinch or melt. "Give me your worst; I’ll give it back double." You grit as he attempts to regain control, maintaining what little is left of his dignity.

In one sharp buck of his hips, he throws you off rhythm. You gasp, your hand slipping off him. He grabs your waist, flips you again, and slams you down onto the mattress, his face inches from yours. He grinds deep, hips rolling with vicious intent, pushing deeper than before—almost too much—but never enough. A crack splintered the wall as the cot rocked, metal bending and crumbling debris falling on deaf ears.

Your noses brush and your eyes lock. His breathing's ragged. He kisses you softly—just once—before his hips slam into you again, knocking the breath from your lungs. He grinds against your ass, nudging deeper with every roll, a slick pop echoing in the room. His breath fanned your skin, hands gripping your hips, your waist, and your throat again when you try to rise. “Stay down,” he hisses. “Let me feel you.”

"Is this the part where I beg you not to stop?" You’d never say it out loud, but it’s the best you’ve ever had. And he doesn’t even know it. You can't tell if this is the best or worst decision you've made in your life. "You’re so good at pretending you don’t care. Let’s see how long that lasts." He mumbles. "Tell yourself you're in control. It won’t save you. Every time you touch me, you forget who the real threat is." Your voice was muffled by the sheets but curt enough to carve into his memory. The air between you burned, thick enough with heat and desperation; his skin flushed a rose red as the smell of salt filled his lungs.

Every thrust dragged a strangled moan from his kiss-bitten lips. You pushed back against him, chasing his hips with every drag— daring him to lose control before you did. He was frantic. His conflicted gaze fixed upon you as his thrusts grew ragged. There was no rhythm; it was his senses being overwhelmed by pleasure.

You two moved harmoniously, but hatred colored every kiss, bite, and thrust, chasing the definitions your relationship had. It was wanting. It was revenge, need, and love, with every emotion coming to a boiling point. And it terrified him.

Your orgasm hits harder than you expect. It's fast and vision-blurring, your whole body clenching around him, your back bowing, a broken moan ripping from your throat as you ride it out. Your cunt contracts, shivers rippling down your spine with each pulse. You scream for him. For everything he makes you feel. For everything you can’t stop craving.

“Mark—oh—fuck—Mark—”

He’s not far behind. You feel him losing rhythm and losing control, and his grip tightens. His warm lips trailed down your nape, your spine, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach. His thrusts weren’t trying to dominate you anymore; they were begging you to stay. To change your mind.

“Can I—” he asks, unable to control it the first time. "Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Please."

“Inside,” you whisper. “I want to feel it again.”

He chokes on your name as he erupts into you—deep, rasped, utterly broken. His final sigh was reminiscent of a cry, his body locking up on him. Beaded sweat from his forehead dampens your back as he loses his fucking mind. The padded surface beneath you dips as his toes curl into the mattress. He watches, stunned. Almost disappointed in himself as cum sloppily drizzles from your cunt. He collapses on top of you, muscled bodies coated in a sheen that mixes with his, both of you panting in silence.

And this happens. Again. And again. And again.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs.

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it.”

“Then stop coming back.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand finds yours in the sheets. He squeezes once. Then let's go.

The worst part wasn’t the way he touched you, like he hated you. It was the way he touched you, like he loved you anyway.

He would pretend this world and you aren't breaking him. And you would forever be curious as to why he won't let it. Sooner or later, fate would come and ruin what could’ve been. His heart had danced with yours, and even then, anger filled it. So why… why does he still lie beside you? Why does it feel as though no battle has been won?

God, you’re insufferable.

A/N: There are some aspects similar to the old draft. (It sounded so formal LMFAO, the way I wrote when just starting was…. Hm.) anyway, hope the five people who requested this, enjoyed.

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