#Tuck Box Printing

[mildmayfoxe]

ok. today i did marketing (posted on instagram), set new toddy (coldbrew), signed & numbered stuff i printed last week, packed & shipped shop orders, packed & shipped july sticker club, designed carved & printed new block. success

[customboxes01]

How Custom Mailer Boxes Reduce Shipping Damage

Shipping damage is a problem that can impact the business in many ways costing the business a lot of money and time to repair its reputation with customers. As more companies continue to adopt the online selling model, brands are looking for packaging materials that will shield their products from the transportation process. Custom printed mailer boxes in Canada have now turned out to remain one of the most suitable packaging solutions in preventing the accidents of goods during their shipment to the clients in the right state. This article focuses on aspects of how custom mailer boxes assist in reducing shipping damage and a discussion of such mailers’ structure, construction, and the available variations.

Strong Built Construction

One of the greatest advantages of using custom mailer boxes is that they are very strong. In made from premium materials such as cardboard mailer boxes and kraft mailer boxes and therefore provides maximum protection against external forces or even impacts. These materials give the box strength and it does not bend or even break when being shipped or transported. Tuck-top mailer boxes specifically are designed in a way that the boxes are kept shut as an additional layer to guard the contents within from potential harm.

Custom Sizing Options

The uses of custom mailer boxes are produced to match the dimensions of certain products hence limiting the shifting of items within the box. If there is little additional space, parts cannot move around as much, which prevents interaction with internal organizational structures that may cause cracks. For instance, mailer boxes help to make every article more secure and comfortable and minimize damage levels during transportation.

Added Protection with Inserts

To further improve safety, brands may include customized inserts and dividers in their mailer boxes. Conometers are most beneficial in multi-item shipments as products within the shipment require segregation to avoid coming into contact with other products. Foam or cardboard inserts provide a shock-absorbing surface for delicate products, which custom printed mailer boxes and customized inserts indicate professionalism and product quality in addition to safety in shipping.

Resilient Material Options

When concerning sturdiness, kraft mailer boxes and cardboard mailer boxes are almost similar as far as the protection that the item contains is concerned, and the shockproof nature of the boxes is commendable when it comes to sending out the package through shippers. These are rather powerful, flexible materials that protect equipment from impacts and compressive force that significantly decreases the likelihood of being damaged. These materials mean white mailer boxes for a clean-looking envelope or black for an elegant-looking mailer box.

Durable construction 

The tuck top mailer boxes are likewise designed with a closing system that assures that nothing inside the box will fall over. This feature comes in handy as the Tuck top design helps accommodate the box tightly thus avoiding circumstances where items go off with the container or become so loose in the process. Though there is a difference between the tuck top flap and other flaps, the tuck top flap has more strength in giving shape to the box, so, it is useful in the shipment of heavy items.

Brand Awareness and Customer Loyalty 

Especially printing the mailer boxes helps in beautifying them as well as in the selling of peoples’ Brand. Custom mailer boxes wholesale are very useful as they can be customized and printed with logos, colors, and other details of the company. This also serves to create brand familiarity while also informing the customers that the business is serious about what it delivers to the market. Furthermore, when products are packed in branded packaging, then shippers and anybody who handles the package will have no other option than to handle it gently especially knowing that they are handling valuable items.

Environmentally Sustainable Options

Custom mailer boxes can be seen as more viable in terms of cost but also an environmentally friendly solution. When it comes to mailer boxes wholesale or custom boxes wholesale, companies can save a lot of money while still getting strong protection. Most of the custom mailer boxes canada across the globe especially in Canada are manufactured using materials that can be recycled making them eco-friendly. In addition, quality eco-friendly packaging is usually lighter thus cutting some costs associated with shipping.

Flexibility in Colors

Custom mailer boxes include; white mailer boxes for a simple look and better presentations and black mailer boxes for a look and better feel of luxury. Such flexibility enables branding companies to coordinate their packaging with other branding factors hence coming up with appealing branding results. It ensures that customers who receive visually attractive and secure packaging give a good impression hence avoiding situations where the product is returned due to breakage and customers stick to the product.

Conclusion

Custom mailer boxes offer a bundled package when it comes to reducing the consequences of shipping by protecting the products and getting to give the customers a better experience. These wholesale sleeve boxes for products come in strong and durable modes, accompanied by different sizes depending on individual user’s requirements, further options for inserts and dividers and other features enhance their protective nature. They are small, reusable, and look great – which is why they should become a go-to protective accessory for any brand. As expressed above, for companies that are in search of reputable and affordable shipping solutions, custom mailer boxes including those from Canada, provide a better solution.

[thecustomizeboxes-blog]

Sustainable Pillow Style Packaging – Elevate Your Brand Responsibly

In today’s environmentally conscious market, businesses must adapt to sustainable packaging solutions that align with consumer values. Sustainable pillow style packaging offers an eco-friendly yet stylish way to present your products while reinforcing your brand’s commitment to sustainability. At The Customize Boxes, we craft innovative, biodegradable, and recyclable pillow packaging that…

[aangelinakii]

BATBOYS + SITTING ON THEIR BACK DURING PUSH-UPS.

note : personally i would love someone to push up w me on their back ,,, and also no damian just becquse i couldn't rhink of a scenario soz aloz

BRUCE WAYNE.

the kids had forced offered bruce a night off, after performing his nightly duties too many months in a row. now, sitting in bed with a book, you found it difficult to concentrate on the printed words as your partner lingered on the floor by his side of the bed, his quick breaths huffing through your shared bedroom. what on earth could he be doing? flipping the corner of your page down to save your place, you folded the book shut and put it down, rolling over the bed to peer over the side... only to find your wonderous bruce wayne... doing push ups?

"what are you doing?" you'd chuckled with a soft shake of your head.

muscles rippling beneath the flesh of his back, bruce brought his body down, and then pushed himself back up again, his triceps straining against skin. with a grunt he glanced back at you, never ceasing movement. "i need to get energy out before i go to bed. mind you, i'm not usually relaxing by this time."

another laugh brushed past your lips. "then that's not tiring you out." but bruce only sent you another glance, more sheepish this time; you couldn't blame him, not being accustomed to how one normally retires for the evening.

before he could reply again, you were slinging a leg over the side of the mattress and landing on the plush carpeting. bruce's exercise ceased in curiosity, his head turning to run his gaze over your legs. "oh, no, don't stop on my behalf," you grinned, carefully tucking one of your shins along his back and lowing the rest of your weight onto him.

but bruce wayne didn't falter a bit.

instead, he took it in his stride, tucking his arms and moving down, and then pushing up even faster than he'd been doing before. but he couldn't hide the crescent of his eyes and lines at the corners of his mouth as they turned up — he could do this all night.

DICK GRAYSON.

bullets of sweat shot to the floor with each punch, his flesh grunting against the boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. it never had the chance to swing too far, for he was already hitting it from the other side. although you weren't going as hard at it as your boyfriend, your own limbs were straining from exercise.

with a loud exhale, dick stepped away from the swinging sand bag, holding out a shaking hand to steady it. before it could stop, he was already moving to one of the ready-laid mats.

without a second too long of a break, he was down on his palms, moving up and down, his triceps tensing and bulging in his flesh. the way he kept glancing at you every few moments was making it very difficult to focus on your own workout.

ceasing your movements, you looked over at him with crossed arms. "anything i can help you with?" it was half a joke, expecting him to just grunt a chuckle and shake his head, getting caught red-handed checking you out. instead, he allowed a few seconds' silence, and then hummed.

"yes, actually." his voice was strained against his action, but he'd be damned if he stopped now just to speak. "come here, will you?"

it's not like you're busy or anything. but who were you to deny one dashingly handsome dick grayson your time and energy; especially when that's what you were dating him for.

unable to bite back a smile, you made your way over. "okay... what now?"

"sit on my back."

despite the tension in his throat as he spoke, dick didn't pause his push-ups — and you were supposed to sit on him like this? right...

however strange it may have been to try sit down on a moving man's back, the sheer fact dick could push-up your body weight made it worth it (no matter how many times you fell off before finally sticking it).

JASON TODD.

relaxing days — no work, no appointments, nothing to do — had to be the best days. especially here, as you and jason lay belly-down on the floor, using your glorious free time to complete a puzzle book you'd found at the grocery store the other day.

well... jason was belly-down on the floor; you were belly-down on his back, peering over his shoulder and pointing at the page, giving your contributions.

it got to the point where you were both on the last page, pen marks etched into the paper from where you'd scribbled answers and numbers and words, but you were stumped. with a huff, jason flicked the pen from his fingers, landing with a thump a metre away. "how are they gonna make puzzles you can't even solve? stupid..."

"hey, hey," you chuckled, bringing your fingers to scratch lovingly at his jaw. "i can get us a new one. want to go now?" as the words left your mouth, you moved one leg from where it lay entwined with his, preparing to get ready for an outing.

but jason was too quick, and too stubborn. before you could react, he'd pulled one arm from beneath him and lightly pressed down on your back, keeping you in place. "no, i'm joking," he mumbled. "please, let's just stay."

anything for him.

and so you fell limp against him once more, arms folding beneath your chin so you could rest your head, eyes fluttering closed. silence ran through the apartment, aside from the soft workings of jason's breathing beneath your ear; outside the city buzzed, but, by now, it was more background noise. perhaps a little nap wouldn't hurt—

something was moving beneath you, and your eyes shot open in alarm, arms shooting out from beneath you and clinging to the nearest thing – which happened to be around jason's waist. although you weren't moving, the coffee table beside you was bobbing up and down, and you couldn't possiblt fathom what was happning, until you realised...

"don't want to miss a workout," jason grunted from below, as if reading your mind. no lazy day was truly lazy when you had a jason peter todd to mind.

TIM DRAKE.

"i bet i could do that," tim spoke from the other end of the couch, where his socked feet were prodding your legs, probably in a surreptitious attempt to get them massaged. "no sweat."

you glanced between the tv and him, your lovely boyfriend tim, who would come up in the dictionary if you searched for the word overzealous. on the screen, playing the scene of a bizarre film you'd flipped to, the main love interest was working out when the main character stumbled into the room; there was some fleeting dialogue, and then, before you could find an explanation for it, she was sitting on his back as he continued his workout.

"what, you—" now when you looked over at tim, he had that wide grin on his face, and you knew you were in for something. "you want to try it now?"

without much of an answer, tim was rising to his feet, adjusting the waistband of the linen pyjama pants he wore, and fell to his hands and knees. "i mean, if you insist," he scoffed playfully. "try not to fall in love with me even more."

something about this didn't feel right... tim was certainly muscular, certainly strong — you'd seen him in action — but you didn't have much trust in him this time. regardless of your worries, you shimmied from your seat on the couch and carefully arranged yourself, legs crossed, on tim's back.

he only shook a bit at first, his legs now outstretched behind him, arms firm as logs. but he wasn't moving, just frozen in the plank position.

peering over his shoulder at him, you asked, "what's with the hold-up?"

pink in the cheeks, jaw clenched, tim's voice barely came out through his teeth. "yeah, just... wait—"

carefully – and very slowly – tim lowered himself, and in addition you, down, until his toned chest was millimetres away from the floor, and then, just as slowly, he pushed back against the ground.

once he was back in his starting position, he shifted beneath you, almost toppling you overboard. "okay, okay, i'm done!" he gasped. "my abs are gonna kill me!"

DUKE THOMAS.

being sick for the past week, you'd found it difficult to encourage yourself out of the house to go visit the gym — so, instead, you'd resorted to working out at home.

duke returned home the moment the sun began to dip below darkening clouds, his warmth radiating through the house as he closed the door behind him. he called something into the living room, but it went unheard beneath the instructions playing on the telly.

"oh, you working out?" he hummed as he entered, raking his eyes over your form and the synchronised movements on the tv screen.

mid-movement, you grunted a yeah, and duke edged around you to sit on the couch.

finally, when your break came, you collapsed to your mat and turned to him, grabbing your water bottle on the coffee table. "how was patrol?" you breathed.

the corners of duke's mouth turned up in a grin, clearly bemused by the sheen of sweat along your brow. "yeah, great." his eyes glanced over to the screen — two more minutes of your break, and it looked like you'd be attempting a five-minute plank. "mind if i work in with you?"

you glanced back, sipping at your water, and gave a half-chuckle. "i would've thought you'd be too tired for more exercise."

duke's bottom lip jutted out with a casual shrug. "i've missed you, we can do it together."

unfortunately, you couldn't ignore that little smile, that charm he held like a secret. and so you put your water bottle back on the table and duke joined you, beside your mat.

when the timer was up, you braced yourself for your plank, but duke, also on his knees, caught your attention — some stupid smile lingered on his lips, like he had a cheeky plan. "i don't know if a plank will be difficult enough for me."

"well done," you scoffed playfully. "just because it's easy for you, doesn't mean it's easy for me."

he held out a hand to diffuse any wrong ideas. "no, i just meant i think i know a way to break a sweat."

at this, you eyed him suspiciously, albeit curiously. before you could question him any further, he was on his palms and tip of his toes, gesturing you to sit on his back.

after a few "are you crazy?"s, you found yourself sitting on his back, trying not to touch him too much with your overly-warm limbs, lowering and raising with ease, your youtube workout by now forgotten.

[mssishipi]

say cheese — pjs, sjy

— in which jake and jay capture the most beautiful, fucked-out masterpiece on film.

warning: explicit content (smut), threesome (rough dom jay, soft dom jake, sub reader), blowjob, deep throating, facial, unprotected sex, multiple sex position, hentai like expressions, picture taking, some mxm scene (don't like? don't read), double vaginal penetration, straight up porn. MDNI.

note: this is rotting in my drafts, i really need to clean since my storage are full (128 gb is not enough for my fucking files lol)

"I can't believe you spent a hundred dollars on a Polaroid camera."

You huffed, arms crossed as you stared at Jake, who was grinning ear to ear while unboxing his parcel. Across the room, Jay chuckled, his fingers absentmindedly adjusting the tuning pegs on his guitar.

Jake barely acknowledged your complaint, too absorbed in peeling away the tape and lifting the lid of the box. His eyes practically sparkled as he gently pulled out the camera, running his fingers over its smooth surface.

"I've been jealous of my friends showing off their Polaroid pictures—sticking them on their phone cases, tucking them into their wallets, pinning them to their walls," Jake explained, turning the camera over in his hands. "I just had to get one for myself. Besides, Polaroid film is so aesthetic. I wanna start a collection."

You scoffed, unimpressed. "We have a printer, you know. I could literally edit a photo with a Polaroid frame and print it out for you. Same look, less money wasted."

Jake shot you an incredulous glance, his nose scrunching slightly before he turned back to the instruction manual. "It’s not the same," he muttered, flipping through the tiny booklet.

Jay, who had finally set his guitar down on its stand, stretched his arms before strolling over. "You know what’s so special about Polaroid photos?" he mused, plopping down beside Jake and watching as he struggled to insert the film. "It’s the fact that it’s a one-time shot. No retakes, no backups. That exact moment, captured forever in its rawest form. And because there's only one copy, it's yours alone. It makes it feel... special."

You raised a skeptical brow, watching the two of them fumble with the camera like a pair of kids assembling a Lego set. 

"It's called being practical," you said, holding up two fingers in a peace sign to emphasize the word.

Jake finally managed to snap the film cartridge into place, and the camera let out a satisfying click. He gasped in delight, shaking Jay’s shoulder. "It’s in! It's ready!"

Jay grinned, leaning back on his hands. "Then take a test shot. Let’s see if it works."

Jake eagerly lifted the camera, aiming it at you. Your eyes widened. "Wait, no—"

Click.

A soft whirring sound filled the room as the camera ejected the developing photo. Jake snatched it up, waving it in the air with excitement. "Ohh, this is gonna be so good."

You groaned, covering your face. "I wasn’t ready!"

"That’s the beauty of it!" Jake beamed. Jay laughed, watching as the image slowly began to take shape. "If you hate it, just take another one."

You shot him a deadpan look. "Defeats the whole ‘one-time special moment’ argument, don’t you think?"

You leaned in to get a better look at the Polaroid in Jake’s hand. The moment your eyes landed on it, your mouth fell open in horror. Your expression in the photo was atrocious—wide eyes, lips slightly parted, caught mid-protest.

Jake, instantly reading your mind, grinned wickedly. Just as you reached to snatch the photo, he yanked his hand up, holding it high above his head. "Oh-ho, no way! This is a masterpiece!" he cackled, his laughter echoing through the room.

"Jake, give it!" You lunged, but he danced backward, still laughing, the Polaroid waving mockingly in his grip.

"Throw it away, fuck you!" you huffed, but instead of complying, Jake grinned and tossed the photo to Jay.

"Catch!"

Jay snatched it midair, immediately taking off across the room. Your eyes widened. "No—Jay, don’t you dare!" 

The room erupted into chaos. You bolted after him, but before you could get close, Jake grabbed you around the waist, locking his arms around you in a tight hold.

"Not so fast!" he teased, holding you back as you squirmed in his grip, your feet kicking wildly, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to break free.

"Give it!" you shrieked, voice pitching with sheer indignation. "I’ll let you guys take another one—just give it to me!"

Jay stood on the couch, tilting the Polaroid in his hand as he examined it with an amused hum. His gaze flickered toward you, still trapped in Jake’s arms, your face twisted in frustration.

"I need a Polaroid to display in my wallet too," he mused casually.

You rolled your eyes and marched toward him, reaching for the photo, but Jay smirked and lifted it just out of reach.

"You can take a picture of me anytime and display it however you want," you huffed, stretching on your toes. "But not this one."

Jay watched, clearly entertained, as you finally managed to snatch the photo from his hand. You immediately scowled at the image. 

"We need a lot of photos with you," Jake chimed in from behind. Ignoring them, you dropped onto the couch, still glaring at the Polaroid.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I just need to fix my hair first before we take another one."

Before you could move, Jake suddenly wrapped his arms around you again from behind, pulling you close against his chest. You barely had a second to react before he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin.

"No need for that, love," he murmured, his voice low and affectionate.

You stiffened, gripping the Polaroid tightly, heat rising to your face. Jay raised an eyebrow, watching the two of you with a smirk.

“Tongue out, baby,” Jake groaned, gripping his cock, his one hand holding the camera as his eyes locked onto your flushed face. 

You knelt before them, naked, skin damp with sweat.  The heat of their gazes burned into you. 

Obediently, you let your tongue slip out, and beside him, Jay let out a low groan, his fist working himself faster at the sight.

The sharp click of the Polaroid camera echoed through the room, the flash blinding for a second. Before you could even register the moment, Jay’s fingers tangled into your hair, yanking you forward.

A startled gasp left your lips before his cock pushed past them, the thick weight of him filling your mouth. You choked out a moan, hands gripping your knees, keeping still as his grip tightened.

"Fuck—just like that," Jay hissed, forcing you down further, his other hand fisting his base as he watched you struggle to take him. His grip was rough, tugging you back only to shove you down again, setting a ruthless rhythm. 

Tears pricked your eyes, spit dribbling down your chin as you gagged around Jay’s cock. Beside him, Jake smirked, watching intently, his own fist gliding lazily over his length. 

Click.

“Fuck,” Jake groaned, lowering the camera slightly, his gaze trailing over you—your swollen lips stretched around Jay, your flushed cheeks stained with tears. "So beautiful."

Jay chuckled breathlessly, his grip tightening in your hair as he angled your face toward the camera. “Yeah? Then let’s give him another good shot, baby.”

Without warning, he pushed deeper, his cock sliding past the tight ring of your throat. You gagged, body jerking, but Jay only moaned, holding you there, forcing you to take it.

“Holy shit,” Jake exhaled, capturing the moment with another click. His eyes darkened as he watched your lashes flutter, the way your throat contracted around Jay. “Hold it, baby. Just a little longer.”

"Me too, please."

Jake grabbed your free hand, guiding it to his cock, groaning the second your fingers wrapped around him. He was hot and heavy in your grip, pulsing with need, and as soon as you started stroking, he let out a low whine.

“Ahhh, you're so fucking sexy,” he breathed, hips twitching upward, fucking into your fist as he snapped another photo.

The Polaroid films were scattered across the floor in messy disarray—blurry flashes of you on your knees, your lips stretched around Jay, your eyes glossy with tears, your hand wrapped around Jake. Each moment captured, each one more obscene than the last.

Jay let out a sharp breath, his grip in your hair unrelenting as he started thrusting into your mouth. Your throat tightened around him, gagging as he pushed deeper, his groans growing desperate. Jake wasn’t any better, fucking into your palm, his breath coming out in ragged pants.

You forced your head back, Jay’s cock slipping from your swollen lips with a lewd pop as you turned your attention to Jake. His breath hitched, eyes blown wide as you wrapped your mouth around him, tongue swirling over the tip before sinking down.

"Fuck—" Jake groaned, head tipping back, his grip tightening on the camera as he barely managed to snap another photo.

Your hands worked them both—one stroking Jay’s slick length, squeezing just right, while your tongue alternated between them, switching back and forth, keeping them both on edge.

Jay hissed, hips twitching into your grip, his thumb swiping over your cheek, smearing spit across your flushed skin. “So fucking greedy,” he muttered, watching the way you licked up Jake’s shaft before turning back to him, taking him down again.

Jake cursed, his free hand gripping the back of your head, guiding you down further. 

Jay shifted, slipping from your grasp, moving behind you instead. Your mouth slipped from Jake’s cock, a needy whine escaping you as Jay manhandled you into position.

"I need to fuck you so bad," Jay murmured against your ear, his hands gripping your waist. 

You hummed in response, too focused on the way Jake kneel to adjust and tugged you back toward his cock. Obediently, you opened your mouth again, tongue flicking over the head before sinking down. Your head bobbed eagerly, taking him deep, and both of them chuckled at your desperation.

“Such a good girl,” Jake groaned, brushing your hair back to get a better view.

Behind you, Jay spread your ass cheeks, groaning at the sight of your glistening cunt, slick and ready for him. His cock pressed against your entrance, sliding slowly along your folds, teasing—rubbing against your labia, down to your clit, making you moan around Jake’s length.

Jay watched as your pussy clenched around nothing, making his cock throb. He let out a shaky breath, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along your spine, trailing up to your nape before whispering filth into your ear.

“So fucking hungry,” he groaned. “Let me feed this needy little pussy.”

Then, without warning, he pushed inside.

A sharp squeal tore from your throat, body jolting forward at the sudden stretch, but Jake was there, his grip firm on the back of your head, keeping you in place.

“Stay still, baby,” Jake murmured, voice low and commanding. Behind you, Jay’s fingers dug into your stomach, trapping you against him as he bottomed out, your walls squeezing around his cock.

“Fuck,” Jay groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he felt you pulse around him. “You’re so fucking tight." His hands moved up, grabbing your breast, kneading the soft flesh with slow, deliberate squeezes.

Jake’s breath came in heavy, his cock twitching against your tongue as he shakily lifted the camera. His fingers gripped it tight, the moment too perfect to miss.

Click.

Jay smirked at the flash, looking directly into the camera, his cock buried deep inside you while his hands continued to toy with your body. Meanwhile, your face was a wreck, tears clinging to your lashes, cheeks flushed, mouth stretched full around Jake’s cock. 

"Try to smile for the next photos, hmm?" Jake murmured, brushing his fingers over your cheek, smearing your spit and tears.

“Yeah,” Jay mused. “Give the camera a pretty little smile while we ruin you.”

Both of them started to move, fast and rough.

Their moans turned breathless, high-pitched with pleasure as they used your body, stretching you open, leaving no part of you untouched. Your tears kept falling, slipping down your cheeks as you struggled to keep up.

Jay’s hands roamed everywhere, gripping your waist, squeezing your breasts, trailing down to your stomach, pressing against the outline of his cock buried deep inside you. Meanwhile, Jake was losing himself above you, his head tilting back, jaw slack as his hips stuttered, his tip hitting the back of your throat over and over.

"Hey, give her mouth a little break," Jay gritted out between clenched teeth, his pace never faltering as he slammed into you from behind. His fingers dug deeper into your hips, anchoring you in place.

Jake groaned, looking down at you, watching the way your lips stretched around him. 

He clicked his tongue, brushing damp hair from your face. “Tired already, baby?” he cooed, his thumb swiping over your puffy bottom lip. “Alright… but don’t think we’re done yet.”

With a final, slow drag of his cock over your tongue, he pulled out, tapping the tip against your cheek, smearing precum over your flushed skin. He sat back, stroking himself lazily as he watched Jay take over completely, his smirk growing as he reached for the camera again.

“Guess it’s time for some close-ups.” 

You squealed as Jay’s thrusts turned brutal. His hand went to your face, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing your lips into a soft pout as he fucked you harder.

Click. 

Jake adjusted his angle, the camera capturing everything—the way Jay was ruining you from behind, the exhaustion in your glossy eyes. His own cock twitched as he positioned himself between you both, rubbing the leaking tip against your flushed lips.

"Come on, my love. Smile." Jay’s voice was teasing as he whisper it. 

You tried—forced out a tired, dazed smile, your mind was too hazy with the pleasure. Click.

Jay groaned at the sight, gripping your chin to turn your face toward him, pressing a hot, messy kiss against your parted lips.

Jake chuckled, the shutter clicking again. Click.

Jay growled against your mouth, his pace turning erratic, slamming into you even deeper, hitting your sweet spot over and over. Your moans came out in broken cries.

Suddenly, Jay pulled away from your lips, his grip never loosening on your waist as he reached for Jake’s cock, guiding it into his own mouth.

Jake cursed under his breath, his thighs trembling as Jay’s lips wrapped around him, tongue flicking over the tip. You whined at the sight, leaning in without hesitation, your tongue trailing along the base, tracing every vein where Jay wasn’t covering.

“F-Fuck,” Jake gasped, his camera shaking slightly in his hand as he struggled to focus. His hips twitched, his body torn between watching and giving in to the overwhelming pleasure of both your mouths.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to steady the camera. Click.

The flash illuminated the scene—Jay sucking him off, your tongue lapping at his shaft, eyes eager with lust.

Jay pulled off with a slick pop, stroking Jake lazily. "Shit, you’re shaking already?" he teased, glancing up at him through heavy lids.

Jake let out a shaky breath, smirking despite himself. “Hard not to when you two look this good.” He ran a hand through his hair, barely holding back a groan as Jay flicked his tongue over the slit again.

Meanwhile, Jay’s thrusts never faltered, still driving into you, keeping you stretched around him. His free hand snaked back to your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that had you whining into Jake’s skin.

“Go on, baby,” Jay murmured, glancing down at you. “Make him cum.”

Jay pulled away, straightening his back, leaving you alone with Jake’s cock. You didn’t hesitate, immediately taking him back into your mouth, your lips wrapping around him as your moans vibrated against his length. The brutal pace Jay set behind you only made it messier, your body keening, your cries muffled as Jake groaned, watching you struggle to take it all.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks when Jake decided to thrust deeper, fucking into your throat without mercy. Your gag reflex flared, but you took it, letting him use you, letting Jay ruin you from behind.

“Shit,” Jake hissed, his fingers tightening in your hair, keeping you in place as his hips twitched forward. “You look so fucking good like this—choking on my cock while he splits you open.”

Jay groaned, his head falling back, completely lost in the way your cunt clenched around him, sucking him in tighter. 

"She's about to cum," Jay told Jake, voice breathless and strained. “She’s squeezing me so fucking tight.”

Jake gritted his teeth, looking down at you, he bites his lips as his stomach coiled painfully tight at the sight.

“Fuck—I’m gonna cum too,” he muttered, his hips jerking forward, his cock twitching on your tongue.

Jay let out a strained chuckle between moans. "Fuuuck, already? Goddamn," he whined, barely keeping himself together as he felt you pulse around him.

He pressed two fingers against your swollen clit, this time he rubbed it with ruthless, desperate circles.

"Come on, baby," Jay gritted out, his thrusts turning messy. "Cum for us—fuck, I wanna feel you shake."

Jake groaned as you whimpered around him, your body twitching violently, your thighs squeezing shut as the overwhelming pleasure took over. You couldn’t hold it back, your orgasm slammed into you, your walls clamping down so hard on Jay’s cock that it had him cursing, his rhythm faltering.

“Fuck—fuck, there you go, baby,” Jake grunted, watching your body shudder, the way your moans vibrated around his cock. With a sharp inhale, he pulled away, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. He replaced your hand with his own, stroking himself fast as he positioned the camera again, angling it just right to capture everything.

Your body still trembling from Jay’s relentless thrusts, but you forced your eyes open, letting your tongue loll out in anticipation.

"Paint me with your cum, 'Ikeu." 

Jake cursed under his breath, his hips stuttering as his orgasm hit. Hot ropes of cum spurted across your face, dripping down your cheeks, your lips, your tongue—just as the camera shutter snapped.

Click.

Jay grunted, his grip firm as he pulled you away from Jake's arms, his hands cupping your breasts, pressing your back flush against his chest. He carried you effortlessly, not once slipping out of you as he moved toward the couch.

You whimpered, your walls clamping down hard around him. Settling onto the couch, Jay wasted no time—his arms slid under your thighs, forcing your legs wide apart, keeping you completely open for him and Jake to see. His forearms bracing your trembling body as your hands clung to him for support.

He slammed into you again. The force had you crying out, your back arching. Your vision blurred, as the tears continue spilling freely down your cheeks.

Jake groaned at the sight, his cock twitching as he looked around at the polaroids scattered across the floor—each one capturing every filthy moment, every ruined expression on your face.

“Take it, take it, take it!” Jay gritted out, his focus solely on the way your pussy clenched around him, sucking him in with every thrust.

Your breasts bounced with each movement, the force of his strokes sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He was hitting that spot—that spot—so perfectly that your screams filled the room once again.

Your dazed eyes locked onto Jake, who was fisting his half-hard cock, watching the two of you with dark, hooded eyes. The moment he noticed you staring, he smirked and raised the camera again.

“Say cheese,” he teased, voice dripping with amusement.

Jay tilted his head over your shoulder, making sure to be in the shot, his cock still sliding in and out of you, the slick sound echoing in the air. Your body was trembling, overstimulated beyond reason, but somehow, you managed to raise a shaky hand in a peace sign, your eyes half-lidded, a ruined little smile tugging at your lips.

Jake grinned, angling the camera just right. Click. And by that time the flash illuminated, your orgasm hits.

“Ahh—fuck! Yes!” You screamed, your body convulsing as another orgasm ripped through you. Your walls fluttered, tightening so brutally around Jay that he nearly lost control.

Jay cursed under his breath, slowing his thrusts for a moment, trying to hold back the heat coiling in his stomach. Your pussy was gripping him too damn tight, milking him, begging for him to spill inside—but he wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet.

Still catching his breath, he smirked down at Jake. “Come here,” he panted, gripping your thighs tighter. “We’re gonna get a shot of you, too.”

Jake’s eyes darkened, his smirk widening as he give the camera to you. He knelt between your trembling legs, his hands gripping your thighs as he leaned in.

The moment his tongue met your clit, you jolted, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as fresh overstimulation crashed into you. Your fingers instantly tangled into his hair, pulling him closer as he flicked his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking softly.

Jay groaned, feeling every little tremor of pleasure ripple through you, feeling the way your walls pulsed around him as Jake devoured you.

“Shit,” Jay exhaled, his grip bruising on your hips. “You better get a good fucking shot of this, baby.”

He grabbed your trembling hand, guiding you to lift the camera. Your fingers barely steadied around it before the flash went off—click.

The image burned behind your lids for a second—Jake between your legs, tongue out, teasing your swollen clit while Jay’s cock was still buried deep inside you.

A whimper left your lips, your body shuddering violently as the pleasure became unbearable. Your legs tried to close instinctively, but Jake was quick to push them apart again, palms against your thighs.

“Stay open,” he muttered, his lips brushing over your slick folds. “Let me taste all of it.”

A drawn-out moan escaped you as Jake trailed his tongue lower, licking along the outline of Jay’s cock stretching you open. The sensation sent a shiver up Jay’s spine, his head falling back as he groaned.

“Fuck, Jake—” Jay gritted his teeth, feeling the wet heat of his boyfriend's mouth so close to where he was buried inside you.

Jake hummed in response, the vibration making you both shudder before he dipped lower, his tongue sliding over the mess of your fluids dripping down. Then, without warning, he took Jay’s balls into his mouth, sucking lightly, his hands still keeping your legs spread wide.

Jay let out a strangled moan, his grip on your hips tightening. “Stop for a moment—I don’t wanna cum yet,” he gritted out.

Jake pulled away from Jay just to latch onto your clit again, sucking hard. The sudden jolt of pleasure made you gasp, your back arching as another wave of heat surged through your body.

Jay smirked at your reaction, his hands sliding up your trembling torso. His fingers found your nipples, rolling them between his fingertips before giving them a sharp pinch. You cried out, your thighs twitching against Jake’s face, but he only held you down harder.

Jay started moving again—slow, teasing thrusts that had you gripping the camera weakly, your fingers struggling to keep hold as your body trembled under their combined assault. Every part of you was being used, overstimulated to the point of madness, and you could barely process the sensations anymore.

“Jake, open up,” Jay breathed. Jake lifted his chin from your stomach, parting his lips obediently. 

“Ready the camera,” Jay commanded, his gaze flicking to you. Your fingers trembled as you struggled to lift it, your body still reeling from their touch.

Then, without hesitation, Jay pushed three fingers past Jake’s lips, pressing them deep onto his tongue. Jake groaned, his lashes fluttering as he hollowed his cheeks around them. The sight had your breath hitching, your grip on the camera weak as you barely managed to angle it. Click.

Jay smirked, watching the way Jake took his fingers so easily, how his lips stretched around them, drool beginning to pool at the corners of his mouth.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers free, only to bring them down to your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles with the slick mixture of Jake’s spit and your own arousal.

“Up,” Jay ordered, “we’re gonna fuck her stupid.”

Jake grinned, licking his lips as he stood, positioning himself above you. His hands gripped your trembling thighs, spreading you wide as he lined himself up.

“W-wait—” you gasped, barely able to get the words out before Jake groaned, pushing inside you in one slow, agonizing stroke.

Your body arched, a broken scream tearing from your throat as your walls stretched around him.

Jay moaned at the sensation, feeling the press of Jake’s cock against his, both of them buried deep inside you, stretching you beyond anything you thought you could take. 

“Relax, baby. I can’t get inside—fuck,” Jake groaned, his jaw clenched as he tried to push in deeper.

You whimpered, your breaths coming out in sharp, uneven gasps. The stretch was burning and your walls struggling to take them both.

Jay, still buried inside you, hummed against your ear, his fingers never stopping their relentless circles on your clit. “Just focus on this, baby,” he cooed, “It’ll feel good soon, I promise.”

Your fingers went slack, the camera slipping from your hands and hitting the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.

With a deep breath, Jake pushed again, his hips rolling forward, forcing himself inside inch by inch. Your walls fluttered desperately around them both, your body trembling as you tried to adjust.

Finally, he bottomed out, a deep groan escaping him as he settled inside you. Your head lolled back onto Jay’s shoulder, body completely limp between them. The stretch was overwhelming, but they fit—stuffed so deep inside you, pressed against each other, filling you to the brim.

Jake exhaled shakily, looking down at the way you swallowed them both. “Goddamn,” he muttered, he slowly starts moving inside you, his dick brushing on Jay's was making his mind lost it completely.

Slowly, he began to move, his cock sliding against Jay’s with each thrust, the tight space forcing every sensation to heighten. The friction and the heat was enough to make his mind go blank.

Jay’s jaw clenched, his fingers digging into your hips as he felt every movement, every shift inside you. Since he was underneath, his own thrusts were shallow, but the way Jake’s cock brushed against his still sent sparks of pleasure.

“F-fuck,” Jay groaned, “She’s so—tight—”

You cried out, back arching as the overwhelming stretch turned into pleasure. Every roll of their hips pushed them deeper, stuffing you so full that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Ahh, ahh,” you moaned,  your voice is so shaky.

Jake smirked at the sound, gripping your thigh to keep you open. “You hear that, Jay? She’s losing it.”

Jay let out a breathless laugh, pressing a kiss against the side of your neck. “Not yet,” he murmured. “She can take more.”

And with that, he bucked his hips upward, meeting Jake’s thrusts perfectly, filling you over and over again, stretching you to your absolute limit.

“Fuck, no matter how many times we stretch you, you’re still so fucking tight,” Jake moaned.

Your mind was lost, floating somewhere between pleasure and delirium, your body completely surrendering to them. It wasn’t just the way they fucked you—it was how perfectly you fit together. The way Jay’s girth stretched you open, making you feel so impossibly full, while Jake’s length filled every inch, reaching places that made you see stars. And the way they both curved just right, their tips pressing into every sensitive spot inside you, leaving you utterly wrecked.

Your lips parted, a choked sob escaping you.

“Hey, you still with us?” Jay murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. Jake chuckled breathlessly, his fingers gripping your chin, tilting your face up to his. 

“She’s barely holding on,” Jake smirked, rubbing his thumb over your spit-slick lips before pushing it past them. “She's completely fucked out.”

Jay groaned, rolling his hips even deeper, setting a rhythm that made your entire body tremble. They moved in sync—when Jake pulled out, Jay drove in, and when Jay withdrew, Jake filled you again. The push and pull leaving you with no moment of emptiness, only the overwhelming sensation of being ruined.

Your moans vibrated around Jake’s thumb, eyes rolling back as pleasure consumed you. Your body was overstimulated, wrecked, yet you wanted more.

You always wanted more when it came to them.

Jay’s grip moved to your breasts, kneading them just the way he knew you loved, while Jake’s fingers found your clit, circling it with expert precision. They knew your body like it was theirs—knew how to break you down, knew exactly how to tear you apart.

And in this moment, the only thing your mind could process was their names.

“Jay, Jake! Fuck—fuck!” you cried, body arching between them.

Both of them were completely lost in you, drowning in the way you took them so perfectly. But still, their focus never wavered from your pleasure. Their thrusts turned rougher, deeper, until Jay’s movements stuttered first. With a deep, strangled groan, his hips slammed flush against you, spilling inside with a shudder, his hands still greedily kneading your breasts as he rode out his high.

Jake whined, his hips stuttering as he felt Jay spill inside you, the warmth of it making his cock twitch violently.

“F-fuck, that’s so hot,” he groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs as he chased his own release. “You’re so fucking full, baby, and you’re still squeezing me—shit.”

Jay hummed lazily, his grip on your breasts tightening slightly as he kissed the side of your neck, still buried inside you. “She’s greedy like that,” he mused, his voice husky. “She wants it all.”

And you were definitely going to get that.

Jake thrust into you harder, his fingers rubbing relentless circles on your overstimulated clit. The pleasure teetering on the edge of painful as he used you to reach his high. Your body can't stop trembling uncontrollably as your walls clenched down around him.

“Fuck, fuck—” Jake’s head tilted back, his mouth hanging open as his orgasm crashed over him. He spilled inside you with a deep, shuddering groan, his fingers still lazily circling your clit, forcing you to ride out every last wave.

You gasped, body going limp between them, trembling as the aftershocks wracked through you. Every nerve was on fire, your skin glistening with sweat, your mind lost in the haze of pleasure.

Jay leaned back against the couch, keeping you pressed against his chest, his fingers trailing lazy circles over your skin. He pressed soft, lingering kisses against your temple, whispering low, soothing words into your ear, grounding you even as your body continued to tremble.

Jake was the first to pull out, hissing as he did, still breathless. He reached down, grabbing the fallen camera from the floor, his fingers brushing over the discarded polaroids scattered around.

Jay shifted next, carefully lifting you, rolling you onto your stomach. A deep groan rumbled from his chest as he watched both of their cum spill from your wrecked pussy, dripping down your thighs. His hands spread you open just a little more, admiring the mess they made of you.

Jake knelt beside you, his fingers carding gently through your damp hair, his touch soft and tender. “Last shot, baby,” he murmured.

You barely had the strength to lift your head, but you did, your fingers resting against your flushed cheek. Your hair was damp with sweat, your lips swollen, your eyes hazy—completely fucked out.

Jake framed the shot just right, both of them beside you, the aftermath of their work on full display.

Click.

The flash flared and faded, casting a fleeting glow over the room before leaving behind only the three of you. On the floor, some of the polaroid slowly developed, its edges soft and hazy, immortalizing the moment in perfect, messy detail.

[writers-potion]

Let's Talk About Pacing Our Fight Scenes.

For Fast-Paced Parts:

Short words with single syllables. Immediately > at once/ endeavour > try/ indicate > point at/ investigate > check out.

Short sentences, the shorter the better.

Partial sentences to blaze through multiple senses and actions within a few lines.

Short paragraphs

Lots of verbs.

Few adjectives and adverbs.

Cut down on -ing form of verbs, as it can make words longer

Use simple past tense

Avoid conjunctions and link words.

Avoid internal thought - your characters are irrational, ruthless and in the flow of pure action.

For Slow-Paced Parts:

Use medium/long sentences

the paragraphs are longer: three lines minimum

Include longer words with more syllables

Use adjectives and maybe a couple of adverbs.

Insert the thoughts of the PoV character.

Words for Action Scenes

act, alter, attack, avert, back, block, bang, bash, battle, beat, beg, belt, bend, best, bite, blacken, bleed, blind, blister, blow, blunt, boil, bolt, boot, bore, bow, box, brace, brag, brash, brawl, break, breathe, brush, buck, bulgde, burn, burst, cackle, call, can, carry, cart, carve, catch, check, chop, chuck, clack, clank, clap, clash, claw, clear, cleave, click, cliff, cling, clip, close, club, cock, coil, cold, collar, come, con, connect, corner, cost, count, counter, cover, cower, crack, crackle, cram, crash, crawl, creep, crinkle, cross, crouch, rush, cry, cuff, cull, cup, curl, curse, curve, cusp, cut, dart, dash, deepen, dig, deep, dip, ditch, drive, drop, duck, dump, ede, effect, erect, escape, exert, expect, feint, fight, fire fist, fit, flag, flare, flash, flick, fling, flip, flock, force, gash, gasp, get, gore, grab, grasp, grip, grope, group, hack, harden, heat, help, hit, hop, hurl, hurry, impale, jab, jar, jerk, join, jolt, jump, keep, kick, kill, knee, knock, knot, knuckle, leak, leap, let, lever, lick, lift, lock, loop, lop, plunge, mask, nick, nip, open, oppose, pace, pack, pain, pair, pale, palm, pan, pant, parry, part, pass, paste, pat, peak, peck, pelt, pick, pierce, pile, ping, piss, pit, pivot, plot, pluck, plug, plunge, ply, point, pool, pop, pose, pot, pound, pour, powder, pray, preen, prepare, prey, prick, prickle, print, probe, pry, pull, pulp, pulse, pump, punch, pursue, push, quarry, quarter, quest, race, raise, rake, ram, rap, rasp, rear, retreat, rip, riposte, rivert, roar, rock, roll, rope, round, rouse, run, rush, sap, scale, scalp, scan, score,scream, seek, seep, shake, shape, sharpen, shock, shoot, shop, slap, slap, slash, slice, slick, slip, slit, smash, snap, snare, snatch, snipe, sock, space, spar, spark, speed, spike, spill, spin, spit, splash, spoil, spring, spur, spurt, spy, squirm, stand, steert, step, stick, strap, strike, stuff, suck, support, swat, sweat, sweep, swingm tack, tag, take, target, taste, team, tear, tent, test, thrash, throw, thrust, thud, tick, tide, tilt, time, tire, top, toss, tower, toy, trap, trick, trigger, trip, triumph, trouble, trump, try, tuck, tug, twril, twitch, weaken, wet, whip, whirl, whirr, whoop, whoosh, whop, work, zap, zip.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[lulusbinky]

♡ tips for littles without a cg༅

paw print: this is my first agere post, i hope it isnt bad!! 🐾

♡ self-made reward system ──୨ৎ── set up small rewards for yourself!! so when you do something like finishing a coloring page, drinking enough water, or cleaning your room you can reward yourself! some ideas can be using a sticker chart, having a little box of treats, or scratch off cards! you can make those yourself and put them into a box and pick out one and scratch it off to see your reward!༅

✂ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

♡ regression box ──୨ৎ── prepare a box with stuff like snacks, easy-to-use utensils, little clothes, and comforting items so you don’t have to struggle with decision-making or getting things when regressed!༅

✂ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

♡ caregiver substitute ──୨ৎ── give a stuffed animal the role of a “caregiver substitute”! talk to it, bring it with you, do little activities with it like reading a book, etc!! it can just watch over you as well!༅

✂ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

♡ fictional caregiver ──୨ৎ── you can pick a fictional character that you find comfort in and make them your caregiver!༅

✂ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

♡ self encouragement letters ──୨ৎ── write a short, kind message to yourself in a playful or nurturing tone, when your big to little you!༅

✂ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

♡ digital little space ──୨ৎ── create an “agere corner” on your phone, like a folder filled with cute apps/games that bring comfort!༅

✂ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

♡ asmr ──୨ৎ── asmr can be really helpful! there are many that are just babying and some made just for agere! just search for it on youtube and find a video you like! there are bedtime story ones too for when you dont have anyone to help tuck you in༅

✂ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

♡ regressive journaling ──୨ৎ── make a little journal using crayons or stickers! and instead of big longg word entries, try drawing emotions, scribbling thoughts, or using stickers to make a story!༅

[dabingusbongus]

I'm puttin my merUSSY into this furby adoption center idea an honestly someone needs to tell me to chill people do NOT want lil moodboards to go with their newly adopted furby nor do they want a list of songs I think fit the furbs personality.

[requiemforthepoets]

you say good morning when its midnight ⟢ OP81 (part 5)

main masterlist | fic playlist | series masterlist

PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and oscar grew up together, and despite being neighbors and best friends with her sister, hattie, you never really talked or had a conversation with him. until one day, where he randomly texted you out of nowhere.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: use of y/n, (a little) slow burn, humor, fluff, inaccurate information, no consistent face claims, all photos are from pinterest, weird, awkward, unhinge, reader is a little bit ball of a mess, long distance relationships, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 555

AUTHOR'S NOTE: part 5! sorry if the update took a little long, i was away for a vacation. but i'm now back, and i'll try to update this series as much as i can. also, this series will be my primary focus for the meantime. i would like to apologize if this is a bit rushed, indecided not to some parts since i wanna focus on the plot, but i hope you'll enjoy this one!

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

It was four days later when the front desk called up to your apartment at Kent Ridge Hill Residences, letting you know that there’s an express package that had arrived for you. Couriers weren't allowed to go up to the units, so you had to head down to the lobby to collect the package yourself.

You linked in confusion, slipping on your slippers as you mumbled a soft, “I didn't order anything.”

You certainly haven't ordered anything. Not even a midnight retail therapy binge your forgot about. Still, you took the lift down and approached the reception desk, signing of the delivery. The box was not heavy, but it was neat, its brown cardboard edges sealed perfectly with a transparent tape that has the “fragile” word printed on the tape, and your name printed clearly on the shipping label. It wasn't large, nust enough to cradle in both arms comfortably.

You carried the box back to up to your apartment, the elevator ride feeling longer than usual. Once you reach your apartment, you quickly went in and locked the door. You sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of your living room, scissors in hand. You stared at the package for a good minute like it might explain itself if you waited long enough, and then you began carefully slicing through the tape until the flaps peeled back.

As always, your curiosity won out.

You opened the box with care, like it might contain something so fragile. Inside, nestled in a bed of brown paper, were four things: a fridge magnet in the shape of Mt. Fuji that has the word "JAPAN” lettering under it, a tiny sakura petals swaying in a snow globe dome, a frog mug that is oddly shaped like a tiny pitcher, curved and handmade-looking—like it was plucked off the shelf of a sleepy Kyoto ceramics shop, and finally, a delicate matcha tea set—complete with a bamboo whisk, ceramic bowl, and a tin of fragrant powder so green that it could’ve only have come from somewhere special.

You felt your hear skipped a little in your chest. You definitely knew who it was from before you can even see the the note that was tucked neatly beneath the matcha set. But still, your fingers trembled slightly as you opened the small card, written in careful handwriting:

< I didn't buy you a postcard. I figured that’s somethinf you should do yourself, someday, when you’re finally there. I didn't want to take that moment away from you, but I thought I’d help you get started on the fridge magnet collection. Oh, the frog thing was just a spur of the moment thing, it reminded me of you and it looked like it should belong with you. - podium boi >

You read the note not only once, not twice, but three times. You couldn't help it and bit you lip, cheeks burning. The smile that grew on your face didn't stop for a long while. You tucked the note safely on your journaling notebook, then grabbed the fridge magnet and stood in front of your fridge, and with a soft click on the surface, you pressed the magnet into place. There was a quiet warmth blooming in your chest that you didn't quite know what to name just yet.

Postcard-less, for now. But not empty, not anymore.

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

yn.jpg posted to their story!

liked by hattiepiastri, yourmom, your brother, and 13 others

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

taglist: @uuoozzii , @freyathehuntress , @littlemisskavities , @elieanana , @rexit-mo , @imagine-it-was-us , @satorinnie , @pessismisticpotato , @milkysoop , @random-movie , @supersanelyromantic , @greantii , @chirpchirp69 , @purplephantomwolf , @mimisweetz , @frogiemushr0om , @angxedxtz , @hevzo8 , @pandora108 , @ms-darcy23 , @sluttybitch , @proudshinsoukinnie , @pinklemonade34 , @gemi-boi , @elizamoe133 , @sideboobrry11 , @mrrayjay , @curlylando , @soleilgrec , @nothingjustaninchidentt , @suns3treading , @dramallama9 , @1-queenofpotatoes-1 , @suibianupyourass , @armystay89 , @verstappen-leclerc-inchident , @landossainz , @martygraciesversion381 , @larkkyoris , @iloveotters11 , @isagrace22 , @bagelsbitch , @gigigreens , @wolfbc97 , @esw1012 , @raesblues , @mashmashi , @chxseversion , @fairyjinn , @hoseokjin194 , @ihaveitprinteddout , @henryspersonalver , @fctnllvrs , @pinkdeadtopia , @noimnotmae , @henna006 , @quenanababy , @formulaal , @mits-vi , @urmomsgirlfriend1 , @yeahimcrying , @ardentsnowfall , @teamnovalak , @mmsimp

[phantomamour]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧

senator!coriolanus snow x personal assistant fem!reader

cw// nothing! just some cute shorter fluff for a trope i adore

Coriolanus should start taking the amount of sticky notes you left around for him out of your paycheck. He contemplated that idea when he found another two on his desk that morning. You were often the first one into the office, a fact he was particularly proud of when other senators complained that their assistants weren’t working. You knew the way he preferred his papers sorted when he came in, and you always were sure to have his coffee sitting for ten minutes before he arrived, leaving it the perfect temperature for his first sip. Coriolanus thought about your relationship often; there was a certain domesticity to it. You knew him better than nearly anyone, and he desired to know you better despite knowing it could be inappropriate to ask the questions he wanted to. 

Your copy of yesterday’s meeting notes is being printed. A note on top of his stack of reports to read through.

Good morning, sir. A second note next to his coffee cup. Something akin to a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he took the note into his hand, thumb rubbing over the dried ink before tucking it into a box in his desk. The box was nearly full of small notes; he’d have to get another. The coffee cup warmed his hand as he turned to look out the window, sipping in peaceful silence as the first sprinkles of spring rain set in over the Capital. The snow had cleared out early this year and had been replaced with a terrible chill and rain, but the sun returned when he turned to the sound of the door opening.

“Good morning, sir. Your meeting notes as promised. They’d have been here earlier if the new intern hadn’t tried to break the printer last night. I nearly broke my hand trying to unjam it,” you said as you set down the stack of papers precisely in the corner of his desk. He appreciated how much you respected his order of things.

“I assume your hand is intact?” 

“Yes, thank you. Your lunch with the Secretary of Communications is today, and you have a call with the Head Gamemaker at three. Besides that, I’ve tried to give you time to catch up on reports.” He nodded in response, taking in the sight of your winter clothes with a soft look in his eyes. 

“Thank you. Please ensure you get to lunch today. I would prefer not to find my assistant on the floor when she forgets to eat.” You smiled with a firm nod in return.

“Of course, sir. I’ll be outside if you need me.” A small part of him hated watching you walk away, the same part of him that he forced himself to ignore so fiercely. He noticed the color of your skirt, a deep red, and a part of him wondered if you matched his signature jacket on purpose. It wasn’t entirely unlikely; you often had something red on since your first week, and he knew it couldn’t have been a coincidence. 

When he left for lunch, he found your desk empty and a single note left atop your keyboard.

Enjoy your lunch. I’ll be here when you return. He picked up the note to tuck safely into his jacket pocket, another for his collection. He hadn’t realized how protective he’d be of your notes when you started working for him a year ago, but when he couldn’t find the heart to throw them away, it became a growing issue for the space in his desk. You’d never know, but the note you’d left him on your first day was framed and pristine in the back of one of his drawers. Maybe one day, he’d get the courage to display it on his shelf. 

As promised, you were there when he returned and greeted him with a smile that he swore lit up the room. 

“Good afternoon, sir. How was lunch?” your voice was gentle and caring, a comfort unlike anything he’d heard before.

“Productive. His assistant will be reaching out to set another next month. How was your lunch?” He did his best to ask about you even on his busiest days, and how your eyes shined when he did always made it worth it. You told him about the cafe you stopped into during your break from the office with the same smile that took the breath out of his lungs. 

“Their coffee is quite good as well. Perhaps I could bring you one tomorrow to see if you’d like it over the cafe I’ve been getting your coffee from recently.” There it was again. The care you showed him from the first day you entered the office, never once thinking of anyone else there but him. You were a shark when you wanted to be for him, ready to rearrange anyone else’s schedule for his benefit. But to him, you were nothing more than the perfect kind girl he couldn’t help but be grateful for hiring every day. He enjoyed the fire in your eyes when you’d ramble about one of the interns getting in the way of your job and when you triumphantly announced the success of a hard-to-plan meeting. He was entirely infatuated with you, frowned upon or not. 

His call with the Head Gamemaker ran later than expected, the sun setting in the background from the conference room he had stepped into with another senator to discuss plans for the following year’s games. When he came back to your desk empty, a certain melancholy settled deep in his chest. No note was left for him, an uncommon occurrence, and a slight frown pulled on his features before he stepped into his office to finish the day. He wasn’t upset at you; he had nearly forced you to leave the office on time plenty of times. But a voice in his head still begged you to be there when he was. 

A small box sat on his desk, centered perfectly amongst the papers you had clearly straightened for him before leaving. Tied together with a red bow, he sat down to inspect it closer. He imagined your hands tying it so neatly together, and his fingers brushed against the ribbon as if it could cure the ache in his chest that longed to touch your skin. Undoing the ribbon and setting it aside, he relished in the smile that washed over his face. A sticky note stared up at him from where he had taken off the top of the box.

Happy birthday, Mr. Snow. I hope you had a good day. I’ll see you tomorrow. You hadn’t spoken a word about the day. You were perfectly familiar with his disdain for celebration and refrained from the theatrics you knew would drive him crazy. But when you scouted out the new cafe at lunch, you couldn’t help purchasing one small cupcake, knowing he would never indulge in a whole slice of cake. Lightly iced and small enough for him not to deny the sweet treat, he tore off a piece of the cake and imagined your excitement in leaving the gift for him before you left. 

You didn’t have to voice how much you cared for him. It was clear as day, and it was something he swore never to take for granted.

[rafedarling]

i love to see when wife still pregnant with Rustyn or Sissy, she can’t eat anything because of her morning sickness so Drew make her favorite food to help her feel better. Drew would carefully preparing a spread of fresh fruit, toast, and ginger tea—anything that might ease her nausea. I know that man would be so sweet and take care of both of them 🥹

𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

pairing: dad!drew starkey x mom!reader

summary: four months into your second pregnancy, morning sickness hits harder than you ever expected. with drew’s unwavering support and rustyn’s adorable attempts to cheer you up, you realize that even in the most exhausting moments, your family’s love makes everything better.

warning(s): english is not my native language. pregnancy symptoms (morning sickness, fatigue), mentions of food, and extreme fluff.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore

It’s 4:07 a.m., but it feels like time has stopped. You’re sitting on the cold bathroom floor, your back against the wall, trying to steady your breathing. The nausea that’s plagued you all week is worse tonight, a relentless wave that refuses to let you rest. Drew crouches beside you, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, the other brushing a damp strand of hair from your face.

“Baby, are you feeling better now?”

Drew asks, his voice laced with concern.

You’re too exhausted to answer, your body drained from the constant sickness. Instead, you give him a small nod, leaning your head against the cool tiles.

It’s been four months into this pregnancy, and you’ve already noticed how much more challenging it is compared to when you were carrying Rustyn. Back then, the nausea was manageable, and you had bursts of energy to get you through the day. This time, the morning sickness is… unforgiving, leaving you weak and overwhelmed.

Drew watches you carefully, his blue eyes filled with worry.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll be downstairs making you a matcha tea.”

His voice is gentle, like he’s afraid to disturb your fragile state.

“Thank you, baby,”

You whisper, your voice barely audible. You let him help you back to bed, lying down slowly, grateful for the comfort of the sheets. Drew tucks you in with a kiss on your forehead before heading downstairs.

Unbeknownst to both of you, a sleepy-eyed Rustyn has woken up and shuffled out of his room, clutching his favorite stuffed dinosaur, already intuitive, sensing when something’s off. Hearing the sounds of his dad in the kitchen, he pads down the stairs in his little dinosaur-print pajamas.

“Dada?”

Rustyn calls out, rubbing his eyes as he enters the kitchen.

Drew turns, surprised to see his son awake at this hour.

“Hey, buddy. What are you doing up? It’s still early.”

Rustyn blinks up at him, his voice soft.

“Mama sick?”

Drew crouches down to Rustyn’s level, brushing his curls out of his face.

“Yeah, Mama’s not feeling so good this morning. She needs some rest.”

Rustyn’s little face scrunches in thought before he tugs on Drew’s sleeve.

“I want to help Mama?”

Drew smiles, his heart swelling at Rustyn’s determination.

“You want to help me make something for her?”

Rustyn nods enthusiastically, his sleepiness forgotten.

“Soup!” he exclaims, the word coming out in a high-pitched squeal.

Drew chuckles.

“Alright, soup it is. Let’s make some chicken soup for Mama.”

Rustyn climbs onto a stool by the counter, watching intently as Drew gathers the ingredients. He’s too little to do much, but Drew lets him “help” by handing him pre-washed herbs to place in a bowl.

“Good job, buddy,” Drew says, ruffling Rustyn’s hair.

Rustyn beams, proud of his contribution.

“Mama loves soup.”

“I think she’ll love it,”

Drew replies, his heart melting at how much Rustyn cares.

While the soup simmers, Drew brews some matcha tea, making sure it’s not too hot. He pours it into your favorite mug, setting it carefully on a tray alongside a bowl of soup.

“Breakfast in bed for Mama,”

Drew announces, lifting the tray.

Rustyn trails behind him, clutching his stuffed dinosaur.

“Me too!”

When they enter the bedroom, you’re lying on your side, your eyes half-closed. The sound of Drew’s voice and Rustyn’s little footsteps make you stir.

“Morning, Mama,” Drew says softly, setting the tray down on the nightstand.

Rustyn climbs onto the bed with determination, his little hands reaching for yours.

“Mama, we make soup!” he says proudly, his face lighting up as he hands you the stuffed dinosaur.

“Dino make you feel better!”

You can’t help but smile, your heart swelling at the sight of your son’s effort.

“Thank you, baby,” you say, pulling him into a hug.

“And thank you, Dino.”

Drew sits beside you, helping you sit up slowly.

“Here, take it easy,” he says, handing you the mug of tea.

The warmth of the tea and the smell of the soup make you feel a little more human. You sip the tea, letting the bitterness calm your stomach. Rustyn snuggles up next to you, his tiny hand resting on your growing belly.

“Mama, is baby in there?”

Rustyn asks, looking up at you with curious eyes.

You nod, placing your hand over his.

“Yep, your little sibling is in there.”

Rustyn grins, his excitement contagious.

“I’ll be big brother!”

“You’ll be the best big brother,”

Drew says, leaning over to kiss the top of Rustyn’s head.

“Mama and the baby are so lucky to have you.”

Rustyn giggles, his laughter filling the room.

After finish your tea and manage a few spoonfuls of soup, you feel a little better, though still tired. Drew takes the tray and sets it aside, lying down next to you. Rustyn climbs onto Drew’s chest, his favorite place to cuddle, and the three of you settle into the quiet comfort of the morning.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your eyes meeting Drew’s.

“For what?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“For being you. For taking care of me. For teaching Rustyn to be so thoughtful.”

Drew smiles, his hand resting on your belly.

“We’re a team, remember? And you’re the strongest person I know.”

You lean into him, feeling grateful despite the challenges of this pregnancy. With Drew’s unwavering support and Rustyn’s adorable enthusiasm, you know you’re not alone.

As you drift off to sleep, Rustyn’s tiny voice cuts through the quiet.

“Mama, baby okay?”

“Baby’s perfect,” you murmur, your heart full.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Two

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.

Notes — Sorry it's a little late, this one took a lot out of me!

2024 (Canada — Austria)

The windows were open. Late spring sun poured through them, catching in the curls of steam rising from mugs and saucepans and the folds of linen napkins no one quite knew how to fold properly. There were shoes by the door in mismatched sizes and accents bouncing down the hallway — American, British, Dutch, Australian. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.

Amelia stood barefoot in the kitchen, pressing her hand lightly to her lower back, more out of habit than pain. She had a glass of sparkling water in one hand, the other resting protectively over the curve of her hip. People moved around her. She didn’t mind. She wasn’t the centre of attention — not exactly — but there was an orbit to it all, and she knew she was at its core.

The first to arrive were Zak and Tracey. Her dad had tears in his eyes before he’d even crossed the threshold. “He actually did it,” he said, in disbelief, running a hand along the bannister of the stairs like it might disappear. “You imagined it and he made it real.”

“I had idea,” Amelia said, quietly. “It was a complete surprise.”

“Sweetheart, you let someone love you like this.” He stressed, and then he hugged her like he couldn’t stop himself anymore. 

Tracey had brought a lemon cake and a box of herbal tea labeled third trimester blend. She gave Amelia a soft hug, the kind she didn’t have to brace herself for. Never from her mom. 

Then came Cisca and Adam, each carrying a desert and homemade jam in glass jars. 

Max and Pietra came in like a whirlwind of perfume and sunglasses and unfiltered affection. Pietra immediately disappeared into the kitchen to investigate the spice cabinet. Max made himself useful by lighting candles and being genuinely startled when Amelia offered him a hug. 

Oscar and Max (Verstappen) arrived together. Oscar nearly cried when he saw the nursery, but would deny it for the rest of his life. 

Max said nothing when he hugged her, just held her for a long moment and murmured, “This all suits you,” into her hair. “It is you, zusje.”

They ate dinner outside, under fairy lights Lando had strung up earlier that day with his sisters’ help. The table was full — food, laughter, crumbs, second helpings, stories from the paddock, from childhood, from nowhere in particular. Amelia sat with one foot up on a chair, tracing idle circles on her belly, watching it all. Filtering the noise. Finding the patterns in the chaos. Letting it settle.

At some point, Zak handed her a folded piece of paper — a printout of an old email she’d sent him when she was 16. The subject line read: Please don’t laugh, but I have some ideas for next season’s floor design. 

He’d printed it out years ago, tucked it into his desk. She hadn’t known.

“You were brilliant then,” he said. “You’re going to be brilliant now.” 

Lando caught her eye across the table. There was nothing showy in his smile, nothing loud in the way he reached across and brushed a crumb from her plate. But the steadiness of him — the fact of him — anchored her.

Later, when the sky turned navy and the stars began their slow scatter, Amelia stood in the doorway of her new home and just... looked.

Everyone was here. And if something in her brain still itched at the edges — still tried to catalogue, analyse, brace — she let it.

She was allowed to hold joy and anxiety in the same palm.

She was allowed to be the centre without needing to perform for it.

This was hers.

And she was home.

—

The kitchen smelled like toasted pine nuts, the air just slightly too warm from the oven being on all afternoon. A playlist hummed from the speaker tucked behind the kettle — mostly soft indie, one or two Fleetwood Mac tracks, something Lando had thrown together for their first full day alone in the new house.

Amelia stood at the counter, barefoot again, chopping basil with surgical precision. She was wearing a Quadrant t-shirt— oversized, worn thin at the elbows — and a pair of bike shorts stretched snug over her bump. Her hair was scraped up, clipped haphazardly. She looked like peace in motion.

Lando wandered in from the hallway, his socks mismatched, holding a laundry basket under one arm.

“There are so many tiny socks in there,” he said, like it was a crime against nature. “Like, how many pairs of socks will one baby need?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Enough to account for holes, spit-up, and mysterious disappearance. Standard equation.”

He dropped the basket on the dining bench and leaned over her shoulder, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “Dinner smells like it might change my life.”

“That’s because you haven’t had proper pesto since last summer.”

“No offence to store-bought,” he murmured against her skin, “but I trust your pesto with my entire soul.”

She elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Back off, Norris. I’m wielding a blade.”

He laughed and stepped back, wandering over to fiddle with the cutlery drawer. A few moments passed in quiet sync — her plating the pasta, him setting out plates and hunting down the fancy olive oil she liked. They didn’t need to talk. The space between them was soft, settled.

When they finally sat down — legs tucked, chairs pulled close — Lando kept glancing across the table like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“This place doesn’t feel like real life yet,” he admitted after a beat, twirling his fork through pasta and not lifting his eyes. “Feels like we’re on holiday. Like I’m gonna wake up in a hotel bed.”

Amelia paused mid-bite. “Do you want it to feel more real?”

“No, I mean—” He exhaled. “I just can’t believe we get this. A quiet night. Good food. No planes or media or engine data or... pit lane nerves.”

She reached out, slow and sure, and tapped his wrist. “We made this real.”

Lando looked at her. Just looked. Like he’d never stop being awed by the fact of her.

“I’m gonna build you a fire pit next,” he said eventually, nudging her ankle under the table. “So you can roast marshmallows and give terrifying lectures about drag coefficients under the stars.”

After dinner, they curled up on the couch, plates abandoned in the sink. Her feet in his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles along the arch of one. The house whistled softly in the evening wind, the kind of noise Amelia didn’t mind ��� predictable, harmless.

She tilted her head against the cushion. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

Lando didn’t ask who. Just nodded, quiet and certain. “I think she’ll love it. She’ll take her first steps in that hallway. Learn what thunderstorms sound like from that window. Grow up knowing that this house — this family — was built for her.”

Amelia blinked once, slowly.

“You’re a bit of a poet when you want to be.”

“Think I’m a cliche.” He whispered. “I’m a bit in love with my wife, so it’s easy.”

She didn’t reply — just curled her toes a little tighter into his thigh, and let the rhythm of the house settle around them like it had always been meant to.

—

The fire had burned down to a soft flicker, casting low amber light across the living room. The windows were open just enough to let the night air in — warm and still scented faintly with rosemary from the garden Lando insisted on planting for her. The world was quiet. It had been a long time since they’d had quiet like this.

Amelia stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the curve of her belly, the other tugging at the hem of Lando’s hoodie — hers now, really, judging by how often she stole it. She wasn’t trying to be coy, but there was something in her eyes tonight, something thoughtful and electric. Lando could read her like telemetry; he knew that look.

He approached slowly, cautious in the way he always was around her these days — respectful of her space, of her body, of the changes she was still learning to live in.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low.

“I’m fine.” Her mouth twitched. “Just... trying to decide if I want you to touch me or if I want a bowl of cereal.”

Lando laughed, relieved by her bluntness — always blunt, always honest — and closed the distance. He gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Is there a world in which you could have both?”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Possibly.”

His hands found her waist, careful, familiar. He leaned down, mouth brushing her jaw. “Tell me what you need.”

She didn’t answer right away — just turned into him, pressed her face to his neck, and breathed him in. There were always moments like this: Amelia finding stillness through closeness, tuning her sensory overwhelm down through warmth, weight, pressure.

“I want to feel good in my skin again,” she murmured. “I want to feel like I still belong in it.”

“You do.” He kissed her cheek, then her collarbone. “You’re beautiful, Amelia. You always are.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then can you show me. Please?”

They moved together carefully — deliberately — like a familiar dance they'd had to relearn around her growing body, her new thresholds, the shifting ways her mind and skin processed the world. Every kiss was a question. Every breath an answer.

He worshipped her slowly, reverently. Made her feel anchored, wanted, known. And she let herself sink into it — not because she needed to, but because she could. With him.

And later, tangled together beneath the quilt, sweat-damp and flushed and full of quiet, she let her fingers drift over the slope of his spine.

“You always know what I need before I do,” she said.

He turned his head toward her, lips ghosting a smile against her shoulder. “I’m just reading the data.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

She didn’t say anything else — just pulled his hand over her belly and held it there, steady and warm, letting that be answer enough.

—

The nursery smelled faintly of new wood and lavender — not from anything artificial, but from the actual drawers and the little sachets Tracey had tucked into corners like some secret maternal ritual.

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-packed duffel bag beside her, and a checklist on her iPad open in front of her. Her fingers hovered in the air before she tapped something with purpose. “Two nursing bras,” she muttered. “Non-wired. Black. Seamless.”

Tracey stood by the open wardrobe, holding up one in each hand. “You want the ones with the clip or the ones with the crossover front?”

Amelia squinted. “Clip. They look less fiddly.”

Lando leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the two of them like he’d stumbled into a language he didn’t fully speak but didn’t dare interrupt. He smiled, but quietly — this felt like their rhythm, like something beyond him. Still, he was trying. Learning. Being present.

Amelia glanced up. “Stop hovering.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” he said.

“You are.”

Tracey grinned. “She’s not wrong, sweetheart.”

Lando made a mock-wounded face, but crossed the room anyway and knelt beside Amelia. “Fine. What can I help with?”

She passed him her iPad without even looking. “Snacks. My stuff’s colour-coded in blue. Yours is orange. You’re allowed two unlisted items.”

He blinked. “Unlisted?”

“Anything not on the list that won’t get you killed when I’m in labour.”

Tracey snorted. “That’s generous, honey.”

Lando started reading, muttering under his breath, and went to raid the kitchen. Amelia returned to methodically rolling baby vests into neat, space-efficient bundles, the movements almost soothing.

“I keep thinking I’m forgetting something,” she said quietly, eyes focused but voice trailing slightly.

“You’re not,” Tracey said gently, coming to kneel beside her, folding a muslin square into a perfect triangle. “And if you are, well, we’ll survive. You’ll survive.”

“I know. But—”

Tracey reached out and rested a hand over Amelia’s. “It’s okay to not feel completely prepared for this. I don’t think anyone ever is.”

Amelia blinked a few times and nodded, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. “I just… prefer when I can say that I’ve prepared for every scenario.”

“You’ve always been like that,” Tracey said with a fond smile. “You were five when you made a backup birthday plan in case it rained.”

“It did rain,” Amelia mumbled.

“And your plan worked.” Her mum kissed the side of her head. “This will too.”

A moment passed. Amelia exhaled through her nose.

“Are you scared?” She asked, very softly.

Tracey didn’t lie. “A little. But only because you’re my little girl, and very soon you’ll understand that.” She leaned down and kissed her temple. “But you’re strong. You’ve got your Lando. You’ve got us.”

Amelia closed her eyes. “Thanks, Mum.”

From the hallway, Lando called, “What flavour crisps are birth-appropriate?”

Amelia looked up and frowned, “Anything that doesn’t stink!”

Tracey chuckled and stood. “I’ll supervise.”

When she was alone for a minute, Amelia looked down at the baby socks in her lap. One pair had tiny embroidered stars on the soles. She pressed them to her cheek for a moment. Then folded them and placed them in the bag.

—

The bedroom was mostly dark, except for the low amber glow of the reading light on Amelia’s side and the faint spill of Lando’s phone screen casting long shadows across his chest.

They were curled into the kind of easy, practiced quiet that only came from years of orbiting each other. Her head rested on a stack of pillows, book angled just so above the curve of her belly. He was on his back, phone in hand, occasionally scrolling, occasionally glancing sideways to watch her face shift with whatever she was reading.

“Is this one good?” He asked eventually, thumb pausing mid-scroll.

Amelia didn’t look up. “It’s fine. The female lead has no spine and the pacing is off. But the visuals are nice. Well-written”

“High praise,” he said dryly.

She turned a page with a slight rustle. “I like the writing. Even when the plot is stupid, the sentences are nice. That counts.” A pause stretched. He let it breathe. Then she spoke again, softer this time, eyes still on the page. “How are we going to split it?”

Lando turned his head. “Split what?”

“The houses.”

“Oh.” He put his phone down on his chest, screen dimming. “I thought you meant something deeper, like splitting parenting responsibilities or—”

“We’ve already talked about all that,” she said. “But I was lying here thinking — Monaco still feels like home to me. But I love this new house too. I just… don’t want to feel like I have to pick one. Or like I’m abandoning one part of our life for another.”

He blinked at her, and then propped himself up slightly on one elbow. “You don’t have to pick. That’s why we have both.”

“But where do we raise her?” Amelia asked. “Where does she go to school? Where’s her bedroom actually going to be? Is it weird if I feel like Monaco is still mine?”

Lando’s voice was quiet, warm. “Not weird.”

She glanced at him with a raised brow.

“We’ve spent years living in Monaco, baby. It’s your home, your friends, your pavement routes.”

She was silent. In a thoughtful kind of way.

He reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers together.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Maybe having two bedrooms will be her normal. Maybe she’ll be able to plant roots all over the world while she travels with her brainiac mummy and super-fast daddy.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched.

“We’ll just do what feels right,” he added. “Even if it changes.”

After a beat, she tilted her book closed and set it on the nightstand. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable but open. “I love that you always say ‘we’,” she said.

He kissed the back of her hand. “We’re a team. Always.”

She nudged closer, resting her forehead against his. “I want her to always know that she can come back home. Any time, any age, no matter what.”

“She won’t go running to any specific house. It won’t be here or Monaco.” He murmured. “She’ll go running to wherever her mummy is. And that’ll be the place she calls home.” 

She kissed him. 

— 

The shower had fogged up most of the mirrors by now. Steam curled around the tiles like low-hanging cloud, the water beating a steady, rhythmic tap against Amelia’s skin. She stood still for a long time beneath it, arms curled around her bump. Her hands rested low, fingertips tracing invisible shapes without realising it.

Her belly had changed shape again — harder up top now, more lifted. Lando had said it was a growth spurt. She wasn’t sure. It just felt… denser. Like her body was becoming its own kind of mechanical structure, adjusting its load-bearing capacity by the day.

“You’re getting heavy,” she murmured, not critically. Just a fact.

The baby shifted — not a kick, just a slow roll, like turning to listen.

Amelia gave a quiet snort of amusement and shifted too, stepping under the water again. She tilted her head up, then sideways, letting it cascade over her ears, dulling the world into a warm hush.

“You know,” she said, conversational, “there’s a theory that racing cars create downforce the way bird wings create lift. Just inverted. Bernoulli’s principle. I bet you’ll like Bernoulli when you’re older.”

She gently ran her fingers over her bump again, then raised a hand and lazily wiped a small circle of condensation from the glass shower door.

Beyond it, a shape caught her eye — the edge of the towel rail, with a soft, pastel towel draped over it. One of the ones her mother had folded into the hospital bag earlier that week. It had a little pattern of cartoon hearts embroidered near the corner.

Amelia blinked. Her mouth twitched.

“Right,” she said. “Lesson two.”

She placed one hand flat over her belly and shifted to sit on the little bench built into the far wall of the shower — a compromise between comfort and function she’d had added to their Monaco apartment a few months into pregnancy, when standing for too long had started to give her dizzy spells. Lando had taken the design and had it installed into every bedroom in the England house. 

Her voice was steady, like she was reading from a manual.

“So. Your lungs are under your ribs, but my ribs are kind of squished right now, because of you. My bladder is, too. That’s the thing making me pee a thousand times a day. I’m not mad about it,” she added quickly. “I understand that you need the growing room. It’s just… a bit inconvenient for your mother, is all.”

Another movement beneath her palm — not a kick, but a firm stretch. She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “That’s your legs, isn’t it? Yeah. Strong femurs, like your dad.”

A pause. She traced a gentle line down the centre of her bump with two fingers, as if sketching an invisible diagram.

“And you’re sitting head-down, which is good. It means your occiput — that’s the back of your skull — is facing the right way for birth. But if you want to wriggle around a bit more, that’s fine too. Just don’t do anything drastic, okay?”

She reached for the bottle of body wash, then hesitated, watching the water spiral around the drain.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “I think about what it’ll be like when you can hear me properly. Not just vibrations, not just tone. But words. Sentences. I wonder if you’ll like the way I explain things. If it’ll make sense to you, or just sound like static.”

Her voice cracked slightly there, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.

She rubbed her thumb gently across the highest curve of her belly.

“I hope I don’t overwhelm you. But I probably will. People overwhelm me all the time. I just… try not to run away from it anymore.”

The baby kicked again, sharp and deliberate.

“I know, I know,” she said under her breath. “I sound like I’m spiralling.”

She exhaled slowly, then pressed her forehead against the tile behind her.

“I get a bit scared, sometimes. That you’ll think I’m strange. That I won’t be soft enough. Or silly enough. Or motherly in the way people expect. But I’ll know everything about you. I promise. Every bone, every birthmark, every favourite food. I’ll learn you like I learned cars. And I’ll never stop wanting to know more.”

She didn’t cry, not quite. But she stayed there for a while longer, curled slightly forward, listening to her heartbeat echo faintly beneath the rush of water. She pressed a slow kiss to her fingers, then to the stomach, eyes closed.

Outside the shower, the world stayed quiet. But she knew Lando was out there. Probably pretending to be asleep. Probably listening.

She smiled faintly. And let herself just be for a moment — wet hair clinging to her cheeks, knees drawn up, hands resting where her daughter lived.

—

The house felt too big, at first.

It was beautiful, of course — everything Lando had hoped it would be, and everything Amelia had dreamed aloud about in bits and pieces over the last two years. Clean lines. Warm wood. Natural light in every room. The scent of fresh paint still hung faintly in the air, mixing with lavender from the natural diffuser Lando had plugged in before she walked through the door.

But it wasn’t home yet. Not immediately.

The first morning, they made toast in silence. Not unhappily — just quietly. The coffee machine clicked and hummed while sunlight crept across the kitchen floor, and Amelia stood barefoot in one of Lando’s old t-shirts, rubbing her belly like it helped her think. Lando, shirtless, squinted at the touch screen oven like it had offended him.

The nursery was the only room that felt fully finished.

They unpacked slowly. 

His helmets were lined up carefully along the hallway wall, one of them already smudged with her fingerprints. 

The midwife came by mid-week for a check-in, and Amelia sat on the edge of their bed, answering questions about sleep, diet, swelling. Lando hovered, nervously watching the blood pressure monitor like it was a qualifying leaderboard.

“You don’t have to stand over me like I’m going to flatline,” Amelia told him.

“Don’t bloody say that.” He said. And kept standing there. 

She didn’t tell him that it made her feel safe.

Evenings blurred together — sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on the porch. They sat side by side with plates of toasties or takeaway pizza, watching the sun sink behind the fields near the back fence. 

Their families came and went day by day. 

Oscar didn’t say much when visited. He just showed up with strawberry milk and watched her doze off on the sofa with the straw in her mouth.

Lando had started packing for Canada by the following Wednesday. Amelia helped fold his socks, even though he was terrible at finding matching pairs.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said that night, curled around her in the dark.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He kissed the back of her neck and didn’t argue.

By the seventh day, the house had started to shift — not just in layout, but in feel. The air carried the scent of their shampoo. Her cup lived by the sink. His shoes were by the door. There were fingerprints on the fridge and a faint dent in the couch cushion where she curled up after lunch every day.

—

The morning was blue-grey and overcast, the kind of moody English weather that settled into your skin and made you crave hot tea and your dressing gown. The car was waiting out front, idling gently. Lando’s suitcase sat by the door, zipped, tagged, half-heartedly stuffed with hoodies and McLaren polos. His travel backpack leaned against it like it didn’t want to go either.

Amelia stood in the doorway in socks and one of his old sweaters that had stretched across her belly — not because it fit, but because it smelled like him.

He double-checked his phone, then his passport, then his phone again.

“You’ve checked five times,” she said, voice dry but warm.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve remembered anything,” he mumbled, slipping the phone into his back pocket.

They stood there for a moment — just standing. Not talking. Not moving. Letting the moment sit.

He stepped closer and rested his forehead against hers. Their daughter kicked once, firmly, and he smiled.

“She’s telling me not to leave,” he said quietly.

“She’s dramatic,” Amelia replied. But her voice wobbled slightly. “She gets it from you.”

Lando kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate. His hands cupped her cheeks, slid down her arms, settled on her belly like a prayer. He didn’t say ‘don’t go into labour without me’ — he didn’t need to. The plea was written all over his face.

“You’ll call me if anything happens?” He asked, not pulling away.

“I’ll call you if I so much as sneeze weird,” she promised.

“Good.” He looked at her again, memorising the curve of her sleepy eyes and the flyaways in her hair and the flush in her cheeks that pregnancy had made permanent. “You’re… god, I love you. I love you.”

She nodded. Swallowed thickly. “I know. I love you too. Don’t forget.”

He laughed. “As if I could ever”

“I’ll be watching. Look after Oscar for me.”

He kissed her again. Just once more.

Then he was out of the door. Into the car. A wave through the window.

Amelia stood in the entryway long after the car turned out of their driveway, hand pressed gently to her stomach.

“Alright,” she whispered. “It’s just us for a little while, baby-girl.”

And the house was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

—

It had taken Amelia a full twelve hours after he’d left to stop expecting his footsteps in the hallway. She’d paused once at the sound of the boiler kicking in, heartbeat ticking faster before she remembered: no, that wasn’t the front door. That wasn’t him coming back with a Tesco bag of the weird array of sweets she wanted and a sheepish smile because he missed her already.

Now, barefoot in the kitchen with the late afternoon sun glowing against the pale countertops, Amelia placed her palms on her belly and exhaled.

The kettle clicked off behind her. 

“I think we’re doing alright.” She murmured. 

She’d made a small list of things to do. Routine helped. The first day, she'd organised the linen cupboard, stocked the baby’s changing station, wiped down the fridge shelves because she’d read a study about bacteria colonies and couldn’t stop thinking about it. The second day she unpacked the last of their books. Found all the annotated ones Lando had scribbled in when he was still trying to read what she read — underlining things like emotional subtext?? in red pen.

Today, she’d taken a long bath, trimmed back the rose bushes, and wandered from room to room with her fingers brushing the walls like they were pages in a story she hadn’t finished reading yet.

In the baby’s room, she opened the blackout curtains and let in the warm afternoon light. The chair by the window, a plush glider in soft earth tones, had already become her favourite place to sit.

She eased into it with a quiet grunt and settled one hand low on her belly.

“I wish you could’ve met him sooner,” she told the baby, voice just above a whisper. “I mean, obviously you’ve met him. He talks to you more than anyone. But I mean the before him. When I didn’t know people could be like that. That kind. That sure. He says he fell in love with how I think. With how I see the world.”

She paused. A small laugh.

“I told him he’s biased.”

Outside, birds wheeled across the sky like brushstrokes. She let her head fall back, gaze on the ceiling. Lando had insisted on putting glow-in-the-dark stars up there, claiming the baby would love them. She’d laughed at first — told him their daughter wouldn’t even be able to see them.

Now, looking at up them, she was suddenly nine again. Her dad was hovering, her mom quietly worried. They’d just moved to England from Florida. She’d broken a three-day period of noa-verbalness in order to ask: “Can we put the stars up, daddy?”

Lando had remembered.

He’d wanted their daughter to have the same comforts she’d relied on for so many years. 

“I hope you get his laugh,” she said after a while. “And his sense of direction. And how he always makes space for people.” She reached down and adjusted the blanket over her legs. “I don’t know what kind of mummy I’ll be yet. I know what I want to be. I want to be your safe place. I want you to always feel comfortable to be yourself around me; no matter what that looks like.”

The baby kicked gently under her ribs.

“Yeah, I know. I’m being sentimental.” She smiled faintly. “Don’t get used to that. It doesn’t happen often. That’s more your daddy’s territory.”

Later, she made dinner — toast and spaghetti and Lando’s ridiculously sugary cereal for dessert. She ate curled sideways on the sofa, wrapped in one of his jumpers, reruns of old races playing softly on the TV. His voice came through now and then in the commentary. Every time it did, her chest ached — not painfully. Just… ached. 

And when she climbed into their bed that night, she shifted a pillow behind her back, whispered goodnight to her baby girl, and traced the shape of the window frame with her eyes.

—

The baby felt heavier every morning. Not dramatically, not enough to worry, but enough to make Amelia roll slower out of bed, one palm at her back, the other at her bump, muttering soft, affectionate curses under her breath.

Her mom arrived midweek.

Tracey didn’t knock, just let herself in with the key Lando had given to her weeks ago. Amelia had been halfway through folding onesies in the laundry room when she heard the click of the front door and the familiar rustle of an overfilled handbag.

“Mom?”

“Who else would be coming into your house with tea biscuits and fresh flowers?”

They hugged in the hallway. Amelia, unsure at first, then tighter, grateful. Her mom smelled like the same delicately scented perfume she always wore, and that scent unlocked a part of Amelia that had been quietly braced all week.

“You okay, my darling?” Tracey asked softly, after a long hug.

“I think so.”

“You’re safe. He made sure of that.”

“I know.”

Tracey settled into the guest room without fanfare — just a neatly packed suitcase, a crossword book, and a container of pre-cut fruit. She moved through the house like someone careful not to leave fingerprints, never imposing, always within arm’s reach.

That night, they watched FP1 together on the living room couch.

Amelia had one leg tucked up, a bowl of cereal on her bump. Tracey kept asking polite but confused questions about DRS zones and tire graining. Amelia answered them all, engineer-sharp, still watching like she was sitting at the pit wall, but quiet.

At one point, she whispered, “That left-rear temperature is creeping up too quickly.”

Tracey blinked. “...For the orange one?”

Amelia smiled faintly. “Yes. Oscar’s car.”

—

FaceTime with Oscar came later, after FP2.

He was stretched across his hotel bed, hair messy, still in team gear. “You seeing these sector times?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. You're getting too aggressive with the throttle mid-chicane.”

Oscar groaned. “You’re not even here and you’re still doing this.”

“You asked.”

He paused. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Tired. Heavy. But good.”

Oscar’s eyes softened. “You look alright.”

“I’m in my pyjamas and haven’t brushed my hair since this morning.”

“I said alright. Not good.” 

They grinned at each other through the screen. It felt weird, and warm, to miss him. Her best friend. Her driver. 

—

Lando called a lot. 

Between sessions. Before them. After them

Amelia was in the bath, water warm and eucalyptus-scented. When she answered, her hair was pinned up and her bump floated like a tiny island beneath the bubbles.

“You looked good in the car today,” she murmured.

“Didn’t feel good. Too much understeer in sector two.”

“Maybe try lifting off earlier before the left apex?”

“I miss you.”

Her throat closed a little. “I miss you too.”

Silence stretched.

Then Lando laughed, soft and boyish. “Your mum texted me a picture of you and her in matching slippers. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“She got them at Boots,” Amelia said.

“They’re cute.”

“Itchy.” Amelia said. She scrunched up her nose. 

Another pause.

“What are you doing after the race?” She asked.

“Coming home.”

“That soon?” She frowned. 

“I’ve been waiting to come home since I got off the plane,” he said simply.

—

Tracey made lunch. Amelia couldn’t stop pacing. The house’s open plan meant she could still see the TV while she marched from room to room, one hand on her belly, breath catching at every near-miss and overtake.

She watched Lando’s start with bated breath. Listened to Oscar’s radio. Judged strategy calls and muttered pit stop criticisms like a general in her castle.

Tracey passed her a cup of peppermint tea. “Sit down, love.”

“I can’t,” Amelia whispered. “I don’t know how to watch without being part of it.”

When it ended, Lando on the second step of the podium after a nail-biting fight at the front with Max, Oscar in seventh, she finally exhaled. 

Her phone buzzed ten minutes later. 

Lando: How did I do?

She typed back, Amazing. Come home to me.

—

That night, before bed, she walked the halls alone.

She touched the hallway wall where Lando had measured the doorframe — swearing that someday their daughter’s height would be marked beside it. She lingered in the nursery, rearranging the stuffed animals for no good reason. She lay down in bed and turned off the lamp, then whispered, “You’re going to love it here, sweet little pea.” She gave a quiet little giggle. “I already do.”

And in the hush of night, the baby gave the softest kick beneath her palm. Not a flutter — a push. Solid. Present.

“Yes,” Amelia said. “I know. I miss him too.”

—

It was just past midnight when the front door clicked open.

Amelia, curled up sideways on the sofa in one of Lando’s old hoodies, blinked herself awake. The living room was dark, save for the soft golden glow from the kitchen under-lights and the flicker of the paused race replay on the TV screen. Her tea had gone cold on the side table. The baby had hiccupped for almost twenty minutes straight and then fallen quiet — just as Amelia had dozed off, waiting.

Keys dropped into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Then soft footsteps. Two pairs.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, just as Lando appeared in the doorway, duffle in hand, eyes tired but warm. Behind him, Oscar trailed in with a hoodie pulled low over his head and the kind of look you wore after a race weekend that hadn’t loved you back.

“You’re awake,” Lando said, voice low. He looked like he wanted to melt into the floor with relief.

“Hi,” she murmured, standing slowly, her hand on the small of her back. “Hi.”

He came over, wrapped his arms around her, and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just breathed her in, one hand on her belly, the other cradling the back of her neck. She nuzzled into his chest.

Then he pulled back slightly and turned to Oscar. “You crashing here, mate?”

Oscar nodded silently. His shoulders were tight, jaw set, a bruise visible just beneath the collar of his hoodie — nothing serious, but there. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Amelia stepped toward him and opened one arm in invitation. “Come here, ducky.”

Oscar hesitated only a beat before folding himself into her hug. He didn’t say anything either, but his fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. She let him rest his chin briefly on her shoulder.

“You were excellent,” she whispered. “There was a lot of change to get used to this weekend. Don’t let it ruin your drive.”

He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “Didn’t feel excellent.”

“You still brought the car home. And points, too. Some weekends, that’s the win.”

Lando nodded from behind her. “She’s not wrong.”

Oscar looked between them, weary but grateful. “I’ll just take the guest room.”

“You know where everything is,” Amelia said. “My mom’s in the one with the closed door, yeah? So use the one near the back of the house, the one closer to our bedroom. And my mom filled the fridge with snacks in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Oscar cracked a small smile at that and shuffled off with a mumbled goodnight.

When he was gone, Lando turned back to her, dropping his bag by the couch. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Didn’t think he should be alone.”

Amelia shook her head, already tugging him by the fingers toward the bedroom. “I’m glad you brought him.”

They undressed slowly, quietly, moving like people who’d done this dance a hundred times. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed to rub lotion into her stretched belly while Lando ducked into the bathroom. When he came back, he crawled into bed beside her and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too.”

The baby shifted gently between them, a little wave under Amelia’s skin. Lando reached down and rested his palm over her belly.

“She knows you’re home,” Amelia said sleepily.

“Hi, baby.” He whispered. “Missed you too.” 

—

The kitchen was bathed in slow, buttery light, the morning sun catching on the pale wood and glass, casting long shadows through the big oak tree. 

Amelia stood barefoot at the counter, toast in one hand, the other absent-mindedly resting against her belly as the kettle rumbled behind her. The baby had started the morning with enthusiastic kicks — mostly under her ribs — and Amelia had taken it as a sign to get out of bed, let Lando sleep, and start the day.

Oscar shuffled in a few minutes later, hair a mess, eyes puffy, socks mismatched. 

“You look terrible,” Amelia said, sliding a mug toward him.

“I know,” Oscar muttered, taking the tea gratefully. “You’re up early.”

“Little sweet-pea was playing trampoline with my bladder at 6am,” she said, nodding down. “And I figured you’d be up soon too. Couldn’t sleep?”

Oscar took a sip, leaned against the counter. “Keep thinking about the restart. Should’ve backed out.”

Amelia sighed. “If you had, you’d be regretting that instead. You made a judgement call. It was bold. Just didn’t pay off this time.”

“I missed you in my ear,” he said. “Can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if you were.” 

“Osc.” She said. “That’s not fair. Don’t say that. You know how badly I want to be there.” 

He winced. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just— hard.” 

She gave him a wry look. “I know. It’s hard for me, too.” 

Oscar smiled faintly. “I’ll get used to Tom. And I’ll start to trust him. But it’s hard when it’s not you, you know? It’s always been you.”

“I’ll be on comms next week. In Spain.” She told him gently. “I’ll have more of a say, okay? But you need to get to know them, talk to them, help them learn how you like to drive.” 

“I’ll try.” He grumbled. Then he looked around the bright, soft kitchen. The fruit bowl full of bright colours, the flowers by the window, the stack of tiny baby clothes folded near the sink — like Amelia had gotten halfway through organising them before getting distracted. Everything smelled like lavender. “I get why you both love it here,” he said.

Amelia’s expression softened. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Then Oscar asked, carefully, “You scared?”

She looked at him for a long time before answering. “I wasn’t. Not really. But now it’s getting closer, and I’m alone more often. I think about things I didn’t let myself think about before.” She glanced down at her belly. “But I’m not scared of having her. I think I just don’t want to mess it up.”

Oscar leaned against the counter beside her. “Pretty sure you won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t,” he said again, with surprising certainty. “Do you love her?” 

“Yeah.” She whispered.

He nudged her. “That’s it, then.” 

A soft shuffle behind them, then Lando’s voice, still raspy with sleep. “Are you two bonding without me?”

Amelia and Oscar turned to see him, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair a disaster, one eye still half-closed. 

“I made him tea,” Amelia said.

Lando pointed at her belly. “Did she let you sleep?”

“She let me have a few hours, which was generous,” Amelia said, standing up straighter with a small groan. “Here—sit. I’ll make you toast.”

Lando came over and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then leaned down to whisper something to the baby.

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

—

On the weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix, Amelia had the live feeds up on three monitors — driver data, timing sheets, and the race engineer channel — and her headset was synced to Oscar’s garage. Technically, she wasn’t on the box, but Tom had agreed it would be useful to have her in his ear for insights and soft corrections when needed. The engineers had joked that she was now their “AI Overlord in the Sky.” She hadn’t laughed.

On Friday, she was calm. Focused. Her notes were still sharp. She sent two voice memos to Tom after FP1 — one about Oscar’s brake migration being slightly off, the other about his low-speed understeer looking a little like a differential mapping issue. Both were addressed by FP2.

She’d tried to stay calm through quali. She sat cross-legged on the rug, notebook open in front of her out of habit, TV volume low, tea cooling untouched beside her. Every sector time hit her like a mild electrical pulse. Every camera pan to Lando’s face made her chest tighten.

And then — P1.

Pole position.

Her hands flew to her mouth. A sharp inhale. Her eyes didn’t tear up, not quite, but she blinked hard enough to clear the static of disbelief.

Her phone buzzed in her lap before she could even reach for it.

Lando calling.

She answered on the first ring. “You—” she started, then stopped, because her voice broke halfway through the word.

“Hey, baby,” he said, out of breath, voice shaky with adrenaline and awe. The sound of cheers and static hummed faintly in the background.

“You’re on pole,” she said. Flatly, because anything more emotional would tip her over.

“I—yeah.” His voice cracked on a laugh. “Can you believe it?”

She couldn’t. Not really. But she said, “Of course I can. I told you that you’d be able to do it.”

“You also told me to take Turn 7 a gear lower, and that’s when I started purple-ing the sector.”

“I’m always right,” she said softly.

Lando went quiet for a second. “I just wanted to hear your voice. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” she interrupted, already shifting to lie on her side, one hand sliding over her bump. “I wanted to hear yours too.”

“I wish you were here.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But you’re doing everything exactly right. And she kicked,” Amelia added suddenly. “Right when you crossed the line. Like she knew.”

Lando made a quiet, choked noise. “Tell her I love her.”

“She already knows.”

He breathed out. “Tomorrow—”

“You can win.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I love you, Amelia.”

“I love you, Lando. Now go do your cool-down and get weighed before they fine you.”

He laughed breathlessly. “Yes, boss.”

—

Sunday morning was more emotionally complex. The race brought a new kind of restlessness. She stood more than she sat. Paced the hallway during the formation lap. Her hands twitched over her bump every time someone locked up into Turn 1.

The lights went out and Amelia tracked every throttle input and radio check-in with a kind of quiet intensity. She wasn’t barking orders. She wasn’t pacing a pit wall. But her brain still ticked in race rhythm.

She flinched when Lando lost a place on the opening lap, then cheered softly when he clawed it back with one of his signature perfectly-timed exits out of Turn 5. Oscar’s pace stabilised by Lap 15, and she could tell from the data that he’d found his flow. She sent Tom a discreet note about giving him a bit more encouragement.

“Tell him the tire warm-up on the second stint looks good. His brake temps are in a sweet spot — he can push.”

Her mom wandered into the room at one point, holding a mug of tea. “It’s like watching a hacker during a cyber-attack,” Tracey said, amused, watching Amelia’s fingers fly over the trackpad. “But with more swearing.”

“Only mild swearing,” Amelia muttered.

By the end of the race, Lando had secured another podium; P2 just behind Max, and Oscar brought it home in P5 after a clean, clever second stint. 

Amelia’s adrenaline was still fizzing as she took off the headset and leaned back in her chair.

“Mom!” She shouted down the corridor. “Can you make me a cheese sandwich?” 

—

Amelia sat curled up on the couch, one hand resting gently on her bump, the other clutching a mug. The quiet hum of the house felt louder than usual — a hollow space where Lando’s laughter and footsteps usually filled the air.

She’d just hung up the phone after saying goodbye for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

“No break between Spain and Austria,” Lando had lamented, voice apologetic but determined. “It’s back-to-back weekends. Hotel rooms, planes, track walks — barely time to breathe.”

Amelia nodded into the receiver, but inside she was already bracing herself for the stretch ahead.

The reality settled like a quiet ache: he wouldn’t be here. Not in the space they’d carved out together, not to brush her hair back when she was restless, not to trace little circles over her skin to calm the baby when kicks turned into restless jabs.

Her fingers twitched lightly over the swell of her belly.

She imagined the baby, warm and sheltered, moving in rhythm with the house — a heartbeat alone but steady.

Her breath hitched a little.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so hard. The days apart. The silence that wasn’t really silence because her mind was a thousand miles away, tracking every call, every message, every moment he wasn’t home.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let herself lean into the quiet.

Maybe tomorrow she’d video call Oscar and talk about strategy, or take her mom out somewhere nice for dinner. 

Maybe tonight, the baby and she would dance in the dim light, two hearts keeping each other company until Lando came back.

She smiled softly. Long nights ahead, yes. 

But also a promise — of a family waiting, waiting, waiting.

—

The Austrian Grand Prix weekend had spiralled into chaos. 

Perez pushed Oscar into the gravel on the second corner after Oscar and Charles made contact in the first.  

Amelia’s headset was on, Oscar’s comms open on one channel, the race feed on the TV. She watched the flickering screen with cool, blunt irritation, the quiet hum of the house in the background a soft contrast to the noise of engines and tyre squeals.

Lando was out there, her husband, racing wheel-to-wheel against Max Verstappen; her brother in all ways but blood. 

And now, they were both throwing everything they had at each other, in a fight that was reckless and reckless felt like a gross understatement.

She pressed a button on her headset, voice low but firm. “Tom. Get Will on Lando’s radio. Tell him to stop trying to take the outside line. He’s fighting Max on Max’s terms and losing control.”

Static. Nothing but broken hiss.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as she stared at the dead air in her headset. “Tom, come on.”

Minutes dragged on with nothing but interference.

The race was unraveling fast—a high-stakes, high-speed chess match turned chaotic brawl on asphalt. Amelia’s gaze flicked between the TV screen and her headset, sharp and unblinking. She could see it all clearly—the tight, unforgiving corners, the relentless wheel-to-wheel clashes, Max pushing hard to force Lando wide, and Lando refusing to yield. The cars were inching closer with every lap, dangerously close to disaster.

Her voice stayed steady, cutting through the static like a blade. “Will, Tom, come on. Somebody—just pull him back! This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

She wasn’t shouting, not really. There was no hysteria. Just a cold, hard edge to her frustration—the kind that comes from knowing both men far too well, knowing exactly what was on the line, knowing the risks they were gambling with their careers and their lives.

And then it happened.

A tiny nudge. Barely visible on the screen.

But enough.

Enough to tear punctures in both cars’ tyres and send them spiralling down the timesheets.

Her heart hammered.

Lando was limping into the pits. She saw him climb out of the car, face tight with frustration and pain. Max got a tire change and he was back out there, angry and fast. 

Then Oscar stormed across the finish line—second place.

Amelia sat frozen for a moment, breath catching, body tense. The adrenaline surged through her veins, a strange mixture of panic and helplessness.

She reached for her phone with shaky hands and touched Lando’s contact. Once. No answer.

Twice. Still no answer.

A third time. Nothing.

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling fast.

He was probably pacing somewhere. His phone was probably in a hoodie pocket somewhere he couldn’t hear it. 

Oscar’s podium flashed on the screen, but Amelia couldn’t focus.

Then, a sudden warmth crept down her legs.

She blinked slowly, voice flat and dry. “God. I’ve peed myself.”

Her hand moved down instinctively, pressing against her belly.

Confusion flickered across her face as she realised.

“Oh… oh. That’s not—That’s not pee.” She mumbled. 

A sharp tightening gripped her abdomen.

Her eyes went wide. 

Then she grabbed her phone again; called the only person she knew would never not answer her call. Podium celebration ongoing or not. 

“Amelia!” Her dad cheered as he answered, and she could hear the Australian national anthem playing in the background. 

“I’m in labour.” She told him flatly. “And Lando’s not answering his phone. So, if you could find my husband and let him know, I’d really appreciate it.” 

Then she hung up. Stood. Walked into the guest room and smiled at her mom, hands twisting and pulling and stimming. “Hi.” 

Her mom stared at her, wet pants and all, with wide eyes. “Honey—“ 

“I didn't pee." She told her, a bit indigent. "I think my waters broke.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

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Unlocking The Potential Of Custom Tuck End Boxes For Your Brand

Also, packaging isn’t about just enclosing a product but it is also about making the consumer experience with the brand a better one. Tuck end boxes are one of the best and most versatile packaging solutions that appear to be strong enough and give a quality look. These boxes are used in almost every business ranging from retail firms or food businesses as they are convenient and good to look at. There could not be a better type of box to pack some products as these tuck-end ones will add convenience and sturdiness at the same time. Whether it is for print services, branding, or making one's products easily recognizable, custom tuck end boxes remain quite an effective form of packaging. In this article, the author aims to elucidate various features and uses of tuck-end boxes which will revolutionize your packaging needs, enhance your branding solutions, and even provide for product or product line needs.

What Are Custom Boxes?

Tuck-end boxes refer to cardboard-based banding with both ends of the boxes having a tuck flap. The tuck end design offers closure to SNAP Retailer products in a way that makes them tamper-proof and also readily accessible to consumers. This type of box has a possibility for the widest range of products, it’s perfect for cosmetics, small electronics, food, and gift products. This is important since custom tuck end boxes can be created in the specific requirement size of your product. It also guarantees the vehicles fit better, allowing the use of less filler material and ultimately reducing the environmental impact. Other possible modifications are contained in the selection of the materials, colors, sizes, and finishes that you associate with your brand identity.

Advantages Of Box 

Custom tuck-end boxes provide convenience as one of the main benefits of this type of packaging. It is for this reason that they can be assembled within the shortest time possible and make mass packaging processes easier. This design also enables easy opening and closing and therefore ensures that the customer has an easy time when opening the contents of a tuck end pack. Furthermore, custom top tuck boxes with logos offer very good structural enhancing benefits, they give protection to the product included inside in terms of shipping and transport. They also have very high flexibility in their design, and this makes it possible for a business to design their packaging in a special way to suit their packages on the shelves.

Various Industries

Whether one is producing snacks and beverages, cosmetics, or electronic equipment, custom tuck end boxes can be manufactured to fit any industry. This makes them versatile for use by businesses of all sizes and of various product densities, shapes, and forms. Especially for the food industry, custom tuck end boxes are ideal for holding snacks candies, and even baked goods. Some of the uses in the cosmetics industries include packaging of skin products and treatments, perfumes among other luxury products. In the same way, electronics firms can use them to pack small gadgets or other related accessories.

Importance In Branding

Custom-printed tuck box covers are an excellent promotional product. Some of these boxes contain low-quality prints and thus, it is possible to have good colors, the position of the logos, and other qualities that would appeal to the buyers of the containers. From simple text to a more complex graphic, you can put your brand logo and identity into your packaging and let the custom printing be the showcase. Custom tuck boxes aside from promoting and establishing brand recall also ensure that your clients have an excellent unboxing experience. An excellent print done to the tuck box creates a unique look and can do a lot in developing the customer base.

Perfect For Packaging

Tuck end boxes wholesale packaging because of the possibility to use materials elaborated to the smallest detail and the question of cost is also solved. Wholesale manufacturers can purchase these boxes in large quantities As we see these boxes have a basic design making it easier forुआers to assemble without having to spend too much on labor. In addition, the flexibility of these boxes is well demonstrated since they can be made in various sizes to suit different products. Companies can also negotiate for this when in large quantity, making custom tuck end boxes a cost-effective solution for a company that requires lots of packaging.

Sustainable Packaging Solution

Hence, quickly the demand for environmentally friendly packaging products is growing since businesses are also becoming more careful with what they do to the environment and since consumers are also transforming and being environmentally conscious. Tuck end boxes are very special, therefore, custom tuck end boxes are the perfect solution for companies that are concerned with their impact on the environment. These boxes can be designed and developed from recyclable and biodegradable strengthens to guarantee conservation for the local occupants and the enhanced durability of these boxes. Thus, with the help of using friendly tuck-end boxes, the company can ensure the customer of their conscious approach to carrying out sustainable production, which is an essential factor for environmentally aware audiences. This in turn not only helps improve the image of the brand but also captures a rising number of sensitive buyers.

Conclusion

Therefore, custom tuck end boxes are an exemplary solution that can both be functional and attractive. Because of their ability to be used in a wide variety of industries, their low cost for wholesale use, and their customization capabilities, they are a valuable addition to any company wishing to improve its packaging. If you want to change the overall image of your brand, want to give an impressive unboxing experience, or wish to convert your packaging solution into an eco-friendly one, then custom tuck end boxes are the solution to many of these worries. Since custom tuck-end boxes are hard wearing, easy to deploy, and versatile when it comes to design, purchasing these custom kraft boxes is ideal for companies that want to create a distinctive brand. TTTuck-end cartons are the solution you need for your next branding level, try custom tTTuck-end packaging now!

[thecustomizeboxes-blog]

10 Lifestyle Hacks to Boost Your Daily Productivity

In a world where time is a valuable asset, staying productive is essential. Whether you’re balancing work, personal life, or daily tasks, small lifestyle adjustments can significantly enhance your efficiency. Here are ten powerful hacks to help you make the most of your day. 1. Plan Your Day in Advance One of the simplest ways to ensure a productive day is to plan it the night before. Create a…

[97linelover]

Coming back to you - Jeon Jungkook

summary: you loved him while he was away, you loved him from far away. And now hes finally back.

Being in a secret relationship with Jungkook as his Make up Artist is not that easy, especially when you´re just waiting for his return.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: love, return from the military, cute, they´re just so in love

author's note: how can the time already be over? I´m so happy. I wrote this, this morning so don´t be to harsh on me :D

The BigHit building buzzed with quiet excitement, a kind of electricity in the air that only came when something huge was about to happen. Tomorrow wasn’t just another day—it was the day.

After what felt like an eternity, Jungkook and Jimin were finally being discharged from the military.

And you? You had the most important job of all.

Not only had you been BTS’s trusted makeup artist for the past few years—working with them through albums, concerts, and chaotic shoots—but you were also Jungkook’s secret.

Your secret relationship with him had started quietly, somewhere between powder brushes and soft eye contact in mirror reflections. Late-night texts turned into long walks. And before you knew it, he was yours, and you were his.

But today, there was no time to be sentimental.

“Y/N, do you have the list?” Namjoon called out from across the practice room, balancing a clipboard in one hand and holding a streamer in the other.

“Yeah, I’ve got it!” you answered, double-checking your notes. “And I picked up the cake this morning from that bakery Jungkook loves. Banana-flavored, right?”

Hoseok grinned, walking past with a handful of balloons. “You’re seriously amazing. He’s going to cry.”

“I hope not,” you laughed. “His contact lenses won’t survive that.”

Taehyung entered the room next, lugging a giant cardboard box full of decorations. “I got the banner! And the photo wall materials. Should we do it next to the window, or—?”

“Let’s set it up where the lighting’s better,” you said, already heading to help him. “You know how picky Jimin is about pictures.”

As the others moved around you, hanging garlands and preparing the playlist, you quietly checked off tasks in your head.

✅ Cake

✅ Drinks

✅ Decorations

✅ Playlist

✅ Gifts

Oh—and Jimin’s bag. You had picked it up for him, along with his uniform accessories. You made sure everything was perfectly folded, tucked into a duffel by the door, ready for tomorrow morning.

You paused, brushing a bit of glitter off your sleeve, glancing toward the small gift you hadn’t dared show the others. A small silver bracelet with Jungkook’s enlistment date engraved on it… and yours, next to his, in smaller print. You’d worn it every day since he left. Tomorrow, you’d finally give it to him.

You exhaled slowly, a soft smile pulling at your lips.

It didn’t feel real yet. But tomorrow, he’d walk through that door. The wait would finally be over.

And no one—not even the fans—knew the truth behind your excitement.

Tomorrow, the world would see BTS’s Golden Maknae return.

But only you would see the man you loved come home.

The HYBE building had never felt like this before.

There was always movement—staff hurrying, stylists adjusting lighting, choreographers shouting counts from practice rooms—but today was different. Today, it felt like a storm was brewing.

The Golden Maknae and the angel-voiced Park Jimin were coming home.

And you? You were right in the eye of the storm.

“Y/N, where are the black ribbons? They were in Box B!” someone shouted behind you.

“Box B is in Studio 3!” you called back, clutching two cups of coffee, a checklist, and a roll of tape in your other hand.

You hadn’t slept much last night. Honestly, you hadn’t really slept well in months.

Because even though Jimin was like a little brother to you, this wasn’t just about BTS returning to full strength.

It was him.

Jungkook.

You hadn’t seen him in person for months. Sure, you exchanged the occasional encrypted text. . A grainy selfie with his buzzed hair and sleepy eyes.

But nothing beat standing in front of him, close enough to hear the way he said your name like it meant more than just three letters.

Only the members knew. RM had found out first—he always did—and eventually, the others caught on. It had been unspoken between you all: protect this secret at all costs. Dating an idol as staff wasn’t just frowned upon. It was forbidden. A one-way ticket out the door.

But the moment Jungkook told you he was willing to wait, you knew you’d do the same.

And now… that wait was finally over.

“Y/N!” Taehyung’s deep voice pulled you back. He was standing at the entrance of the practice room, holding up his phone. “They just arrived. They’re on their way here!”

A chorus of reactions erupted.

“Ten minutes?!”

“Did someone check the microphones?!”

“Where’s Jimin’s jacket?!”

You were already moving—handing over coffees, adjusting decorations, shoving Jungkook’s duffel bag just slightly to the left so it would be the first thing he saw. Your heart was racing in your chest, matching the rhythm of footsteps echoing through the building.

Only minutes now.

You felt Seokjin gently nudge your shoulder as he passed. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, careful.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I will be. When I see him.”

Hoseok smiled knowingly. “You’re glowing. He’s going to lose his mind.”

Suddenly, the building’s atmosphere shifted.

The elevator dinged.

Silence fell like a heavy blanket.

And then: footsteps.

You stepped back, breath held, heart hammering, eyes locked on the hallway outside the studio.

The door opened.

Jimin entered first, smiling wide, dressed in his military uniform, looking tired but happy. He opened his arms, greeting everyone like the prince he was.

And then came him.

Jungkook.

Hair slightly longer now, military cap in hand, uniform perfect. His eyes scanned the room—and when they landed on you, the world stopped.

For a split second, the chaos faded. The balloons, the cake, the flash of cameras, the staff whispering—all of it disappeared.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

His eyes softened, just a little. The corner of his mouth lifted. That tiny look only you ever saw.

He was home.

His scent hit you before anything else. That warm, clean smell mixed with something distinctly him—even after such a long time.

Jungkook made his way through the room, hugging each staff member, bowing deeply, thanking them one after one. His smile was beaming, but his eyes were tired.

You stood near the back, pretending to adjust a mic cable that absolutely didn’t need adjusting.

Don’t shake. Just breathe. Don’t look like a love-struck idiot.

He was two hugs away.

Then one.

And then—

“Y/N,” he said softly, and you turned just in time to see his arms open.

There was no time to think.

You stepped forward, and he pulled you in for a quick hug—shorter than the others, less obvious—but his hand lingered just a second longer on your lower back. His breath ghosted near your ear as he whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear:

“I missed you.”

Your heart nearly stopped, but you smiled politely, nodded, and stepped back, eyes lowered. “Welcome back,” you said quietly, your voice way too calm for the storm inside you.

He gave nothing away, not even in his expression. Golden Maknae mode fully activated.

You tried to focus as Jimin waved everyone toward Studio A, where the livestream was set to begin in fifteen minutes.

“Let’s go!” Namjoon called. “We’ll run audio while they change jackets.”

Everyone moved in sync.

You stayed close, like always, clipboard in hand, headset in place, watching them through the control booth window as they sat down, fixing their collars and joking about how weird it felt to be out.

And Jungkook—he kept glancing at the glass. At you.

You stood behind the main camera now, pretending to go over notes with the lighting team.

But you weren’t fooling anyone—especially not yourself.

Your whole body buzzed. You were giddy, jittery, anxious, overwhelmed.

He’s here. He’s actually here.

The way he had looked at you—the softness, the heat, the unspoken history between you—none of it had faded. It was all still there, hiding in his glances, in the calm stillness of how he carried himself.

And god, you wanted to run to him. Just for five minutes. Just to say everything you weren’t allowed to say.

But now?

Now, he was BTS’s Jungkook again. And you were just the staff.

So, you did what you always did: you kept working.

Even if your fingers shook.

Even if your cheeks burned.

Even if your heart was screaming his name.

The studio lights were warm and bright, casting that perfect glow on Jimin and Jungkook as the livestream began.

They looked… different. Grown. Sharper. Stronger.

But their laughter was still the same—soft, contagious, filled with inside jokes and memories you could only imagine from the past 18 months.

Jimin leaned forward, eyes sparkling as he teased Jungkook about almost crying during their farewell ceremony.

“Ya! I didn’t cry,” Jungkook argued, his voice deep, playful. “It was allergies.”

“Sure it was,” Jimin smirked, nudging him. “Military dust, right?”

The staff chuckled behind the cameras. You stood to the side, arms crossed tightly over your chest, pretending to check your phone. But really, you were just watching him.

Every smile.

Every gesture.

Every time his tongue peeked out as he laughed, or when he tucked his hair behind his ear—things you used to see up close, in quiet hotel rooms and stolen moments.

It was torture and comfort all at once.

And you didn’t even notice you were staring until someone cleared their throat beside you.

Namjoon.

He didn’t say anything—just raised his brows with a knowing smirk. His arms were crossed too, and his eyes flicked between you and Jungkook before returning to you.

You blinked, flustered. “What?”

Namjoon leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so no one else would hear. “Your face is giving you away.”

You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I’m just—monitoring. You know. Makeup, lighting…”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Very professional.”

You elbowed him gently, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Shut up.”

Namjoon smiled wider but backed off with a small shrug, as if to say, I won’t tell… this time.

You needed to breathe.

“I’ll be right back,” you mumbled, already stepping away. “Bathroom.”

Namjoon didn’t stop you—he just nodded knowingly as you slipped out of the room, your heart pounding in your ears.

Once in the hallway, you leaned back against the wall, closing your eyes.

You had handled months of separation. You had handled secrets and silence and waiting.

But handling him, in the same building again, so close and yet so untouchable?

That was something else entirely.

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet compared to the buzz of the studio. Your heart was still racing, your skin still warm from the way Namjoon had looked at you like he knew. Like they all knew. Like he was just waiting for you to break.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been out here. A few minutes? Maybe more. The voices and laughter from the livestream had faded behind closed doors, and your own thoughts had taken over.

He’s here.

He’s safe.

He’s right there.

And yet—you couldn’t touch him.

Not really. Not yet.

You exhaled slowly, about to head back inside when—

Footsteps.

Heavy boots, confident steps. You knew them instantly.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Jungkook.

The moment your eyes met, the air shifted. The hallway suddenly felt too small. Too quiet. Too full.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he was making sure you were real. His uniform jacket hung open now, and his hair was slightly tousled from pulling off his mic.

And then—he smiled.

Not the public smile. Not the one from the livestream.

This one was just for you.

“You ran away,” he said softly, voice rough from laughter and emotion.

You smiled back, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Maybe.”

He took a few steps closer, then stopped—checking the hallway quickly, like old habits kicking in. Still cautious, still hiding.

But when he was sure no one was around, he reached for you.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crossed the last step between you and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as he held you tight—so tight like he was afraid to let go.

God, he felt solid. Warm. Real. Like every second of waiting had finally led here.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered against his shirt, your voice barely holding steady.

His hand slid up your back, resting gently at the nape of your neck. “I thought about you every damn day,” he said, low and rough. “Every day, Y/N.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes searched yours, and you knew—he wanted to kiss you.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not here.

So instead, he pressed his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m home now,” he breathed. “We made it.”

You nodded, tears pricking behind your eyes. “Yeah. We did.”

And in that quiet, stolen moment—hidden between the walls of the company that wouldn’t approve of any of this—you finally breathed again.

Together.

The livestream had ended with cheers and laughter. Staff clapped, cameras powered down, and the room buzzed with post-shoot energy.

Jungkook and Jimin were surrounded by staff, all offering congratulations, handshakes, pats on the back. They took it all with grace, but their eyes were tired—especially Jungkook’s.

You stood off to the side again, pretending to review the footage on a monitor while your heart pulled in two different directions.

He was right there.

But you couldn’t go with him.

“Let’s go eat!” Taehyung called suddenly, grinning and throwing an arm around Jimin. “Gopchang and soju, my treat!”

“Ya, your treat?” Seokjin scoffed. “We’ll be waiting until next payday.”

Jimin laughed, tossing his cap onto a table. “I’m in. I want fried chicken and kimchi stew.”

Namjoon turned to Jungkook. “You coming?”

Jungkook looked up, glancing instinctively in your direction.

He didn’t say anything out loud. He didn’t have to.

The way his eyes softened, the tiniest flicker of disappointment flashing behind his expression—it was enough.

You gave him a small smile, one you hoped said I’m okay. Don’t worry.

Then you turned to the others, keeping your voice light.

“I’ll stay behind and help with cleanup. You guys go ahead.”

Jungkook opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Maybe to argue. Maybe to ask you to come anyway. But he didn’t.

He just nodded slowly and picked up his jacket.

That moment burned a little. You wanted to go. God, you wanted to sit beside him at the table, hear him laugh, feel his knee brush yours under the table like before. But that wasn’t your place. Not publicly.

Then—

“Wait,” Jimin said, suddenly pausing at the doorway. He turned to Jungkook, then to you, then back to the group. “You all go. Jungkook and I will meet you later.”

Taehyung blinked. “Huh? Why?”

Jimin just shrugged with a sly little smile. “I forgot my bag. And I need to stop by Y/N’s place to grab some stuff.”

He looked at you. “You’re going home, right?”

You caught the look in his eyes. The message behind the casual tone.

He was giving you a way out. A cover.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m heading back now.”

“Perfect,” Jimin said, already nudging Jungkook. “We’ll meet at her place first. I’ll bring chicken. And beer.”

There was a moment of pause before Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “You two are suspicious.”

“We’re tired,” Jimin said dramatically, already ushering Jungkook away. “Let us rest first. Then we party.”

Namjoon laughed. “Fine, fine. But don’t take too long. And don’t fall asleep!”

As the others disappeared down the hallway, you and Jungkook fell into step behind Jimin.

Your fingers brushed for just a second.

And for the first time in forever, you didn’t have to pull away

Jimin was true to his word.

He showed up at your apartment 30 minutes later, arms full of takeout bags and a six-pack of cold beer. Jungkook trailed behind him, freshly showered, in a hoodie and sweats—but he may as well have walked in wearing a crown for how your heart reacted.

The apartment filled with warmth and laughter. You ate on the floor around your coffee table, beer cans opening one by one as Jimin told story after story from their time in the military.

Jungkook didn’t say much—he was too busy watching you. Every glance. Every smile. Every time you laughed a little too loud at Jimin’s jokes, his eyes flicked over to you like he was memorizing it.

And you felt it too.

That magnetic pull between you. The silent countdown behind every look. The we’re not alone yet tension curling in your stomach.

Jimin leaned back eventually, yawning loudly. “Alright,” he groaned, stretching. “My social battery’s gone. I’m heading out before I pass out on your floor.”

“You sure?” you asked, even though your heart was racing.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Jimin said with a knowing look. “You two probably need some… catching up time.”

Jungkook threw a pillow at him, laughing. “Hyung!”

Jimin dodged it, grinning as he grabbed his jacket. “Just lock the door behind me. And don’t be loud.” He winked. “Your neighbors probably like their sleep.”

You flushed. Jungkook groaned.

And then the door clicked shut.

Silence.

Just you and him.

The second the lock slid into place, you turned—and Jungkook was already there, closing the distance between you in two long strides. His hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and then—

You kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Months of distance crashing into one kiss that felt like breathing again after being underwater too long.

He groaned against your mouth, his hands slipping under your shirt, warm and searching. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he pressed you back until your spine hit the wall.

“I thought I’d go insane without you,” he murmured, lips brushing against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“You did,” you whispered back, tugging his hoodie off, breathless. “We both did.”

His mouth was on yours again in a second, hungrier now, like he couldn’t get enough. And you didn’t care. Not about the job. Not about the rules. Not about tomorrow.

Just this.

Just him.

Home.

The moment your back hit the wall, it was like a dam broke.

All those months apart — every aching night, every word unsaid, every kiss only imagined — crashed down in the space between heartbeats. Jungkook kissed you like he was starved, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first because he wanted all of you at once.

His hands were everywhere — your waist, your back, the slope of your neck. You pulled him closer, needing him closer, clinging to him like the last thread of something sacred.

“Bedroom,” you breathed between kisses.

He nodded once, jaw clenched, eyes dark with need.

You barely made it.

Clothes disappeared in a rush — hoodie over his head, your shirt peeled off, jeans undone with fumbling hands and impatient mouths. He paused only once, looking down at you like he was seeing you for the first time again.

“God,” he whispered, fingers brushing over your bare skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. “You’re real. You’re here.”

You nodded, heart pounding so loud you could feel it in your throat. “I waited for you.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, just a little. “I’ll make up for it.”

And he did.

Jungkook took his time — worshipped every inch of you like a man trying to memorize a dream. His mouth left a trail of fire down your neck, your chest, the dip of your waist. He moved like he knew your body — where to touch, where to kiss, how to pull that soft gasp from your lips that drove him crazy.

His skin was warm against yours, hard muscle meeting soft curves, and every second was filled with whispered confessions between tangled sheets:

“I missed this.”

“I missed you.”

“You’re mine.”

“You always have been.”

And when he finally sank into you, it wasn’t just physical — it was everything. A reunion. A release. A promise.

Your bodies moved in sync, slow at first, deep, unhurried. Like time had stopped just for you two. Like the whole world had faded except this one room, this one night, this one love.

“Say my name,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot and ragged.

“Jungkook,” you moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—don’t stop.”

“Never,” he growled, moving faster now, lips capturing yours again. “I’m not letting you go again. Not now. Not ever.”

And when you both finally shattered — together, breathless and trembling, your bodies slick with sweat and love and months of longing — he held you.

Tight. Close. Like he still didn’t fully believe it was real.

And in that silence after, the only sound was his heartbeat beneath your ear, fast and steady.

“Mine,” he whispered again, kissing your temple. “All mine.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to

You woke to warmth.

Not just the kind that came from sunlight pouring through the thin curtains — but the kind that came from him. Skin against skin, tangled limbs beneath your blanket, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against the back of your neck.

Jungkook.

His arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, bare chest pressed to your back, his leg hooked lazily over yours. You could feel the slight rise and fall of his body, his heart beating softly behind you.

For a moment, you just lay there. Eyes closed, lips parted in a sleepy smile, memorizing the feeling of his body against yours again. It was quiet. Still. Like the world had pressed pause.

And then you felt him shift — just slightly — and his lips brushed the top of your shoulder.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, voice low and raspy from sleep.

“Mmm,” you hummed, turning your face toward him. “Barely.”

He smiled into your skin, nosing gently against your neck. “Good. I didn’t want to wake up alone.”

You rolled over slowly to face him. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes. His face was soft, eyes still heavy with sleep. And god, he looked so good like this — vulnerable, real, yours.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you said softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “I’ve never slept so well in my life.”

You laughed a little, pulling the blanket higher. “Probably because you’re not being yelled at by a sergeant anymore.”

“True,” he said, grinning. “Also helps that I’ve got the best pillow now.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

The words hit you straight in the chest.

And then he leaned in and kissed you — slow, sleepy, warm — the kind of kiss that tasted like comfort and home and everything you’d missed. His fingers brushed along your thigh, but there was no urgency now, no rush.

Just closeness.

You pulled back, barely, your noses still touching. “Do we have to get up?”

“Eventually,” he said. “But not yet.”

You nestled back into his chest, eyes fluttering shut again. “Okay. Just a few more minutes.”

He tightened his arms around you, voice barely audible as he kissed your hair. “Take all the time you want, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

So our babys are nearly 7 again, it´s unreal how fast the time had passed.

[irisintheafterglow]

the long-awaited part 2 to this drabble

"can i get an extra large of the black shirt?"

"of course, give me one moment. i'll be right with you," you reply with robotic politeness over your shoulder as you shove a cardboard box of collectible hats behind the tablecloth. foot traffic has significantly slowed, allowing you to take care of some inventory tasks that were hard to complete when you were bombarded with requests for the limited-edition holographic poster boasting the olympics' host city. you stand from your crouching position, grab an extra-large from the crumpled pile, and finally turn to face your customer.

the customer wearing a surgical mask with two black moles above his eyebrow. you suspect his jacket is the same one that stopped everyone in their tracks earlier in the day, when you obliviously asked him to walk you past a creep.

men's volleyball team - sakusa kiyoomi.

"well?" sakusa asks after a long moment of awkward silence, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice at your shock. "are you gonna hand me the shirt or do i need to grab it myself?"

"you...you!" your senses come slamming back into you like a freight train and you're suddenly overcome with a mix of embarrassment and indignance. "why didn't you tell me who you were?"

"you never asked," he says with a shrug and a teasing glint in his eyes. the shirt stays tight in your grasp, if only because the feel of the fabric is the one thing reassuring you that this interaction was truly happening. "plus, you seemed a little preoccupied with other things." you nod dumbly in lieu of answering and fish a paper bag from below the table.

"my boss just about had a heart attack over your damn back," you inform him while you drop the shirt into the bag. you don't bother charging him for it, seeing as he's one of the athletes and all, and you'd prefer for him to forget you exist as quickly as possible.

"i don't know what the big deal is. it's just a jacket."

"'just a jacket,' sure," you scoff, "and you're just some guy throwing a ball around." the small printer next to the register makes a whirring noise as it attempts to dispense a receipt, only for it to jam and print incomprehensible blots of ink. you curse your shitty luck under your breath.

"everything okay?"

"apparently my brain isn't the only thing that's broken right now," you mutter, and you're surprised when he breathes a quiet laugh. "don't bask in my suffering."

"i'll bask in whatever i find funny, thanks," he shoots back and you glare in spite of your furiously warm face. "what happened?"

"the printer broke. it's been on its last legs all day," you frown. you're too busy trying to remember how to replace the paper roll to notice how he glances around before deciding to remove his mask and tuck it into his pocket. when you look up next, your face goes from warm to burning. who knew your one-time bodyguard was also the prettiest man you'd ever laid eyes upon? "you know what? you can just take the bag, i wasn't going to charge you anyway."

"why would i do that? you're not doing your job very well if you just let me steal a shirt." oh, so he thinks he's funny. from what you'd watched in brief clips of his interviews, sakusa seemed too stoic to have any ounce of humor in his body; yet, here you were, getting teased by a god-tier athlete about breaking the register at your summer job.

"it's not stealing, it's...gifting," you correct slowly. "i made you a promise, remember? you made sure i didn't get kidnapped in broad daylight, and i give you a shirt in return. simple."

"but i need a receipt," he retorts dryly.

"why? just take the bag, please," you say a little forcefully, expecting him to take the hint and leave. your first mistake, however, was challenging an olympic volleyball player to a competition of wits and patience.

"no, i don't think i will," he replies, pushing the bag back across the table to you. "a receipt, one more thing, and i'll go."

"well, you're gonna be here for a little bit because i don't know how i'm supposed to get you a receipt when the printer is broken," you surrender with no idea what he was trying to do. "i won't apologize, though, because you could just take the bag and go."

"allowing me to steal and refusing to apologize. gold star customer service." his sarcasm pulls a sudden, ugly bark of laughter that seems to increase the temperature of your face even more. "hmm. cute."

"what?"

"nothing. no receipt, then?"

"like i said, unless you wanna wait until my manager comes down from the balcony level merch stand and fixes the printer, you can just take the shirt and go. i appreciate you walking me earlier, really, so it's no hassle for me if one measly shirt goes missing."

sakusa opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but suddenly snaps his head to the side in the direction of a bright camera flash. one flash turns to four, and he hastily pulls his mask back over his face, cursing under his breath. you watch, perplexed, as his cocky bravado retreats just in time for a half-dozen journalists to cut around the nearest security guard and surround him. in a blink, microphones and cameras are forced into his face and questions in six different languages are hurriedly spewed at him. if you weren't already reaching across to put some distance between him and the tabloid writers, you wouldn't hear him mutter---

please get them away.

"alright, we're done here," you announce to no one in particular. your voice is more commanding than you expected it to be, enough to make the reporters pause and give you an opening to grab the crook of sakusa's elbow, beelining for the staff-only door. the guard posted there is quick to open the door for you and shut it, effectively cutting off the growing horde of journalists. "are you okay?" you ask as you continue to lead him toward what you remember as the nearest quiet break room. you don't have time to think about the flex of his arm under your hand or how he follows you with absolute trust.

"yeah," he answers curtly, his irritation obvious but seeming to diminish the longer you're holding his arm. you reach the empty linoleum-lined room and unlatch your fingers from him to shut the door, feeling a void-like sensation that you can't figure out. "sorry about that," he says to fill the tense silence after you're no longer shoulder-to-shoulder.

"don't worry about it. we're even now," you reassure him and that makes his shoulders relax a little bit. "you need water? a snack? day-old coffee that could probably burn through metal?"

"no, just some peace," he sighs, exasperatedly collapsing into the nearest uncomfortable chair.

"i see." you blink and suddenly feel like you're intruding on his space, fitting in like an elephant in a shoebox. "uh, i'll leave you here and make sure no one else comes--"

"i'd prefer if you stayed," he cuts in and you pause, your hand hovering above the door handle. "if you're able."

"are you sure?"

"only if you can," he says too quickly to be normal, avoiding your eyes. "you don't need to if you don't want to." you want to laugh at your situation, being stuck in an empty room with the hottest man you've ever laid eyes upon, and your nerves are more heightened than a deer in headlights. (you don't know that he's ridiculously embarrassed that the one time he talks to someone he's interested in, it's interrupted by cameras)

"i can stay, yeah," you manage and he's visibly relieved at your answer, at ease enough to again peel off his mask. his annoyance seemed to dissipate in the course of your short conversation, and an odd expression of contentment is its replacement. "you'll have to explain to my manager why i had to take off early, though."

"breaking the printer, refusing to apologize, and abandoning your shift. you cause a lot of problems, evidently," he teases when you settle into a metal chair beside him.

"only around you, evidently," you quip and are rewarded by the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. "i'm sorry i wasn't able to get you that shirt, though...and your precious receipt." he shrugs.

"don't really need either anymore."

"how so?"

"hunting down the shirt was just a way to talk to you again," he declares like he didn't even notice how his statement made your face heat once more. he notices, just like he noticed how you stuttered every time he started a conversation with you, how you smile and laugh like an idiot when he says something that catches you off guard, how your fingers felt electric at every point where you held his elbow. "and the receipt was to ask you to write your number, but i guess i can just ask now if you wanna grab dinner."

when you say yes, he hopes you can't tell just how much he already likes you.