#and Spring can go in with her for reassurance

[fbwzoo]

Have more of a review now on that stroller we got for Addy!

We took the dogs around the block today & took the stroller to try for part of the distance. Went halfway with Addy walking, then stopped to coax her into it. Didn't take much coaxing! She mostly was just kinda going "but.... why?"

She started out standing and uncertain, but not at all panicking or anything. I kept up giving her treats every 5 seconds or so through the top opening. By the time we reached the corner, she was sitting, using the corner & side for support! By the time we got back to our driveway, she actually laid down!!! I actually had to coax her out a bit, she was pretty pleased to be getting hand fed lots of treats just chilling in it. 😂

She seemed pretty comfortable in it as she got used to it - not getting too jolted, it felt sturdy enough that she didn't seem concerned about support.

Jack pushed it for the walk & said the stroller moves really well, turns easily, very easy to handle. He was able to lean on it some for support, which helped him out too.

Construction wise, the wheels are really nice & seem pretty tough. I think they'll do okay over grass in one of the parks. Lots of mesh for good air flow, nice big openings on front, back, and top. It's rated for up to 160lbs, Addy is 55-60lbs, but needs the extra space to lay comfortably. I climbed in it a couple times to show Emma 😂, so can confirm sturdiness on weight, I'm 150lbs.

It does have some pockets on the back, but not very big - we're going to add a bag between the pockets & stroller box for a bigger storage spot.

Main complaints so far are the pockets, & the floor of the stroller is very slick material - I'm sure it's easy to clean, but no purchase for Addy. We placed a yoga mat in for that, which seems to work well (going to probably tape it in later).

We folded it down to place in the back of my car (SUV style), it is definitely a bit wide, but it went in upside down, it was mostly the big back wheels that got in the way. Jack said those can pop off though, if needed. I picked it up to put in, not terrible on weight, just a bit bulky bc I'm small & small arm span.

So far, highly recommended for a big dog!! Really feels like it's worth the money so far, and really looking forward to taking it out to some parks this summer.

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[ponderingmoonlight]

Sharing a bed with kny men

Pairings: Yoriichi x fem!reader; Sanemi x fem!reader

Word Count: 5,7k (lmao)

Warnings: injury in Yoriichi's part, smut in Sanemi's part so read if you're 18+, this is a long ass fic y'all, not proofread

This is actually my first time posting Sanemi smut and I'm super scared. Let me know what you think 🥹🤍

Also, do you want me to do other characters too?🫶

Yoriichi

I heard you @laurencrsnt 🫶

All your life, you never even thought about the possibility that maybe, you’ll encounter a demon someday. Why you, out of all people? Why especially you?

Even now with its cold eyes glaring down at you and your shoulder ripped open by its claws, you fail to find an answer for that. Is it your fate to die right here, when you only went out at night in order to buy medicine for your little sister who has fever? Is dying the cruelest death really your destiny when you wish for nothing more than growing old and watching your own children live their lives?

It’s unfair.

You shouldn’t lay here, crumpled onto the still wet street. You shouldn’t feel the sensation of your eyes watering, your hands trembling, your heart racing.

This shouldn’t be your last day walking on this earth. You didn’t even have the chance to find the man of your dreams yet…

It’s ridiculous and you know it, that spark of determination that rushes through your bones. All of the sudden you spring back onto your feet and start running. Out of the city, away from the lit streets straight into the dark woods.

Even if you have to die here, you won’t give up this easily. You won’t allow this demon to end your life without putting up a fight.

“Why do you girls always think you can run away, huh? It’s too easy to sweep you off your feet”, the demon behind you comments dryly.

With a swift motion of his hand, it digs open your tender flesh all over again, sends your violent scream echoing through the lonely forest. You fall to the ground like a bag of rice, your torn leg now refusing its service completely.

“Let me go!”, you shriek in horror.

No, you don’t want to die here, you just want to go back to bed and forget about this.

But the forest ground isn’t your bed and the demon in front of you who’s ready to slice through your throat isn’t only a nightmare.

Your heart sinks to the floor, body suddenly feeling numb and lifeless. You will die here.

“I’ll keep you in good memory. Well, at least for tonight”, the demon jeers at you.

You close your eyes, desperately try to imagine your little sister. She’ll find herself a loving husband and her very own family without any doubt. Even without you around, her life will turn out alright. Even without you around, life goes on. You don’t have to feel sad or guilty, you just have to let go…

“Get away from that woman.”

A low male voice, so charismatic that you think you might dream. He sure must be handsome. Men with voices like that always have a matching face.

A slicing blade, a dull thud. But no claws that dig into your flesh one last time, no bow of relief that you’ve been awaiting for quite some time by now. Your eyelids start shivering. When is this finally over?

“Are you alright? Please allow me to help you up.”

The second something touches your skin, your eyes snap open in an instant. But they aren’t greeted by those venomous red orbs from earlier. No, these ones are soft but strong and have that calming fuchsia color. This isn’t a demon.

This is a man.

“Don’t be afraid. The demon is gone”, he continues speaking with his low voice.

You have no control over your own body and shivering limbs. It’s impossible for you to say a single word. Are you really out of danger? Is it really over?

When he pulls you off the ground, a violent scream escapes your lips. No, you don’t want to die, you don’t want your life to end tonight. Not like this, not without saying goodbye.

“Please calm down, everything is alright now”, the stranger tries to reassure you, but his words don’t even reach your ringing ears.

You gasp for air like a fish on land, forehead now covered in ice cold sweat. This can’t be your end.

If Yoriichi doesn’t act now, you might faint due to your stress. But what is he supposed to do? You don’t seem to listen to his words and touching you might only make it worse. Maybe you need, assurance?

“I won’t hurt you, see? My hands have no intention of doing you any harm.”

Gently, he glides his fingertips up and down your uninjured harm. Despite the look of horror on your face and your gaping wounds, you do have a lovely face and truly remarkable eyes.

“I came here to help you”, he continues until his fingertips finally brush over your tear-soaked face.

What is this feeling of warmth deep inside his chest? You aren’t the first woman he saved from the claws of a demon.

“I would like to accompany you on your way back home-“

“No”, you suddenly blurt out.

Even though lying in bed on your own was all you were able to think about just a few moments ago, the thought feels like a threat now. What if another demon follows you back home? What if your little sister gets attacked because of your foolishness? No, you simply can’t go back now. But on the other hand…Just the thought of sleeping alone here in the woods runs shivers down your spine.

“I…I’ll find a place to stay. Otherwise…they might harm my sister…”, you mutter.

“Allow me to escort you to my estate, then.”

You yank your head to the side in sheer disbelief, eyes searching for a spark of humor in his calming orbs. Is he really serious about that? After all, you’re a stranger. He doesn’t even know your name. Now that you think of it…who is this?

“How can I know for sure that you aren’t a demon yourself?”

“Take my hand”, he instructs you gently.

Is this really a good idea? You take a deep breath in, try to calm down your pounding heart. What do you have to lose?

When your shaky fingers wrap themselves around his much larger hand, you get ingulfed by warmth. His palms feel rough but also comforting against your bruised skin.

“Demons are cold since they are dead”, he explains briefly.

“But I am not. I am a demon slayer. It is my only destiny to safe innocent souls from their death.”

Oh. Your gaze drifts towards a katana that hangs dangles from his belt. No, demon don’t find with those weapons. So, are those words really true?

“You…You want to help me?”

“I’d love to help you if you allow me to.”

What has gotten into him? Did he really offer you to hold his hand, let alone to sleep at his house so you don’t have to fear the night on your own? Never in his life, Yoriichi allowed himself to develop feelings apart from empathy for those around him.

But those eyes. Those eyes of yours really captivate him, devour him fully. How is he supposed to leave you out here, soaked in your own blood with bruises all over your body?

“You…really would?”

Is this really okay? When you were a child, your mother told you over and over that you aren’t allowed to talk to strangers, let alone man.

But…does that also include the handsome, charismatic and armored ones?

“I keep my word. Also, your wounds need care as well. Please, allow me to help you.”

What do you have to lose.

“If that’s the case, I’d love to take your offer”, you reply shyly.

“I’m glad to hear that. I will show you the way-“

A loud groan escapes your lips before you’re able to stop it. His charismatic eyes almost made you forget about the gaping wound the monster from before inflicted on you.

Almost.

“You shouldn’t move your leg with a wound like that. I will carry you to my estate.”

“You will…carry me?”, you mutter with widened eyes.

But just when you try to take a step forward, his words become painfully clear. No, there really is no way you’ll be able to walk anywhere with that leg. But allowing him to carry you?

“I might be a little heavy.”

“Let me assure you, you aren’t heavy at all.”

“Fine…”, you grumble.

“But only a few meters.”

Gently, he stranger wraps his arms around your shoulder and knees before he starts walking.

He smells good. Like a field of flowers on a sunny day. And the way his heart beats against your cheek reminds you that you’re still alive, that you survived somehow.

This man saved you.

“I didn’t even thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. This is the least I can do for you after I almost came too late.”

He stares blankly at the blood that still drips from your leg. Just a few seconds later and that demon would have killed you with him simply watching. Why? Why is he not able to save them all, why is he still not good enough to stop this madness?

“Don’t tense up, don’t think anything less of yourself because I was injured. I was a fool for leaving the house this late at night on my own.”

Despite the fact that cold sweat still runs down your forehead and even though your fingertips still shake in shock, you cup his cheek and force his troubled eyes to look at you.

“I am beyond thankful for my rescue. The worst thing about dying today would have been leaving my little sister behind. But you saved me. And not only that, you even offered me a safe place to stay for the night. I really don’t know if…If I’d be able to sleep on my own tonight…”

The stranger doesn’t say a word, his eyes roaming around your face without a real aim.

“Oh, I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”

“My name is not important-“

“I’m (y/n)”, you introduce yourself friendly.

“My…my name is Yoriichi”, the man carrying you mumbles.

Yoriichi. An unusual name that you’ve never heard before.

“That name suits you well.”

“We’ll arrive soon. I hope you don’t expect a big mansion since I am living in a rather small cottage-“

“I’m living in a tiny barrack in the city. A house in the woods sounds like a dream”, you mutter.

The second you open your eyes again, you find yourself in a wooden cabin with a plain futon lying on the floor and an improvised kitchen in the back of the house. Nothing special, very fitting for the man who gently lowers you onto the futon.

“I will take care of your wounds now”, he announces before taking off his haori and katana.

Without his threatful weapon dangling from his belt, he looks like a normal man.

If it wasn’t for those captivating eyes. He has to be the most breathtaking man you’ve ever seen.

“Fortunately, the cut on your leg isn’t deep. I’ll disinfect the wound and bandage it”, he explains briefly before his skilled hands spring into action.

“You really are good at everything”, you comment.

He’s so gentle that even the alcohol that disinfects your wound doesn’t seem to burn. Why have you never stumbled across him? You were so sure that you know each and every man around that it almost drove you insane. But him? He’s different from all the others. He’s truly special.

“You will have to take your kimono off. I need access to the wound on your shoulder.”

Oh.

“Y-yeah, sure…”

Hesitantly, you pull the blood-soaked fabric down your shoulder so that only your chest is still covered. Yoriichi’s eyes seem to gleam in the moonlight like liquid metal.

“You look lovely”, he flusters into the night.

He doesn’t know what has gotten into him. Is it the alcohol rising up his nose, the smell of blood that radiates from your bruised body that makes him say those strange things?

No. It has to be because of those eyes of yours. Those eyes that captivated him from the moment he first saw them.

"Thank you," you stammer, your cheeks flushing as you nervously tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You too," you add quickly, immediately regretting your awkward response.

Both you and Yoriichi swallow hard, the atmosphere in the room suddenly changing.

“I am finished. You should rest for tonight. After all, this was a draining fight for you”, he mutters while getting up.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding, heart still hammering so roughly against your ribcage that you’re almost sure he’s able to hear it. What was this tension?

“But…this is your futon-“

“You are my guest. Of course, I will sleep on the floor on the other side of the room.”

Oh. A wave of disappointment rushes over you before you’re able to stop it. What were you expecting, secretly hoping? That this man will share a bed with you?

Honestly, yes.

“You…you really don’t have to…”

Oh, how much Yoriichi wished he wouldn’t have to.

“I insist on taking the floor.”

“I actually want you to sleep by my side. Please.”

The begging tone in your voice stops him mid-track.

“This night was…horrible. A little company would definitely help, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all”, he replies a little too hasty.

“I just don’t want to invade your personal space. After all, I’m a stranger.”

“A really kind stranger”, you add shyly.

Are you acting out of line? You shouldn’t push him to sleep next to you when his offer to let you sleep here is already generous enough, right?

“Forget my question, I was acting out of line-“

“No, not at all. I would love sleeping besides you.”

He crosses the room in an instant and kneels down next to you.

“But let me know whenever I become too much.”

What a ridiculous thought. Why would he ever become too much? Him, your savior, that remarkable man.

You scoot over until your back is pressed against the cool wall, eyes still fixated on his gleaming eyes. Will you really be able to sleep tonight when this is the first time ever a man lies beside you?

And what a handsome one on top.

“You should try to sleep now. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here”, he reassures you.

That is the least he can do after failing to protect you in the first place.

“Again, thank you for all of this. I definitely own you a favor”, you mumble.

Suddenly your lids start to get heavy, your mind slows down bit by bit. Maybe this rough night really took its toll on you. Is It the safety he radiates, his calming smell? In the matter of seconds, only your low and even breath is heard.

Finally, Yoriichi is able to allow himself a closer look at you. You look so peaceful and innocent with a face so remarkably beautiful that he can’t stop staring. You have to be the prettiest woman he’s ever seen. A man like him really doesn’t deserve lying next to a woman like you. Maybe he should give you space, leave you now that you fell asleep-

With a quiet groan, you draw closer to him in your sleep until your head rests on top of his chest and with your arms wrapped around his upper body.

He doesn’t dare to move an inch, eyes widen in utter surprise. Is this…cuddling? His mind races back and forth, eyes resting on your calm features. What is he supposed to do now?

Hesitantly, he allows his hand to rest on your back. What an unknown sensation, all those feelings that rise up his chest right where your hand rests.

For the first time since forever, he is the one who feels safe.   

He is the one who feels loved.

He is the one who feels warm.

And you? You cuddle yourself against him until the sun rises all over again.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

This one's for you @muichirolover14 🤍

“This is bullshit”, the man walking next to you mumbles under his breath.

“Keep focused. It was Kagaya-sama’s personal wish that the two of us go on this mission together”, you mumble with a fake smile decorating your bright red lips.

And that’s the only reason why you agreed in the first place. Why else would you pretend to be Sanemi Shinazugawa’s personal concubine if it wasn’t for Kagaya-sama and this undercover mission?

The plan is pretty simple. Countless people, including other demon slayers, lost their lives in this little innocent village that becomes a red-light district at night. Nobody knows why or who is responsible for this.

One of the upper moons, maybe.

It just made sense to dress you up as a concubine. After all, you are the light hashira, a mighty swordswoman and probably the most talented out of Mitsuri and Shinobu when it comes to acting.

And then there’s him. You glance at Sanemi’s annoyed face from the side. Why on earth did Kagaya-sama choose him? What about Rengoku, Giyu, Obanai, Tengen, Gyomei? Aren’t they a way better fit?

You sign to yourself.

Truth is, they aren’t. While Rengoku, Obanai, Tengen and Gyomei would stand out immediately, Giyu would never be able to sell you as his concubine. No, no one except the wind hashira is able to make this look natural.

No one but him looks this good in a dark green kimono.

What?

“Stop staring at me like that, brat”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

“I was just hoping you might disappear if I stare long enough, idiot”, you bite back in frustration.

Why does he always have to be so mean, though? You really tried to get along with him countless times, put on the most precious smile whenever you talked to him and made sure to always bring him ohagi whenever you had the chance to. But Sanemi Shinazugawa never stopped hating you. And eventually, a part of you started to dislike him as well. That one part though…

You allow your eyes a minor glimpse at his barely exposed chest. That tiny part deep within your head is somehow still drawn to him. And you hate it.

“Aren’t concubines supposed to shut up?”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll leave immediately.”

“Both of us know you wouldn’t do that.”

You let out your shaky breath, your hand crushing his while you wear the same friendly smile as before.

“Don’t mess with me, Shinazugawa”, you speak out with low voice.

His face tenses up ever so slightly, hand fighting for freedom out of your merciless grasp.

“You’ll regret talking to me like that when we’re alone, brat.”

-at the estate-

“I’d like to show you to my newest possession. Please introduce yourself”, Sanemi speaks out.

Like Amane-sama showed you, you bow in front of the man that looks you up and down with his filthy eyes.

“My name is Kiyomi”, you introduce yourself oh so sweetly.

“That name really suits you. What a beauty you are. I’m sure I’d find a lot of paying customers for you here”, the disgusting man purrs and stretches out his hand in order to touch your face.

“Don’t touch the goods”, Sanemi barks at him immediately before slapping his dirty hand away.

Who does this guy think he is, trying to touch you so casually? No. That jerk isn’t allowed to caress your face. The plain thought of men like him getting to put their hands on you…

Sanemi’s guts turn.

“Aren’t you here to sell her and yourself for the night? If that’s the case, she won’t be your good anymore for the next few hours but mine.”

He smiles at you through rotten teeth, his breath almost forcing you to choke. You are only here to detect the demon who is responsible for the countless deaths in this area. You don’t have to touch any of these men. None of them will touch you.

What about Sanemi, though? An uneasy feeling rises up your chest when your eye catches a group of women who stare him up and down with lust in their eyes. Will he allow himself a taste before continuing with this mission? Will he find a woman he is attracted to? All of them look flawless, too good to even consider the service of a paid men. But if that man looks like Sanemi…

“You will find your room to the right. This is where the female customers choose their good. After paying, you belong to them”, the man explains briefly while showing both of you around.

“Why would these women pay for the services of a man? This is a noble region that is well-inhabited by countless men”, you blurt out.

“It’s not about them being men. It’s about looks. Only the fine-looking men even get the chance to work here for the night”, he explains briefly.

Fine-looking man, huh? Well, there is no doubt in the fact that Sanemi suits that description way too good. With his firm muscles highlighted by scars from countless battles, he looks like a walking god. Let alone his perfect face, his eyes that now look soft and seducing without being irritated constantly. His white hair that frames his features perfectly.

“As for the women, we look for a broad variety of bodies, looks and personalities. You are very easy on the eye and mysterious. I’m sure countless customers will fall for that.”

“And what…what services do they expect?”

The man in front of you bursts out in hysteric laughter, you can feel Sanemi’s eyes piercing through your skull.

“What they expect? Intercourse and everything that revolves around it, of course! Do you think they pay you for some cuddles and nice words?”

You swallow hard. There is no need to do that, right? You’ll somehow shrug them off and investigate this place at night. Maybe you’ll find the demon right away and-

“Now, you are a fine-looking man. Who is this?”, a woman suddenly purrs out of the shadows.

“A new worker for the night”, the disgusting man explains with a dirty smile.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll definitely make a reservation.”

“It would be an honor, my lady”, suddenly replies in the same cheeky tone

Your guts turn in an instant, eyes narrowing slightly as you watch how a smile forms itself on Sanemi’s usual resting lips.

“What a gentleman he is. I cannot wait to meet you.”

“The honor is on my side, my lady.”

And then he steps in front of her. Elegantly, he grabs the hand she already holds out and kisses her knuckles. Your heartrate quickens, the warm flush that starts creeping up your face barely covered by your makeup.

Fucking asshole. So he’s acting like a jerk towards you all this time while treating other women like this? You hate the knot that forms itself in your throat, the disgusting feeling of disappointment that rushes over you.

Does he really hate you this much?

“Well, I think I should introduce myself to the customers as well. Have a pleasant night, Sir”, your monotone voice speaks out on its own.

With one last bow towards him, you follow the man into the women’s corridor without even gifting him a single look. Sanemi can’t help but furrow his eyebrows at your sudden reaction. Did you really want to get rid of him so badly? Maybe you’ll actually meet up with some of those guys and…

“Are you interested-“

“I will meet up with you later this evening, my lady. Please excuse me.”

Without another look or word, he storms into his assigned room and closes the door behind him.

Sanemi’s mind starts going insane. What if you actually like one of those guys? Or what if one of them hurts you, tries to force you into something you don’t want? He heard the worst stuff about places like this.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have let you go in the first place. Why you? This mission is way too dangerous for someone like you, for someone this gorgeous-

“I’m losing my fucking mind”, he mutters through gritted teeth.

“I can’t do this”, you breathe out in sheer panic while lying in bed.

No, just the thought of Sanemi having the fun of his life with that girl from earlier feels like ripping your beating heart out of your chest. Will he really share a bed with them?

If it’s for the mission, he definitely would. Nothing is greater than his urge to kill demons, especially when it comes to an upper ranked one. That little sacrifice wouldn’t stop him.

And it breaks your dumb heart.

A hard knock on the door rips you out of your running thoughts. Is this your first customer? All color drains from your face, eyes widen in horror with every bow against the wooden door.

“Just a moment”, your shaky voice shouts.

You…Do you have to look presentable? You have to think about the things you can tell him. Maybe you don’t even have to sleep with him, maybe this will distract you from the things Sanemi is probably doing right now.

You open the door.

And stare straight into the furious eyes of Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Before you’re even able to react, he pushes himself into your room and closes the door behind him before yanking you against the wall.

“What did you do?”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

Your heart starts hammering roughly against your ribcage. Him? Here?

“What the hell are you doing he-“

“Answer my question right now!”, he barks into your face.

“I didn’t do anything!”, you shriek.

“What the hell has gotten into you!?”

“Has somebody touched you?”

His rough hands start running up and down your neck, yank the sleeves of your kimono upwards in a haste.

“What?”, you breathe out.

What the hell is going on? Just when you managed to pull your arm away from him, he grabs your wrist again with his face only inches away from yours.

“Did somebody touch you?”, he screams into your face.

“No!”, you cry back.

“But why would you even care? It looked like you had plenty of fun!”

He shakes his head while looking at you in utter surprise and confusion.

“What non-sense are you talking now-“

“Did you sleep with that woman from earlier when I was gone?”

God, you hate the way your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, you hate the way your eyes fill with hot tears. He came here to confront you with all those accusations while he was out there having the time of his life, while all you were able to think about is him?

“No, I didn’t sleep with anyone!”

“Stop lying to me!”

“You’re the only one I want!”, he suddenly blurts out breathlessly.

“What?”, you utter in hushed panic.

This has to be a cruel joke, an unforgiving way to stop you from doing anything. Sanemi Shinazugawa, wanting you?

“Since I first saw you with your fucking perfect face and so melodic voice, I can’t think about anything else! You, sleeping with some random guy while I’m just a few doors away. I can’t take it!”

He grabs your head with both hands, eyes staring at you so intensely that you feel like collapsing any minute. If that’s really true, if that’s really how he feels…

“But…I want you too”, you squirm.

“I always wanted you, Sanemi.”

His lips crash against yours with so much power that you almost fall over. Suddenly his hands are all over your body, tongue unforgiving as he discovers your mouth with a passion you’ve never felt before. You allow your very own hands to finally discover the deep valleys of his muscular back, to let your hasty fingertips wander over his tight chest.

It becomes unbearable. Everything starts to become unbearable. That minor gap between your bodies, the clothes that still deny you full access to his naked skin, the feeling of not having enough.

“I need more”, you whimper against his lips, not even knowing what exactly you’re asking about.

Sanemi lifts you up with ease, not even breaking the kiss when he pushes you onto the bed with his massive body lingering on top of you.

You feel like suffocating in the most exquisite way.

“I’ll give you whatever you want”, he breathes against your lips that now find your neck.

A whimper escapes your mouth before you can stop his, body rearing up underneath him.

“S-Sanemi!”

“Fuck”, he hisses before his dark eyes meet you again in distress.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I…what?”

You can’t produce a single logical sound, head still spinning from the unknown sensation that starts building up inside your stomach. Is this what desire feels like?

“Tell me you want this too. Tell me you want me.”

“I wanted you all this time”, you reply without thinking twice.

With a swift motion, you find yourself engulfed by his arms with his lips caressing yours all over again. Like in trance, you begin opening his kimono, expose his bare skin to your merciless eyes.

“You look so shamelessly good”, you whimper.

Oh, how often you pondered about how his chest feels like, if his scars are soft or as rough as his walls.

“Can I…?”

His hands grab the ends of your kimono, eyes staring down at you flustered. Is that blush creeping up his cheeks?

“It’s just…You know…I’ve never done this before…”, you stammer.

“Do I look like I did, idiot?”, he mutters while gently taking off your kimono until you lay underneath him.

Completely naked.

“I mean, yes…”

“No, I didn’t”, he barks.

“I guess I waited for someone special…”

“I did as well”, you reply in an instant.

Is this real or are you dreaming? Sanemi Shinazugawa laying on top of you fully nude. Sanemi Shinazugawa stating that he likes you. Sanemi Shinazugawa’s hand that start moving downwards…

Until he reaches between your legs and simply takes your breath away.

“Are you okay?”, he mutters, eyes filled with worry.

You nod absently, eyes rolling back into your skull. God, this feels like heaven. When a groan escapes his lips, you completely lose yourself. Out of instinct, you grab his neck and yank him even closer towards you, your hot breath clashing against his face.

“Sanemi!”

His name sounds like a prayer coming from your mouth, forces his fingers to move even faster. Is this good? Is he doing everything alright? Your whimpers grow louder and louder, nails digging into his now oversensitive skin with so much pressure that it threatens to burst. You look so gorgeous with your eyes pressed shut, your delicate mouth forming an “o”.

And then you burst right underneath him, scream his name over and over again with your legs shaking. He can’t wait no longer, can’t contain himself another second.

“I need you”, he mutters.

“Please, let me have you.”

“Yes”, you breathe out, mind still spinning when the firework that just exploded in your lower body slowly starts wearing off.

Until you feel him all over again. But this time, not his fingers. Your glossy eyes widen in utter surprise when he carefully stretches you out and disappears inside of you, hands holding onto him for dear life.

“Are you okay?”, he whimpers.

“Please…give me…more…”

He almost loses his mind, the new sensation almost eating him up alive. Countless nights, he dreamed about what it might be like to have you, what it would feel like. But the reality is so much better than any dream.

Sanemi picks up his pace and grabs your waist passionately in order to keep you in place. Over and over, again and again your sticky skin collides with his until he threatens to burst.

“You’re mine”, he presses out through gritted teeth while pounding into you.

“I’m all yours, Sanemi!”, you cry out, nails now leaving marks on his skin.

“I need…ah! I need you! Please!”

He knows exactly what you’re asking for. One last time, he picks up the pace while holding onto you for dear life.

Until finally, you scream his name. Finally, he’s able to let it all go.

“(y/n)!”

He collapses on top of you, his weight leaving you dizzy and unable to move. None of you dares to make a move, the only thing that’s filling the room being your shaky and sharp breaths.

“I love you, (y/n)”, Sanemi finally mutters, his hand caressing your cheek oh so gently.

“I love you too-“

“Mission report, mission report! Kagaya-sama requires a mission re- AH!”

“Get out of here right now!”, Sanemi barks at the crow that casually entered the room.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?”

“Get out!”, Sanemi screams on top of his lungs before yanking up and hunting the crow butt-naked through the room

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

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

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

2024 

This was not the plan.

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

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

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

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

But not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amelia?”

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

Fiona.

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

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

Amelia nodded so fast her braid whipped against her shoulder.

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

Another nod. Shaky this time.

Fiona’s hand was warm. Dry.

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

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

She needed Lando.

She needed Lando.

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

“Where’s—” Amelia rasped.

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

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

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

Amelia blinked.

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

“White noise,” Amelia croaked.

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

The static hum clicked on and it helped.

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

“Better?” Fiona asked.

Amelia gave a thumbs up.

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

Amelia nodded.

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

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

He would come.

She just had to hold out until he did.

—

Lando was pacing.

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

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

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

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

Lando couldn't even look.

He was still reliving Turn 3.

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

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

Puncture. Floor damage. Game over.

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

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

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

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

No one said anything. No one dared.

The media would already be writing the headlines.

‘Norris cracks under championship pressure.’

He didn’t care.

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

He didn’t want to see who the hell was brave enough to be the first one to call him.

Didn’t want to deal with PR or statements or apologies.

He just wanted to scream. And maybe punch Max in the face.

He spun again—too fast. Nearly walked straight into Zak.

“Jesus, Lando—” Zak grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” Lando snapped, still breathless, still fuming. “Sorry. I just—Max—he fucking ruined it.”

Zak didn’t even flinch. “Forget Max. You need to listen to me. We have to go. Now.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What?” he said, blinking. “Go where?”

“Home. To England. Amelia just called.”

The words hit harder than the collision.

His face drained. All the heat of his anger snapped to cold panic.

“What—what's wrong?” His voice cracked.

“She’s in labour. Tracey’s with her. She tried to call you—she’s okay, far as I know—but it’s happening. Now.”

Lando staggered back a step, pulling out his phone with shaking hands.

Three missed calls. Two texts. One from Tracey. One from Amelia.

Amelia:

IN LABOUR!

Tracey:

She’s okay. We’re on our way to the hospital. Northamptonshire, as planned. Get here fast.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing the phone to his forehead. “I didn’t answer—she called, and I didn’t—fuck.”

The guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

Two weeks early.

Was it the crash?

The stress?

She was watching. She always watched. She was on the comms today too, wasn’t she?

Did watching him get taken out—watching the car spin, the team panic—did that trigger something?

Did he do this?

His throat felt raw. “Is she in pain? Is she scared?”

“I don’t know. All she did was tell me to come and get you,” Zak said quietly. “That’s all. But if we don’t move now—”

Lando didn’t wait.

He ran.

Helmet abandoned. Suit unzipped. Gloves forgotten.

Sprinting down the paddock like the lights had gone green again and everything was on the line.

He nearly collided with Oscar, fresh from the podium, champagne still drying on his suit.

“Lando?” Oscar said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Amelia’s in labour.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. “Wait—now?”

“Yes, now!” Lando barked, eyes wild. “And I missed her call. I missed it. I’m not there, and she needs me—fuck—”

Behind them: rapid footsteps. Heavy breathing.

“What the fuck is going on?” Max, fresh from media, damp curls plastered to his forehead. Still in his suit. Still furious—until he saw Lando’s face.

“Amelia’s in labour,” Oscar said, breathless.

Max went still. “Shit.”

“She’s on her way to the hospital,” Lando said, voice cracking. “And I’m not there. I didn’t answer—I was so fucking angry, and I didn’t check, and she—” He clenched his fists. “What if it was the race? What if we stressed her out so much that it happened early? What if I fucked this up too?”

“Hey—no,” Oscar said quickly, stepping forward. “No, mate.”

Max grabbed his arm. “Fuck the race. I don’t give a shit. We need to go.”

“You just crashed into me,” Lando snapped. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Max didn’t even blink. “Because she’s my family, mate.”

There was a beat of silence. Lando swallowed.

“My jet’s at the airfield,” Max added. “Fastest way to England. No bullshit. Let’s go.”

Zak jogged up behind them, car keys in hand. “You can bring the whole damn grid for all I care. But we leave now if you want to make it in time.”

Lando’s lungs hurt. His heart was racing.

Oscar beside him. Max right behind. Zak in front.

Don’t let me miss her, he thought, over and over. Please. Please don’t let me miss her.

—

The receptionist barely looked up before buzzing the doors open.

Lando didn’t wait. He shoved through them, sprinting.

His shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.

His heart was hammering. His brain was a mess of white noise and guilt and prayer.

He was too late. He was too late.

He should’ve answered the phone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve been there.

The midwife at the station looked up just as he rounded the corner.

“Norris?” She asked knowingly.

He nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes. I’m—yes. I’m Lando. My wife—Amelia—”

“She’s okay,” the midwife said quickly, already standing. “Room 307. I’ll take you.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving.

The lights were too bright. The walls too white. His skin itched with leftover adrenaline and travel-sweat. He still wore his fireproofs under his hoodie, and he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin.

You weren’t here.

He turned a corner.

She needed you.

He reached the door.

And stopped.

He could hear her.

Not words—just breath. Short, shallow, uneven. The sound of someone trying not to panic.

He opened the door.

Amelia was there. On the bed.

Half propped up on pillows, her hospital gown pulled tight over her belly. Her hands fisted in the thin blanket. Her face flushed with pain.

A yellow golf-ball in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she saw him.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You took so long,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Lando crossed the room in three steps, already shaking. “I know. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t check my phone—I was—I was pissed off with how my race ended and I didn’t think and I should’ve known—fuck—” He dropped to his knees beside her, pressed his forehead to her arm. “I thought I’d be too late,” he said into her skin.

Amelia reached out—tangled her fingers in his hair—and tugged, sharp. “Stop,” she said, voice hoarse. “None of that.”

His eyes were already red. His cheeks wet. He didn’t know when he’d started crying.

She looked exhausted. Pale under the flush. But she was here. And so was he. Finally.

“You didn't miss it,” she said. “She waited for you.”

“Of course she did,” he whispered. And then he kissed her. “And you. You’re the strongest fucking woman in the world. You know that?”

She exhaled a laugh. “I’m also five centimetres dilated and out of patience, so if you want to be helpful—please hand me that cup of ice.”

He did. With shaking hands.

“My mom braided my hair,” she added after a moment, voice softer now. “You missed that part.”

“I’m not going to miss anything else,” he promised.

He kissed her forehead. Her temple. Her knuckles. Gave her mom a small smile.

Tracey was sat in the corner, near the window, working on a knitting project. They looked like tiny booties from what he could see.

He’d hug her later. Thank her a million times just for being there — even though he knew she wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world rather than at Amelia’s beck and call.

“I ran through the paddock,” he murmured. “Max and Oscar came too. We took Max’s jet. Your dad nearly had a coronary at the airport.”

Her eyes softened. “They came?”

“Yeah.” He brushed her damp hair back. “They’re all downstairs. Waiting. Your dad wasn’t sure you’d want him here, didn’t want to overwhelm you. They’re freaking out. Because they love you.”

“I want them to come and say hi after,” she said. Her face twisted with discomfort. “But— I just it want it to be you and my mom, okay? Until she’s here.”

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” His fingers slid over hers. “I— I need to call my parents.”

“I already took care of that, honey. They’re on their way.” Tracey said.

Lando exhaled with relief.

Then he leaned in and kissed his wife and said, “You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.”

—

It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a cry.

And then hands, gentle, practised, passing something small and slippery and impossibly alive onto Amelia’s chest.

“Here she is, Amelia,” Fiona said softly. “You did it. She’s here. Healthy and pink.”

Amelia couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

Because everything in her brain was screaming: “this isn’t real.”

This wasn’t how she’d rehearsed it in her head. In her spreadsheets. In the checklist she’d kept taped to the fridge.

This wasn’t theoretical.

This wasn’t a due date or a biometric scan or the size of a cantaloupe at 38 weeks.

This was weight. Heat. Movement.

A baby. Her baby.

On her. In her arms.

Not inside anymore.

The disconnect hit her like a crash.

Amelia flinched; only slightly, but enough that Fiona paused, watching.

And so did Lando. And her mom.

Her breathing had gone shallow again. She was blinking fast, trying to recalibrate.

The baby; the baby, the baby — it wasn’t a concept.

It was a person. With skin and breath and a heart that was beating fast.

A heart that had come from her.

Amelia’s whole body trembled. Not from pain, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.

Ada.

Her name had been a theory. A hope.

Now it was a face. A body. Tiny hands.

But faces were hard. Faces moved. Eyes blinked. Skin flushed. Tiny limbs twitched.

And she was touching her. Skin to skin. The warmth was overwhelming.

Every sensory processor in Amelia’s brain screamed. She wanted to dissapear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to understand — and she didn’t.

“You’re okay, baby,” Lando whispered from beside her, voice cracked and reverent. “Just let yourself have a few minutes. Just… just look at her.”

Amelia’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, a few inches away from Ada’s damp, curled back. She couldn’t bring herself to touch.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, voice paper-thin. “I don’t—I don’t know her.”

Fiona gently nudged Ada higher. “She knows you. Smell, heartbeat, voice. She knows you, Amelia.”

But that made it worse.

Because Amelia was so full of love she couldn’t speak — but she was also full of fear, static, disorientation. Her brain was desperately trying to map a new universe with no manual.

Lando leaned in. Rested his forehead to hers. One hand on Ada’s back. One over Amelia’s hand, still hovering.

“You’re doing it,” he said softly. “You’re already doing it.”

Ada made a small sound — nothing loud, just a hum. A nuzzle. A twitch of her mouth.

And Amelia finally, finally, laid both hands over her daughter’s back. Just fingertips.

Ada shifted, rooting instinctively.

“She’s a hungry girl,” Fiona said, voice warm and gentle. “Would you like some help?”

Amelia nodded, but her eyes stayed locked on Ada — this tiny, impossible thing who had been an abstract dream for nine months and now weighed heavy and warm on her chest.

She guided her with Fiona's aid, shaking slightly; and Ada latched like she’d done it in a past life.

“Look at that,” Fiona whispered. “First try.”

Lando made a choked sound. “Daddy’s girl.”

Amelia didn’t even look at him. She reached blindly, grabbed the empty bedpan from the table beside the bed, and whipped it in his direction.

It bounced harmlessly off his leg. He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he murmured.

Amelia still didn’t look away from Ada.

Her fingers, once frozen, were now stroking her daughter’s back. Tentative. Learning.

“I don’t understand how she’s real,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Lando said, voice barely a breath. “You’ve got a lifetime to learn her.”

Amelia’s throat closed. A single tear slid down her cheek, hot and sharp.

Ada suckled rhythmically, peacefully. Her skin flushed. Her impossibly tiny hands curled into fists.

And Amelia fell in love. 

—

The room was quiet.

Tracey had slipped out to tell the world that Ada Rossella Norris had arrived safely. That Amelia was okay.

In the soft lamplight and afterbirth hush, everything stood still.

Lando sat half-on the bed, one arm wrapped around Amelia’s shoulders, the other curled around her waist.

Ada lay nestled between them, tiny cheek resting against her mother’s chest, her breath a faint whisper of warmth.

Amelia hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not since the first latch. Not since the bedpan throw.

She was staring down at Ada like she couldn’t possibly look away. Like if she blinked, this would all turn out to have been a dream.

Her fingers moved slowly—carefully. Memorising. Mapping. A tactile inventory.

“She has your nose,” Amelia murmured, her voice cracked and reverent. “But flatter. Less of the Norris ski slope.”

Lando huffed a laugh against her temple. “I don’t have a ski slope.”

“You do,” she said, brushing a finger over the curve of Ada’s. “But it’s endearing. Especially in winter photos.”

She stroked over Ada’s tiny forehead. “And my pouty lips. Poor thing.”

“Baby.”

“It’s okay. She’ll grow into them.” Amelia paused, then added, “Her ears are yours. Exactly. Same tilt. Same soft cartilage. She’s going to hate them in school and love them by the time she’s an adult.”

Lando’s grip on her tightened, just slightly. “She’s perfect.”

“I know.” Amelia’s voice cracked. “She’s so real.”

Ada squirmed softly, stretching a hand, and Amelia caught it — thumb gently placed against tiny fingers.

“She has fingernails,” she whispered, as though it shocked her. “Actual fingernails.”

Lando kissed her hair. “Yeah. She’s a whole person.”

Amelia was quiet again, but only for a second. And then, still not looking up, she began to speak.

“Ada,” she said, voice low and even, like she was introducing the baby to the room, to her own existence. “You were born on a Sunday. In a maternity ward in Northamptonshire. At 38 weeks and three days. You came early because you are, apparently, impatient. Or maybe just a bit dramatic. Your dad swears it had nothing to do with the fact that he and Max crashed and stressed your mummy out. I’m not convinced.”

Lando groaned softly, head tilted back against the wall. “Don’t blame her dramatic entrance on my DNF.”

“I’m just saying,” Amelia murmured, brushing Ada’s cheek, “the timing is suspicious.”

Ada twitched, shifting closer into her chest.

“Well, then, let’s see. You’re part British, part Belgium, part American, but I’m not sure you’ll be jumping to claim that last one. You have a Formula One driver for a daddy. And an engineer for a mummy.”

Lando chuckled. His hand came up to rest over hers, both of them cupping their daughter together.

“You’ll grow up in paddocks. You’ll learn to walk in motorhomes. Your first sunscreen will be whatever your mummy can find in the team stash. Everyone’s going to spoil you rotten. Oscar, well, that’s your Uncle Ducky — he’s already bought you this sweet little onesie with a hundred tiny little cartoon ducks on it. And Max, Verstappen, well, that’ll be your uncle too. I don’t have a brother, but he’s the nearest thing.” She whispered. “But you’ll have another Uncle Max too, and that might get a bit confusing for you, but we’ll be patient.”

Amelia leaned her head on Lando’s shoulder. Her voice dipped lower, like she was confiding a secret to Ada, or maybe to herself.

“You’ll be so loved,” she said. “So much. By people who’ve waited their whole lives to meet you. By a daddy who would cross the continent in race boots to get to you in time. By me, even when I’m tired and anxious and unsure of how to be your a mummy and a person at the same time.”

She sniffed hard, blinking fast again. “You’ve been born into a world that’s chaotic and messy and fast and loud—but it’s ours. And we’re going to make sure it’s yours, too.”

Ada breathed. Soft and slow. Eyes still closed. Tiny fist curled against her cheek.

Lando rested his chin on top of Amelia’s head.

—

Dim afternoon light pooled in soft gold across the linoleum floor, filtered through thick hospital curtains. Machines beeped softly in the background, steady and forgettable.

Amelia was sleeping.

Not deeply — her body too raw, her brain too wired — but enough to rest. Enough for her face to soften, for her lashes to flutter, for her breath to even out against the pillow.

Lando hadn’t taken his eyes off her for hours.

But now — just for a moment — he was pacing near the window, his arms full of something precious. 

Ada.

Swaddled and warm and impossibly small in his hoodie-covered forearms, her tiny head nestled into the crook of his elbow, mouth parted, breaths soft. She smelled like hospital linen and baby powder. Like nothing and everything.

Lando couldn’t stop looking at her.

He kept glancing back to Amelia, as if to make sure she was still there — still breathing, still safe, still his. And then back down to Ada again, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d made it out of someone so extraordinary.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d miss it.”

He swallowed. Looked down at the little bundle blinking slowly up at him — unfocused, unaware, content.

“I was so fucking angry. You wouldn’t believe it. Max and I — well, you’ll hear those stories when you’re older. But I was in the garage, ready to murder someone, and I missed three calls.”

He shifted Ada gently in his arms, pacing another slow length of the room.

“And then your grandpa Zak came in and told me your mum was in labour and I…” He laughed under his breath. It cracked in the middle. “I think my heart actually stopped.”

Ada scrunched her nose, then relaxed again.

“I thought you might be born without me there. And I would never have forgiven myself.”

His voice dropped to a hush, as though even the words themselves were too loud.

“And knowing that your mummy was in pain, and overwhelmed, and everything would be moving too fast and she needed me — and I wasn’t there.”

Lando exhaled, slow and ragged.

“But she waited. You waited. And now you’re here.”

Ada shifted slightly, a little sigh escaping her lips like the smallest secret in the world.

Lando smiled, tears pricking at his lashes again. He bounced her gently, rocking her as he gazed out the window, the hospital grounds bathed in quiet light.

“I don’t know if I’m going to get this right,” he admitted, voice barely audible now. “Being your dad. Being your mummy’s husband. Balancing all of it. But I swear to you, Ada—” He glanced down again, kissed the side of her velvet-soft head. “I swear I will love you so much that even on the days I get it wrong, you’ll never doubt that part.”

Behind him, Amelia stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Lando turned, adjusting Ada one-handed so he could settle into the armchair beside the bed, still cradling her close.

She was falling asleep again.

He watched her eyelids flutter.

“Everyone’s going to want to meet you soon. Oscar and Max and your grandpa Zak. My mum and dad are coming too, and they’re your other grandparents. Nanny Cisca and Grampy Adam. You’ve got a whole army of people who love you already.”

Ada didn’t respond, of course. But Lando smiled anyway.

—

There was a soft knock.

Amelia stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open.

Lando was beside her, Ada nestled in his arms, both of them silhouetted against the low amber light from the window. He turned toward the door at the knock, but didn’t speak.

Tracey peeked her head in first. “They’re climbing the walls out here. You ready for visitors?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away — just nodded, slow and small.

The door opened.

Her dad entered first, still in team gear, face flushed and drawn with tension that hadn’t quite released. Max followed close behind, jaw set, eyes scanning every inch of the room. Then Oscar, quietest of all, hovering in the doorway, his hands clenched around the hem of his t-shirt.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Zak exhaled sharply — a sound that came out almost like a sob — and crossed the room in four long strides.

“She’s here,” Lando said, voice thick with emotion.

He was smiling — tired, tearstained, messy-haired, beaming. His hoodie had been peeled back at the chest, skin-to-skin with Ada, whose sleepy face peeked just above the blanket.

Zak made it to them first. He didn’t ask permission — just leaned in, reverent, pressing one palm gently to Ada’s impossibly small back.

“Wow,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

His voice cracked.

“She’s healthy,” Lando said. “They both are.”

Max stood frozen for a beat, as if unsure if he was allowed to move — then his whole body softened, and he stepped forward, too. No jokes, no bravado.

He leaned down and kissed the top of Lando’s curls — and just like that, the tension of the day, of the collision and the angry team-radios, were forgotten.

Then, he looked at Ada.

“Dag meisje,” he murmured, voice low and Dutch-soft. Little girl. “What a beautiful girl you are.”

Amelia blinked over at them; Lando, crying silently, Zak with both hands now cradling the baby’s tiny back, Max brushing a finger over her little cap of dark hair.

But Oscar hadn’t moved.

He stood just inside the door, eyes locked on Amelia. Not the baby. Not Lando. Just her.

She gave him a nod.

And in an instant, Oscar crossed the room. No words — not yet — just a deep, shaking breath as he dropped to his knees beside her bed and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

He was warm and real and trembling just slightly.

“I thought—” he choked on the words. “I didn’t know if you—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

Oscar nodded into her shoulder.

“Sorry I made you worry.” She told him.

“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely, voice muffled. “Did you see my podium?”

Amelia let out a breathy laugh and nodded. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed.

Behind them, Max was now peppering Lando with questions — rapid-fire Dutch, mostly — about the birth, the midwife, whether Ada had opened her eyes yet.

Zak hadn’t stopped touching Ada, like if he let go, she might disappear.

Oscar still hadn’t looked at the baby.

“Can I see her?” He asked Amelia softly.

Amelia gave another nod. “Yeah, ducky. Of course you can.”

Oscar stood, eyes wide, cautious like she was made of glass; but when Lando held Ada out to him, he took her without hesitation.

She fit perfectly into his arms.

“Hi,” he breathed, eyes going impossibly soft. “Hello, baby Ada. You look just like your mummy.”

Amelia lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Her dad come and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Max kissed both of her cheeks and told her that she looked beautiful.

And then Ada was back in her arms, all scrunchy nosed and wet-eyed, and the world narrowed down to her.

—

The house was too quiet.

Which was absurd, given they were no longer alone.

But that was exactly the problem.

The silence left too much room for Amelia’s thoughts.

She stood in the nursery, arms crossed tightly over her chest. In a baggy tee and oversized cotton pyjama pants, hair still braided but frizzed at the edges.

She hadn’t let go of Ada in hours — not really.

Even now, with Ada asleep in the crib just a few feet away, Amelia felt like she hadn’t let her go.

Lando stood a few paces behind, leaning against the doorframe in his joggers and a white t-shirt, barefoot and watching her with soft eyes.

“We don’t have to leave her,” he said gently. “Not even for a second. There’s a basket in our room for a reason, baby.”

Amelia didn’t answer.

She rubbed one hand up and down her arm, fast, rhythmic. A stim. Comfort.

“She’s just so small,” she said eventually. “And she was inside me and now she’s not, and my brain hasn’t — hasn’t caught up to the idea that she’s real and separate and still… fine.”

Lando stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. Not because he thought she’d snap, but because she was stretched thin and too full and too raw, and he knew better than to rush her.

“I know,” he said. “It’s weird, right? How quiet she is? How not imaginary?”

Amelia exhaled sharply, a little laugh catching in her throat. “I keep expecting someone to come take her away. Like — like we’re just the transport team.”

Lando reached out, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. “They handed her to us, remember? In the hospital. And no one looked worried. Not a single nurse said ‘actually, we’ve changed our minds’.”

“I don’t feel qualified.”

“You grew her.”

“I did,” she whispered, blinking hard. “And now I’m supposed to… put her in a crib and go to bed like she’s not still part of me?”

“You don’t have to,” he said again. “We can pull the moses basket all the way next to your side of the bed. You can have your hand in there with her, baby, if that’s what you need to do. And we got those little toe clips, didn’t we? To make sure she’s still breathing. I’ll set up the white noise machine. I can hold her while you shower. Or while you lie down. Whatever feels okay.”

She stared at him.

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to stop looking at her.”

“We can take turns.”

“But you need to sleep.”

“I’ll nap tomorrow.”

“Lando.”

“Amelia.”

She cracked a smile then — barely, but real.

And he took her hand, warm and grounding. “Come lie down. Just lie down. I’ll keep one hand on her and one on you. I’ll be right there.”

Amelia hesitated.

Then nodded.

She let him guide her back to their bedroom. Lando had already rearranged everything — bassinet beside the bed, a lamp dimmed low, muslins folded with surgical precision. He lifted Ada gently from the crib and laid her into the basket with infinite care.

Then he slid into bed, propped up by pillows, and held out his arms.

Amelia didn’t need to be told twice.

She curled into his side, one hand reaching instinctively toward Ada’s sleeping form, her fingers resting just beside the basket.

No blankets. No teddies. No safety hazards.

Just a perfectly swaddled baby in a white onesie, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm Amelia was already memorising. A monitor was clipped gently to one of her toes — nothing intrusive, just a soft band — but if anything changed, even slightly, it would ping Lando’s phone in an instant.

“I’m going to check on her every ten minutes,” Amelia mumbled, eyes already heavy but refusing to close.

Lando kissed her hair. “That’s okay. I probably will too.”

She nodded once, almost automatically, and settled deeper against him — but her fingers didn’t move from the edge of the basket. Her mind was moving too fast to follow, darting down rabbit holes.

“Did you ever get nightmares as a child?” She asked suddenly, her voice a little hoarse.

Lando blinked. “Um. Yeah. A few. Why?”

“I read somewhere they can run in families. It’s neurological. Patterns of sleep. And I just… I want to be prepared.”

He didn’t say 'You don’t have to worry about that right now.'

He didn’t say 'Let it go.'

He knew better.

So he said, “Only when I was overtired. I’d sleepwalk too, sometimes. My mum said I used to go looking for my kart in the middle of the night.”

That made her smile a little — soft and crooked. “Of course you did.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What else do you want to know?”

“Did you have a favourite toy?”

“Plastic steering wheel. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. It had a red horn button. I’d sit on the living room rug and pretend I was racing.”

“Were you scared of the dark?”

Lando glanced down at her, at the way her brow was pinched just slightly.

The questions weren’t idle.

They were a defence. A rhythm.

A way to keep the storm in her head at bay.

“I hated the dark,” he said simply. “I used to leave the bathroom light on; on purpose. It used to drive my dad mad, but I didn’t want to admit that it was because the dark hallway scared me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hand still resting near the basket.

“I need to hold her,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t wobble, but her lip did. “Just for a minute. Just to make sure she’s… she’s okay.”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “She’s yours, baby,” he murmured. “Ours. We can hold her whenever we want.”

So he got up and placed Ada gently in her mother’s arms, careful not to wake her.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she pulled their daughter close, cupping the back of her tiny head, pressing her lips to soft baby hair and inhaling like she was trying to fuse them back together.

And Lando just watched.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, eyes still locked on Ada.

“I know.”

“But I love her so much I can’t even — there’s no room left in me for anything else, Lando.”

He brushed her curls back from her forehead. “I know. Baby, I know.”

She smiled at him wetly. “Thank you for giving me her.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle.

—

By day three, the house had softened.

They’d settled into a new kind of rhythm. One shaped around feeds and burps and naps so short they barely even counted. The clock meant nothing anymore. Light filtered in and out of the windows. Lando had stopped checking the date. Amelia had stopped pretending not to be terrified by every sound Ada made.

But the bleeding had slowed. The cramps had faded. The adult diapers were gone — finally, thank God — and Amelia was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants as she sat cross-legged on the couch with Ada against her chest.

The baby nursed noisily, fingers flexing near her mother’s collarbone, head resting in the crook of Amelia’s arm.

In her free hand, Amelia held her iPad — an older engineering article open, written by Adrian, full of dense paragraphs and complex diagrams about brake duct airflow and thermal optimisation. She read it aloud like a lullaby, her voice soft but steady.

“‘By increasing the front duct’s diameter by 2.3 millimetres, the delta in peak rotor temp dropped below critical thresholds in high-deg circuits, including Catalunya and Marina Bay…’ You hear that, Ada? Heat efficiency. That’s how we stay fast and safe.”

Ada made a small noise — halfway between a sigh and a snuffle — and latched more firmly.

Lando passed through the room with a laundry basket in his arms. His curls were still wet from a rushed shower, and he wore mismatched socks. But he smiled when he saw them.

“She asleep yet?” He asked, pausing.

“Almost.” Amelia didn’t look up from her screen. “We’re learning about regenerative braking.”

“Alright, baby,” Lando said, and disappeared toward the washing machine.

The doorbell rang just as Amelia was settling Ada into the bassinet. Ada didn’t flinch, but Amelia suddenly startled and stared at her little sleeping form with a frown.

Was she too cold? Was her neck at the wrong angle? Had she been burped properly—

“It’s okay,” Lando said, his voice low. “She’s fine. I’ll get the door. You stay and watch her.”

She nodded, stepping back, watching the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And then: voices. Familiar ones.

Max (Fewtrell) and Pietra. Their laughter was gentle, not loud — filtered with care.

“Hey,” Max said, stepping into the living room with a Tupperware box already in hand. “We’ve both antibacced our hands. We come in peace.”

Pietra went straight to Amelia, arms already open. She didn’t say anything, just wrapped her up in a firm hug — grounding, real, warm — and kissed the side of her head.

“You have done so well,” she whispered.

Amelia didn’t cry, but her throat caught. “Thanks. She’s… she’s perfect. I’m just tired.”

“We know.”

Meanwhile, Max clapped Lando on the shoulder, hard. “Mate. You look like you’ve seen things.”

“I’ve seen things,” Lando muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Go sit down. We’ve got this.”

They didn’t ask to hold Ada. Didn’t hover or coo or crowd. Pietra pulled on rubber gloves and started wiping down the kitchen counters like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max took out the bins. Then he came back in and started unloading the dishwasher without asking where anything went.

Amelia watched all of it from the couch, stunned by how quickly the air changed — less pressure, more breathing room.

“You don’t need to do all that,” she murmured.

“We want to,” Pietra said, straightening up with a dish towel in her hand. “This is the bit no one helps with, and it’s the bit that matters.”

Lando appeared beside Amelia, dropping onto the couch, sliding a hand over her knee. She leaned into him automatically.

“Tell them thank you,” she whispered, eyes half-shut.

He did. She already knew he would.

And for the first time since Ada’s birth, Amelia let herself fully exhale. Not just a breath. A letting-go. Just a moment.

The baby was sleeping.

The house was quiet.

And they were not alone.

—

They took Ada out for her first proper walk on a Tuesday.

The sky was low and soft, pale blue smudged with thin clouds. Not warm, not cold. Just… fresh. There was the smell of cut grass in the air and the quiet hum of summer insects returning to their business.

The pram rolled smoothly along the country trail, thick tyres handling the uneven gravel without so much as a jolt. Lando had triple-checked the suspension before they left the house.

Now he hovered two steps behind Amelia, a muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, spare dummy in his hoodie pocket, checking the pram’s hood every three seconds like the sun might have suddenly grown sharper.

“Do you think it’s too bright?” He asked, squinting up. “Should we have brought the other hat?”

Amelia didn’t break stride. “She’s fine.”

“What if she gets cold?”

“She’s in a fleece-lined sleep suit and the foot muff, Lando. She’s not cold.”

He hesitated. “I just—she’s so little. Doesn’t feel right to have her out here.”

Amelia’s expression softened, but only a little. She didn’t stop walking. “Fresh air is important for newborns. It regulates their circadian rhythm. Improves lung function. Strengthens immune development.”

Lando jogged a step to fall in beside her, peeking into the pram. “I know. I just feel like she should still be wrapped in bubble wrap. Or, I don’t know… a titanium exosuit.”

Amelia side-eyed him. “She’s a human baby.”

“Yeah. But she’s our human baby.”

Amelia finally looked over at him, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes still scanning the trail ahead. “Lando. She’s okay. I promise.”

He huffed, shifting closer to peer into the pram again. “I know. I—I do know. But she’s just… so small.”

“She’s also fast asleep.” Amelia nodded toward the pram. Sure enough, Ada’s tiny features were slack with the soft stillness of newborn sleep, one fist curled near her chin and her lips parted slightly, breath feathering.

Lando smiled, almost reluctantly. “She really is perfect.”

Amelia slowed a little, letting the rhythm of her footsteps match the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Her hand brushed against his, and when he didn’t pull away, she laced their fingers together.

“She’ll be okay,” she said, softer now. “I’m going to be good at this part. The structure. The systems. The planning. Schedules. Routines.”

“You’ve been good at all of it,” Lando said without hesitation.

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not all of it.”

“Name one thing you’ve been bad at so far,” he challenged, raising a brow.

“Holding her while she cries,” she replied instantly, too fast and too honest. “I never know how to help. I just freeze.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t count. You can just wear your ear defenders.”

“I think they scare her,” she admitted, glancing away. “She cries harder when I put them on.”

Lando nudged her shoulder gently. “Nah. She’ll get used to them. Babies cry. That’s literally their job.”

She gave a quiet laugh, tugged closer by his steadiness. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They walked in silence for a minute, the trees rustling softly around them, the path dappled in filtered light.

“You want me to push her for a bit?” He asked.

She nodded and handed over the pram with a small sigh of relief, flexing her fingers. “My arms were starting to ache, and I don’t even know why. I wasn’t carrying her.”

“It’s the new mum muscle fatigue,” he said knowingly. “Totally scientific.”

She snorted, then went quiet for a beat. “I’m so glad I’m not, like, constantly peeing myself anymore. That was weird.”

Lando nodded. “Honestly, I think you handled it really well.”

She gave him a side-glance, almost shy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached out and squeezed her hand again. “I was expecting way more tears. And not from Ada.”

“There were tears. I just cried in the shower.”

He smiled, but it was soft and genuine. “I know.”

Amelia exhaled, some of the tension rolling off her shoulders. The walk, the fresh air, the steady feel of his hand wrapped around hers — it all helped. Ada stirred once in her sleep, a tiny sound escaping her lips, and they both stopped walking for a second, listening.

Still asleep.

They exchanged a glance — equal parts relief and awe — and kept walking.

—

Later that evening, their house glowed with the golden warmth of soft lighting, the scent of something mildly burnt wafting from the oven (Lando insisted it was “crispy” on purpose). The table was already set — half by Lando, half by Cisca, who had taken it upon herself to silently reorganise the cutlery the moment she walked in.

Dinner was simple. Pasta. Store-bought garlic bread. A pre-made chocolate tart that Adam had brought with a proud grin and a whispered, “Don’t let Lando see the packaging — he’ll think his mother spent hours making this.”

Ada had just gone down in her bassinet upstairs.

Amelia hovered in the hallway, half listening, half pacing, fingers twitching at her sleeves. She’d made it through dinner prep, through greeting Lando’s parents and making small talk, but her ears were tuned in a thousand different directions — to the baby monitor, to the creak of the upstairs floorboards, to the faintest imagined cry in the silence.

“She’s okay,” Lando said gently, coming to stand beside her. “She’s asleep.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Amelia said, clutching her elbows. “Or she was and now she’s not. Or she will be and then she won’t be, and then they’ll all want to hold her and I’ll have to say no because she’s finally down and they’ll think I’m rude—”

“Okay,” Lando said, calm and sure and already moving past her.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her.”

“Lando—”

But he was already climbing the stairs. Moments later, he reappeared with Ada bundled in her swaddle inside her moses basket, blinking in that newborn stunned way, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He paused only to press a kiss to the top of Amelia’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.

Amelia followed him, heart caught somewhere between panic and confusion — until she saw what he’d done.

He’d cleared the centrepiece from the kitchen table. Moved the salt and pepper. And right in the middle, like the guest of honour, was Ada. Swaddled and content, her moses basket taking pride of place between the lasagna and the chocolate tart.

Everyone paused.

Then started to laugh.

“Lando,” Cisca laughed. “You did not just put the baby on the table.”

“We can keep an eye on her,” he shrugged, completely deadpan.

Even Amelia, still frazzled, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. Her shoulders dropped. Her heart settled.

“Okay,” she said softly, moving closer and brushing her fingers across Ada’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But she’s calm. And you’re calm too. So I win.”

The rest of dinner was easy. Light. Ada stayed asleep, safe in the middle of it all. Lando’s parents only peeked at her — no passing her around, no unsolicited advice. Just gentle smiles and hands folded in laps and the occasional, “She’s so beautiful.”

Amelia stared at her daughter as she ate her lasagna.

And there would be photos passed around in fifteen years time. Of a baby in the middle of the dinner table, in different outfits during different times of the year. Easter and Christmas and Birthdays. Newborn and then not.

Ada Rossella Norris, fifteen years old, will blush and squeak and say, “Mum, that’s so weird! Why was I on the table?”

And Amelia will swipe her hand across her daughter’s freckled cheek and say, “Where else would you be?”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the couch, one of her old engineering textbooks open in her lap. It was more comfort object than useful now — dense equations and fluid mechanics — but it gave her something to hold, something to do.

From down the hall, the sound of water running filled the quiet.

She turned a page absently. Then another.

Then paused, head tilting slightly.

Lando’s voice drifted out from the bathroom. Soft. Muffled. A kind of singsong narration.

“There’s your little foot… and here’s your other one… look at those perfect toes, Ada-bug…”

Just her husband. Bathing their daughter.

Amelia closed the book, the spine pressing into her palm.

She didn’t need to go check. Didn’t need to see with her own eyes to know he was being gentle, and cautious, and silly, and Lando.

And the realisation landed with no fanfare, no dramatic swell of emotion — just a quiet, settled truth.

She trusted him.

Completely.

With the most precious thing in the entire world.

She tucked the book beside her and got up slowly, padding barefoot to the doorway of the bathroom, where Lando knelt beside the little tub, sleeves rolled up, Ada’s soft, soapy body cradled between his careful hands.

He looked up and grinned when he saw her.

“Hey,” he whispered. “She loves the water.”

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her eyes soft.

“I like it too,” she said. “And I like you. Like this.”

He flushed a little, smiled wider. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

Ada squealed and splashed her fists in the water.

Amelia smiled at her little girl.

—

The paddock was quieter than it would be on race day — a lull before the storm.

Just the low hum of cameras, the occasional mechanical clatter of a forklift, and the shuffle of early-arriving team personnel cutting through the cool morning air. But even that — the muted version of Silverstone — pressed in around Amelia like static behind her eyes.

Too many overlapping sounds.

Too much motion at the edges of her vision, flickering like faulty headlights.

Ada shifted against her chest with a soft grunt, the wrap keeping her snug and swaddled, the rhythm of Amelia’s heartbeat her steady metronome. One of Amelia’s hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s back, her thumb tracing a repetitive pattern she didn’t consciously register. A grounding mechanism. Something to keep her tethered.

Her dad met them at the back entrance of the McLaren motorhome, face gentle, voice pitched low like he was afraid to set something off.

“Hello, my beautiful baby girls,” he said, already holding the door open. “We’ve cleared the top floor. Everyone knows to stay out. You’ve got total privacy.”

Amelia gave a small nod. Didn’t speak.

Her whole focus was on getting inside — away from the press of noise, the open sky, the potential germs and the unknowns.

Lando was already there.

The moment she stepped through the doorway, he turned as if pulled by a thread. His whole expression shifted — softened in an instant — as his eyes landed on them. His daughter, safe and warm. His wife, upright and moving, even if she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world and then some.

“You made it,” he breathed.

“I said I would,” Amelia murmured. “I made a plan.”

And the plan was always the comfort.

He didn’t crowd her, just hovered at her side as she allowed herself to be guided up the narrow staircase to the engineer’s meeting room. It had been transformed — not sterile, not chaotic. Just… still.

The blinds were drawn. The harsh fluorescents replaced with soft lamp lighting. A white noise machine hummed gently in the corner, masking the distant clatter of wheel guns and rolling crates. Someone had set up a chair by the window, a footstool just beneath it, a bottle of water and sanitiser waiting on a little table nearby. She didn’t know who had prepared it. Probably more than one person. That thought, strangely, comforted her.

Amelia sank into the chair and exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.

Lando crouched beside her, fingers light on the edge of the wrap. He didn’t try to take Ada. Just looked at her like he was memorising the details — her milk-drunk mouth, the dusky pink of her cheeks, the faintest tuft of dark hair under her little hat.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “Welcome to Silverstone. A week old and you’re already in the paddock. You know how crazy that is?”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her shoulders loosened slightly.

“We’re only staying for an hour. Maybe less. I just want to go over the strategy notes with Tom. I’ve already emailed them, but—”

“You want to go over them in person,” Lando finished. “That’s fine. That’s perfect.”

She adjusted the wrap slightly, fingers brushing Ada’s tiny back. “It’s too soon for her to actually be here for the full weekend. Her immune system, her ears…”

“I know,” Lando said gently. “She’ll be ready soon.” Then, quieter, “Maybe in a kart.”

Amelia’s eyes snapped to his. “Only if she wants to. Only if it’s her idea.”

He lifted a hand. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door.

Oscar stood just beyond it, holding two coffees and that neutral expression he wore when he didn’t want to spook anyone.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Amelia. “I can come back later?”

Amelia glanced at him, then at the room, then back to Ada — still sleeping, undisturbed. She gave a small nod.

Oscar stepped in with careful movements, like he knew what it cost her to allow anyone near the baby (because he did). He crouched beside the chair, not quite close enough to breach her space.

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

“Amazing, innit,” Lando murmured, standing up to take one of the coffees from him.

Oscar didn’t take his eyes off Ada. “You’re a machine,” he told Amelia. “For coming here. Thank you.”

“She slept the whole car ride,” Amelia said. “I packed enough supplies for three days rather than three hours.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You think that’ll be enough?”

“It's fine. My dad’s probably stashed nappies all over this motorhome,” she said dryly. “You can call Zak Brown a lot of things, but you can’t call him unprepared.”

That made both men laugh, the sound low and soft enough not to wake the baby.

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long Amelia stayed.

Long enough for her to sit in on the strategy meeting, long enough to pass off her annotated packet of data to Tom with a few muttered clarifications. Long enough for her to reassure herself that her world hadn’t spun too far off its axis.

She knew it had been twenty-seven minutes because she set a timer on her phone. Not a second longer.

And when they left — quietly, quickly, Lando carrying her bag, Oscar offering to hold the door open — she didn’t look back.

She had a baby girl to focus on.

And Lando would follow her home when he was done.

—

The front door clicked softly shut.

Ada stirred in her basket. Amelia looked up from her book — well, from the same paragraph she’d read six times — just as Lando stepped into the living room, damp curls flattened beneath his McLaren cap and a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Oscar hovered with two takeaway bags and a sheepish shrug. “He called me stupid for planning on going to the team hotel,” he said. “I didn’t fight that hard.”

Lando dropped a kiss to her temple as he passed. “She’s been awake?”

“Two feeds,” Amelia said, adjusting the blanket draped over her lap. “Four nappy changes. She’s settled now.”

Oscar was already crouching beside the basket, peering in at Ada like he hadn’t seen her just a few hours ago. “She’s still so small.”

“She’s seven days old,” Amelia pointed out. “She’s supposed to be small.”

“I know. But like… look at her.” He grinned, voice hushed. “She’s smaller than my forearm.”

Amelia blinked.

Lando had taken the food into the kitchen. She could hear the fridge opening, the rustle of takeaway containers. Oscar was now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Ada, humming softly under his breath.

The room felt full. But not crowded.

She marked her place in the book — something about fluid dynamics and downforce — and looked around.

Lando came back in with three bowls of food and no cutlery, because he always forgot the cutlery. He kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the sofa beside her, and pulled her close with a casualness that would’ve stunned her thirteen-year-old self.

Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.

She thought about being thirteen. About hiding in the corner of the school library, rereading the same paperbacks while her classmates whispered and passed notes about their crushes.

She’d never understood the obsession. Never wanted the chaos of it.

She’d convinced herself she wasn’t built for any of it — romance, affection, softness. She figured she’d grow up and live alone in a quiet flat with neat shelves and a routine no one could break.

And now she was here. Baby in a basket. Working in the sport she adored. Married. Her best friend sitting on her living room floor, humming to her daughter as she slept.

It made her chest ache, a little. With disbelief. With gratitude.

“Hey,” Lando said softly, glancing down. “You okay, baby?”

She nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable and full at once. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Lando’s brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want it. I thought I wasn’t… wired that way.” Her voice was even. Gentle. “I have never been so relieved to have been wrong about something.”

He kissed her again, this time on the side of her head. “Love you.”

Oscar, still on the floor, looked up with a half-smile. “Is this a bad time to ask if you’re willing to half your naan bread with me?”

Amelia laughed. Then she tore it in half and gave it to him.

Lando passed her a fork.

She hadn’t even noticed him go get it. But of course he had.

And as Ada shifted softly in her basket, a tiny sigh in the quiet, Amelia thought, ‘This. This is what home is.’

And she hadn’t even known to hope for it.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Sukuna

[Chapter 13] With Great Pain

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Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

The topic of Kyoko never comes up again. It’s an understanding that she’s gone. You never outright ask if the blood that was cleaned up was her own, or if Sukuna simply sent her away. She’s no longer someone that you have to worry about, he reassures you about it. 

To be frank, Kyoko becomes the least of your problems. You forget about her existence, or lack thereof as spring rapidly approaches. Your due date not only nears, but it’s eminently present. You can do nothing on your own anymore, you can barely sit up. Having Sukuna constantly breathing down your neck is actually useful for once. 

“Calm down, Sukuna. The twins are…” You’re cut off by a moan, the twins causing a commotion. It seems that your body has gotten too small for them, they’ll come out any time soon.

Sukuna helps you bathe, putting you on top of him in the water and being as gentle as he can possibly be with you. He’s gentle, yet he keeps pressing on your stomach, hoping to get a reaction from his twins, something that they’ll happily provide.

“You don’t tell me what to do, woman.” He scolds you though he can’t bring himself to use a stern voice. It’s rare when Sukuna brings himself to pity a human, but it seems that his sentiments have changed when it comes to his wife– His very pregnant wife dare he mention. 

“Sukuna, stop.” You tell him, moving his hands from your stomach. Sukuna won’t contradict you, even if you give him an attitude. No one else would dare speak to him in that manner, but he guesses you can do it. It’s actually kind of cute when it comes from you.

“What is it with you? Can’t even touch you without a complaint anymore.” He groans, keeping his to himself. If they go to your breasts, you’ll say they’re tender; if they go to your arms, you’ll say you feel trapped. He can’t put them on your stomach, legs, and not to mention you’ll argue with him for putting his wet hands on your dry hair.

“These babies are ready to come out. It’s unbearable to even breathe.” You respond, and Sukuna fights back a smirk. His boys are strong.

“Want me to carry you out?” He offers, and you sigh. It feels like all your ailments become lighter in the water, and the moment you get out, they’ll come back even worse.

“Can you reach inside of me and pull them out?” You look back at him with a spark in your eyes, and Sukuna would almost grant your wish if it weren’t so ridiculous. He doesn’t answer, instead he stands up, picking you up and carrying you out of the water.

His hand caresses your cheek as he puts you down to dry you off. He reassures you in the best way he knows how to, “They’ll be out any time now.”

A sigh escapes your lips as Sukuna dresses you up. His words serve no comfort. You want this nightmare to be over now. 

“I won’t tell, you know. Just shove your hand in and pull them out. It’ll be their first scolding.” You try to convince him, earning a chuckle from him. He won’t need to. You’re due any day now. This will soon be a distant memory.

“You carry heirs to a king, cherish the moment.” He responds, picking you back up and carrying you back to your room. Servants pass by, their heads lowered during these sensitive days. Sukuna might kill anyone that walks a little too weird, therefore the whole palace attempts to play it safe.

“Will you rub my feet?” You ask, and he rolls his eyes. He’s scolded you for asking the question in public, but he’ll save his breath. He simply hums in response, knowing that he can’t shake that task off to anyone else. 

These last weeks are definitely putting a strain on him as well, luckily, his burden is not as heavy as yours.

Sukuna absolutely hates the fact that he’s given into your whims, because he’s forced to deal with them now when you’re too unwell to do it on your own. The servants can’t do it, you insist that it’s him. It’s his duty as the baby’s adoptive father. And of course, he foolishly gives into it. 

“Shut up, brat.” Sukuna mutters, hoping to stop Yuuji’s crying before the baby wakes you up. It’s hard to get you to sleep lately, the twins keep you up at every hour of the day– And just when you’re shutting your eyes, Yuuji begins a crying fit. 

With Yuuji in his arms, Sukuna nearly darts out of the room and bounces the baby in hopes to soothe him quickly. Sukuna likes to keep his eye on you, now more than ever. However, keeping his eye on you is particularly difficult while he tries to calm down the brat.

“What is it with you? You just love attention don’t you?” Sukuna scolds the brat as the baby cries his little heart out. You fed him and changed him, therefore his issues don’t root in lack of care. Perhaps in lack of love, but that’s not Sukuna is willing to give, especially to a brat that doesn’t carry his own blood. 

“I should eat you.” Sukuna scoffs, bouncing the baby before bringing Yuuji up to his chest. Sukuna slaps the little back as gently as he can, and within a second, he hears a burp and a fart. “Disgusting.”

Sukuna is grossed out, but he continues burping the baby to see if that’s the cause of the wails. To think that you’ll probably force him to do this with the twins. His hands will be full; it’s a good thing he possesses four. As much as he doesn’t like the brat, Yuuji is good practice for when his sons come around.

As Sukuna helps Yuuji with his little issue, he can’t help but roll his eyes. Babies are so stupid. They scream bloody murder over the simplest issue because their bodies can’t solve the issue by itself. He’s never understood why humans find that adorable.

“My king.” Sukuna stops burping the baby when Uraume joins him. Sukuna doesn’t even answer, his eyes simply land on Uraume and he waits for them to speak again. “Your wife woke up with great pain.”

“Order that servant to help with her ailments again.” Sukuna answers, but Uraume shakes their head.

“It’s not that.” They respond which makes Sukuna frown. “It’s time.”

“What are you talking about?” Sukuna questions, until it clicks. Sukuna hands the baby to Uraume without a second thought, rushing over to your side. And in the room where he left you so peacefully sleeping, you’re now taking deep breaths with tears streaming down your eyes. It’s unlike any other pain.

“Sukuna…” You call out to him, watching as he kneels down beside you to wipe away the tears. He doesn’t need to investigate it further, it’s clear that this is it. His hand lands on your stomach, and he fights back the wicked smile on his lips. He’s a good husband, he won’t smile at your misery. 

“They want to come out.” You force out, and he hums in response. One of his hands goes to your stomach and he caresses it as if it’ll help in any way.

You’re sure that this pain is one that no other human has experienced before. It’s almost as if they’re trying to shred your insides to find a way out. He helps you lay back down, hand going to your lower abdomen before he begins to chant something.

You want to push Sukuna away, feeling a growing sense of irritation with whatever he does, but you feel that intense pain fade away with each passing second. When Sukuna takes his hand off you, the pain completely subsides.

“Hina and Uraume will take care of you.” He informs you, and you grab his hand.

“Please, stay. Do that again.” You look at him with tearful eyes, and Sukuna thinks of how to comfort you. He isn’t great at comforting humans, and while he’s become better at the task, by no means is he an expert.

“Uraume will help you.” He responds, pressing a kiss on your forehead.

“Sukuna, please.” You beg, and he shakes his head.

“I’ll be taking care of Yuuji.” He tells you. “I’ll be just down the hall.”

And even though you want him by your side, hearing that he’ll be taking care of Yuuji calms you down. Sukuna looks around, watching for any wandering ears before turning his attention to you. A surprisingly comforting look. 

“I know if you’ll need anything, and I’ll help you.” He tells you, his subtle way of telling you that he won’t be by your side as you deliver the twins. Though you expected it. 

“Okay–” You’re cut off by a cry of pain. Whatever Sukuna helped you with didn’t last long, his twins are too strong that they defeat it. Though you don’t cry about it this time, instead you glare at Sukuna, his sign to leave.

“Uraume.” Sukuna calls out, exiting the room to leave you with your pain. He won’t mess around with his cursed technique and the twins again, in case of any unspoken risks. “Worst comes to worst, kill them.”

“I beg your pardon, my king?” Uraume furrows their brows, looking at Sukuna with a look of concern.

Sukuna absolutely hates the fact that he has to repeat himself, but he won’t waste time with a useless scolding. He repeats himself, speaking as clearly as ever so Uraume doesn’t ask again, “If it comes to it, kill the twins.”

[jobean12-blog]

The Best Worst Day Ever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 3.4K

Summary: You're having a shit day but then you see a dog and things start looking up...

Author's Note: We love a soft and sweet Bucky and dogs and bookstores and cookies and kisses- so here we are! Hope you enjoy, thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️The two bookstores I mention can be found here (Spoonbill and Sugartown) and here (Albertine Books). Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: a cute dog, Bucky saves the day (a few times), cookies, soft fluff, building tension, books

“You will not believe the day I had.”

You practically sigh the words into the phone, feeling at least slightly better at the sound of your best friends voice.

“Tell me everything,” she says.

You start to recap your shitty day but a large fluff of black fur across the street catches your eye.

“Oh my god…,” you start, completely derailing your previous thought. “There is this giant black dog across the street. I have to go pet it.”

Your best friend laughs, “of course you do,” and you can feel yourself start to form a real smile for the first time today.

“I’ll call you back,” you tell her.

“You got it,” she answers, not even questioning your behavior.

You start to cross the street, giving a quick glance in both directions before breaking into a jog. You’re just about to call out to the old man to ask if his dog is friendly, when you hear the screech of tires.

Your heart drops and your body instinctively reacts but all you feel is the whoosh of air that whips past you and a set of strong arms wrapped around your waist.

For a few long seconds you simply breathe, clinging to the solid warmth of whatever is holding you up.

“Are you ok doll?”

The voice is soft but deep and you look towards it, blinking against the bright sun, wondering for a moment if the car hit you and you’re dead and in fact, now in heaven.

Your fingers dig into soft leather as you stare at one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen.

“Am I dead?”

Bright blue eyes peer down at you, the corners lightly crinkling at your question. His gaze wanders over your face, his expression seeming to waver between awe and concern.

“No, I’ve got you. But are you ok?”

His words draw your attention to his mouth. Blinking again and trying to clear your head you finally manage to answer him.

“I…I don’t think so…I just wanted to pet the dog.”

His perfect lips curl up into a teasing smile and you have to drag your eyes away to focus on his blue ones. But the fact that you’re pressed against his solid chest and encased in the warmth of his arms does nothing to help your concentration.

With a slight tremble you start to sit up, but he doesn’t release you from his hold. He just moves with you and helps you to stand.

Once he feels you’re steady enough on your feet he removes his hands but stays close, clearly not convinced you’re fine.

You let out a shaky exhale and smooth your hands over yourself.

“That was so scary.”

You can feel the warmth of tears spring to your eyes and your vision starts to blur. He reaches out a gentle hand and places it on your arm.

“I’m sure it was. And while we could stay here I think it would be best to get out of the middle of the street. Why don’t we go sit?”  

He points to the bench on the sidewalk where the old man with the dog stands and watches.

As you approach the old man asks, “it’s a good thing this young man was here to save you. I could never move that fast.”

You glance at the “young man,” and he extends the hand that doesn’t have a secure hold on your arm to greet you.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

“Thank you Bucky,” you say and then give him your name.

“Is she ok?” the old man asks Bucky.

“I think she’s gonna be fine,” Bucky says with a reassuring smile.

Bucky helps you onto the bench and as the dog moves closer, tail wagging, you blurt out in a rush, “can I please pet your dog?”

“Sure,” the old man says. “She’s very friendly.”

“What’s her name?” Bucky asks, as he kneels down to put his hand out for the dog to smell.

“Luna,” the old man replies, sitting down next to you on the bench.

You reach for Luna, letting her smell you before scratching her ears and leaning down to press your face into her soft fur.

Your focus stays on the dog until your heartbeat returns to normal, the conversation between Bucky and the old man lingering quietly in the background.

After a few more steadying breaths you thank the old man and Bucky helps him to stand, watching as he takes slow and small steps away from you, Luna in tow but still looking back at you.

Bucky stands and offers you his hand; strong and slightly clammy, and sparks fly, a curious look flitting across his stunning face as you both react to the touch. You fix your gaze on him and finally give yourself a chance to look. Your heart starts to crash against your chest all over again. You just sit there, staring.

He’s tall and the soft henley he wears beneath his leather jacket is fitted so that you can see the outline of the muscles in his chest. His eyes are the most beautiful blue, and the stubble covering his strong jaw does nothing to conceal the handsome features beneath it.

He smiles softly and for a moment you think you see his cheeks turn a light shade of pink at your obvious examination. He’s still holding onto your hand, and suddenly, seeming to come to his senses, he releases it and smooths his palm over his hair and then the back of his neck.

You feel a flush of heat move through you.

“You’re sure you’re ok doll?”

You nod.

“She should probably eat something.”

At the old man’s gruff voice both you and Bucky startle and turn to see him standing just a few feet away, a knowing smile on his face. Obviously, he didn’t get very far.

“He deserves a date for savin’ your life there young lady.”

With a decisive nod he dismisses you and Bucky and calls to Luna to finally continue on his way.

You feel Bucky’s eyes on you, and you look back up at him from your seat.

“Food?” you ask quietly.

“Let’s go,” he answers, his easy smile returning. “I know just the place.”

The butterflies stay firmly planted in the pit of your empty stomach and you stand so abruptly that you teeter forward and into his arms again. He catches you with two hands splayed at your waist and the urge to bury your heated face against his chest is overwhelming.

“I’m really having a day,” you mutter. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m just happy I’m here to help.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He falls into an easy stride beside you and a huff of laughter falls from your lips before you say, “I can’t believe I almost died trying to pet a dog.”

“I get it,” Bucky says, throwing you a wink.

You’re careful with your footing, still somewhat shaky from the whole ordeal but when your attention turns back to Bucky, his eyes trailing across your face, seeming to linger on your mouth before lifting to your eyes, you stumble, your foot catching a crack in the sidewalk.

He grabs your bicep to steady you, and you groan. “Shit, you must think I’m hopeless.”

“That person’s driving skills having nothing to do with you,” he assures you as he gently leads you toward the restaurant. “And everyone likes to pet dogs…or at least they should.”

His voice is gentle, and you avoid his gaze, his hand still curled securely around your arm as you come to stop outside the restaurant.

He only let’s go to open the door and usher you in with a soft press of his hand to your lower back.

The flutter of butterflies that you keep trying to ignore are back in full force and when Bucky stops at a table and pulls out the chair for you the gesture has you feeling faint.

You must be starved.

With a monumental effort to relax you sit back in the chair and cross your legs. His gaze automatically flickers downward and be visibly swallows before quickly looking away.

There’s a definite blush on the tops of his cheeks now.

“The pizza here is really good.” His voice sounds extra rumbly, maybe even a little hoarse.

You pick up a menu and start to fan yourself without even thinking. “I’m sure it is.”

“Do you live close by?” you ask him.

“Just a few blocks away. I’m here all the time.”

Before you can ask any more questions, an older woman appears beside your table with a beaming smile.

“Barnes has finally showed up with a girl!” she sings. “And a beauty at that.”

You hide your giggle behind the menu and peer at Bucky.

“This is Millie,” he says, his smile wide. “She owns the place and loves to bust my chops.”

You introduce yourself, delighted and Millie’s warmth.

“Are you having the usual?” Millie asks Bucky.

He nods and looks to you.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” you tell Millie.

“I like her already,” Millie says before rushing back off to the kitchen.

Bucky sits forward, his arms crossed in front of him and now that he’s taken off his leather jacket there is more of him to admire.

His blue eyes are focused entirely on you, and you try not to blurt out your thoughts about how nice his biceps looked in his shirt so instead you clamp your mouth shut and look around the cozy space.

You fall into easy conversation and when the food comes the silence is comfortable while you eagerly eat it, not realizing how hungry you really are.

After your stomach is full, Bucky pays the bill, even after you offered several times, pleading with him that you owed him at least that after saving your life.

He waves you off and hands Millie the cash then holds his hand out for yours.

At the feel of his skin tension immediately springs between you, and you scramble to think of something to say.

He beats you to it.

“What are your plans for the weekend?”

Grateful for the distraction, you reply, “well, I usually spend my Saturday afternoons at this little bookshop in my neighborhood.”

“Is it Spoonbill and Sugartown?”

Your eyes widen and light up.

“YES! You know it?”

“I do. I used to go all the time. Haven’t been in a while though. I love the smell of the old books.”

A rush of attraction sweeps over you like a wave and your hand squeezes his.

“You could meet me there tomorrow? If you’re not busy?”

“Yeah. I’d love that,” he says, grabbing the door and holding it open so you can exit the restaurant.

“Which way are you?” he asks, still holding your hand.

You point right toward Bedford Avenue.

“Come on, I’ll walk ya home doll.”

“Is it out of your way? I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

He chuckles before leaning down to press a quick, surprising kiss to your cheek.

“Nah, it’s not and I really don’t mind.”

You are in love.

Inside the old bookstore, with its vaulted ceilings and shafts of light pouring through the skylights, you stare at the rows and rows of bookshelves.

Through the aisles there is something to catch the eye at every turn. Not just books, but interesting and antique Tiffany lamps and various knick knacks that make you smile. Reading areas are set up in breaks between the shelves, tables with chairs so people can lounge, read, and drink their coffee and eat their desserts.

You let out a contented sigh. On purpose, you arrived a bit early, hoping the familiarity and comfort of the store would calm the persistent butterflies that have taken up a permanent residence in your stomach since your literal run in with Bucky.

As you’re falling deeper under the spell of the leather lined bindings and dusty-smelling pages a soft voice calls your name.

You look up and see Bucky standing at the end of the aisle. He’s dressed casually but different from yesterday, his dark jeans fitted to his muscular thighs and his black tee shirt showing off those perfect arms and chest.

He steps closer and greets you with another kiss to your cheek, this time, closer to the corner of your mouth.

You close your eyes briefly, inhaling his scent and steadying yourself on your feet. Before you can actually swoon to the floor you tell him about the expansion they recently built in the back with a rush of enthusiastic words.

Taking his hand, you lead him to the new section, practically running.

Laughing at your overexcitement, he squeezes your hand.

“You’re very cute.”

When you turn to look at him, something in his eyes makes your skin heat and you have to look away again, but not before you give him a thankful smile.

You expect him to let go of your hand once you reach the back, but he doesn’t.

“Have you ever been to Albertine Books?” he asks.

You stop and think.

“No, I don’t think I’ve even heard of it.”

“It’s easy to miss,” he explains. “It’s inside the French Embassy and has mostly French language books and translations from French into English, but it’s gorgeous.”

“Really?” you say with uninhibited joy. “Will you take me there sometime?”

You’re too busy deciding which part of the expanded bookstore you want to show him first to see his expression, but you hear the affection in his tone when he replies, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, doll.”

Your heart flutters.

Your hand gets clammy, and you gently pull it away, trying to use the shelves and the books lining them to refocus yourself.

He stays with you, content to watch you peruse the bindings, moving from bookshelf to bookshelf.

The book titles quickly become a blur as your awareness zeroes in on one thing, one person.

Bucky.

You feel the warmth of his presence, hovering at your back, and feel the heat of his gaze on your face. The skin on your cheek tingles and you can still feel the press of his lips.

Your breathing grows shallower as his fingertips brush against the small of your back, a gentle touch, but searing through your clothes.

Busy frantically pondering how to navigate the chemistry you share; you don’t realize the book you halt in front of until it’s too late.

A romance novel with a couple in a sexy position on the cover.

Just perfect.

His fingertips press deeper against your lower back, and then you feel the whisper of his lips on your ear as he comments, “interesting choice.”

You make the mistake of turning your head toward his and find his nose just inches from yours.

Your eyes lock for a second before his gazes drops to your mouth. Your body sways slightly toward his, and he takes the movement as an invitation, his head dipping those last few inches.

“Excuse me.”

A voice, loud and close, jolts you away from Bucky, whose mouth had just been millimeters from touching yours.

“I just…want that book.” An arm reaches between you and Bucky, and dazed, you look over to see a woman. She seems unfazed by the fact that she clearly interrupted a moment, and you grab the book for her.

She gives you a thin lipped smiled and darts away.

After a second or two of staring after her, you finally draw up the courage to meet Bucky’s eyes.

His cheeks are pink again and he’s rubbing his palm on his jeans.

Looking over his shoulder you spot the coffee and dessert counter.

“Ooh!” you say, hurrying towards it. “Let’s get a cookie!”

Bucky follows and you turn to him, smiling through the awkwardness.

“You have to try the double chocolate chip.”

He bends down to peer into the display case. Your eyes meet, and just like that you’re too close for your body to handle. You swallow hard.

“It’s delicious. And the chunks of chocolate are gooey.”

His eyes are trained on your mouth as he murmurs, “maybe we should get two.”

“Good idea. I can eat a whole one easily on my own. We might even need three.”

You sound breathless.

“Hm.” He’s not even listening to your words at this point. His focus is on your lips, his eyes are hooded, and he is definitely going to attempt to kiss you again.

“What can I get for you?” the worker behind the counter asks, smiling brightly when the two of you jerk your heads up.

“Four double chocolate chip cookies,” Bucky blurts out, then follows with a soft, “please and thanks.”

Once you have your cookies in your hand you head to one of the back tables and sit, stuffing nearly the whole cookie in your mouth.

It’s so good that for a moment you forget yourself and moan around the bite.

Bucky clears his throat, and you lock eyes. His reaches across the table, his strong fingertips gripping your chin, and he bends his head toward yours. He halts when he’s close enough that you can see the patches of gray in his beard and feel his warm breath fan your cheek.

With the softest brush of his calloused thumb, he wipes away some chocolate from your bottom lip.

“Had a little chocolate smudge right there,” he whispers.

You slowly nod and your tongue darts out to lick your lips. His eyes track the movement, and he releases you, biting into half of his own cookie.

“These really are amazing,” he says around the mouthful.

You nod again, too flustered for words.

The two of you eat all four cookies and despite wanting to distract yourself with more you leave the bookstore and let him walk you home once again.

When you stop outside your building you fiddle with your hands and look anywhere but at him.

“I had the best time,” he says, drawing your attention.

“Me too,” you say quietly.

“When can I take you to Albertine Books?” he asks, as he takes a tentative step closer.

“Tomorrow?”

It’s a hopeful question. One you couldn’t stop yourself from asking even if you wanted to.

“I’d love that doll.”

A deep tug low in your belly makes you bite your lip. You love the use of that endearment and after spending most of the afternoon so close to him you’re nearly at your wits end.

His gaze fixes on yours and his jaw tightens at whatever he sees in your expression then he closes the distance and slides his arms around you, his hands coasting slowly up your back.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, sweeping his thumb across your soft skin and splaying his hand to draw you closer.

“If someone interrupts us this time…” he says, tone full of warning but still teasing.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t even notice if there was a dog nearby for me to pet,” you say with a smile.

He laughs and bumps your nose with his.

“Not even a dog huh?”                                                                                   

You shake your head, and your eyes start to close as your hands grasp the front of his shirt. You feel the heat of his breath first, the warning before his lips touch yours. And when they do, it’s barely a brush, a hot, glancing touch.

Your fingers close more tightly around the fabric of his shirt, silently urging him to really kiss you. You’re desperate for it.

Another whisper of a of kiss, then a slightly deeper press, a nibble on your lower lip. A whimper escapes you.

It shatters whatever restraint he’s grounded himself with and his hand splayed at your back hauls you against his body as his mouth presses to yours.

You open your mouth to let him in, and his groan of satisfaction rumbles through you. The tickle of his scruffy jaw is rough in the just the way you’d hoped it would be and when you feel the slide of his hands down your back, the smooth strength of him under your touch, you completely melt into the kiss and the rest of the world fades away.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hello can you do a fic where one of the drivers (carlos, george,lando) daughters has her wisdom teeth taken out and shes super nervous but her dad calms her down and helps her after surgery?

Wisdom Teeth

The morning sun filtered through the light curtains of Yn’s bedroom, illuminating the nervous sixteen-year-old as she stood in front of her mirror, clutching a bottle of pineapple juice like it was a lifeline. Her eyes, usually bright with curiosity and humor, were clouded with anxiety. Her hands trembled slightly as she took another sip, and her reflection stared back with a tight-lipped frown that matched the pit in her stomach.

From the hallway, Rebecca’s voice floated in.

“Sweetheart, are you still drinking pineapple juice?”

Yn’s voice was quiet, a little shaky. “I read it helps with swelling...”

Carlos popped his head into the doorway, grinning as he leaned against the frame with crossed arms. “Mi amor, I think you’ve had enough pineapple juice to turn into one.”

Rebecca chuckled behind him, walking in and ruffling her daughter’s hair gently. “You’re going to be okay, Yn. It’s just your wisdom teeth.”

“Just my wisdom teeth?” Yn squeaked, turning to face them both, her eyes wide. “They’re going to rip teeth out of my skull. That doesn’t feel like a small thing, mamá.”

Carlos pushed himself off the doorway and came to wrap an arm around her shoulder. “They’re not ripping anything, princesa. They’re gently taking out teeth you don’t need anymore. Think of it like decluttering. You know how your mamá made us get rid of all those old clothes last spring?”

“That was different,” Yn mumbled, her head falling onto his chest. “The clothes didn’t bleed.”

Carlos and Rebecca both burst out laughing, but Carlos tightened his arm around his daughter, brushing his hand over her hair.

“We’ll be with you the whole time,” he said gently. “I’ll hold your hand the entire time if you want.”

She sniffled a bit but nodded. “Okay... but can we go now before I change my mind?”

The drive to the dental office was quiet—at least from Yn’s end. Her legs kept bouncing up and down nervously, her sneaker tapping against the floor of the car with rapid rhythm. Rebecca was humming softly to the radio while Carlos drove, glancing at his daughter every few seconds in the rearview mirror.

“You’re shaking the whole car,” Carlos teased, reaching back to gently touch her knee. “You’re going to burn a hole through the floor.”

Yn gave him a weak smile. “Sorry... I can’t stop.”

Rebecca turned in her seat to look back at her. “It’s okay to be scared, sweet girl. I was terrified when I had mine taken out too.”

“You were?” Yn looked surprised.

“Terrified,” Rebecca nodded, her voice warm and reassuring. “Your dad had to bribe me with six milkshakes and a foot massage.”

Carlos scoffed. “That’s not what happened.”

Rebecca grinned. “Oh, it definitely is.”

Yn let out a nervous laugh. “If I survive this, I want milkshakes too.”

“Deal,” Carlos said immediately.

At the dental office, Yn sat stiffly in the waiting room chair, clutching a soft fleece blanket she’d brought from home. She hadn’t said a word since they checked in. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, and her breathing was shallow.

Carlos sat down beside her and placed a hand on her knee. “Princesa,” he said softly, “look at me.”

She turned her head, and he could see the panic rising in her eyes.

Carlos leaned forward and took both her hands in his. “I know this is scary. But you’re not alone, okay? I’m going to be with you every single second. I’ll hold your hand until you fall asleep, and I’ll be there when you wake up. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she quickly blinked them away. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Cross my heart, te lo juro.”

When the nurse came to get her, Carlos stood immediately. “I’m coming too,” he said, as if daring anyone to challenge him.

The nurse just smiled and led them both down the hallway.

Carlos kept his promise.

He held her hand tightly as she lay back in the chair, the anesthesiologist working quickly and kindly. He ran his thumb over her knuckles and murmured soft, calming words in Spanish as her eyelids fluttered closed.

“I love you, Papá,” she whispered, voice already fading under the drugs.

“I love you more, mija.”

An hour later, Yn began to stir.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she mumbled something unintelligible through the cotton stuffed in her mouth. Her eyes squinted in confusion, her brows furrowed like she was trying to solve a math problem.

“Papá?” she slurred, voice high and panicked. “Where’s my Papá? Where’s my... where’s my mouth? I think they took my whole mouth!”

Carlos leaned forward from the chair beside her and cupped her cheek gently. “I’m right here, mi amor. Still have your mouth. A little swollen, maybe, but it’s all there.”

Yn blinked up at him with big, teary eyes. “Oh my God, you’re so pretty. Are you an angel? Did I die?”

Carlos bit back laughter. “No, you’re very much alive, cariño. You just had your wisdom teeth out.”

She blinked again, slowly. “Is it okay that I love you? Like a lot? Oh my God, I wish you were my Papá.”

Carlos laughed quietly and brushed some hair from her forehead. “It’s very okay.”

“I love you more than... than... more than pineapple juice,” she declared.

“That’s a lot of love,” he teased.

They got her into a wheelchair, and Carlos helped guide her toward the exit. She was still groggy, her head bobbing, and every few seconds she would gasp loudly like she just had the greatest realization known to man.

As Carlos gently helped her into the car, Yn gasped so loudly Rebecca jumped.

“What? What is it?” Carlos asked, concern flickering through him.

Yn stared at him, wide-eyed. “Papá,” she said slowly, dramatically, “what if... what if every statue is actually a person who looked at Medusa?”

Carlos blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then let out a long sigh, shaking his head and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’re not doing philosophy today, princesa. Let’s just get you home.”

“But think about it—every statue,” she whispered, her words muffled by the cotton, her finger pointed to the sky as if revealing a conspiracy.

Carlos chuckled as he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s seat. “Rebecca,” he said as he buckled in, “our daughter just solved ancient mythology.”

Rebecca snorted. “At least she’s high and smart.”

The whole drive home, Carlos kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding his daughter’s, just like he promised. He kept glancing at her in the mirror as she mumbled about Greek gods, chicken nuggets, and how she was pretty sure the dentist was a sorcerer.

And even though she was high on anesthesia, cotton in her mouth and cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, Carlos had never seen anyone more perfect.

“You did great, princesa,” he murmured, smiling as he turned into their driveway. “So proud of you.”

Yn blinked at him from the back seat, dazed and loopy but smiling.

“I’m proud of me too,” she said with a slurred lisp, then added, “Can I have... twenty milkshakes now?”

Carlos laughed, already getting out of the car. “You’re lucky I love you.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[rhyrhy]

Full Throttle

“I hope I was worth your time”

꒰ Warnings:꒱ Sexual content, Name-calling & language , oral in a bar bathroom (so classy, I know), Reader is bitchy, Mentioned height difference, Vi has a tongue piercing, Pet names. Angsty-ish.

꒰ A/n: ꒱ HAPPY 400!! (Someone grab the confetti!) Rockstar!Vi oneshot since she won the poll. Aka: a run-in with a face you don’t recognize… until the next morning. Around 5k words

“There she is,” the familiar warm tone said the moment you stepped into the building. she sat, gold eyeshadow reflecting over her eyelids as they opened a bit more to take you in. Growing up together, and still stuck like glue, Mel waved you over to her booth.

The fresh scent of espresso and warm pastries wafted through the air of the café as your shoes clicked across the floor. You couldn’t help but think how much more comfortable these were than last night’s.

“Here I am,” you confirmed, leaning down to hug her side before sitting across from her. “God, I’m starving. Can I?” You reached for the croissant on her small plate.

She pushed it toward you, laughing. “Besides the hair, you look suspiciously well-rested for somebody who said they had a ‘crazy night’ and promised details.” She mused, tapping her finger on the table.

You leaned back on the red-cushioned booth. “Oh, trust me. It was crazy.” You nodded, still chewing, covering your mouth as you spoke. Not missing the anticipation in her tone.

Outside the large windows, the city continued to spring to life. The occasional beep of a yellow taxi horn and incessant chatter seemed to fade into the background as you began to describe your night, with the occasional interruption from Mel trying to get way too many details. You jokingly told her you’d record it for her next time, and she seemed way too intrigued by the idea. But her burst of laughter after reassured you she was joking as always, insisting that you needed to loosen up.

Then, suddenly, you noticed her brown eyes flicker to something past your shoulder. It didn’t catch your attention at first; she was always nosy and hyper-aware of her surroundings. But when her eyes narrowed and her head tilted slowly back to you, your eyebrow raised, and you nodded for her to speak, stopping your previous conversation.

“Now, this might be a longshot,” she squinted slightly, lips pressing together in thought. “But what color did you say her hair was again?”

“Black with, like, highlights. Why?” You blinked. “And who are—” You tilted your head in curiosity, following her gaze to the decorative wall behind you.

A tour poster was plastered across the bulletin board near the café entrance, glossy and bold, listing cities and dates beneath an unmistakable face. Messy undercut. Sharp jawline. A cocky expression even in still laminated print.

Vi. Your hometown was listed for the 22nd to the 26th. Today was the last day. “Holy shit.” You let out a breathy laugh, half in disbelief, half in realization.

Mel’s eyes widened as she studied your reaction. No way. That’s not—”

“Yeah…” You exhaled, shaking your head as a ridiculous, almost nervous laugh bubbled out. “That is her.”

“Details. Now. Right. Now,” Mel demanded, her eyes gleaming as she set her tea down with a clink. Hands clasped.

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk on your lips gave you away. “Oh, settle down.”

“Don’t tell me to settle down, tell me what happened!” She shook her head and leaned forward.

“Okay , okay!” You sighed, as you drummed your fingers against the table. “Well, You had just called me about being late when…”

── ── ☆ That night, ☆ ── ──

The moonlight cast shadows behind you, cool air drifting over your arms as the clacking of your heels echoed down the sidewalk. As the clock ticked and the moon rose, you realized you were definitely going to be later than intended. Not that you wanted to go anyway—loud music, your friends dragging you around the reserved VIP section, and way too many pictures to pose for. You knew you were being a negative Nancy about it—at least, that’s what Mel had said over the phone.

“Where are you? Everyone is already here.”

Mel’s voice was almost drowned out by the bass on the other line, the party clearly in full swing. You held the phone up to your ear, your clutch in your other hand. You knew you should’ve gotten up earlier, but those extra minutes of sleep had been way too tempting. It was a mutual friend’s 21st, so naturally, everyone wanted to dress up and go out. In your defense, though, this was all last minute.

“I’m a few blocks away. There was absolutely no parking.” You replied.

One truth and a lie. Whoops. There wasn’t any parking, but you were definitely farther than just a few blocks. Pushing a few strands of hair out of your face, you glanced down at the blue lettering of the GPS on your dim phone screen—still a few minutes until you arrived. Downtown was always like this, even while the city slept.

Mel kept talking, trying to explain something about a potential shortcut, but you could barely make out a word she was saying. You jerked the phone away from your ear every time she yelled when you asked her to repeat herself. As much as you loved her, she was definitely the time police between the two of you—sometimes helpful, other times just plain annoying.

The neon glow of different bars, shops, even that overpriced café Mel had been begging you to go to, cast vibrant hues against the pavement behind you as you clicked your way around another corner.

The light on the crosswalk was just barely counting down before you’d have to wait for God knows how long. You quickly hung up on Mel, telling her you’d call her back later.

Glancing around, you saw only distant cars on the opposite street, the environment eerily quiet.

The point of your red heel rested flat as you stepped past the traffic light pole, walking onto the rigid, faded lines of the crosswalk. Not to be snobby, but the city could definitely use a small revamp. Potholes, cracked sidewalks, and worn street lines seemed to go unnoticed in a place like this.

You glanced down at your phone, momentarily blinded by a strand of hair falling into your face, causing you to involuntarily pause for a moment. Just a few more minutes on the GPS. But before you could continue down—A rumbling sound. Fast. Way too close for comfort. Your breath caught as the gleam of a shiny dark vehicle reflected your figure in the middle of the crosswalk.

A muffled shout bled out from underneath the helmet of the individual guiding it down the street. Panic shot through you as you jerked back onto the sidewalk, just in time.

“What the hell!?” you shouted, your bag slipping from your hands and your phone clattering flat against the pavement.

The sound of skidding tires, the slam of brakes. The figure, clad in leather, barely stopped short of colliding with you. The bike skidded to a stop just a few feet away, the scent of burnt rubber lingering as the rider kicked down the stand. as she swung a leg over and straightened up, pulling off her helmet with a huff.

“Yeah, what the hell is right,” she shot back, tucking the helmet under her arm. “You got a death wish?”

“Excuse me?” Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“You heard me,” she said, rolling her shoulders back like she was shaking off the near miss. “Crosswalks exist for a reason.”

You scoffed, dusting off your bag. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I inconvenience your little joyride?” Frowning at the scratches.

She huffed a dry laugh, finally giving you a once-over. one that started irritated but lingered just a second too long. “Yeah. And people cross the road when they see the walking man on the sign.” She pointed at the sign across from you, the little white figure glowing mockingly. “Not randomly whenever the hell they feel like it.”

“Are you serious right now?—” you deadpanned, exasperated. Then, with a saccharine smile, you added, “Thanks, officer. I’ll keep note of that.” You nodded, dripping with sarcasm.

Her eyes rolled, patience growing thinner as your fake smile made her blood boil. Her free hand gripped the leather of her jacket, resisting the urge to grab you by the collar and—

“Oh, ha-ha. You’re really a comedian, sweet cheeks.” She scoffed, stepping forward. Only a foot or two of space separated you now. God, you were prissy. Slightly taller, dressed in expensive, clean-knit clothing. Your eyes barely brushed over hers, dismissive. Plus the way you smelled—how could she even notice that at a time like this?

“Mm You liked that? Thanks, I’ll be here all night. Just gotta stay clear of idiots on death traps,” you jabbed, rolling your eyes like it was a competition—who could do it the most? Then, with a huff, you turned back to dust yourself off.

“Aww, you’re all worked up.” She remarked nonchalantly, watching your expression as you turned away from her. Prissy as hell, sure. But damn if you weren’t kinda (extremely) … cute. “And those ‘death traps’ are a hell of a lot more convenient than walking.”

“The conversation was over like five minutes ago,” you brushed her off, barely paying attention as you glanced at the WAIT sign. Sighing, already knowing you’d have to wait to cross again. “Have fun with that, though.”

“Conversation’s over?” She smirked, shifting her weight on her boots, clearly amused by your obvious desire to be done with her. “You just walkin’ around town for fun or something?” Her gaze flickered downward, taking in your jewelry, your makeup, your hair—all of it. She was obviously sizing you up, and you could tell.

“Stranger danger. Mind yours, lady.” You chuckled, waving her off with a well-polished nail.

“Oh, I’m definitely minding mine, sweetheart.” She shot back, ignoring the smirk threatening her poker face. Her gaze dropped to your nails, interest slipping through her snarky demeanor. “Got a hot date tonight or something?”

You sighed deeply, the heels on your feet turning to face her fully. “Unless you wanna cough up an apology, all this—” you gestured toward her mouth, referring to her talking “—needs to stop. Like, now. Thanks.”

Her smirk faltered, almost turning into a frown. You were bitchy, sure, and definitely stubborn. But now you weren’t backing down? She had to give you credit for that. “Apologize?” She mocked, tilting her head with an amused glint in her eyes. “Relax,, you survived. Besides, technically, you were in the way.”

“I looked before I crossed. You came out of thin air.” You huffed, eyes flickering over her jacket, her piercings, her tattoos—all in contrast to yourself. Then, catching yourself, you quickly looked back at her face. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

She noticed your gaze linger, noting how your eyes moved over her. She didn’t need a mirror to know how drastically different you two looked. But there you were, still talking to her. Leaning forward slightly, she wasn’t even sure why she was keeping this conversation going. “Then we’re done here.”

“Fantastic.” You sighed, arms crossed, waiting for the light to change. The “wait” sign glowing, taunting you.

This felt like a standoff—closed mouths but wandering minds. Raging thoughts that you pushed down, catching the way she kept glancing at your exposed legs just below the hem of your dress. Your usual defenses weren’t working on her. She’s … still here? Her attention had turned back to her phone, her lock screen flashing. Herself. Of course. It looked like she was… singing? Or maybe at some kind of concert—you couldn’t quite make it out before looking back across the street.

The crosswalk glowed: walk. Your eyes scanned the sign, feeling almost… disappointed? You shifted your weight, glancing at it, but didn’t move right away. Your feet felt molded to the pavement below your René Caovilla’s—shoes Mel had gifted you, seeming useless now. This wasn’t a game of freeze tag, but you were definitely stilled.

“Took long enough,” you muttered, trying to act like you hadn’t just hesitated to leave her side. You didn’t even know her, but the flutter in your gut made you not care in the moment.

You had to go through with it, of course you did. You promised to show your face tonight, got dressed, did your makeup. Your leg shifted, about to take that step—threatening to break the bubble that had built between you. The whole situation was bizarre. You were supposed to go to the party, look your best, do your thing. But something had kept you here. You shifted your weight, ready to take that step, only to be stopped by a familiar waft of perfume. The scent was stronger now. lingering in the air like a trail behind you. She was still there.

You glanced down at your phone, a full 30 minutes late now. Mel was going to murder you, but that concern seemed to fade when you looked back at Vi. She was on the phone, sighing as she hung up, seemingly about to leave. Something in you snapped, and you blurted out the words before you could stop them.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

She stopped, her leg coming back down from the curb. “About…?”

“I do want an apology. For you almost flattening me.” You added.

She rolled her eyes, about to shoot back with some sarcastic remark, but you interrupted her before she could.

“Not like that,” you said, cutting her off with a wave of your hand. You pointed across the street to the bar, “I want you to walk over there, and buy me a drink. That’s the apology I’m accepting.”

Vi blinked for a beat, caught off guard. Then, after a long pause, her voice returned, though this time it was softer.

“What?..I…” she opened her mouth to say more, then her gaze drifted over you and that outfit. “You always this prissy and bossy?” A slow smile curled on her lips.

“Maybe I enjoy it part-time,” you shot back, chin tilted just slightly upwards.

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she stubbed out her cigarette with the heel of her boot. “Charming,” she muttered, pushing off her bike. Then, with a heavy sigh, like she was pretending this was some great inconvenience. she finally gave in.

“Fine. One drink.”

One drink turned into three maybe four, this part is still fuzzy even when recounting to Mel. then Maybe it was the way you kept seeing her glance at your frame, maybe it was you tracing your fingers on the ends of her jacket sleeve, but Somehow, between biting comments and lingering glances, you’d both ended up here—pressed against the cool tile of the bar’s single-stall bathroom, Vi’s leather jacket hanging off one shoulder, your own clothes disheveled from her rushed hands. The smell of her was intoxicating, something woody, yet sweet. You couldn’t place it.

Her lips finding home along your collarbones.You let out a breathy laugh, fingers grazing over her exposed tattooed back. “Oh, so you do have an apology in you.” your eyes found hers, as they searched yours. Beyond just the color.

Vi smirked, lips just barely brushing yours. “Eh, I just wanted to shut you up.” her teeth tugging at it slightly as she’d mind wondered, wanting to feel those killer legs around her waist.

Your head leaned back further. “Oh really? I’m that bad?” Eyes fluttering closed when she nuzzled closer.

“Mmhm.” She grinned against your jaw, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss there. “Just insufferable, really. Extremely bitchy” She was mocking you, clear as day.

You hummed, nails dragging lightly down her back. “Huh. Seemed like you liked it a second ago.” you challenged.

Vi let out a low chuckle, hands slipping under the hem of your top. “I have bad taste.”

“Oh yeah?” Your grin widened. “Is that why you almost ran me over?”

She laughed, fingers pressing into your waist as she pulled you. “You gonna bring that up forever?”

“Maybe,” you teased, tilting your head as she kissed along your throat. “What, you can dish it but you can’t take it?”

Vi exhaled against your skin, then pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes gleaming with amusement” “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice dripping with mischief. “I can take a hell of a lot more than this.”

“Plus, That was your fault,” she muttered, her lips curving into a smirk. Her hands roamed, fingers gently tracing the dip of your hip, her thumb lightly tugging the ends of your dress. Every touch was like electricity, the tension building between you. “Should’ve paid more attention.” Her head dipped down, mouth slowly trailing along the column of your neck. She paused every now and again to bite, nibble, kiss, suck—trying to draw out that whimper she so desperately wanted to hear.

You hummed in approval, a laugh slipping out at her sudden movement. Her hands found the back of your thighs, pulling your legs around her waist. Your back pressed against the stall, hips now flush against hers as you held onto her. “Look at you, short stuff,” you teased, resting your forehead against hers. She let out a soft huff at your words, her hands gripping you tighter as she brought your body closer. Feeling you pressed against her like this, the weight of you, it was almost too much. That damn laugh, your breath against her face—she knew you were teasing her about the height difference.

“Yeah? Keep talkin’, see what happens.” Her voice was low, a quiet challenge that sent a shiver down your spine. Her hands roamed, leaving small chills in their wake.

“Ooo, you gonna get mad, huh?” you teased, pulling her face closer, needing to kiss her again. Your lips found hers, claiming them.

She let out a low moan at the way you took control, your words barely processing as her lips crashed back into yours. The kiss was rough, hungry. She wanted you. Needed you. Her hands gripped your thighs tighter, fingers digging into the flesh as she pushed you back against the stall wall, the sudden shift pressing her body even more against yours.

You gasped slightly, feeling the press of her pelvis against you, heat jolting through your core at the sound of her small moan. Tilting your head, you deepened the kiss, your tongue finding hers, the warm muscle pressing and teasing. Her tongue immediately met yours, her soft whimpers filling the small space as her body shivered. She pulled you flush against her, wanting to be as close as possible. She’d always been impatient, but right now, she was downright desperate for you. One hand stayed on your thigh, anchoring you, while the other skimmed along your hip, gripping hard as she ground herself against you.

She let out an amused hum at the sound of your moan. Hearing you like this, knowing she had this effect on you, was almost too much. It drove her wild. The feeling of your hand on her undercut, the way you teased her, it was almost enough to make her knees buckle. Her lips grazed your skin as they traveled down your neck, pausing to nip at your collarbone, leaving more marks in their wake. When a groan of disapproval came from her throat, you pulled back from her.

“Wait—” “What… what was your name?” You asked.

Ragged breathing, your vision coming back to you as you scanned over her features, your mind still foggy from the intensity of the moment. You both paused momentarily. Feet hitting the ground once more, The woman’s icy eyes widened. Then, she spoke up, not even knowing how you two had gotten this far without something as simple as a first name.

She grinned, running a hand through her dark hair. “It’s Vi.”

You arched a brow. “Vi…” you repeated. “That short for something? Veronica? Vanessa? Vivian?” You listed off name options, trying to match one to her face. It didn’t matter but you couldn’t help but tease her further.

Her smirk deepened, a single brow lifting as if to challenge you. “Violet,” she corrected, shaking her head with a quiet chuckle. “But honestly? I thought we were past names at this point.” Gesturing between you two.

You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes. “Okay, smartass. Just figured I’d ask before we—”

She didn’t let you finish. Your words were practically swallowed as Vi’s lips crashed back into yours, her hands gripping your waist as she tugged you down slightly. The cold metal of her lip piercing pressed against your lips, the last remnants of your gloss transferring onto hers.

Your hands found the sides of her face, melting back into the moment.

“All those little noises for me?” she murmured, her voice barely audible. Her hands roamed, fingers tracing along the hem of your dress, teasing the soft skin beneath. She wanted to hear you moan again. To be the cause of it. To know that she was the one making you feel this way, the one who had you coming undone beneath her touch.

You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “Yes. For you.”

Just that simple confirmation sent a rush of possessive desire through her. Every moan, every shudder, every whimper—she wanted it all. Her lips attached to your neck again, marking and biting as they traveled across the sensitive skin. She found that spot again, nipping and sucking, drawing out more of those beautiful noises she craved. A soft moan escaped you as your body leaned into her, hands moving to tug her jacket off the rest of the way. A muffled chuckle spilled from her lips as she felt you push the leather from her shoulders. She let it drop down her arms, the fabric hitting the floor with a dull thud. She didn’t care where it landed—her focus was solely on you. Fingers curled beneath the hem of your dress, tugging it upwards. She needed more. Needed to feel more of your skin against hers.

Your arms lifted, inviting her to remove it. Her blue eyes darkened as she slowly pulled the fabric up, baring more of you. The dress joined the growing pile on the floor, leaving you more exposed, her hands tracing slow patterns along your sides.

She caught the motion of your fingers reaching for your shoes. “No, leave those,” she said, her voice laced with something thick

You paused before nodding, leaving the red heels on, and turned to tug at the hem of her black shirt instead.

“Mm, need this off, then.” Her breath hitched as your fingers gripped the fabric. She was more than happy to. Lifting her arms, she let you pull it over her head, her tank top soon joining the mess on the floor. A simple black sports bra covered her chest, the only thing she had on top now. trailing a hand down her toned torso. Tracing the lines of her skin. “Damn, you always this easy?”

her muscles tensing slightly beneath your touch. You could feel the outline of her abs, firm and defined. “Easy?” she chuckled, her hands sliding to your waist, pulling you flush against her.

“I’m anything but easy,” she murmured, lips finding yours in a kiss that was hungry. She smirked against your mouth before pulling back just enough to say, “Now, you gonna let me have you, or are you just here to run your mouth?”

You grinned, fingers toying with her spiked belt. “Mmm, got this far. Might as well.”

A low chuckle rumbled from her chest, her head tilting slightly as she watched you. The way you played with her belt sent heat pooling in her stomach.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured before her lips were back on your skin, nipping at your throat as one hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to expose more of your neck to her. The other hand dipped lower, fingers teasing at the fabric of your underwear. A small sound escaped your throat at the tug in your hair, your skin already littered with purples and reds from her mouth. Your fingers flexed as you lifted the belt from its clasp, undoing it. Her teeth grazed your skin as she smiled against your throat. at the way your hands fidgeted slightly, just as eager. She made no move to stop you, only pressing you further against the wall, her tattooed arms keeping you caged in place.

The pile on the floor was beginning to build, the heel of Vi’s boots pressing the fabrics into the flooring. Too focused on how your body felt against hers.

A bar bathroom. Of all places. The kind of place that would usually make your nose scrunch, your skin crawl. The lighting was too harsh, the walls too cold, the bass from the speakers outside rattling against the door. And yet… you didn’t care. Not with the way Vi was looking at you. Not with the way she touched you—like she didn’t give a damn about the setting either, like she’d have you anywhere if it meant having you at all.

It only grew especially more difficult when her mouth began to trail lower, each kiss leaving a burning imprint on your skin. Heavy-lidded eyes followed her movements, watching as her lips dragged a slow, heated path down your sternum. Your breath hitched, fingers threading into the messy strands of her black-and-red hair, nails grazing her scalp.

She made her way down your body, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses in her wake. she kissed down your sternum, her hands firm on your waist. She was all-consuming, her presence overwhelming in the best way. Your hands continued to thread into her short locs, nails grazing her scalp as she moved. as she felt the way your fingers flexed, your grip tightening when her nose grazed your hip bone. Her lips continued their path downward.

Her jeans-covered knees found themselves Kneeling in front of you, still caught between your legs, her eyes lifted to yours, Her hands recurled in the waistband of your underwear, fingers teasing the fabric.

“Let’s take these off,” black-painted fingernails, tugging the elastic slightly. Needing your approval before continuing.

You nodded, breathless. “Please.” Releasing the grip on her hair.

Widened eyes, as the thin damped fabric of your underwear dragged down the soft flesh of your thighs. her eyes roaming over your newly exposed skin. Not missing the way you were practically soaked. The shine only exposed further when her finger

Her middle and index moved to the undeniable pooling slick to act as lube as she glides over your now uncovered clit.

“Look at that…Tell me again how you’re ‘not into the whole edgy thing’?” She asked. Pierced Tounge darting out to kitten lick over your glistening folds.

“Shut up— mmng!” a small whine ripping out when her wet muscle was buried to taste bit of your growing arousal.

With a to bite your bottom to suppress a sudden moan. The space between your shoes only widens are you spread your legs for her further. the pads of her fingers creating circles sending jolts of pressure upward through your body. Eyes fluttering shut once more.

The bathroom echoed with the sounds of soft moans, whispered encouragements, and the wet, slick sounds of her finger pushing inside of your velvety walls. until her knuckle is practically coated. arching your back, off the cold graffitied wall.

“Mmfuuk Violet!” Your fingers knitted right back into her soft stands. Tugging at them. Eyes squeezed shut, at her gentle laps to your cunt. Mewing like a virgin, not remembering the last time you had time to even have a causal hookup like well—this.

Her frim hands grabbing the mound of your thigh to keep you still. Her nose brushing into your cunt. Once you are (somewhat) steady she slides index out then right back into you, bottoming out. Earning another wail from you when she curls it exactly where you can’t reach alone.

“S’good, huh? Yeah, I can tell.”

Just as Vi’s hands started to roam again, the sound of a toilet flushing from one of the stalls cut through the heated haze.

Both of you froze. Then slush of the water draining out made your eyes snap open. Oh my god, neither one of you checked if anyone else was in here. With a tilt of your head Your eyes slowly met hers, wide with realization. Vi blinked once. Then twice. The unmistakable creak of a stall door opening followed.

Vi exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face “so…That just ruined it, right?”

You swallowed hard, face burning of embarrassment “..Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence. A shuffling noise from the stall. You really didn’t want to turn around. The bathroom now extremely quiet, faint music from the bar, seeping under the door.

“My place?” you offered, already reaching for your dress.

Vi’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Think we kinda have to now.”

“ Hope you’re okay with a little backseat action.” She smirked, stepping back slightly as she grabbed her belt from the floor. “Because Ya know, you’ll have to get on my bike for that.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Oh, so fun. Not dangerous at all.”heels clicking as you stepped closer. “I’m calling a car.”

Vi grinned, looping the belt back through her jeans. “Says the girl who was just half-naked in a bar bathroom.” She whispered.

You groaned, swatting at her shoulder as she laughed, slinging her jacket over her arm before leading you toward the exit.

You groaned, swatting at her shoulder, but she just laughed, reaching for your wrist and tugging you toward the exit. “C’mon, princess, let’s get outta here before we scar someone else for life.”

Behind you, the poor soul from the stall finally cleared their throat.

“Yeah,” a voice muttered. “Good call.” Vi snorted. You just buried your face in your hands as she dragged you toward the door.

The sun warmed your closed eyelids, pulling you from sleep. You shot up from your bed, hand instinctively drifting to the space next to you—only to be met with sheets.

Cold.

Of course she left. What were you thinking? That she’d stay? You didn’t even ask for her name until you were both half-undressed. With a disappointed sigh and slumped shoulders, you sat up, pushing your hair out of your face. Glancing over at the space next to you once more to confirm.

Yeah. Still empty.

Until you caught your reflection in something small, shiny. Silver rings, hers. When you finally got out of bed to toss them into your jewelry box, you figured at least you had a souvenir to remember her by. But as you approached your vanity, confusion twisted on your features. The cabinet was slightly open. And then you saw it. A number, written in red by one of your lipsticks on the corner of your mirror.

“Had to run, didn’t wanna wake Sleeping Beauty.

Figured I’d give you a reason to find me.

Call me, XXX-XX —Vi”

[driverlando]

✧.* #LANDOLEAKS

synopsis- Lando said your sex tape was for his eyes only…until it wasn’t

before you continue: this is sort of a continuation to my pr nightmare fic for lando! if you enjoyed, please reblog and give me a follow xx

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

—

—

✧.* yours and landos reaction

You groggily open your eyes to the persistent buzz of your phone on the nightstand. Beside you, Lando stirs, rubbing his eyes as he reaches for his own phone, mirroring your confusion.

“What time is it?” you mumble, squinting at the bright screen in the dim room. The soft glow of dawn filters through the curtains, casting a muted light on the chaos that’s about to unfold. Lando doesn’t answer, his attention captured by the flurry of notifications and messages flooding his phone. His brows furrow in concern, and you can feel the tension in the air.

You glance at your own screen, eyes widening as you see the trending hashtag: #LandoLeaks. Your heart skips a beat as you click on it, a mixture of dread and disbelief washing over you. There, in stark reality, are snippets of a private video you and Lando thought was secure, now shared for the world to see.

“Oh no,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Lando looks at you, his expression mirroring your own shock and dismay.

“This can’t be happening,” he mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. “How did this get out?”

You feel a wave of anger and violation surge through you. “Someone must have hacked into your iCloud,” you say, trying to process the situation. “We need to do something, and fast.”

Lando nods, determination replacing the initial shock in his eyes. “First, we need to contact our teams and get this taken down,” he says, already dialing numbers on his phone. “Then, we’ll figure out who did this.”

As you watch him spring into action, you can’t help but feel a mix of emotions—anger, fear, but also a strange sense of resolve. Together, you would get through this. You always did.

With a deep breath, you start typing a message to your publicist, hoping that amidst the chaos, you and Lando could reclaim some sense of control over your lives.

In the next few hours, the house becomes a hub of frantic activity. Calls and emails fly back and forth between you, Lando, and your respective teams. Legal advisors, publicists, and social media managers are looped in to manage the crisis. The video is being taken down from various platforms, but the damage has been done. Screenshots and clips have already spread like wildfire.

Your phone rings, and it’s your publicist. “We need to get ahead of this story,” she says urgently. “A statement from both of you, emphasizing your privacy has been violated, and that legal action is being taken.”

You look over at Lando, who’s on the phone with his own team. He catches your eye and gives a nod of understanding. “We’re on it,” you reply, ending the call.

Lando finishes his conversation and sits beside you. “How are you holding up?” he asks softly, placing a hand on your knee.

“Honestly? I’m furious and embarrassed,” you admit, fighting back tears. “But we need to stay strong and united.”

He pulls you into a comforting embrace. “We will get through this,” he reassures you. “Let’s draft that statement.”

You both sit at the dining table, laptops open, drafting a response that conveys your anger and frustration, but also your determination to reclaim your privacy.

—

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yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 85,638 others

yourusername Well, this is not how we planned to go viral. 🙃 While we appreciate the interest, we kindly ask for privacy during this time. Also fuck whoever hacked into Landos iCloud, you bet your ass you’re getting sued 😙

view all 9,267 comments

carlossainz55 sue that fucker!

user1 search up #landoleaks on Twitter to see the videos!!

↳ user2 Landos thrust game is on point

↳ user3 can you not? y/n clearly asked for you to respect her privacy

↳ user2 well they shouldn’t have been making these videos then. they knew what the risk was

user4 can we talk about that one video where he has his backwards cap on in doggy 🥵🥵

↳ user5 or the one where y/n’s filming him eating her out and he’s looking right into the camera

↳ user4 they’re SO hot and kinky

↳ user6 respect their privacy 🤦‍♀️

user7 Sending love and support to the both of you! This is not okay. 💔

user8 McLaren will probably have something to say about this 😳

↳ user9 if they fire lando over this I’ll go insane

—

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—

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landonorris

liked by yourusername, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc and 1,628,725 others

landonorris Life in the fast lane comes with its unexpected bumps. Thanks to everyone for the support and understanding. We’re keeping our heads up and looking forward to getting back on track. Remember, change those iCloud passwords! 😉

view all 13,527 comments

user10 show them how it’s done! 💪

user11 did they find the hacker?

↳ deuxmoi yeah they did, apparently it was a fan 🫡

yourusername come put those hands to good use

↳ user12 we all know how skilled his hands are now, so i totally understand her constant thirsting

↳ user13 she’s back at it again

user14 our unbothered king!! #Legend

↳ user15 love how he’s just training and preparing for his next race, not giving the hacker any satisfaction

oscarpiastri excellent advice mate…should’ve taken it earlier

user16 he’s excluding major big dick energy

↳ user17 I mean from the leaks, he has every right to exclude it 🤣

—

EXCLUSIVE: Formula One Star Lando Norris and Influencer Girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N’s Intimate Video Leaked in iCloud Hack

By: Sasha, Rumour Radar

In a shocking turn of events, Formula One sensation Lando Norris and his influencer girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N have become the latest victims of a devastating iCloud hack. Early this week, the couple’s private videos and photos were leaked online, sending social media into a frenzy and causing the hashtag #LandoLeaks to trend worldwide.

The intimate videos, believed to be stored securely in Norris’s iCloud account, was maliciously accessed and disseminated, violating the couple’s privacy in the most invasive manner. Fans and followers of the McLaren driver and his popular partner woke up to the unexpected scandal, as the videos spread like wildfire across various platforms.

Privacy Breach Sends Shockwaves

Sources close to the couple reveal that Norris and Y/L/N were awakened by a barrage of notifications on their phones, alerting them to the unauthorized leak. “They were in complete shock and disbelief,” says an insider. “This is a deeply personal violation, and they’re understandably devastated”

In an exclusive statement to our publication, Norris’s management team expressed their outrage and confirmed immediate action is being taken to remove the content from the internet. “We are working with legal experts and cybersecurity professionals to address this breach of privacy and ensure that those responsible are held accountable,” the statement reads. “This is not just about Lando and Y/N, it’s about everyone’s right to privacy”

Digital Safety

The leak has sparked widespread condemnation from fans and fellow celebrities, who are rallying behind the couple with messages of support and solidarity. Many are calling for stricter measures to protect individuals’ private data and prevent such invasive breaches from occurring in the future.

As the couple works to regain control of their personal lives, the incident serves as a stark reminder of the vulnerabilities that even high-profile figures face in the digital age and also highlights the importance of digital privacy and responsible online behavior.

Our thoughts remain with Lando and Y/N during this challenging time, and we urge our readers to approach discussions with empathy and respect for all parties involved.

Stay tuned to Rumour Radar for the latest updates on this unfolding story and more celebrity gossip.

—

[bambi-lamb]

over the phone

Summary: Ever since Wanda left for a routine work trip, things have felt off—even compared to previous trips. Things come to a head one day and you can't help but ring her up. Just to talk... well, at first anyway.

Tags: wanda maximoff x f!reader, 18+, smut, edging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, phone sex, dacryphilia, mommy kink, nipple play (is that a tag idk), implied sadomasochism (just a lil bit), remote vibrator, fingering

WC: 3,165

A/N: i know the tags are a little crazier than usual... and the length is double what i normally have. i don't know what happened— hopefully someone is into this though

"Detka? Are you there?"

The phone speaker crackles in the following silence, breaking you out of your stupor.

"Sorry, Wanda. I'm here."

She hums softly on the other side of the line, sounding amused.

"So, why did you call me, sweetheart?"

The honey-sweet words trickle into your ears and you sigh, leaning back against the headboard and fidgeting restlessly with the edge of the duvet.

"Just missed you. Wanted to hear your voice," you respond quietly, hoping that the phone catches it.

Evidently, you're not entirely successful.

"Hmm? Say that again, baby?"

You slump down against the pillow, sliding underneath the covers and turning to the side. The phone finds its way between your hands, still on speaker, and you cradle it closer to your face, staring unblinking at the caller ID screen as you repeat yourself.

Wanda chuckles softly, and the phone slides out of your loose grasp. You melt into the mattress before reaching out to readjust the phone until it's in place again.

"I missed you too, detka. What have you been up to today?"

You hum softly, squeezing a second pillow between your arms as you think over your response.

"Not much. I went out and bought groceries. Nothing special. Everything feels so stale without you here," you lament.

A soft huff of breath crackles through the speakers.

"I'll be back soon, detka. I'm only here for one more day, I promise."

You sigh and turn onto your back again, hugging the pillow tighter.

"I just miss you so much."

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

The soft warmth spreading in your chest is all-too-eager to branch as far as it can go, and a low ache settles at the bottom of your stomach. Wanda's voice has always been a weak spot for you, and even through crackling phone speakers that hasn't changed.

"Miss you in all the ways," you murmur, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of your need.

Wanda coos softly, but doesn't say anything further. As her raspy voice echoes through the speaker, tears spring to your eyes. It hurts to miss someone this much. You've never had much issue with Wanda leaving before. It's not like you don't understand that she's busy.

But for some reason, this time has felt different from all the others. Your everyday life feels emptier, hollow, surreal. Without Wanda to anchor you down, you feel like you're a phantom, coasting on muscle memory to get through the day until you can get in bed and dream of green eyes.

"Wish you could just come home already," you whine, trying to tamp down your rising emotions.

"Detka," Wanda murmurs. "It's okay. I'm here. Stay with me, okay? Mommy's here."

You battle with your conflicting desires, desperation and desire coursing through your veins in equal measure. You flip back onto your side again, clutching the phone like a lifeline, thumbs pressed into the screen as if that will somehow bring you closer to Wanda.

"Mommy," you whisper back, taking solace in the title as your breathing evens out again.

"Yes, sweetheart. I'm here," Wanda reassures.

Lust roars to life suddenly and you squeeze your thighs together, mind blank as Wanda's soft voice washes over you.

"Mommy," you whisper again, heavier this time, weighted down by desire.

"My baby," she murmurs in response, low and firm.

"Need you. Please." You've been reduced to short phrases already, finally letting your mind take a backseat and just letting yourself feel.

"What do you need from mommy, detka?"

"Want mommy, please. Want to hear— want…" you can't find the right words, overwhelmed by just how much you need Wanda in this moment. You just need her, need to anchor yourself.

Luckily, Wanda understands what you're asking for all too well.

"You want mommy to tell you what to do? Is that it, detka?"

You nod limply, before realizing Wanda can't see you.

"Mhmm," you hum into the screen instead, fingers still digging into the phone case as you pull it even closer.

"How badly do you need it, sweetheart?"

Wanda's voice is teasing, and you can hear shuffling on the other side of the line then the click of a door locking.

"Need you so bad, please mommy." The words tumble out in a rushed mess, but at this point you can hardly bear to think of this phone call ending in anything other than an orgasm.

Wanda chuckles again.

"You're so lovely for me, detka. So needy. So sweet. You know what mommy would do to you if she could be there with you?"

You shiver, pillow long-forgotten as you clutch the phone between your fingers.

"I would take it so slow, sweetheart. Draw it out a little bit, just tug down the top of your shirt and play with your pretty little nipples until you're squirming and crying."

Wanda sounds delighted; you can hear the smile in her voice as she describes how she would touch you.

"Just softly at first, only the best for my baby. I'd use my mouth and tongue, and then when you're squirming for more, mommy would use her fingers to pinch and squeeze and roll. The way you like it, baby," she hums, and you shiver again.

"Can you do that for mommy, sweetheart? Can you pinch your pretty nipples for her?"

You whine high in your throat, listening to the way Wanda laughs softly through the phone.

"Mommy," you whimper, tugging your tank top down and setting down the phone next to your head. You know exactly what Wanda means, and you pinch and squeeze, rolling your own nipples roughly between the pads of your fingers, the way you know Wanda always does, the way you like it.

"Oh god, mommy—" the moan gets caught in the back of your throat, coming out choked as bolts of white-hot electricity course up your spine.

"You're doing so good for me, detka," she coos, and you sob desperately, already overwhelmed.

"Just keep it up for me, sweetheart. I want to hear you cry."

You acquiesce obediently, squeezing your nipples until they're swelling, reddened by the abuse, until you can feel tears welling up and spilling over. Wanda keeps whispering soft encouragements through the speaker even as you pant and moan, broken only by soft sobbing and crying.

It never surprised you, but you're sure anyone else in the neighborhood who knows Wanda would be startled to discover her sadistic streak. She's always liked seeing you cry, and it only helps that you like it when she makes you hurt—when she tears you apart and builds you back up again.

"Mommy," you whimper again, a broken noise that makes Wanda moan softly on the other end of the line.

"Oh, detka, you sound so pretty," she coos, enjoyment sparkling in her voice.

"Please," you beg, shivering and shaking with every new jolt of sensation.

"Mmh, good girl," she murmurs. "You can stop now, just for a little bit."

You moan with relief as you're finally given permission to pull your hands away from your chest.

"And then mommy would touch you lower, wouldn't she? You know how mommy likes you, baby. Legs tucked up against your chest so you're nice and open for mommy. Go ahead, sweetheart, why don't you start now, hm?"

You pant softly as your pull your own legs up and apart, kicking off the duvet and whimpering when cold air meets your sticky cunt.

"Mommy would start slow, just keep you spread open with her fingers, and just watch. Wait until you're squirming and wiggling before she touches you. Just keep yourself open, baby, you can listen to how mommy wants to touch you first. No touching yet."

You hum and abide by her rules, reaching down only to spread yourself even further apart, shivering as you imagine Wanda's lazer-sharp gaze on your spread cunt.

"And then mommy would touch you so softly, just gently rub with her fingers where you're nice and open for mommy. Never inside, just right outside, where your pretty cunt opens up for mommy."

You shiver as you imagine the sensation, all-too-familiar with how it feels.

"Do you think you could ever come like that, baby? With mommy's mouth on your nipples and her fingers rubbing your cunt just like that?"

Wanda moans softly at her own words, and you whimper loudly into the speaker. It sounds torturous and delicious all in the same.

"Hmm, maybe once mommy gets home," she murmurs. "How's my detka feeling now, hm? Are you being a good girl? You're not touching yourself, are you?"

Her words are edged with danger.

"No, mommy. I'm being good. Not touching myself. Keeping myself spread open with my fingers, just like mommy would," you profess earnestly.

Wanda hums thoughtfully.

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you baby?"

"Promise I'm being honest, mommy."

Wanda coos softly, reassured.

"Good girl, detka."

You moan softly in the back of your throat. Without realizing it, you've started rocking your hips against the empty air, searching for more stimulation.

"Now where were we? Ah, right, mommy would rub your pretty cunt until you're crying again, and then keep rubbing. Just until she's satisfied. You'd have to be a good girl and beg for more. Beg for mommy's fingers."

"Please," you moan. "Please, mommy, please." Mindless even though you haven't even begun to touch yourself.

"You can touch yourself now, baby," she coos gently. "Just like mommy said, okay? Don't go inside just yet. Just outside. Nice and soft."

You agree quietly, letting go of where you're stretching yourself open to reach down further. You take your index and middle fingers and begin to rub in careful circles, moaning at the touch.

You've heard about this before, know just how many nerve endings exist in just this region, and it feels like you're on fire. Desperation seizes you. You want more. You want so badly to feel full, to come already, but Wanda hasn't given you permission to do anything beyond this, and you're nothing if not a good girl for her.

"Good girl," Wanda hums, and then continues to describe more, dropping her voice torturously low as she paints new visuals through the speaker.

"And then mommy would press inside, so so slow, bit by bit until you're all filled up. But as soon as mommy's inside, she'd pull right back out, all the way. Rub your pretty little clit with those same fingers until you're crying again, so close, and then stop. Once you're calmed down, mommy would do it again, and again, and again. Over and over."

"Mommy," you sob desperately. "Mommy, please."

Wanda hums softly, but doesn't acknowledge your pleas.

"You don't have to do it so many times tonight, baby. Just a couple. Just so mommy can hear you cry again. And then mommy wants you to go get your vibrator. Mommy will make you come like that, okay?"

You shiver and gasp as you continue to work yourself up.

"Yes, mommy. Please, mommy."

Wanda seems to be feeling merciful tonight, because she doesn't wait very long.

"You can go in now, detka. Just like mommy said, okay? Nice and slow."

You nod eagerly, forgetting Wanda can't see you, and begin to nudge your fingers inside, torturously slow, exactly the way Wanda has so many dozens of times in the past.

The stretch burns, just a little bit, even with how slick you are, and you moan into the speaker. It takes nearly a full minute just to seat your fingers in completely, and you sigh as you clench down, finally feeling full.

"Pull out, baby," Wanda orders firmly.

You whine, crying out in disappointment, but you don't disobey.

"Mommy," you beg, even as you pull back out completely, leaving your cunt empty and needy again.

"No, baby. Not yet. Be good for mommy. Now you have to rub your pretty little clit. Soft. Gentle. Mommy wants you to edge yourself three times, okay? She can count for you, baby." Wanda's breathing sounds labored on the other side of the line, and you briefly have time to think about whether or not she's touching herself, too.

Then your fingers are on your clit and your thoughts wash away again.

You rub just as she instructed. Slowly, gently, cautiously. Just enough to slowly build you up to an orgasm. Never enough to tip you over. Desire throbs low and slow in your stomach, but Wanda's low voice keeps your orgasm at bay. Slower. Lighter. Hold it.

Soon enough, her voice is all you can think about. It replaces the voice in your own head, guiding every movement of every part of your body. No coming. Never coming. Just rubbing, slowly.

When you whimper a little too loud into the speaker, Wanda makes you stop. Pulling your hand away feels like hell, but you do it anyway. When your breathing settles to an acceptable degree—Wanda makes you hold the phone up to your mouth until you stop panting—she has you start again.

Slow and steady. Stretching yourself open with two fingers until you're spreading around your knuckles, and then out and away. And then once again, rubbing your clit until you can feel just how empty you are, clenching down around nothing. The tears well up this time, and Wanda coos softly when you hiccup soft sobs into the phone.

She still makes you stop.

"That's two, detka. Just one more. One more. You can do it, can't you?"

You nod limply, fingers seated deep inside your cunt. It feels glorious, to be full just for this one moment, walls fluttering around something until Wanda orders you to pull them back out, and then you're hollow again, incomplete.

This time, she has you rub even longer, twice as long as you had to before. She makes you pause whenever your breathing speeds to much, or you moan too loud. She tells you to keep your fingers on your clit no matter what, even if you're paused, just to feel the way it throbs underneath your fingertips.

When it does, she asks you to count each pulse out loud, to tell her exactly how much you need her, how much you need more.

"Okay, baby, you can stop now," she orders, after making you count for the fifth time.

"Get your vibrator, sweetheart. Press it in as far as it will go, okay?"

You reach over to the bedside table, fumbling with the drawer until you find the small vibe, sucking on the tip for only a moment before you're eagerly cramming it into your cunt. It feels heavenly, to finally have something inside again, and you moan softly.

"Good girl," Wanda coos from the phone, and you feel the way the vibrator comes to life.

It's slow, probably at the lowest setting, but you're still grateful for the way the vibrations pulse outward, rippling through your nerves deliciously.

"Oh, sweetheart," Wanda murmurs. "You've been so good for mommy today. So sweet. So obedient. Do you want to come?"

You whine eagerly, half-sentences forming in your throat.

"Please, mommy, please. Want. Wanna come. Please."

Wanda chuckles softly, and the vibrator jacks up to the highest setting. You sob gratefully into the phone, your entire body shivering as pleasure finally floods into you.

"Whenever you want, detka," she hums.

The orgasm is aggressive, fast, overpowering. It crashes through your entire body, your toes curling and back arching as all the tension you've built up for the past hour is finally released.

But even after you've come down, panting loudly into the speaker, Wanda doesn't stop the vibrator. She lets it run, still thrumming harshly deep inside of you, until you're tipped over into a second orgasm. The second orgasm is just a tinge of painful, but that ache quickly bleeds into euphoria again.

When she still doesn't stop, you begin to beg, pleading incoherently with Wanda to turn down the vibrator, to stop completely.

Wanda gives no indication at all that she's heard you.

The third orgasm is an all-consuming heatwave, burning through every raw nerve ending as your entire body is left twitching in the aftermath. The fourth and fifth completely remove all sense of coherency and reality from you. Even still, the vibrator keeps buzzing away, tucked deep in your cunt. Wanda murmurs the whole way through, reassurances sweet in her mouth.

She still doesn't stop, though, even when you've lost your voice from how much you've moaned and cried through each orgasm.

You don't even know how many times you actually come. At least 7 times, you think. When she finally turns the vibrator off, you're a complete mess, drenched in sweat and tears, your thighs coated in sticky arousal and come.

"You're okay, detka," she murmurs through the phone.

"You've been so lovely for me. Can you do just one more, baby? Just one more? Mommy wants to hear another one, pretty please?"

You whimper hoarsely, already overstimulated beyond belief, but it doesn't even matter, because the vibrator is buzzing to life yet again.

"Just one more, sweetheart. You can do it. Mommy knows you can. You're so good for me."

You manage to choke out a moan as pleasure builds in your gut yet again, aching and burning. It hurts, but it also feels euphoric.

"Be a darling and rub your clit for mommy, okay? Nice and hard, baby."

You cry out when you do, fingers pressed into your clit as you nudge along another orgasm. It's all too much, but Wanda only turns the vibrator higher. All of a sudden, the orgasm crashes through you, and you shudder one last time, squeezing down on the pulsing vibrator inside you.

You cry out unintelligibly, and Wanda turns the vibrator down, letting you ride out your final orgasm before shutting it off.

"Such a good girl for me, detka," she coos softly. "You're so lovely for me, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."

You hum into the phone, listening to the way it crackles with sound. You have half a mind to pull the vibrator back out and you leave it on the nightstand, but your uncooperative legs won't let you stand, let alone walk to the bathroom to clean up.

"It's okay, baby. You can go to sleep now. Mommy will be back in no time, okay?"

"Love you, Wanda," you murmur, eyelids already drooping with exhaustion.

As you drift off, vision swimming and blurring, you hear Wanda's honeyed voice come through the speakers again.

"Love you too, detka."

Slipping away into dreamland, you're met with the same dream as you have been for days now. When you're met with green eyes and red hair this time, you no longer feel so hollow—instead, warmth floods through you. The world around the two of you takes shape, changes colors, blissful and bright.

Wanda's eyes sparkle as she laughs at you, tugging you along to nowhere in particular, and you find yourself smiling—genuine and full.

[propertyofwicked]

INTERMEDIATE - LN

╭──╯ . . . . . the five times max tried to set his best friends up, and the one time it actually worked. . . . . . ╰──╮

PART TWO FOR ROOKIE (can be read as standalone)

warnings: none really, swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption and minor sickness

this was so highly requested hehe! im glad you all loved rookie :) lemme know what you think! ✧ my inbox is open ✧

masterlist the playlist

Ⅰ

max fewtrell had been plotting for weeks. the annual karting gala was fast approaching, and he had the perfect plan to set up his two best friends. max managed to get himself a date and orchestrated the perfect excuse for y/n to accompany lando as his date, knowing that he was invited but y/n, not being a karter, wasn't. since the trio were somewhat inseparable, it made sense.

and it had worked - the three of them headed to the gala together, max’s date meeting them there, the atmosphere buzzing with music, laughter, and the clinking of champagne glasses. the drinks flowed freely, and the dance floor was packed. lando and y/n however, in their boredom of black-tie events, decided to see who could drink the most. much to max’s dismay, the two of them could never back down from a challenge, and seemingly formed a crowd of people to see them take on this challenge - which resulted in the two of them finding new dance partners for the evening.

this wasn’t max’s plan - he needed them to dance together, not with other people.

but then, y/n had left the dance floor, stumbling over to lando whilst holding her dress up as to not trip over it.

“lando?" she said, her voice shaky, and her eyes widening as she looked up at him.

this is it. they're going to kiss max had thought to himself, watching from only a few metres a way.

but instead, y/n's expression changed to one of distress. "i think im going to be sick."

or not, max thought, quickly springing into action.

lando immediately took charge, his hand sliding around her waist and guiding her towards the nearest bathroom with max following close behind. they managed to get her to a stall just in time. lando held her hair back, his touch gentle and reassuring as she emptied her stomach.

"im so sorry," y/n mumbled, her voice weak and apologetic. "i’ve ruined the night."

lando shook his head, his tone soft and caring. "don't worry about it. it’s ok. you’re ok."

meanwhile, max was on the phone, trying to get hold of y/n’s mum. "hi, it's max. im with y/n - she’s ok, but she’s had a bit too much to drink. could you come pick her up?"

as they waited for her mum to arrive, lando stayed by her side, stroking her hair softly as he poured water into her mouth less than graciously. max watched them, frustrated his plan had failed, but his heart warming by the way lando cared for y/n.

Ⅱ

max was determined. the karting gala might not have gone as planned, but he saw another opportunity to set up his two best friends at a house party. he thought a good game of truth or dare would be the perfect catalyst.

the party was in full swing when the group gathered in the living room, max quickly suggested playing truth or dare to which everyone agreed. the game started with light-hearted questions and dares. when it was lando's turn, max seized his moment.

"i dare you to kiss the person next to you," max said with a smirk, confident in his plan since y/n was seated to one side of Lando.

lando, however, had other ideas. his head looked to y/n besides him for a moment and then at niran on his other side, as though he was weighing up his options. then, he turned and pressed a light kiss to niran's forehead, catching everyone off guard. max’s jaw dropped in disbelief, while the rest of the group burst into laughter.

"that doesn't count!" someone shouted, still laughing.

"max didn't specify where," lando retorted, grinning cheekily, holding his hands up in defence.

“lando! how could you not kiss me? im heartbroken," she teased, holding her chest dramatically, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

when the game finally ended, max excused himself to the kitchen, shaking his head at how his plan had backfired yet again. niran, sensing an opportunity for some fun, followed him into the kitchen.

"you know," he said, leaning against the counter, "next time, maybe we should play seven minutes in heaven?"

max looked up, intrigued but sceptical, "you think that'll work?"

"it's worth a shot. at least then lando can't dodge the dare by kissing my forehead," niran shrugged, a playful grin on his face.

in the living room, lando and y/n were chatting and laughing, completely oblivious to max and niran's conversation. and as the night wore on, max’s determination remained undeterred. their bond was undeniable and he would go to any lengths for his efforts to pay off.

Ⅲ

lando decided to host a game night at his house - max was convinced that without being the host, he couldn't plan any elaborate setups. the evening kicked off with enthusiasm, everyone excited for a night of fun and games, with lando eventually suggesting they play drunk twister.

"…and every time you lose, you drink," he explained with a mischievous grin.

the game started off well, with everyone mostly sober. lando was winning, especially since his strength helped him keep his body in place. however, as the drinks kept flowing, max saw his opportunity. once they were all sufficiently tipsy, he took over spinning the twister board, calling out positions for lando and y/n.

at one point, max managed to have y/n essentially straddling lando’s waist, her legs balancing precariously on either side of him. this is perfect, max thought with satisfaction. he then told lando to move his leg, and when it was y/n’s turn, her hand slipped. the sudden loss of balance caused lando's leg to jolt out, causing y/n to tumble fully, twisting her ankle and hitting her head on the coffee table.

"who put that table there?" lando groaned in frustration as he rushed to assess the source of blood streaming down her face.

"erm… that would be you?" max snorted, trying to suppress his laughter but quickly becoming serious about y/n’s condition, deciding that hospital was probably the best call of action.

“lando, you should call her mum. i had to do it last time,” he whispered, as y/n slept next to them, the painkillers they had given her had wiped her out completely.

lando groaned as he dialled the number. it was 2am, so he wasn’t surprised when he got her voicemail.

"hi y/m/n, it’s lando - just letting you know y/n is in the hospital, but she’s fine. probably,” he added before hanging up.

“probably?” y/n called out groggily, still waking up, “she’s gonna worry more now you idiot.”

“im so sorry for hurting you," he said hurriedly, grabbing her hand and gently stroking his thumb along her skin.

"it’s ok, lan - i promise. as you said, im fine," y/n insisted with a small smile, "just remember to move the table next time."

“next time?”

“it was fun until i…you know,” she trailed off, using her free hand to gesture to her body laying in the hospital bed.

max watched the exchange with a resigned smile. despite his failed attempts and the chaos that ensued, it was clear how much lando cared for her. maybe, just maybe, things would eventually fall into place naturally.

Ⅳ

with an upcoming quadrant project, max found himself with the responsibility of finding accommodation for the team. he found a cosy airbnb and meticulously assigned the rooms, ensuring that everyone had their own space, other than y/n and lando - though neither of them minded. they’d been friends for so long that sharing a bed didn’t seem like a big issue.

when the team arrived at the airbnb, they were greeted by the chilly winter air, before max led them through the house, pointing out their rooms. to his surprise, and annoyance, lando and y/n’s room actually had two single beds, not the anticipated double bed.

nevertheless, max was determined to see his plan through, quietly turned off the heating, hoping the cold would drive lando and y/n to share a bed for warmth. the evening progressed, with everyone started commenting on how cold the house was.

“i am freezing my tits off,” y/n announced as she walked into the room, throwing herself down on the sofa next to lando.

"if it gets too cold tonight, we can always cuddle up together,” lando said, nudging y/n with a grin.

finally, max thought to himself, a plan was finally working.

“as much as i want to have you snoring directly in my face all night, and trust me i do - my dad taught me a bit about plumbing when i was younger. let me see if i can fix the heating,” she announced, to which the group felt elated to hear, fearing they would freeze to death in their sleep.

max’s heart sank as he watched y/n head to the heating system, fiddling with it for a few minutes before triumphantly declaring, "got it! it doesn’t seem like it was broken, just turned off. maybe the airbnb hosts turn it off between guests to save money?"

“guess we won’t get to spoon tonight after all,” she added, looking at lando with fake sadness.

max had never hated her competent parents more than he did at this very moment.

later that night, as the group gathered in the living room, warmed by the now functional heating, lando and y/n were nestled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket together as they usually did.

lando leaned over to y/n, his mouth settling near her ear as he whispered, "watching max sabotage his own plans is funny - we should do this more often.”

y/n giggled, adding, "maybe next time we can teach him how to actually break the heating."

“it's my favourite sport, right after driving,” lando added, laughing softly before sitting up again.

max was beginning to realise that his plans weren’t working because he was trying to make them fall in love with each other. they were already in love, he just needed to make them talk about it.

Ⅴ

determined to help them confront their emotions, he devised a master plan. so, when he moved into his new house, he invited them over to help build furniture.

as they assembled pieces in one of the rooms, y/n soon realised she needed a specific sized screwdriver but she couldn’t find it anywhere.

“well it hasn’t just grown legs has it?” lando teased, though helping her lift boxes to see if it had fallen beneath them.

"it might be downstairs. ill go have a look," he said, casually closing the door behind him. he knew it was downstairs - he had intentionally left it downstairs after loosening the screws on the door.

the moment the door shut, the handle fell out, leaving y/n and lando trapped inside - max was convinced that forcing them into close proximity would make them talk about their feelings.

“shit, sorry guys - bare with me whilst i try and fix it!” he called out, smiling to himself thinking about how great his plan was and how it couldn’t possibly go wrong.

however, he had forgotten one crucial detail - y/n was scared of being locked in small confined spaces. they had discovered this fact following a unfortunate attempt at seven minutes in heaven.

the reality of their situation set in, and y/n began to panic - her chest tightening as her breathing became fast and heavy.

"hey, it's okay. we're not stuck forever. we'll get out of here," he said softly, opening a window to let in some fresh air and sitting beside her. his arm wrapped around her instinctively, pulling her into his side as his hand found her hip, drawing patterns into her jeans with his fingers in attempt to ground her.

both of them were angry at max, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. they had somewhat discussed being together before, but lando’s busy career made things complicated. and now, he had gone too far, forgetting y/n’s anxiety in a bid to get his own plan to work.

"deep breaths," Lando murmured, holding her hand and gently stroking her back. "that’s it. max didn’t mean any harm. he just wants to see us happy."

y/n nodded, her breathing slowing as she leaned into lando, his hand coming up to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“i know. i just hate being trapped, and i know he means well but i wish he’d just chill out," she breathed out, her voice still wobbly as she tried to regulate her emotions.

they both sat quietly for a moment, looking at each other deeply, her anxiety dissipating, unspoken feelings lingering in the air. lando’s head moved closer to hers first, tentatively pressing his lips to hers. he wasn’t surprised when she kissed him back, her hands moving to his shoulders to lift herself up slightly as he deepened the kiss, his tongue swiping her lower lip gently.

"almost got it!" max called out quickly from behind the door, interrupting the two.

lando and y/n quickly pulled apart, managing to compose themselves just as max opened the door and rushed in.

"im so sorry y/n. i really didn't mean t- i don’t even know ho-,” he stuttered, moving down to hug her quickly.

y/n forced a smile, her heart still racing.

"it's okay, max. i’m fine, i promise,” she reassured him, her arms moving to hug him back.

♧

it wasn’t rare for lando, max and y/n to constantly be in each others houses. any free time they had at least two of them were together, and it had been the same for the entire time they had known each other. that week, they had all taken residence at max’s house to finish the final touches to the new quadrant video before posting it.

the early morning sun was shining through the kitchen windows as y/n rummaged through the cabinets, looking for a mug for her morning tea. noticing her struggle, lando walked over to stand behind her, his chest brushing against her back as he stretched to reach the mug from the top shelf.

"here you go, short-arse," he said, handing it to her with a smile, before moving across the counter to flick the kettle on.

"thanks," y/n replied, ignoring his nicknaming, "want some breakfast?"

"depends what you’re making," lando said, his eyes twinkling, “i would love some pancakes right now.”

“tough shit - im making cereal,” she responded bluntly, smiling sarcastically at him, before moving to grab the box of cornflakes from the cupboard.

“from scratch? that’s impress- OW,” he yelped, feeling the box of cereal hit him in the face.

“can we not use my cereal as a weapon please?” max announced as he walked into the room, rubbing the grogginess from his eyes.

“sorry dad,” y/n replied jokingly, sticking her tongue out at lando when max moved to open the fridge. she turned to start making breakfast, but in her movement she ended up knocking a spoon off the counter.

“fuck,” she muttered as she bent down to pick it up, lando watching on before quickly placing his hand on the corner of the counter, preventing her from hitting her head on the way up.

"careful," he murmured softly, as her forehead made contact with his hand.

later in the day, lando found himself sat on the sofa, scrolling through the comments on quadrants new video, where he had taught y/n how to kart.

y/n walked in, sighing deeply as she plopped down on the sofa next to him, her head finding a comfortable spot on his lap. lando didn't miss a beat - instinctively he began to stroke her hair, his fingers moving gently through the strands.

"you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

y/n closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. "just tired," she whispered.

max walked into the room soon after, though stopping in his tracks as he saw the two of them. he shook his head with a bemused smile.

“you wanna read the comments?” lando asked as max took a seat on the chair opposite them.

the two of them nodded in unison, y/n shuffling around to sit up as lando’s arm rested on the back of the sofa behind her. they sat quietly, reading through the comments as max scrolled through them on his own phone.

they were accustomed to reading feedback from fans, but this time, something caught them off guard. the comments were filled with remarks about how good lando and y/n would be as a couple and how fans couldn't believe they weren't already together.

lando glanced at y/n, both of them slightly amused - they were sort of used to this, but every comment seemed to mention it.

"are you seeing these comments?" lando asked, raising an eyebrow.

“i know! i can't believe how many people want us to be together."

“you know, they're not wrong. we would be great together,” he replied, entirely unfazed.

"absolutely. it makes sense i guess," she nodded in agreement, shrugging casually.

“well that’s established then,” lando stated before moving the conversation, “should we get pizza?”

“up to you,” y/n responded with a smile, before resting back into the sofa, lando’s arm thrown over her shoulders.

max sat still, watching the whole interaction in utter bewilderment.

"what have i just witnessed?” he started, eyes darting between the two quickly, “seventeen years of seeing you two interact, and you just casually decided you're together and then sorted out what you're having for dinner?"

"yeah, pretty much,” y/n laughs, leaning into lando’s side as she shoots a grin at max, who’s jaw just dropped in disbelief.

"are you serious right now?" he continued. lando leaned back, crossing his arms with a confident grin.

"it's not like we’ve not kissed before," lando added, still grinning.

"YOU'VE KISSED?" max shouted, his eyes widening further.

y/n and lando exchanged a knowing look, both bursting into laughter at max's reaction, their casual approach to this new development was seemingly more surprising than the news itself.

“we probably would’ve gone further if you hadn’t fixed that door,” y/n added, still laughing as max smiled to himself.

“you’re plan finally worked mate,” lando laughed out, watching max’s face contort into shock.

“my pla-? when did you work it out?”

“sometime between you turning off the heating and the time you pretended to be sick so we had to go to dinner just the two of us.”

“yeah the table for two and the candles was a big giveaway.”

“i need to lay in a cold dark room please - excuse me,” max said finally, picking his jaw up from the floor before walking out in complete silence.

[wolvietxt]

ᰔ anesthesia !

↳ logan howlett x fem!reader

the fluorescent lights of the medbay hummed softly, casting a stark glow over the otherwise sterile room. logan paced back and forth outside the door, his boots scuffing against the polished floor. he hated this part - the waiting. the not knowing. his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound too tight.

“she’s gonna be fine, logan,” jean’s voice came from behind him, calm and reassuring. “you know she’s tough.”

he grunted in response, not trusting himself to say anything else. tough or not, you’d gotten hurt. surgery had been necessary after a mission gone sideways, and now you were in there, under anesthesia, while he was stuck out here feeling useless.

when hank finally poked his head out of the medbay, logan stopped mid-stride. “she okay?”

“she’s fine. the procedure went well, but she’s still coming off the anesthesia,” hank said, smiling a little. “you can see her if you want. just don’t expect much sense out of her for a bit.”

logan nodded and pushed past him, his boots heavier than usual as he walked inside. his eyes landed on you immediately. you were sitting up slightly, looking drowsy but very much alive. relief washed over him like a tidal wave, but he masked it with a gruff expression as he crossed his arms.

“what the hell were you thinking out there?” he started, voice low and gravelly. “you can’t just throw yourself into danger like that - ”

“pspspsps,” you interrupted, your eyes zeroing in on him as if he were the most fascinating thing in the world. “kitty. come here, kitty.”

logan froze mid-lecture, his brows furrowing. “what?”

you reached out a wobbly hand toward his head, fingers making the unmistakable beckoning motion people used for cats. “kitty! your hair’s so… fluffy. come here, let me pet you.”

for a moment, he just stared at you, utterly baffled. you were high as a kite, and he had no idea how to handle it. “you’re out of your damn mind,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away when your hand made contact with his hair.

“so soft,” you mumbled, running your fingers through it with clumsy determination. “why didn’t you tell me you’re secretly a big ol’ kitty?”

he huffed, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “i ain’t a cat, darlin’.”

“mhm,” you said, clearly not believing him. your fingers trailed to his sideburns, and you giggled. “the whiskers. so majestic.”

logan’s patience was wearing thin, but not in the usual way. he was more amused than he wanted to admit, but he didn’t want to encourage you. “alright, that’s enough,” he said, gently taking your hand and lowering it back to your lap. “you’re supposed to be resting.”

“you’re supposed to be snuggly,” you countered, blinking up at him with wide, unfocused eyes. “c’mon, kitty. gimme a hug.”

he sighed deeply, muttering something about anesthesia making people loopy, but he leaned in slightly to placate you. you threw your arms around his neck, squeezing as much as your post-surgery state allowed.

“you smell nice,” you murmured into his shoulder. “like… woodsy. and safe. you’re so grumpy all the time, but you’re really sweet. my big, grumpy kitty.”

the words hit him harder than he expected, and he felt his throat tighten. he wasn’t used to being called sweet. most people saw the claws, the temper, the rough exterior. but here you were, high as hell and still managing to say the one thing that could disarm him completely.

he cleared his throat, patting your back awkwardly. “yeah, well, don’t go spreadin’ that around. gotta keep up my reputation.”

you pulled back slightly, your gaze dreamy but sincere. “i won’t tell. promise.” then you tapped your lips with a finger, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “but only if you purr for me, kitty.”

logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “darlin’, you’re gonna regret all this when you’re sober.”

“nope,” you said, popping the “p.” “i’ll never regret you, logan.”

his chest tightened again, and he looked away, trying to hide the way your words affected him. “you’re impossible,” he muttered, though there was no heat behind it.

“and you’re my favorite kitty,” you replied, your voice softening as your eyelids began to droop. “such a pretty kitty…”

logan stayed by your side as you drifted off, your breathing evening out. he shook his head, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

“damn troublemaker,” he murmured, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face.

and if he stayed a little longer than necessary, making sure you were comfortable and safe, well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

ᰔ logan howlett : @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @rooroen

@lemoanaid, @correnz, @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @ohmystvrk, @y08h

@lovely-liliacs, @california-boys-and-sun, @omen-keke, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd

@superlegend216, @mikaaki, @withasideofmeg, @samfunko, @aaronhotchnerlover

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[brnesblogposts]

Do you take this pebble?

Bucky barnes x fem!reader

this was written quickly because if i didn’t do it now i never would so sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes. also i suck at using punctuation so ignore that too!

——————————————————————-

“Hey what’s wrong, Doll?” Bucky asks as he walks into the bedroom to find his best girl crying.

“Penguins” She mutters out and Buckys face turns into a perplexed expression.

“Penguins?” He asks as he scoots onto the bed to get closer to her, laying a hand on her thigh.

“Did you know- did you know that the male penguin will scour the area for the perfect pebble to present to the female as a way of proposing? If she says yes they mate for life.” She starts crying again and Bucky tries holding back his laugh because he thought something had upset you but no you’re crying over penguins.. He moves a bit to accommodate you on his lap, your head on his chest as he rubs his hands up and down your back to soothe you.

“This is ridiculous, i’m ridiculous. Sorry” You apologise for being overly dramatic and Bucky shushes you, you’ve always been emotional and the smallest thing, sad or happy can set you off. He finds it endearing how much you feel.

“It’s okay, baby” He kisses the crown of your head “It’s not ridiculous” He reassures you. The two of you lay there for awhile in each others embrace.

____________ The next morning _____________

After the whole debacle of your emotional breakdown over penguins last night Bucky and you both woke up and got on with your regular activities, him going out to run some ‘errands’ that you apparently weren’t allowed to join him on.. so you tended to some spring cleaning of the apartment.

A few hours later Bucky returns.

“Hey Buck, I missed you” You approach him and wrap your arms around him as he returns the hug, he has a bag in his hand.. a suspicious bag..

“I got you something” He says and you automatically smile, he always thinks of you when he’s out, whether it be him bringing home your favourite treat or a bouquet of your favourite flowers.

“Yeah..? What is it” You beam excitedly and he laughs at your eagerness. You both walk to the kitchen where he sets the bag down on the island.

“Close your eyes and put your hands out” He says and you give him one last suspicious look before you listen and close your eyes. It’s then you hear him go into the bag and get something out, a few seconds later something is placed in your hands, it’s weirdly heavy.

“Open them!” He’s got a bright smile plastered on his face anticipating your reaction.

You open your eyes.

“A pebble?”

“You know how you were telling me about penguins last night..” He jogs your memory and it instantly works because you’re putting it down and jumping into his arms.

“OH MY GOD BUCKY YOU GOT ME A PEBBLE!” He laughs at how adorably excited you are. Eventually he manages to pry you off of him.

“It’s not just any pebble.. break it open.. theres a pretty crystal inside” At this your eyes brighten up, you pick the pebble up and put it on the chopping board and use a hammer that’s meant for meat to break it open. It takes a few tries but eventually you get it open and see what’s inside and pick it up.

“A diamond??” You look at it absolutely baffled and turn around to ask Bucky what it’s all about but stop in your tracks at the sight before you.

Bucky on one knee. Bucky on one knee holding an empty band, looking at you with the most love stricken eyes.

“Accept my pebble and do me the honour of being my mate forever?” He is smiling so big and you stand shocked as tears escape your eyes.

“Bucky..” The biggest grin breaks out on your face.

“What do you say, doll? Will you marry me? Be my penguin partner forever and ever?” He doesn’t get time to prepare himself for the way you launch yourself at him fall to your knees in front of him and wrap your arms around him so tightly

“I take it that’s a yes?” He himself is tearing up now and you lean back to look at him unable to form words simply nodding as tears stream down your face. He takes your hand and puts the band on it.

“Well need to take it back to the jewellers so they can put the diamond in” He starts to explain but you shut him up with a kiss that tells him all that you couldn’t say.

“Bucky Barnes I won the lottery with you” You say cupping his face and kissing him again.

“Doll you have no idea the way the universe answered my prayers by allowing me to find you.” He mutters out as he starts to properly ball and you both cried and kissed and hugged and started dreaming of the rest of your lives

reblogs appreciated if you liked it!

[itsswritten]

feels like home

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 4.1K

Summary: The start of fairy readers journey and how she ended up in the Night Court. Essentially the start of the love story we all now love <3

Wings Universe - More from this world.

Autumn

Now you weren’t the arrogant kind — Fairies were always known to be humble. It’s why for the most part, your kind kept to your meadows, didn’t construct social hierarchy like Fae, and kept those mesmerising wings hidden.

However you were proud of your skills as a fairy. You were dutiful, talented, and worked incredibly hard. The youngest fairy to ever be enrolled on the fairy council. So the fact you were failing now, was quite a humbling awakening.

You blinked again, Elodie’s panicked voice blurring into the autumn breeze.

Your first stop on your travels was the Autumn Court. Visiting your cousin, who had offered refuge after your reluctant departure from Spring. Although you missed your home terribly, you were really trying to embrace this opportunity— the chance to explore a new court, spend quality time with family, and further your studies on the other seasons. Turning the dire situation you had to abandon into something positive.

However things were not going how you had expected. Apparently Autumn didn’t agree with you as well as Spring always had. 

“Y/N, there are snowdrops…in Autumn,” Elodie's concerned tone broke through. Your gaze hadn’t left the scene in front of you. Dewy snowdrops glistening under the cool autumn sun. 

You swallowed, your throat dry. “I’m aware.”

The snowdrops were your flowers. Beautiful but wrong. Your magic had manifested a spring flower in an Autumn court. Something that should never happen. 

It had been two months. Two months of no problems, and although the autumn shades didn’t necessarily suit you and the breeze didn’t sing as sweet as home, you had managed to settle in. 

You learnt how to get by. However the mess in front of you told you otherwise.

“What are you going to do?” Elodie pressed, her nervousness emitting beside you. You never got things wrong, you were always the one everyone else relied on– Mistakes were a rarity for you.

“Trying to figure that out,” your hands fisted the fabric of your dress at your sides. Your mind whirring as you tried to figure out a plan. The intricacies of your ability had always come so naturally to you in Spring, but grappling with a new season left you fumbling for a solution. 

“What. Are. Those?!” Your cousin's voice hitched in a tight tone, her voice hushing towards the end so as to not draw attention. She stalked over, her autumn-hued dress billowing behind her, hands were flailing towards you as she stormed in your direction.

With a spin you turned to her, stepping in front of the patch of snowdrops that had sprouted— as if she hadn’t already seen the little blooms that seemed to sway in the wind in mockery.

“I don’t understand…you were doing so well. I asked you to help bring the harvest along. You know, pumpkins, squash, apples. Not flowers!” Your cousin’s brows were drawn in tight, confusion and dismay in her tone. You could practically see her mind reeling as she took in the scene before her.

Instinctively your hands came up towards her, creating space, trying to calm the situation.

“I know. It’s just a small hiccup, I can reverse it. It’s fine,” you reassured quickly, not even allowing yourself to fester in the worry. 

You were the youngest fairy on the council you reminded yourself— a mentor to many of your friends and colleagues. This would not phase you.

Rolling your shoulders back, you looked at the taunting flowers straight on. Flexing your fingers as a drop of magic glowing like a little firefly, sunk slowly from your fingertips to the ground. Seeping into the deep earth that was covered in a blanket of burnt coloured leaves. 

A beat passed as the three of you held your breath. The forest seemed to hold it’s breath too, it’s mild wind coming to a silence.

Then, one of the buds quivered slightly, vibrating before it began to shrink and swirl back into the ground it had birthed from. A heavy sigh left your lips, shoulders dropping as Elodie gave you a slight smile. Chewing the inside of your cheek you gave her a knowing wink.

But that moment of relief quickly dissipated. Before your eyes more and more flowers began to spring before you. As though your magic had the opposite effect you had intended. 

Relishing in your victory too early served you your humiliation. Your cheeks turning hot as you watched the disaster unfold in front of you. It was rare for you to fluster, but you could feel the simmering of your pride burn deep within your gut at the sight of your mistake. Eyes wide as the white petals spread further beneath your feet.

This had never happened before.

Your fingers twitched beside your sides. Magic at your fingertips itching to resolve the mess, but your confidence had been knocked. You didn’t fully trust yourself or your ability, and that was a hard acknowledgment to make.

“Okay, you need to leave now.” With a light push, your cousin ushered you away from the disaster you had created.

“What? Wait! Just give me a moment to think. To fix this” You pressed back, your ego not allowing you to submit to this defeat.

“I don’t have time y/n. That Vanserra princling’s on his way, and if he’s anything like his father he will have your head. So leave. I will fix this."

Your expression must have spoken a thousand words, words of vulnerability and insecurity, because your cousin's expression softened for a moment. Bringing you to a quick embrace. 

“Your time in Autumn is up. Mistakes happen, and that’s okay. But it’s time to go.”

“But—“

She cut you off. “No but’s. You’ve both done amazing, but let’s not pretend. This isn’t the place for you, don’t think I hadn’t noticed.” Her expression was warm and understanding, as welcoming as the shades of fall. But despite how welcoming this season had been, it didn’t feel like home. 

“Go explore the land, go find somewhere that feels right y/n,” 

“What if…—” 

What if nowhere felt like home? What if you didn’t fit in anywhere else?

Elodie grabbed your hand with a tug then, someone had winnowed to the outskirts of the field. A figure with fiery hair and a tempered presence.

There was no time for what if’s. So you left. Left your cousin to face the flame, and left to find a new home…if that place even existed.

Winter

“Why are the bears awake?!” There was a scream across the forest that ran through the barren trees. You recognised the tone, one of your Winter mentors no doubt. The shriek so sharp that any remaining creature that slept must have surely been awoken.

“Oh no..” Elodie almost cried, her feet slipping in the snow beside you. You could almost hear her heart pounding in sync with yours.

The bear—the bear you had accidentally woken—groaned and yawned, its massive paws stirring the snow as it pawed at the air, confused and sluggish. Its hibernation had been broken, and it was far too early for it to be awake.

You had been at the Winter Court for only a short time, and already, things were falling apart. The sharp, biting cold of the court was one thing, but the coldness of its people? That had been harder to handle. Their bluntness, their stoic ways, had left you feeling like you were constantly on the edge of doing something wrong. And now… you had.

It seems Autumn was not the only season that didn’t agree with you. 

You blinked back your own tears, swallowing hard as you almost lost your own footing.

“Elodie, help me,” you commanded, snapping into action as you pushed against the bear’s thick fur, trying to guide it back to its den. The beast groaned again, but refused to budge, blinking its sleepy eyes at you.

The entirety of your weight was pushing against the giant bear that groaned against you, your heels digging in deep to act as an anchor in the cold white snow.

No matter how hard you tried, against your advice, the bear wanted to wake. 

“Go back to sleeeeeepp little beearrrr- hicc- pretty pleaseeee” Elodie sang desperately, her voice wobbling with panic.

“Elodie that is not the lullaby,” you hissed, your own frustration bubbling up.

“I know, I’m panicking. I’ve forgotten it, y/n. What is it?” She replied beside you, face squashed against the bear’s fur as she tried with all her might to push the bear back to its bed.

You blinked. You couldn’t remember the song either. 

You pressed harder, trying to remember the words yourself. Your breath was coming in ragged puffs, visible in the freezing air. Your wings, though hidden by magic, felt stiff from the cold, and your fingers ached from pushing against the giant furry animal.

By some stroke of luck after several attempts from Elodie to lull the bear back to sleep, the words of the forest lullaby found your tongue. Your magic flowed with the song, wrapping around the bear in a gentle embrace, lulling it back to sleep. Slowly, so slowly, it began to plod back toward its cave, its massive body sinking into it’s cosy bed deep within the cave.

“We did it,” Elodie breathed, her face as flushed and exhausted as you both slumped into the cold snow beneath you. The bears snoring filling the frosty air. “Maybe we got away with–” before Elodie could even finish her sentence, a shadow cast across you under the winter sun.

Your winter mentor, whose expression was as harsh as the court’s wind. Her cold, judging eyes swept over the scene, her lips pressed into a thin line as her long slender finger pointed towards the border.

Summer

It was everywhere.

Sand that is.

There was sand in your clothes, shoes, hair and even your pretty wings you always kept hidden— but that didn’t matter because that sticky Summer Court breeze would somehow ensure you were absolutely covered in it.

Blinking away yet again another gust of sand in your eye, you sat slouched under the shade of a canopy. 

You were on shell duty today, meaning you had been out in that blistering sun all day. You’d always enjoyed the heat you thought, but perhaps now you realised you enjoyed it in much smaller doses. 

That beacon in the sky felt especially relentless today. Your skin was burning to the touch, head heavy, dry throat and eyes stinging.

With a huff you watched as Elodie came and slumped down beside you. She went to nudge you gently with her shoulder, but you both gagged as your skin stuck and peeled away from one another with sweat. 

“I heard the Day court borders are open…” she muttered, glancing towards you, anticipating your reaction.

You didn’t like giving up. Call it Spring stubbornness, but it wasn’t in your nature.

After a moment you murmured back, “Is there sand in Day?”. You swallowed hard, eyes set ahead on the expansive blue ocean before you, the line where the water met the sky blurring in a haze.

“Not nearly as much as Summer,” Elodie replied in a beat.

You didn’t like giving up. But clearly Summer didn’t agree with you either.

“Let’s go.”

Day

Perhaps it was your series of bad luck that had now left you with an attitude of indifference but as you crouched behind the freshly preened hedge you wondered how quickly your impeccable reputation had crumbled on your travels.

You were now about to commit a crime.

Perhaps crime was a bit dramatic. But trespassing was still trespassing. Trespassing on the High Lords home too.

You had been here over a month now. The Day Court wasn’t unpleasant—far from it. The libraries were vast, the streets safe, and the people, though indulgent, were kind. Yet something within you stirred restlessly, a quiet unease that had only grown with time. You had given it weeks, trying to settle in, hoping the feeling of displacement would fade. But it hadn’t. Every corner of this sunlit paradise felt like it belonged to someone else.

It didn’t feel like home.

So your papers were arranged. Tomorrow, you'd travel to Dawn, hoping to find something there that felt more like yours.

But before you left, there was one thing you had to see. One thing that had tugged at your curiosity since the moment you'd arrived: the Pegasuses. Said to be the pride of the Day Court, magnificent creatures kept under Helion’s personal protection, far from the eyes of the public.

That was why you were here now, slipping through the shadows of Helion’s estate, your heart racing in your chest. The Pegasuses weren’t just for show, or figments of stories; they were alive, breathing, and you wanted—no, needed—to see them yourself. Call it that fairy instinct, but you weren’t leaving till you saw them with your own eyes.

Your path led you through twisting gardens, till you found yourself at the heart of Helion’s estate. You crouched quietly behind the foliage, praying to the mother you’d catch a glimpse of what you’d been searching for.

Your breath caught in your throat. 

There they were. 

An entire herd of them, grazing peacefully. The sunlight gleaming on their coats. A shimmering silver that resembled the glow of your own wings. The sight of them took your breath away. They were even more magnificent than you’d imagined.

So magnificent that just looking wasn’t enough.

With a swift quietness and feather light steps you moved from your hiding place towards the herd. 

If Elodie could see you now, you’d be sure to be scolded. You’d left her with the cute librarian in the city, told her to enjoy her last day. That you still had papers to sort– she didn’t need to be an accomplice in what you were committing. She didn’t need to know.

The Pegasuses flicked their ears, one of them lifting their head to look at you. You froze for a moment, the hairs on your arms rising, anticipating their reaction but as it blew a breath there was an ease that settled over you.

They didn’t shy away, as if they’d always known you were there. As if they had been waiting for you to pluck up the courage to meet them.

Marvellous creatures.

One of them stepped towards you, meeting your hand as it grazed across the plain on its face. Your gaze ran down its back to its wings that stretched out and then flanked back in.

“Well aren’t you beautiful..” You sighed with a smile, your fingers scratching the sweet spot behind its ear, its hoof tapping against the earth as if in agreement.

You’re not sure how time had passed, but it was distant laughter that blew in on a breeze that reminded you just how precarious your situation was.

“Come Rhys, come see my pride and joy…” A voice chimed across the garden.

You didn’t need to stick around to guess whose voice that belonged to, so with a gentle kiss against the velvety nose of the Pegasus you bid your farewell. Quick as a sprite, you slipped back into the shadows.

Just as you reached the edge of the estate, you glanced back over your shoulder. Offering a sweet smile to the Pegasuses you had met, hoping that despite Day not feeling like home your paths would cross with the magnificent creatures again.

It was Azriel who stood by the golden archway in the garden. Watching as Helion presented the treasures he boasted so often about– the beautiful Pegasuses that were now grazing in front of them.

“I would like one..for Feyre,” Azriel heard Rhys try to negotiate with Helion, their voices blending over the soft breeze and rustles from the animals. That he hadn’t even noticed his gaze had fallen elsewhere, all the way to the border of the estate he noticed a rustle in the leaves, a flicker of light perhaps, but there was a faintest scent of something on the wind—a hint of honey and peonies. 

He paused, tilting his head as if attuned to something that beckoned him, though he couldn’t quite place it, but maybe with time he would.

Dawn

Imbuing the sky sounded easy. Fun even– But as you glanced up at the Dawn sky that resembled something more like dusk you swallowed hard. 

The golden hues of the Dawn Court greeted you with a warmth that felt almost too soft. Here, everything shimmered with the glow of early morning—pastel skies, the gentle rustling of trees in the breeze, and the constant hum of quiet tranquillity. It should have felt peaceful. It should have felt right.

But instead, it felt fragile. Like a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto.

You had tried. When you first arrived, you thought maybe this would be the place. The Dawn Court was steeped in a quiet sort of magic—delicate, but powerful. It suited you in theory: a blend of intellect and beauty, the balance of light and creation. You had forced yourself to adapt, to fit into the patterns they laid before you, hoping this time, this Court, would finally feel like home.

But when tasked with the simple task of imbuing the sky, it had stirred something deeper, something darker, and the sky had responded.

You opened your eyes, gasping in horror as you watched the colours bleed across the horizon—not the pale blush of dawn, but the rich, burning tones of dusk. Deep oranges, purples, and indigos streaked across the sky like a wildfire, swallowing the soft morning light with every passing second.

The magic swirled around you like a storm, the sky thick with colour, draping over your skin like an ink-stained canvas. You tried to stop it, to pull it back, but it wouldn’t listen. The darker hues clung to you, soaking into your skin, wrapping around you like tendrils of shadow. 

From dawn to dusk and then to twilight.. 

It was beautiful in a way—if only it wasn’t so terribly wrong.

“Don’t.” You bit out through gritted teeth, stopping Elodie from saying anything. The deep purple hue of sky covered you. The shimmer iridescent resembled something of a paint, but it was almost too beautiful to even be compared to that.

You didn’t even wait for your Dawn mentors to scold you. Simply went to pack your things and leave. 

Lip quivering at another failed court, another failed attempt at finding home.

Night

The Night Court was the only place left. The last court you hadn’t yet tried, the last hope you had of finding where you truly belonged.

Which at this point you felt as though living amongst the thorns of Spring was a better option. You should never have left. Perhaps this was your punishment for abandoning your court, despite having no other option.

Your fingers tried to brush away the sky that was still infused to your skin, you looked ridiculous. As if you’d painted yourself in the night court's colours out of admiration. You were grateful the midnight hues concealed how embarrassed you looked.

The Night Court was a stark contrast to the sunlit lands you had just fled. Shadows danced among the trees, and a cool breeze whispered amongst the glistening stars.

It truly was beautiful.

But there was a looming weight with that realisation. Every court you'd experienced was beautiful– in its own unique way. So why would Night be any different? Why should you believe this would be the court where you truly belonged?

“Papers please,” A soft voice broke through, a female was reading through your documentation. Dorned in a dark robe, Illyarin soldiers flanking her sides.

She quirked a brow as she took in your appearance.

“It’s just sky…” Elodie butted in as if it was a normal occurrence– normal for one to be covered in the celestial shimmers of the sky. You swore you heard the High Fae mutter something under her breath, a small bite about meadow fairies that had the males beside her snicker. However after a quick assessment, she waved you both through. 

You had assumed this admission would feel like every other court, plain, dull, but the moment your feet stepped across the border there was a simmering in your chest. It was as if the Night Court itself was welcoming you, the ancient forest shifting its branches above to clear a path for the stars to twinkle down upon you. The gentle breeze carried the distant melodies of the city, wrapping around you like a soft embrace.

You dared to speak of what you were feeling, but one quick glance at your friend and you could see she felt it too. A twinkle sparkled in her eyes as she shared a smile with you, a silent exchange that spoke of hope and dreams. For the first time in what felt like ages, laughter bubbled between you, light and carefree. You clasped each other’s hands, giggling at the energy and magic you were feeling.

There was something about this place, something that felt so familiar–

So enamoured by your senses you hadn’t even been paying attention when you bumped into something solid.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” you sputtered quickly, a breathless laugh escaping your lips before Elodie gasped, pulling you back into the crowd of newcomers.

“You just bumped into an Illyrian!” she whispered urgently, her wide eyes darting over her shoulder.

Your gaze followed, landing on the broad backs of two towering Illyrian males. One had long, dark hair, loosely tied back, his wings flexing slightly in the night breeze. The other, taller with shadows whispering around him, his presence somehow more commanding– more intriguing. Your eyes lingered on him the longest, an odd tug pulling at your chest.

“Oops…” you shrugged, voice bright with laughter as Elodie tugged you further into the crowd, your chuckles mingling with the hum of the night.

You hadn’t felt this carefree in so long, hadn’t felt this light. As the lights of Velaris approached and the noise of music filled your ears you had a feeling that perhaps this was all going to work out okay.

That perhaps you had found somewhere you belonged after all.

𓇢𓆸

Azriel felt the brush of something against his side and turned slightly, pulling him from his conversation with cassian. They had both been sent to do border control, and had watched an array of individuals enter the court. It was his job as Spymaster after all, whether it be from the shadows or to stand in example at the borders he would vet the newcomers.

The night had been slow, no disturbances, no conflicts– uneventful. Just how he liked it. Only people seeking a fresh start had crossed into Night. He took pride in knowing so many chose his home for that new beginning. He was listening to Cassian as he gushed something about Nesta, when a light nudge to his side had pulled him from conversation.

They stood in the centre of the track that ran from the forest to the city, the two males, a stoic divide, as people flowed around them like a river parting. Except one– you. 

You hadn’t moved around him.

Lightly, as though your thoughts had been tangled with the stars above, you had brushed against Azriel. His shadows hadn’t even warned him of your approach, and for a brief second, his breath caught at the softness of your touch. He turned, drawn to the quiet apology that lingered in the air, following the sound with his eyes.

And there you were.

You shimmered, wrapped in twilight, your skin glistening in the soft hues of the night sky as though the heavens themselves had adorned you. It was hard to distinguish where the night ended and you began, your form almost blending with the dark expanse around you.

But before he could speak, before he could even process what he was feeling, you disappeared into the crowd. A fleeting figure, gone in an instant, leaving him staring after you.

Azriel’s shadows hummed beside him, them too grappling with a need to know more.

He hadn’t caught your name, hadn’t had the chance to see your face clearly, but something about you had gripped him, held him in place. The faint scent of honey and peonies lingered in the air where you'd passed, stirring something deep within him.

Instead of words or answers, Azriel was left with a feeling—a pull. One he couldn't quite explain, but one he hoped to find an answer for.

a/n: Thank you for the wait...but here is the beginning of our favourite fairy and Azriel. I actually started writing this when I was visiting @writingcroissant in Edinburgh and we were sat in a little cafe till 10pm writing our little fics! It was so fun <3 (I'm still awaiting Crush...no pressure ;) ) I'm so glad it's finally finished. It was so hard to keep the stories this short, I feel like I could have easily explored more of fairy's travels in the courts (It wasn't all bad experiences I promise) lots of good memories too, so perhaps I will explore another time. But I hope you enjoyed the little connections to Azriel even though they still don't know each other yet tee hee

This is also dedicated to @searchingforbucky I'm pretty sure you said you were excited to read this/I said I would write something for you (If i have got it wrong, correct me) so here you are my lovely! Thank you for constant support.

Sorry to everyone that there isn't much Azriel and romance in this, Wings really has become a world of it's own at this point but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Please please please let me know what you want from these two next <3 - lottie xxx

Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria

Wings tags: @minaethrym

[corroded-hellfire]

Hi love!! I would love an Eddie request of him with inexperienced reader but it's not smut it's like the convo leading up to it like May be they start making out and it's getting steamy and she tells him she's a virgin and she's terrified bc what if she's bad at sex and then it's not good for him? What if he sees her naked and thinks she's not pretty?? And it's just Eddie comforting her and reassuring her

Oh, I would most definitely need Eddie to reassure me of these things, too. I hope you like what I've come up with 💕

Words: 1.3k

The old springs in Eddie’s mattress dig into your back, an occasional squeak emanating from them whenever your boyfriend shifts his weight on top of you. His tongue dances with yours, breath colliding and teeth grazing. Eddie encompasses all your senses, surrounding you wholly and leaving no room to think about anything else but him–if your brain can even manage to think at all with strong, calloused hands running over your body. 

His warm fingers trail up the outside of your leg, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The moment Eddie’s hand slips up your shorts on the front of your thigh though, your body goes from pure ecstasy to adrenaline-pumping nerves in an instant.

An involuntary jump of your body against his alerts Eddie that something’s wrong and he immediately pulls away to gaze down at you in concern.

“Are you okay?”

Though it’s clearly not the truth, you nod your head. Slowly, you scoot yourself out from beneath his body and sit up against the cheap mahogany headboard that’s caused a multitude of scratches against the dully painted trailer wall. 

“C-Can we talk for a second though?”

There’s worry in Eddie’s eyes. He’s terrified that he’s done something wrong or has hurt you in some way. Taking care to give you some space, your boyfriend situates himself to sit next to you on his bed, back also resting against the chipped and scuffed headboard.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Eddie says. “What’s going on?”

Tentatively, Eddie offers you his hand, resting it between the two of you. He’s leaving the decision up to you if you want to touch him right now or not. There’s no hesitation though, you eagerly lace your fingers with his. 

You give him a nervous smile, a million thoughts running through your head at once. It’ll be a miracle if you can speak coherently with the rate at which your mind is moving. Deciding to just bite the bullet and get it all out there, you take a deep breath.

“Um, I’m—I’m a virgin, Eddie.”

Whatever reaction you were planning on Eddie to have, he doesn’t give it to you. He seems completely unfazed by your admission. All you get is a nod of his head and a gentle squeeze of your hand. 

“Okay,” he says casually, as if your entire body isn’t running on nervous energy at the moment. “We can go as slow as you want, yeah?”

You know your body should feel relief, but the worry in your head tells you that you’ve only gotten through part of what you need to tell him. Might as well push through to the end.

“I’m…scared,” you admit. Shame floods your body, chilling your veins.

“Of me?” Eddie’s eyes widen and the alarm in them is clear.

“No!” You quickly assure him. “No, no, never of you.”

He heaves a sigh of relief, and you cup his hand in both of yours. Out of all the things that make you anxious about having sex with Eddie, Eddie is not one of them. But that means you have to tell him that you’re the problem. If your anxiety has one mortal nemesis in the world it is vulnerability. 

“I’m scared that I’ll be bad at it,” you admit. “I don’t know what I’m doing. What if you don’t like it? What if I mess up?” What if you don’t like how I look beneath my clothes?

“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie says with a shake of his head. The crease in his forehead shows his displeasure with the pressure you’re putting on yourself. “First of all, I don’t think you can really mess up sex, sweetheart. As long as you’re here and your clothes are off, I’d say we’re good to go.” He chuckles, but when you don’t join in, he sighs. “Are you honestly worried that I won’t like it?”

Unable to look him in the eye, you nod. His forehead furrows further as Eddie frowns. Usually, you’d rub your thumb over those wrinkles to smooth them out and calm him down. But usually, you’re not the cause of them. 

Gentle fingers grip your chin and tilt your face so you can look at him.

“Princess, it’s you. I love doing everything with you, you really think I won’t like having sex with you?”

When he puts it like that, you feel silly. Heat blooms in your face as embarrassment is scooped on top of the nerves. There are legitimate concerns, though. You’re sure of it. There has to be.

“W-What if you don’t like what my body looks like?” You ask it so quietly in the hope that he misses it.

It’s obvious that he doesn’t by the way his eyes nearly pop out of his head. He reminds you of one of those stress dolls that you squeeze and the small plastic eyes bulge out.

“Not like your body?” Eddie sounds almost incredulous. He pauses for a moment, eyes gazing into yours as he thinks of a reply. It feels like the understatement of the century to say he was unprepared for you to be worried about this; about something that he whole-heartedly knew to be untrue. A smile quirks Eddie’s mouth as his mind goes back to a day before you’d started dating. He licks over his lips before continuing. “Sweetheart, remember the pool party Jeff threw for his birthday last summer? You wore that low-cut, blue one-piece that showed off most of your back?”

Do you remember? You had agonized over what you should wear to that party and what Eddie would think when he saw you. 

“Yeah,” you tell him, voice quivering. 

“Babe,” he says with a shake of his head. “I still get off thinking about that. About how you looked. There was a reason I had to stay in the pool past the point of me freezing half to death in the water.”

Shock colors your face, and despite the gravity of the conversation, it makes Eddie smile wider.

“You…really?”

“Yes,” Eddie says with a breathless chuckle. “God, you’re so fucking hot. You’re gorgeous. It bothers me that you don’t see that.”

If there’s one thing you can say about your boyfriend, it’s that he’s very candid about his view on things–just ask anyone who’s had the pleasure of hearing him make a grand speech from atop a lunch table. Which is most of the high school-aged population in Hawkins.

Half of your brain is trying to convince you that now is the time he chooses to lie, that he’s just saying this to make you feel better or to shut you up. Meanwhile, the other half is telling the anxiety to put a sock in it and listen to Eddie.

“What’re you thinking?” Eddie asks quietly. A reminder of how well he knows you.

“Too much,” you say with a soft laugh. 

Eddie lets out a long breath and gently pulls you into his lap. He absentmindedly rests his hands on your thighs and his thumbs rub calming circles on your skin.

“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks. Needing to show you physically how much he wants to help you, he snakes his arms around your body to hold you snugly against him. Your heart all but melts as he looks up at you with those large, puppy dog eyes.

With a small smile, you lean down and rest your forehead against your boyfriend’s. Sometimes he’s too cute for his own good. 

“You already have,” you say softly.

“What? How?” Eddie’s frowning again, but this time it's in confusion.

“Just by being you,” you tell him with a shrug.

“Well, I am pretty great,” Eddie says with a playful smirk. Your heart feels lighter once the stress lines fade from his beautiful face. 

You chuckle at his ego and sit back up straight.

“There is one more thing you could do for me, though.”

“What’s that, beautiful?”

There’s a hungry gleam in your eyes as you let your gaze trail up and down his lithe body. 

“Take off your shirt.”

[lyn31]

These Zayne pregnancy fluffs are making me kick my feet! Since reader has given birth can you do one where reader has postpartum depression, she also feels like she’s not a good wife, starts getting irritated easily, and is struggling with her body/image. Zayne ofc notices is worried and reassures her she’s amazing and that it’s ok to feel these emotions cuz it’s new. He books reader a nice getaway somewhere tropical so she can get a break. Reader ofc cries while on vacation cuz she misses Zayne and the baby. Zayne surprises her the next day by showing up. Reader is shocked that he’s there and worries about where the baby is and everything. Zayne reassures her that she’s in good hands with his parents. She then cries to Zayne about everything she’s feeling then Zayne comforts her and tells her he will get a nanny to help her. Then you know it’s time for them to be romantic and finally have sexy time together you know some smut. Make it soft, sexy, and romantic yk👀. Thank you a lot. Your writings of Zayne is chefs kiss.👌🥹😭✨💗

Now you guys just want to throw me off the cliff! 😭😂 PPD? Come on guys! I'm a weak gal.... Hopefully you won't mind me changing it to baby blues instead 🥹🫶🏻 (Let me know what you think)

Sooooooo, I got carried away again—but then again, I say that more...… So maybe I should stop saying that and just mention it whenever I don’t get carried away 😂

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Lapse

Summary

After weeks of feeling like nothing but a mother, you and Zayne escape to a hot spring retreat, where between stolen moments of indulgence and quiet tenderness, you rediscover each other—not just as parents, but as lovers, as partners, as you.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: as requested this has smut at the end, semi-outdoor, handjob, fingering, thighjob, nipple play. Still as always a lot of build up, banter, dramatic, cute, sweet, and this time baby blues.

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After giving birth to Serena, you stay in the hospital for a full week at Zayne’s insistence. He never pushes, never demands—just gently reminds you that a few extra days of caution are worth it, that having professionals nearby is a safety net, not a setback. And with how utterly drained you feel, you don’t argue.

In the hospital, things feel manageable. Nurses slip in and out, their voices low, their movements practiced. Machines murmur softly in the background, steady and predictable. When Serena stirs, there’s always someone ready with gentle reassurance.

And Zayne—he’s always there. He watches over you both, making sure you sleep, taking Serena from your arms when your body feels too heavy to move. When your eyelids droop, he smooths your hair back and murmurs, “Rest. I’ve got her.” And you believe him.

The constant presence of support makes everything feel… safer. Less overwhelming.

And then, you go home.

It should be comforting. Familiar. But instead, it amplifies everything. The creak of the floorboards under your steps. The near-silent rustle of Serena’s onesie as she shifts in your arms. The tiny, uneven hitches in her breath that send a flicker of anxiety through your chest every time they break the stillness.

Serena is a calm baby, for the most part. But in Zayne’s arms, she melts. You brush it off at first—babies fuss. Maybe she just likes his cooler touch. But as the days pass, you start noticing the pattern. The way she squirms a little more in your hold, tiny fists pressing against you as if trying to find something that isn’t there. The soft, unsettled noises that build in her throat—never quite a cry, but close—only to disappear the second Zayne takes her. Other than feeding, she can’t seem to settle in your arms.

At first, you laugh about it, adjusting your grip, shifting positions, trying everything you’ve read about. “Come on, sweetheart. Mommy’s comfy too, I promise.”

Serena makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, her fingers flexing against your shirt before pushing away.

From across the room, Zayne watches, amusement flickering in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything at first, just tilts his head slightly—considering, measuring. The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.

Then, in that calm, maddeningly reasonable way of his—

“This isn’t a competition.”

Which, of course, you immediately take as a challenge.

Determined, you throw yourself into research. Late nights scrolling through parenting forums, watching tutorial videos until the soft glow of your phone screen makes your eyes ache. The football hold, the cradle hold, the side-lying position—you cycle through them all, adjusting angles, experimenting with the perfect swaddle, testing out different rocking rhythms. You hum lullabies at varying pitches, trying to find the one that settles her best, feeling half ridiculous and entirely desperate.

It takes days. Days of trial and error, of whispered encouragements, of pushing down the gnawing insecurity that you don’t say out loud.

But then—finally—Serena rests more easily against you. Her tiny fingers curl into your shirt instead of pushing away, her body softening into yours like she’s learning the shape of your arms, like she’s finding comfort there. The first time it happens, you barely breathe, afraid to jinx it. But then she sighs—a soft, contented sound—and nuzzles closer.

Something inside you unclenches. You hadn’t realized how tight your chest had been, how much air you’d been holding, until now. The knot of doubt, of insecurity, doesn’t vanish completely—but for the first time, it loosens just enough to breathe.

You count it as a victory.

But just as relief starts to settle in, something else creeps in alongside it.

The laundry is folded before you’ve even registered it was in the dryer. A meal appears in front of you before hunger fully registers. Zayne makes sure you eat without you having to ask, presses a glass of water into your hand when you’re nursing before you even realize your throat is dry. When Serena fusses in the middle of the night, he’s already up, shushing her gently as he changes her diaper before you’ve even registered the cry.

And you know—you know—he doesn’t mind. He’s not resentful, not keeping score. He does it because he wants to, because that’s just who he is.

But the guilt gnaws at you anyway.

You should be able to handle this. You should be doing more.

Zayne’s parents arrive not long after you settle back home, their presence a mix of warmth and something heavier, something that presses against your chest. They slip into their roles as doting grandparents effortlessly.

His mother beams as she cradles Serena, swaying lightly, murmuring soft praises about how perfect she is. His father, ever relaxed, holds her with practiced ease, his touch confident, natural. Serena nestles against him without hesitation, her tiny body going still as if she belongs there.

It’s comforting. Reassuring, even.

And yet, as you watch them, something cold creeps up your spine. They don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess. There’s no frantic scrolling through parenting forums, no fumbling to find the right hold. Just confidence. Just instinct. And watching them, you feel the hesitation in your own hands more than ever.

Zayne’s family makes it look so easy. Like instinct. Like breathing. Watching them with Serena, seeing how effortlessly she melts into their touch, you can’t help but think, I should be better at this by now.

So, stubbornly, you try.

Zayne already does so much—too much—and the guilt gnaws at you with every task he takes on. You convince yourself that you have to step up, that being a good mother means doing more.

You don’t want to feel useless. And if Zayne won’t complain, then… maybe it’s fine to take on a little more.

So you do.

At first, it’s small things—changing Serena before Zayne can reach for her, rocking her when she fusses, insisting I’ve got it even when exhaustion drags at your limbs. But the more you take on, the more your mind spins. You slip down a rabbit hole of parenting forums and cautionary articles, each new post a fresh coil of anxiety tightening around your ribs.

SIDS prevention. Signs of dehydration. What if she stops breathing in her sleep?

How do you know if your baby is sick? Is she too warm? Too cold?

What if you miss something important?

The words don’t just linger—they burrow in, thorns pressing deeper every time you close your eyes. Just in case. Just to be safe.

At first, it’s a quick glance while she sleeps—watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her tiny chest. Then, once an hour. Then, every half hour. Then, as often as exhaustion lets you blink before forcing your eyes shut.

Zayne catches on quickly. He always does. Sometimes, he just watches from across the room, his brows knitting together—like he’s debating whether to say something. But then he doesn’t. Not yet.

One night, when he stirs awake and finds you standing over Serena’s crib again, he doesn’t speak right away. He just watches as you lean in close, barely breathing, waiting for the tiny lift of her chest to reassure you she’s still here.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he reaches out, fingers curling gently around your wrist as he tugs you back toward the bed.

“She’s fine,” he murmurs, his hand settling at the small of your back, grounding you. “I check on her too.”

You hesitate, lingering in the space between worry and exhaustion, glancing back over your shoulder. But what if—

His lips press softly against your temple. His voice is steady, certain. “If anything happens, I’ll be right here.”

You want to believe him. You try. But the worry lingers, curling at the edges of your thoughts—quiet, but never gone.

But the exhaustion builds anyway. Your emotions fray at the edges, stretched thinner with each restless night.

The waves come without warning. Some days, you feel fine—almost normal. Other days, the smallest inconvenience tightens your throat, frustration prickling beneath your skin.

A misplaced bottle sends you rifling through the house, only to find it sitting right there on the counter. A forgotten onesie makes your stomach twist with guilt, as if one overlooked piece of fabric means you’re failing already. Serena fusses the second you finally sit down to eat, and you have to swallow against the lump in your throat, biting back an exhausted sob.

But what finally breaks you is the breast milk.

You’re running on too little sleep, too much caffeine, and the kind of raw, frayed nerves that make everything feel ten times heavier than it should. You move to set the freshly pumped bottle down, but your hand fumbles—fingers slipping at the worst possible moment.

The bottle tips.

Time seems to slow as the milk spills across the counter, sinking into the cloth beneath it, wasted.

For a second, you just stare, brain struggling to process the loss. Then your breath shudders—eyes burning, throat tight—and a wail bursts out of you.

Zayne lifts his head instantly, attention snapping to you. Before he can reach for a towel—

“Do you know how hard I worked for that?! It’s liquid gold!” You says more at the indifferent puddle of milk than anything else.

Then—without a word—he grabs a tissue and hands it to you, wrapping an arm around you the next moment. His hand finds the small of your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, like you aren’t falling apart over spilled milk.

You sniffle into the tissue, hiccuping as you swipe at your eyes. One isn’t enough—you snatch another, shoulders curling inward as you try to compose yourself.

Zayne doesn’t comment on the mess. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t reassure, doesn’t try to rationalize what would normally be a minor accident. He just stays, cool and quiet reassurance solid at your side.

Later, curled up on the couch with Serena tucked against your chest, you let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. “Hormones are insane.”

Zayne hums, watching you carefully. His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his gaze—but concern lingers beneath it, quiet and steady. “That was quite the reaction.”

You groan, burying your face against Serena’s tiny shoulder. “Don’t remind me.”

His fingers brush lightly against your knee. “I’m not judging. Just… should I be bracing for more tragic losses, or was this a one-time catastrophe?”

You huff, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “No promises.”

The brain fog creeps in just as insidiously as the mood swings. At first, it’s small things—losing track of conversations, forgetting what you were about to say. Then, slowly, it starts happening more often.

You walk into the kitchen with purpose, only to stop in the middle of the room, your mind blank. You scan the counters, the sink, the fridge—none of it jogs your memory. After a solid ten seconds of standing there uselessly, you sigh and close the fridge door, feeling no closer to remembering what you needed.

Then there’s the incident.

You’re searching for your phone—digging through the couch cushions, checking under blankets, patting down your pockets with increasing frustration. Zayne watches for a moment before silently stepping toward the pantry, reaching between a box of cereal and a bag of rice.

He pulls out your phone and holds it up.

You stare.

“…I have no explanation for that.”

Zayne just hands it over, entirely unfazed. “Not the strangest thing I’ve found today.”

And he’s right.

It’s not the first time you’ve lost something lately. Not the first time you’ve walked into a room, only to forget why. But before, when it happened, you used to laugh it off, shake your head, and move on.

Now, you just sigh, rubbing your temples, pressing your lips together like you’re trying not to be frustrated with yourself. Like you don’t have the energy to care.

Because an hour later, you hear him open the fridge, pause, and then call out, “Why is the remote in here?”

You wince, pressing your hands over your face. “I swear I was smart once.”

Zayne doesn’t even hesitate. “You’re still smart. Just selectively.”

You shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “That’s a terrible thing to say to your sleep-deprived wife.”

Unbothered, he steps closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then get some sleep.”

You roll your eyes, waving him off. “Maybe later.”

Zayne doesn’t argue. Just watches you for a beat, the corners of his mouth barely curving. That look alone should’ve warned you.

Because later, when you yawn mid-sentence and rub at your eyes, he hums in quiet amusement. “Is ‘later’ now?”

You groan. “Zayne—”

“We're doing this together.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “You don’t have to push yourself like this.”

You let out a short, tired laugh. “Hey, you’re already doing a lot on your own. This is me doing it together with you.”

His brows lift slightly. Then, after a pause—

“Hm.”

You squint at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayne tilts his head, considering. “I just think your definition of ‘together’ is interesting.”

You scowl, shoving lightly at his chest. “Go away.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he tugs you against him, arms settling around your waist, voice low and matter-of-fact. “Not until you sleep.”

Still, little by little, things get better.

Serena has long since grown comfortable in your arms, her tiny fingers curling around yours, her weight familiar and warm against you. But now, there’s a rhythm to it—a pattern that, while not perfect, feels like something close to stability. You and Zayne settle into an unspoken routine, trading off seamlessly, adjusting as needed.

Even if you still wake up at night just to check on her, even with the moments of doubt… things are manageable.

Or at least, they should be.

When Serena naps in Zayne’s arms, you finally have free time—precious moments meant for rest. But instead of sleeping, you do what you always do. You pick up your phone, scroll through another parenting forum, skim another thread on sleep regressions or developmental milestones. Just a quick read, you tell yourself. Just to be safe.

Zayne watches from the doorway, Serena sleeping on his arms, leaning against the frame. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers—not on the phone, but on the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump.

“Reading something important?” he asks, his tone light.

You hum distractedly, scrolling past yet another forum thread. “Just… checking a few things.”

He doesn’t respond, just studies you for a beat longer before quietly turning away.

Then, without thinking, you swipe onto your gallery. For the first time since Serena was born, you pause.

A picture stares back at you—one taken months ago, just before you found out you were pregnant. You, standing beside Tara after a Hunter Association meeting, mid-laugh over something you can’t even remember. You look… at ease. Energized. Hair done, makeup fresh, wearing something that wasn’t just the easiest thing to throw on.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

You don’t know why it unsettles you. Maybe because you can’t remember the last time you took a photo that wasn’t just of Serena. Or maybe because, looking at this, you realize you haven’t felt like that person in a long time.

It’s just hormones, you tell yourself. Just exhaustion. That’s all. But even as you move on with your day, the thought lingers, slipping into the spaces between feedings, diaper changes, and lullabies.

At some point, without even noticing, you stop feeling like you.

The realization creeps in slowly, easy to ignore at first. There’s no time to dwell on it—not when Serena needs you, not when Zayne already does so much. So you push past it, convincing yourself it’s just part of new motherhood. It’ll pass.

But Zayne notices.

He doesn’t say anything when you stop glancing at mirrors, when you change out of spit-up-stained clothes only when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t call attention to the way your laughter fades, your responses growing softer, more absent. But he sees it.

And then, one evening, he finds you on the couch, Serena asleep against your chest, your phone resting loosely in your hand. You aren’t scrolling, aren’t reading—just staring at the screen, lost in thought.

At first, he doesn’t think much of it. But as he moves closer, he catches a glimpse of what’s on display—an old photo.

You, smiling. Vibrant. There’s a spark in your eyes that feels almost foreign now.

You don’t notice him right away, too caught in whatever thoughts have pulled you under. But when he sinks onto the couch beside you, you blink, like surfacing from deep water. The moment your gaze flickers to him, you lock the phone and set it aside, as if it’s something you shouldn’t have been looking at in the first place.

Zayne doesn’t miss that.

His eyes stay on you, quiet and searching. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head, too quickly. “Nothing. Just… being dramatic.”

It’s meant to be dismissive, light, but the words don’t land right. You hear it, too—the thinness of your own voice, the way your smile barely holds. And Zayne… he feels it.

He’s seen you exhausted before. Overwhelmed. Even near tears. But this is different. This is you looking at a photo of yourself like it’s something distant, something you don’t quite recognize anymore.

And then—

He reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything, just holds on, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

And that’s the moment he decides—he’s not letting this continue.

The next morning, you shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy from another restless night. Your body feels sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, but the scent of tea and something warm pulls you forward.

Zayne is already there, standing by the counter, a cup in one hand and a neatly folded paper in the other. He looks up as you approach, his gaze steady—too steady.

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “…What?”

Instead of answering, he holds the paper out to you.

You blink at it, rubbing at your eyes before taking it. Your sleep-deprived brain lags behind as you unfold the page, scanning the crisp, neatly printed words.

An itinerary.

Your brows knit. Hot springs resort. Three days. Full itinerary planned.

Your stomach flips, and you look up sharply. “Wait—why? I don’t need a trip.”

Zayne remains calm as ever. “Last night, you tried to charge your phone in the microwave. You haven’t slept in three days. And you cried over baby socks.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Okay, fair.

His expression doesn’t so much as flicker. “You need a break.”

You shake your head, already bracing for an argument. “But I can’t just leave—”

“It’s three days.” His tone is patient, but firm. “You’re not moving to another country.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the paper. The idea of stepping away, even for a short time, feels… wrong. Like you’re abandoning something important. Like you should be able to handle everything without needing an escape.

Your fingers tighten around the paper. If I say yes… does that mean I couldn’t have handled it on my own? You swallow, pushing the thought down.

But then—gods, you want it. You want even just a moment to breathe, to feel like you again. And Zayne, ever perceptive, notices the war in your expression before you can fully mask it.

Your grip tightens on the paper, hesitation warring with longing. You want to go. You need to go. But still—

“What about you?” you ask quietly, searching his face. “What about Serena?”

His response is immediate, unshaken. "We take turns, don’t we?" His voice is steady, matter-of-fact. Then, softer—"You’re first."

Your breath catches. The way he says it—so certain, so simple—untangles a knot of tension you didn’t even realize was there.

Zayne reaches for your hand, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against your skin. The touch is grounding, his warmth steady against the cool morning air.

“You won’t let yourself rest unless you do,” he murmurs, voice gentle but unwavering, certainty woven through every word.

“And when you’re ready to come back,” he continues, meeting your eyes with quiet assurance, “we’ll be right here.”

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The first day at the resort is almost too easy.

You settle into the hot spring with a slow, contented sigh, muscles finally relaxing in the soothing heat. The quiet is luxurious, the scenery peaceful, and for the first time in weeks, no one needs you. No tiny cries pulling you from sleep, no bottles to sterilize, no laundry to fold. It’s… nice.

No—better than nice.

You thrive. You book a massage, order a ridiculous amount of food, and for a moment, it feels good to just be. Of course, your mind still drifts—more than once, you reach for your phone to check in on Serena and Zayne. But the messages you receive are reassuring. Pictures of Serena napping peacefully, a short video of her staring at a mobile with wide, curious eyes, Zayne’s steady, grounding updates.

Mine♥️:  She had a good nap. Drank all her milk.

Mine♥️: No signs of missing you terribly yet.

Mine♥️: I assume this means you’re free to enjoy yourself.

At night, you send him a photo of the steaming water, lanterns casting a soft glow across the surface.

You: You really booked me a private one?

Zayne’s reply is instant.

Mine♥️: Of course.

Mine♥️: Would’ve been better if I were there.

The implication makes warmth curl through you.

You: Oh now you say that?

But then he follows up with a picture of Serena sleeping soundly.

Mine♥️: Focus on yourself. We’re fine.

And you believe him.

Mostly.

By the second day, though, something shifts. It gets harder.

The excitement wears off, and the quiet isn’t as comforting anymore. You still try—exploring the nearby town, lingering in the hot spring longer than necessary—but there’s a persistent ache beneath it all. You miss them. You knew you would, but not like this.

It doesn’t help that Zayne texts you less today. Not not at all, just… less. And you get it. Of course, you do. Handling a newborn alone isn’t easy—especially at barely a month old. But every silent hour stretches, the quiet turning hollow.

That night, as you settle into bed, your phone finally buzzes.

Mine♥️: You should open the door. Just a suggestion.

Your brows furrow. What?

A knock sounds.

Your heart leaps—you’re out of bed before you can think, barely aware of your feet hitting the floor. You pull the door open, and there he is—bags in hand, expression unreadable, but eyes unmistakably warm.

For a moment, you just stare.

Then, all at once, you’re moving—throwing yourself at him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He barely has time to drop his bags before catching you, hands firm at your waist, breath knocked out in a quiet oof.

“You’re here,” you breathe, half in disbelief. “You’re here.”

Zayne lets out a soft hum, one hand slipping up your back, the other holding you against him. “I’m here.”

Tears prickle at your eyes. You hold on tighter. He smells like home—cool, clean, faintly like the cologne he always wears.

You pull back slightly, hands coming up to cup his face. His skin is a little colder than usual from the night air, his hair slightly tousled—but it’s his eyes that catch you. He looks… tired. Not exhausted, but there’s a faint tension in his shoulders, a quiet strain in his eyes.

You snap into focus. “Wait—what about Serena? Is she okay? Who’s with her?”

Zayne smooths a hand down your back, reassuring. “She’s fine. My parents took over today, and she settled with them easily. So I left.” A pause. “It’s just one night and one day.”

Your heart clenches. He did all of this just to see you.

And then you see it—the quiet exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he doesn’t voice. He needs this too.

Your resolve hardens.

"You need to relax," you say suddenly, reaching for his wrist. Before he can respond, you’re tugging him inside, intent written in every step.

The door clicks shut behind you. Zayne doesn’t resist as you push his coat off his shoulders, and it slips to the floor in a soft heap. His hands come to rest on your waist, cool fingertips pressing through the fabric of your robe, but you don’t give him a chance to take control. Not tonight. You reach for his collar, undoing the buttons of his shirt with slow, deliberate movements, relishing the way his breath hitches when your fingers graze his skin.

He watches you, patient but expectant, hazel eyes shadowed in the dim lantern glow. “Taking this seriously, are you?”

Your lips curve, but you don’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, you slide your hands up his chest, pushing the fabric apart before leaning in to press your mouth just above his heart. His exhale is slow, measured, but when you start trailing kisses higher, along the line of his throat, his restraint frays.

Zayne’s grip tightens at your waist before slipping lower. In one smooth motion, he tugs at the tie of your robe, parting it just enough for cool air to tease your skin. His mouth finds yours, capturing you in a slow, lingering kiss as the silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

By the time you guide him toward the terrace, your clothes are forgotten on the floor, the heat simmering under your skin rivaling the steaming water outside.

Steam rises in soft curls around you, the scent of minerals lingering in the air as the warm water laps at your skin. The private hot spring sits nestled within the enclosed terrace of your room—open to the cool night air, but shielded from any prying eyes.

Beyond the wooden fence, the faint rustle of trees and the distant hum of the resort fade into the background, drowned out by the quiet rush of water and the steady rhythm of breathing.

And Zayne.

You press your back against the smooth, heated stone at the edge of the spring, the warmth seeping through your skin as Zayne moves between your legs, his body flush against yours.

His hands, cool as always, glide along your damp skin, a striking contrast to the heat surrounding you. His breath is steady but heavy. His lips graze your collarbone, trailing upward, catching against your jaw. His fingers dig into your thighs.

It’s raw, desperate, the kind of reunion that speaks louder than words. You barely manage a breath before he’s kissing you again, tilting your chin, deepening the kiss like he’s trying to make up for every second you spent apart. His fingers tighten, pulling you closer, and heat spreads through you faster than the water ever could.

But between the sharp need, Zayne hesitates—just enough for his lips to brush against your jaw, his breath warm as he murmurs, “Are you sure?” His voice is low, restrained, even as his hands betray him, pressing into your skin like he doesn’t want to let go. “It’s only been a month.”

You exhale sharply, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him back to you. “I’m sure,” you whisper, nudging his lips with yours, “but if you stop now, I��ll actually lose my mind.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest, but there’s no amusement when his mouth claims yours again—just raw, unfiltered need.

Zayne’s hand moves—slowly at first, skimming along your waist before pressing against the heated stone behind you. His fingers flex, grounding himself, before he lifts you effortlessly, settling you onto the edge of the spring.

The stone is cool against your bare skin, making you shiver, but the contrast is nothing compared to the heat pooling between your thighs.

He steps between your legs, pulling you forward until your bodies are flush again. The kiss deepens—hotter, more desperate. Your hands clutch at his shoulders before sliding up, fingers threading through damp hair, tugging him closer. He doesn’t resist. If anything, it unravels him further, his body pressing fully against yours, his hands finally roaming where he wants.

His palms cup your breasts, cool against your flushed skin, kneading with firm, deliberate pressure. A gasp catches in your throat as his thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through you. You shift, thighs tightening around his hips, but he doesn’t let up—his touch sharpens, tugging, pressing, teasing, coaxing you to open for him.

Zayne exhales, his breath warm against your skin, before murmuring, “My beautiful wife.” The words are soft, but laced with something deeper, something that makes heat tighten low in your stomach. His lips trail over your jaw, lower to your throat. “You’re breathtaking.”

A shiver runs through you yet again, but it’s not from the cold. Before you can respond, his teeth graze your skin, a teasing bite that makes you gasp before his tongue soothes the mark. He lingers there, his mouth pressing against your shoulder with something like worship, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Your own hands start to move—sliding down his chest, over the firm muscles of his stomach, lower.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, already hard and thick beneath your touch, and Zayne stills.

His breath stutters against your shoulder as you stroke him—slow at first, then firmer—relishing the way he tenses, the quiet groan slipping past his lips. The water slicks every movement as you tease along the sensitive underside before twisting your wrist just the way you know drives him crazy.

Zayne exhales sharply, his grip on you tightening. But he doesn’t let you have the upper hand for long.

His mouth finally lowers, capturing your nipple between his lips, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before sucking hard enough to send a sharp pulse of heat straight through you.

You gasp, back arching, legs tightening around his waist. As his mouth works you, a soft leak of milk escapes, mixing with the heat of his mouth, but Zayne doesn’t hesitate. If anything, the taste seems to drive him further, making him suck harder. After all, you’ve already discussed how your body adjusts to your baby’s needs when you're still pregnant before, and with Serena not needing to feed for at least another two days, Zayne takes full advantage of the rare opportunity.

His hand mirrors the attention, teasing the other breast, rolling and pinching until you're squirming in his grasp, your body trembling with every tug, torn between the ache of pleasure and the soft, natural release your body craves.

While his other hand skim your stomach, slow and deliberate, before sliding lower, brushing over your slick heat. You jolt, anticipation spiking, but he deliberately avoids the spot you want him most, fingers slipping between your entrance instead, teasing just enough to make you whine.

Zayne lifts his head just enough to murmur against your skin, “You’re drenched.”

You shudder, tightening your grip around him. “We’re in water,” you gasp.

He chuckles—low, dark. “I’m the one in the water.” Then presses a finger inside you.

His pace remains slow—intentional. He watches you now, hazel eyes dark beneath the dim light, studying every reaction, every stutter of your breath as he works his fingers inside you. His hand still on your breast continues teasing you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, spreading the leaking milk over the sensitive bud.

He slowly licks his lips, seeing how his teasing makes you leak, as if he wants to taste it himself but also craves watching you unravel like this. His thumb presses into the base of your nipple, making the milk spill out in a small stream that he spreads further, savoring the sight of each drop coming from you.

Your hand falters slightly on his cock, but you don’t stop, fingers still moving along his length, stroking him in a rhythm that mirrors his own touch.

Your body arches, the cool night air a stark contrast to the hot spring, the water lapping at your dangling legs that remain submerged. One of your hands props you up, fingers digging into the edge of the hot spring for balance as you tilt your hips toward him, silently begging for more.

You shiver, every touch heightened—whether from the chill in the air or simply the fact that it’s been too long, you don’t know. But Zayne knows. Of course he does.

And then—his touch shifts.

His hand drifts lower, leaving your breast to trace along your stomach. His fingers ghost over the soft skin stretched and marked by the nine months you carried your daughter.

Your breath catches. A lump rises in your throat.

Between the steady pump of his fingers inside you, the cool air against your feverish skin, and the way he looks at you—soft, reverent, like you are something to be worshiped—you almost shatter on the spot. He traces the marks slowly, so gently that it makes you shiver, heat building in your chest, something raw and unspoken swelling between you.

You never said anything about feeling insecure before. But you don’t need to. Zayne already knows.

Your sweet husband—he always notices first.

Swallowing hard, you reach for him. The hand that was supporting you slides up to curl around the nape of his neck, pulling him in. The kiss is deep, slow, sweet—the kind that lingers, the kind that says more than words ever could.

Your fingers still move along his length, stroking him steadily, and he doesn’t stop either, his pace matching yours. Heat coils tighter between you, and when he finally adds another finger, stretching you further, you gasp into his mouth.

Your grip on him tightens in response, strokes quickening. His breath hitches, his groan muffled against your lips.

Between kisses, your breath stutters, a desperate whisper slipping past your lips. “Put it in.”

Zayne stills for a moment, fingers buried deep inside you, his cock hot and heavy in your grasp. But instead of obeying, he exhales, low and measured, before murmuring against your lips, “The condom is in the room.”

It takes a moment for his words to register. You blink, barely processing, too lost in the molten heat of his fingers working inside you.

“We need to go in,” he continues, voice steady despite the way your walls flutter around his fingers.

You hesitate, cheeks warming, before admitting, "I… already started on the mini-pill."

That makes him pause. His gaze sharpens, flickering over your face, catching the faint blush dusting your cheeks. For a second, he’s completely still—then, his fingers flex inside you, a slow, deliberate press that makes your breath hitch.

He exhales as if steadying himself, and something about the look in his eyes sends a new wave of heat through you. He’s thinking, you realize—not just about the pill, but about you. About how you planned for this, expected him to want you just as badly. The realization does something to him, something that makes his restraint feel even more fragile.

His lips part slightly, as if considering something, and you shift, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean—" You clear your throat. "I thought you'd be all over me after the recovery period."

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but close. “Was that your plan?”

You huff, squeezing around him in retaliation, making him inhale sharply. “It’s fine, Zayne.” You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his jaw. “Just do it.”

He doesn’t move right away. He’s still, too composed, though you can feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding him together. Then, finally, he murmurs, “Better to be safe.”

You groan, frustrated, and he leans down, kissing the sound straight from your lips.

Your head tips back against the stone as he slowly pumps his fingers again, dragging another moan from you. “It’s fine,” you insist, breathless, thighs twitching around his waist.

Zayne hums, like he’s considering it, but then—“I have a better idea.”

Before you can react, he withdraws his fingers, grips your waist, and lifts you off the stone edge, pulling you back into the water. You gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as the heat envelops you again.

“Zayne?” You blink up at him, confused—until he turns you.

Your back presses against his chest, his arms encircling you, his breath warm against your damp skin. His hands find your thighs, and you barely have time to process before he slides his cock between them, thick and hot against your soaked skin.

Realization sparks, and you let out a breathless laugh. “So, we’re doing this instead?”

Zayne hums again, this time against your ear, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. His grip shifts from your thighs, one hand settling on your waist, the other dipping between your folds, fingertips finding your clit.

Before you can protest—or tease, really—he presses down, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

A sharp gasp escapes you, your hands snapping to the edge of the hot spring to brace yourself as your thighs tense around his cock.

“Just for now,” Zayne murmurs, guiding your movements. He thrusts between your legs, his hand on your waist anchoring you against him while his other fingers work you open.

And just like that, your protest is gone, replaced by a sharp, needy moan.

Zayne’s pace is unhurried at first, his cock sliding between your thighs, the friction heightened by the slick heat of the water and the way his fingers toy with your clit. Each slow, deliberate grind sends a pulse of pleasure through you, your breath catching as you grip the stone edge for support.

His grip on your waist tightens, holding you steady as his hips roll against you. The blunt tip of his cock nudges your swollen folds, the friction slick and hot, making your thighs quiver. But he controls the rhythm effortlessly, each movement measured, precise.

Zayne exhales, the sound heavy, controlled, but you catch the tension in his voice when he murmurs, “That’s it.” His lips brush your ear, his cool breath a stark contrast to the warmth enveloping you. “Keep holding me like that.”

You shudder, arching into him, your back pressing against his chest. “Feels good,” you murmur, your voice breathy.

A low hum rumbles from him in response, his hand on your waist sliding toward your folds. With careful, deliberate movements, he parts you, holding you open as his other hand flicks your clit, then presses down with just the right amount of pressure, rubbing slow, teasing circles that have you gasping.

A whimper escapes your throat, your hips twitching as heat coils low in your stomach. Zayne quickens his pace, his thrusts growing more forceful, each drag of his cock between your slick thighs sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

Water laps at your skin with every grind of his hips, gentle splashes mingling with the slick glide of his cock. The warmth of it all—his body, the water, the liquid heat pooling inside you—only deepens the ache, his breath growing heavier behind you.

"Zayne—" His name spills from your lips in a gasp, your grip on the edge tightening as your thighs tremble.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder before he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the damp skin. “Let go.”

The combination of his voice, his fingers, and the relentless glide of his cock sends you over the edge. Your thighs clench around him, your body tensing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. A moan spills from your lips, sharp and breathless, as you jerk in his hold, your release shuddering through you.

Zayne groans, the sound deep and low, his movements stuttering as he thrusts once, twice more before his release takes him. His cock twitches between your thighs, warmth spilling into the water as his grip tightens on you, holding you close as he rides out the intensity of it.

For a moment, the only sound is your shared, uneven breathing, the water rippling gently around you as you both come down from the high.

Zayne doesn’t let go of you right away. His fingers ease off your clit, but his lips press against your shoulder, trailing slow, lingering kisses up to the back of your neck, where your matching tattoo is located. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, still steadying, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

Your own pulse is still racing, thighs trembling from the aftermath, but when he turns your head for a kiss, you melt into him instantly. It’s softer now, less hurried but no less intense—his lips move slowly, thoroughly, savoring each second. His hands remain firm on your waist, thumbs stroking your damp skin, as if grounding himself against you.

You sigh into his mouth, pressing closer, but then you feel it—him, hot and rigid between your thighs, stirring a fresh pulse of need.

Zayne exhales sharply when you shift, just slightly, just enough to brush against him. His grip tightens, and he mutters against your lips, “We should go inside.”

A shiver runs through you, not from the cool air but from the weight of his voice—low, restrained, laced with need. You nod, breath hitching when he effortlessly lifts you into his arms.

The world tilts as he carries you, stepping out of the water with ease. He doesn’t bother with towels, doesn’t set you down—not yet. He doesn’t hesitate.

The night air is a sharp contrast, cool against your feverish skin. But after everything, his body is the only warmth you need as he carries you inside. You barely register the transition—just the firm press of his arms, the damp heat of his skin against yours, the quiet promise in his touch.

His gaze sweeps over you, drinking in the damp flush of your skin, the way your chest rises and falls, the anticipation in your eyes.

Then, as if patience no longer matters, he kisses you again—this time with nothing held back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake slowly, warmth surrounding you—not just from the blankets but from the weight of Zayne against you. His arm drapes over your waist, keeping you anchored, his face buried in your chest, breath slow and steady against your skin. The morning light filters through the curtains, casting soft patterns across the sheets.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re truly rested—despite how much energy you both spent on other activities last night.

Zayne stirs slightly, but instead of moving away, he only presses closer, murmuring something incoherent. You chuckle, threading your fingers through his hair, feeling the way his breath deepens at your touch.

“We should get up,” you say, though you make no effort to move.

Zayne only hums in response, his face still nestled against your chest. Instead of acknowledging your words, he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your skin—right over your collarbone—before murmuring, “Later.”

Later turns out to be much later, the two of you lingering until hunger finally forces you out of bed.

Breakfast is delivered to your room, a beautiful spread of seasonal dishes, but neither of you rush through it. It’s rare to have an entire morning with nothing pulling you away—no cries from the baby monitor, no responsibilities waiting. Just you and him.

You tell yourself to resist checking your phone, to just enjoy breakfast. But the moment Zayne reaches for his coffee, you can’t help it. A quick glance turns into scrolling through the photos his parents sent.

Serena swaddled and peacefully sleeping, her tiny fingers curled around his mother’s hand. Then a short video—his father making exaggerated faces at her while she stares in quiet fascination.

Your heart clenches.

You knew you’d miss her, but seeing her like this, knowing you won’t hold her until tomorrow—

Zayne catches the shift in your expression before you even say anything. Without a word, he reaches over, brushing away the tears that slip down your cheek.

“She’s fine,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your eye, then the other. “We’ll see her tomorrow.”

“I know,” you whisper, sniffling. “I just miss her.”

Zayne smiles, his thumb stroking your cheek. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

You huff a quiet laugh, pressing into his touch. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.” He kisses you again, this time on the lips, soft and lingering. “Just reminding you.”

His hand lingers on your cheek, grounding you, as if silently urging you to hold onto the lightness of the moment. Then, with a small exhale, he drinks his coffee, and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to do the same.

After a slow morning and an indulgent breakfast, the two of you finally step outside, the crisp afternoon air carrying the faint scent of pine and blooming jasmine. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the stone pathways.

A gentle breeze stirs the leaves, blending with the soft murmur of a nearby stream. The warmth of the sun seeps into your skin, soothing in a way that makes you want to stretch out like a cat.

Zayne exhales slowly, looking out over the landscape, and you take that moment to strike.

You turn to Zayne, eyes sharp with intent. “Okay, husband.”

Zayne blinks, clearly thrown off by the shift in tone. “...Yes?”

“You gave me a day off from being a mom. Now it’s your turn to take a break from being a dad.” You fold your arms, nodding to yourself. “And a husband, actually.”

His brows lift slightly. “A break from you?”

“No, no, no, not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hands. “I mean, you’re off-duty—no responsibilities, no taking care of things, no thinking. Just pure relaxation.”

Zayne hums, gaze lingering on you, already amused. “And what exactly does that entail?”

You straighten your back, suddenly all business. “It means I will be handling everything for you today. Just like you did for me.”

“Everything?” His voice dips slightly, a clear invitation for mischief.

You narrow your eyes. “Yes. Everything.”

Zayne tilts his head, amusement sharpening in his gaze. "So…" His voice is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the words before even saying them. "You’ll help me shower?" He lets the question linger, watching your reaction before continuing just as unhurriedly. "Get me dressed?" His lips curve slightly as he leans in, lowering his voice. "Or… the other way around?"

You gape at him. “Stop making everything dirty!” You playfully smack him.

He chuckles, unfazed. “I’m just making sure I understand. Because if we’re talking about last night… you’re the one who made the sheets dirty.” His gaze sharpens, amusement deepening. “Several times, in fact.”

Your face burns. “Zayne—”

“I don’t mind, of course.” He leans in, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “I rather enjoyed it.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “You’re the worst. Why do you always pick the worst times for this?”

Zayne exhales, the amusement in his gaze softening. His fingers tighten briefly around yours before he tugs you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slow, deliberate—like he’s letting himself melt just a little.

When he pulls back, his forehead brushes against yours.

Zayne studies you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he finally resigns. “Alright. I’ll leave it to you, then.”

And that is your cue to go all in.

The moment you spot a tea and refreshment station, you immediately step in front of him, blocking his path. “Ah-ah! What would you like to drink?”

Zayne crossed his arm over his chest, his stance relaxed yet watchful. His gaze flickers from you to the steaming teapot, amusement dancing at the edges of his expression. “I can pour my own tea.”

“Not today, you can’t.” You pick up a cup, already pouring. “This is a father-free, husband-free zone. You are simply a man on vacation.”

His expression is caught between mild disbelief and reluctant amusement. He exhales through his nose, watching as you present the cup with both hands.

“Your tea, my dear guest.”

Zayne takes it, fingers brushing yours, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something sarcastic—but he only watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he murmurs, “Thank you.”

That only encourages you more.

When you find a shaded bench, you brush off the surface with a dramatic flourish. “Your designated relaxation zone, sir.”

Zayne huffs. “You’re getting carried away.”

“No such thing.”

At dinner, it only gets worse—or better, depending on how you look at it.

By evening, you find a cozy restaurant, and over a warm meal, the sky deepens into a rich blue.

The moment your food arrives, you reach across the table and start placing things onto his plate like a doting parent. “Here, eat this first. Oh, and this too. You need more vegetables.”

Zayne watches you, unimpressed. “I am capable of serving myself.”

“Not tonight, you aren’t,” you declare, dropping a perfectly portioned bite onto his plate before taking your own.

Zayne picks up his chopsticks. “I—”

You immediately nudge it closer. "No reaching."

He exhales through his nose, giving you a flat look—but doesn’t argue, quietly amused as you continue to over-serve him, refill his drink before he even thinks about doing it himself, and pull his plate closer every time he tries to reach for something himself.

By the time the meal is halfway done, he leans back slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unreadable in his expression—something soft, warm, and just a little bit too fond.

His eyes linger, and suddenly, the playful rhythm between you two shifts into something quieter.

Your antics falter under the intensity of his gaze. "...What?"

Zayne’s lips curve just barely. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing—you know that look.

Still, you press on, determined to see this through. “You’re not allowed to look at me like that. You’re on vacation.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. If anything, his lips twitch, like he’s considering his next move. Then, deliberately, he leans in closer—just enough that you can feel the coolness of his breath against your skin. His gaze holds yours, unwavering.

“Strange,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Didn’t realize looking at my wife was against vacation rules.”

Your stomach flips. You shove him lightly, face burning. “Zayne.”

He chuckles, finally relenting, but the glint in his eyes lingers. “Right. My mistake.”

He doesn’t stop looking, though. And even as you continue to fuss over him, making sure he does nothing for himself tonight, you realize—this was never about you repaying him. Not really.

It was just an excuse to take care of him for once.

Then after you both finish, just as you step outside, Zayne’s gaze flickers upward. Before you can ask, a firework bursts overhead.

Golden sparks shower through the sky, illuminating his face in warm light. You both pause, watching as another follows, then another, filling the night with color.

Finding an open spot, you settle onto a bench, the cool night air settling against your skin. Zayne sits beside you, his arm naturally draping over your shoulders as you lean into him.

“It’s been a while since we watched fireworks together,” you murmur.

Zayne hums. “Last time was during that festival, wasn’t it?”

You nod, remembering the way he’d pulled you through the crowd, how he’d kissed you beneath the exploding lights. “This is better, though. Just us.”

His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm. “You sound surprised.”

“A little,” you admit, tilting your head to look at him. “You always put thought into things, but this… feels different.”

Zayne raises a brow. “How so?”

You hesitate, searching for the words. “I don’t know. It’s quieter. Feels more like… just us, instead of something for us.”

You hadn’t realized how much you needed that distinction until now. It’s not about the grand gestures or the perfect plans—just the way he exists beside you, like breathing. Steady. Constant. The kind of presence that doesn’t need occasion or effort, only existence.

His lips twitch, amused. “And you prefer this?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I prefer you.”

Zayne goes still, your words catching him off guard. His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes—like he hadn’t expected you to say it so plainly.

Slowly, his expression softens. He exhales, gaze warm. His fingers tighten slightly on your arm, then slip down to lace with yours.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you. Then, almost absentmindedly, he murmurs, “It’s not difficult. Making you happy.”

Your breath catches, heart swelling at the quiet sincerity in his voice. You don’t know if it’s the fireworks, the atmosphere, or just Zayne himself, but you suddenly feel so full of love it almost aches.

You turn toward him, cupping his face as you whisper, “I love you.”

Zayne’s gaze softens. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love you too.”

Then, with fireworks blooming overhead, he kisses you—slow and deep, the soft flashes of gold catching in his lashes, painting light across his skin as he seals the moment between you.

For the first time in a month, you feel like more than just a mom.

You feel like yourself again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment you step inside your house, you barely bother to kick off your shoes before heading straight to the living room—where Serena waits, nestled in your mother-in-law’s arms.

“Ohhh, my baby!” You gasp, dropping your bag unceremoniously before dramatically reaching for her. “My sweet, precious angel—Mommy’s home!”

Zayne trails in behind you, setting the bags down with far more care. You don’t even glance back, laser-focused on your target.

His mother chuckles but carefully transfers Serena into your waiting arms. You cradle her close, breathing in the soft scent of baby powder, your heart melting as you press your cheek to her soft little head.

“I missed you so much,” you murmur, swaying gently. “Did you miss me? Huh? Did you miss your Mommy?”

Serena lets out a soft, sleepy coo, her tiny fingers flexing against your chest.

“I knew it!” you declare, holding her even closer. “You did miss me!”

From beside you, your father in law chuckles. “She was perfectly content.”

"She missed me," you insist, nuzzling into her as you rub slow circles on her back.

“She definitely missed me. Didn’t you, baby? You love me so much—”

Zayne moves to your side, exhaling softly. “I think you missed her enough for the both of you.”

You ignore him completely, dramatically gasping as Serena shifts in your arms. “Oh my God, was that a hug? Did you just hug me? You did, didn’t you?”

Serena, barely a month old, does nothing but stretch her little arms sleepily.

But you pretend it’s the most deliberate thing in the world.

“Zayne, did you see that? Our daughter just hugged me.” You press another kiss to her head, rocking her slightly. “She loves me so much, I knew it.”

Zayne sighs, rubbing his temple. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re just jealous because I got the first hug,” you tease, grinning up at him before tilting Serena slightly toward him. “Say hi to Daddy, baby. He missed you too, even though he’ll pretend he wasn’t sulking about it.”

Zayne, ever composed, doesn’t react to the jab—just reaches out, his fingers grazing Serena’s back. Despite your antics, you don’t miss the way his touch lingers, how his thumb traces slow, gentle circles against the soft fabric of her onesie.

And when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. Warm.

“I did miss you.”

His hand stills for a moment against Serena’s back. Then, his gaze flickers to yours.

Not just to Serena— but to you too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

Changing it to baby blues definitely makes the flip-flop much faster since it’s also much shorter than PPD. I actually got so into the research that I was like, “Huh? That’s interesting.” This was a fun one to write! Hopefully, y’all enjoy it as well! Actually, if there’s anything wrong, feedback would be welcome—this is a long one, I was planning to post the other req at the same time but hold that thought! I'll get there 🫶🏻😂 Not connected and more like a snippet (smut) but still on pregnancy theme!

You're reading the Pregnancy series! You're at Part 6

Part 0

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6 (Smut at the end)

If you're confuse how we got here How it all happen is the start of the Newlyweds series!

And if you want the continuation of them being parent! Here's how the Parenthood series start! Baby Girl

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: Parenthood AU Masterlist ✨