#something comes and crashes in the same place…

[l4ndoflove]

ocean eyes , pt. 2

feat. lando norris

lyrics preview if you jump into lando's "ocean eyes", you know the risk is drowning... but for him, you're willing to take it

maddie shout-out to my baby @piston-cup for being the most supportive "anon" ever and my main motivation to write this, I LOVE U <3

2440 words

⏮️ previous track

Ten days.

That’s exactly how long your silence lasted.

Not that you went radio silent, of course, just… quiet. Quieter than you’d ever been with Lando, anyway.

You started calling him less and less often after that night at his apartment—not out of pettiness, but simply because the mere sound of his voice made your chest ache in a way that should’ve never belonged to him in the first place.

Because it was wrong.

Because now, every time his name lit up on the screen of your phone, a little part of you stubbornly hoped he was calling for the same reason you were waiting for him to.

He never was. And distancing yourself suddenly seemed like the only thing that could help you, if not overcome that suffocating feeling of yearning, at least lock it up in the farthest corner of your mind and pretend it wasn’t giving you the illusion you’d lost something you’d never even had.

Lando, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. He kept texting you, kept sending you stupid reels and talking to you as always—maybe even more insistently than before—making the whole “ghosting” plan way harder than it should’ve been.

Until, one day, it happened.

A message. That’s all it took for your resolution to crumble.

lando: oi muppet

lando: you coming to monaco this weekend right?

You weren’t sure how many times you’d reread those words in your head, allowing that stupidly affectionate nickname to carve a deeper hole in your already hollow chest—right where your heart was supposed to be.

Clearly long enough for his voice to ring in your ears as if he was there talking to you in person.

You could’ve said no. That you were busy. That you couldn’t afford the flight and you didn’t want him to pay for it as always.

You should’ve said no–

you: sure

you: but i’m not crashing at yours this time

lando: why not :(

you: because

Because.

***

You spent the whole weekend with his parents, part because you hadn’t seen them in ages, part to use them as a wall to shield yourself from Lando.

And, against your better judgment, it worked. Adam and Cisca basically stole you whenever they got the chance to tell you about their life—which was perfectly fine—and ask you about yours—which wasn’t, but you tried to answer them anyway.

That’s how you ended up tucked in a corner of the McLaren garage, away from all the cameras, the mechanics, the noise, headset covering just one of your ears as the woman beside you talked the other off.

But your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Your eyes were fixed on the screen hanging right above your head, searching for a flash of papaya every time the frame moved to a different sector.

Ironic, you thought, how everyone kept calling Lando’s car a “rocket ship”, yet your heart could race just as fast.

Sure, you were used to Sundays like this, the adrenaline of the competition, the excitement of knowing your best friend would be starting from pole position… but Monaco?

It had been his dream since childhood, probably. Hell, he’d talked about it so much it had become your dream, too. And you were finally watching it happen in real life.

“Did they pit him yet?” Cisca’s muttering brutally brought you back from the labyrinth of memories you’d lost yourself in, your eyes snapping away from the screen and landing on her focused face instead.

“No, he still has to go in.”

“Right,” she nodded, more to herself than to you as her attention shifted back to the broadcast. “When do you think…”

Her voice trailed off. Scrunching your eyebrows together, you followed her gaze to where it had stopped, confusion lacing both your expressions now.

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh.

You found yourself staring at none other than Magui, orange headphones sitting naturally on her hair like a crown, effortlessly charming even though she wasn’t trying to be.

You already knew she was there, of course. You’d seen her walking around the paddock the days before, and it also wasn’t the first time they’d shown her on live television—nothing new, really.

What Sky Sports had forgotten to mention earlier that weekend, however, was now staring right back at you, written in capital letters so bright that you felt them burning behind your eyelids the moment you looked away:

Margarida Corceiro

Model & Lando Norris’ Partner

Two pairs of eyes bore through you before you even had the time to give those words a meaning, and you had to muster every ounce of willpower you had left to keep a straight face without showing any compromising emotion.

“So… they made it official, huh?” Adam’s voice was hesitant, awkward, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or hold back.

“But–I thought…” His wife kept glancing between you and the screen with the same lost expression of a fish out of water, disbelief simmering beneath her initial confusion.

As for you… well, you didn’t have time to add anything else—not that you would've even if you had the chance to—because the whole team suddenly erupted into cheers so loud that they startled you.

Crofty’s voice echoed off the walls, blasting from the speakers: “Lando Norris wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

He'd done it.

He’d won, and you hadn’t even looked at the screen the moment he’d crossed the finish line, too busy obsessing over something that shouldn’t have surprised you the way it did.

The least you could do for him now was run up to his car like everyone else around you and congratulate him with a hug, a smile, maybe a few tears, too. The usual routine.

And run you did—turning your back to parc fermé and heading toward the exit like the coward you were.

Because you couldn’t stand the idea of watching someone else being the reason his smirk widened as soon as he spotted her in the crowd, jumping into his arms before you, getting lifted off the ground like she was the real trophy…

As selfish as it sounded, that had always been your place—and you weren’t one to share.

So–

“Where are you going?”

You froze.

Lando had always had the annoying ability to express your thoughts for you.

“Out,” you replied without even turning around, “it’s hot here.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he scoffed like he couldn’t believe his ears, jogging up to you until you were face to—well, chest. “I won Monaco, and you’re just… what, leaving?”

You exhaled a shaky breath. “Listen, I–”

“No, wait, I know!” he brightened up, suddenly excited. “It’s for a surprise, right? If I have to stay here, I can–”

“Lando, it’s not… what surprise?”

His grin, that big, toothy grin that lit up every room he walked into, faltered, and your heart withered like a sunflower in the dark.

“Maybe the team planned something without telling me, I don’t know,” you rushed the words out, desperate to fix your mistake, “so why don’t you go back to them–”

“You don’t want to be with me?”

“No–I mean, yes! But I’m sure there are plenty of people who want to congratulate you right now–”

“And you? Do you want to congratulate me?”

Your breath caught at his sharp tone.

He’d never talked to you that way before.

And you tried to answer him, you really did, but all you managed to do was open and close your mouth a couple of times, unable to make a single sound because of the growing tightness in your throat.

Lando frowned.

“So now you won’t even speak to me? After one week of silence? Are you–” he cut himself off, running a hand through his hair out of frustration. “Are you mad at me? Is that it? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No!”

“Then why are you acting like I did?”

“I’m not acting like anything–”

“Yes, you are! You don’t call me anymore, you don’t reply to my texts, you barely look at me when we’re together—this weekend I didn’t even know where you were half of the time!”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were tracking my whereabouts 24/7.”

You flinched before he did when you registered what you’d said, the voice inside your head screaming “What the hell are you doing!?”.

Choosing yourself, that’s what you were doing. Because choosing Lando had become way too complicated, and if you had to hurt him to stop hurting yourself… then be it.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Can we not do this here, please?”

“Why? What are you so scared of? People watching?”

Now that he mentioned it, you remembered you still were in the middle of the garage where all his team, friends, family—and girlfriend, your mind didn’t fail to add—were, and the heavy silence that had fallen over the room was proof enough that they’d heard everything.

“I’m not in the mood right now, okay? Just let it go,” you shrugged, turning to leave.

His hand closed around your wrist a second later.

“No, I’m not letting it go. I’m not letting you go.” Were you imagining things, or did his voice actually soften? “You’ve been avoiding me for days, and I want to know why. As your best friend, I think I deserve the truth.”

There it was. The final straw.

You’d never felt so little nor sounded so miserable when you finally found the courage to speak up.

“That’s the problem,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to talk out loud. “What if I don’t want you to be my best friend anymore?”

At that moment, everything stopped.

The air was so still you could hear a pin drop.

Instead, you heard someone gasping, then trying to cover it up with a cough. Someone shifted in the background. From the corner of your eye, you even saw Adam holding back Cisca and whispering something that sounded awfully close to “Let them sort it out themselves.”

As if you could sort anything out when Lando was standing right in front of you, yet you didn’t even dare to look him in the face.

Then, voice low and hoarse like it physically hurt him to speak, he broke the silence.

“You don’t mean that.”

You did. That was the problem. And you hated how painful it was to finally admit it—to him as much as to yourself—but most of all, you couldn’t handle being the reason he sounded so broken on what should’ve been the best day of his life.

“Sorry, I… I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”

“God, can you stop minimizing this like it’s nothing? And will you–” he tugged at your arm, making you stumble dangerously closer to his chest. “Will you at least look at me? I’m trying to talk to you.”

He leaned in as if to prove his point, ragged breath fanning over your hair as he searched your eyes—which were inevitably drawn to his like magnets to metal.

The second you locked gazes, you knew it was over.

He was glowing. Champagne still dripped from his soaked through fireproofs and the messy curls that were sticking to his forehead, drops sliding down his tan skin like liquid rays of sunshine.

No wonder why they called him McLaren’s golden boy.

And yet, even as he stood there bathing in the Monaco sun, the brighter light still was the one shining in his eyes.

Captivating. Hypnotizing, even. Just as lethal as the one deep-sea predators use to lure their prey right before they strike.

You had to escape before you ended up the same way.

“There’s nothing to say. Now go celebrate, they’re all waiting for you.”

“Nothing? You not wanting me as your best friend anymore is nothing?”

“I didn’t mean–”

“Then what did you mean? Because I’m having a really hard time understanding you–”

“I want you to be more than that, okay? That’s what I meant.”

The words flew out of your mouth so suddenly that you surprised even yourself, but there was no turning back now. The damage had already been done, so you might as well go all the way with it, right?

“I know it’s stupid, and I know it’s never gonna happen, but I can’t pretend I’m fine with playing the part of the supportive best friend when all I really want is to be with you. And maybe if we hadn’t played that stupid game at your apartment last week, I wouldn’t have realized I was–I am in love with you, and we could go back to being friends, and I wouldn’t cry every night over you being with Magui–”

“Wait–Magui? What does she have to do with any of this?”

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help the bitter, disbelieving chuckle you forced out as an answer.

“She has everything to do with this, Lando. She’s the one who kissed you ten days ago and gets to do it whenever she wants, she’s the one Sky Sports called your “partner” on international TV–”

“Sky Sports did what?”

The question made you roll your eyes. “Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

He was serious. You’d learned to understand when he was messing with you, and that wasn’t the case—no, it was something much worse, the spark of a feeling you’d buried deep inside you long before.

Hope.

“So you’re telling me you had no idea they’d be hard launching your girlfriend today?”

“No,” he paused, gaze softening together with the grip around your wrist. “I’m telling you she’s not my girlfriend.”

Bullshit.

Reading the skepticism in your expression, he anticipated your objection just as you opened your mouth to make it.

“We broke up last week.” His thumb started tracing gentle patterns on the back of your hand. “Ten days ago, to be exact.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “The night I realized I was in love with my best friend.”

You blinked up at him, his last words barely audible over the pounding of your heart—and you were met with the same mirrors of water you’d been so scared of drowning into.

The only difference was that, this time, the reflection you saw was yours—not Magui’s.

And when Lando’s lips finally found yours, you let yourself fall and dive into them.

Because now you knew he would be there to catch you.

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

[bullet-prooflove]

Kill The Queen: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol

Summary: Pope tries to come to terms with Smurf's death.

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.

The Gruffalo - Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.

Pope doesn’t know how to process Smurf’s death. Sometimes he feels elated, other times stricken. It comes in waves, a constant, unrelenting deluge of emotion that he struggles to sort through minute by minute, hour by hour.

In the midst of it all there’s you, tangled up in the mess that Smurf left.

You may have granted him freedom but you also helped to kill his mom.

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to make peace with that, not yet anyway.

“I’m sorry you’re grieving.” You say quietly as you try and coax him inside off the porch. He’s spent a long time sitting out here, listening to the sound of the sea, watching the waves as they crash against the shore. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt you this badly.”

You mean that, truly you do. He can see it in your eyes, the way they soften when you look at him. He understands that it was a fight for survival, if you hadn’t got her she would have got you, and then Freya. He was already hers though, her demon, her monster.

“I don’t blame you.” He says finally, rubbing his palms over one another. “You and Baz, you did something that I couldn’t. I would have killed myself if she had hurt you, I would have slit my own throat and let her watch it bleed all over the floor just to spite her.” He sighs, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he looks down at his hands. “I just didn’t expect to feel so much.”

“She was still your mother.” You say gently as you sink to your knees before him, dipping your head so that you can capture his gaze. “She did some terrible shit to you but it doesn’t make your emotions any less valid.”

“Were you like this?” He asks, his dark eyes searching yours. “After you killed your father?”

“No.” You say resolutely. “What my father did to me, it was a different type of brutality.”

Sometimes Pope wishes he could resurrect that man. He’d spend weeks torturing him, pushing him right to the brink of death before he yanked him back again.

“Are you going to come inside for dinner?” You ask him, raising to your feet. He holds his hand out to steady you when you wobble, a side effect of the baby bump.

“No.” He says quietly, his gaze turning back to the ocean. “I think I’m going to sit out here some more.”

It’s well past midnight when he finally steps over the threshold. He locks the glass patio door behind him, closing the blinds, blocking out the world outside. When he turns to face the living room, he finds you asleep on the couch. Waiting up for him he thinks, but giving him the space to work through his shit.

His fingers comb lightly through your hair, gently caressing the silky strands as he looks down at you.

Christ, how did you get more beautiful in the time you were apart? How did he end up with someone so fierce, so dedicated to his heart?

Everything you’ve done over the past couple of days was to protect him, the same way he tried to protect you when Smurf showed up at his place with that sonogram. That’s why he understands that you had to do it, that to save the three of you, you had to kill the queen.

“You did the right thing.” He whispers, his palm coming to rest on the space where the baby resides. “She would have killed us all.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[xoxochb]

“there you are.”

your husband’s voice cuts through the silence of the summer evening. though it’s ever so gentle to match the smile he stares at you with.

you nod and pat the cushion beside you, ushering percy to sit on the porch swing with you.

absentmindedly, his hand goes to your thigh as he sits, rubbing it soothingly as you feet rest on the coffee table. the sunset before you is serene, dipping beneath the ocean as the waves crash gentle against the shore.

the hues of orange and pink decorate percy’s face in an oh-so lovely way. you savor how he looks before he has the chance to tease you for ogling.

“sunset’s later tonight,” he speaks.

you nod, agreeing. “well, summer is approaching quickly.”

“finally.”

you elicit a small laugh before the silence takes over once again. only interrupted by seagulls in the far distance and the sea.

and eventually, percy humming a familiar tune quietly. it was one you’d grown accustomed to after few years of marriage and even more of your relationship.

you’d often hear him hum it as you fall asleep or when he’s cooking in the kitchen or dilly-dallying cleaning up in the bathroom in the mornings. or in times like this. with just the two of you and no worries in the world.

sometimes you’d even find the same song coming from your own lips without realizing. it brought you a sense of familiarity and comfort.

“perce.”

you slide your feet off the coffee table, opting to tuck them beneath your bottom instead. you then place your hand over percy’s remaining on your thigh.

“hmm?”

you rest your head on the back of the swing, gingerly smiling up at him with adoration. “we should go swimming tomorrow. since it’ll be warm.”

“I like how you think.” he returns your expression.

“did you marry me or my brain?”

“both.”

percy slides impossibly closer to you, lifting his hand on your thigh to smooth your hair away from your face before cupping your cheek, rubbing it with his thumb. they grow a faint shade of pink at his tender actions.

“blue tankini or pink bikini?”

“blue. always.”

you assumed as much. though you still wanted to ask if only to hear his voice.

“blue it is.”

he reaches and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. then your cheeks and your nose and each corner of your mouth.

and with a last glance of his green ocean eyes, his lips find yours entirely. in a kiss as soft as the breeze and the waves surrounding you.

— might not be my best work since I’m still very sick but I wanted to get something out at least to make up for the days I haven’t written since I feel awful :(( <33

[starset21]

From Paddock to "Prom"

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x NASCAR Driver!Reader

Genre: Slow Burn, Off-Season AU, Romance

Summery: Oscar Piastri never planned to attend the glitzy motorsport charity gala, and he definitely didn’t expect to enjoy it—until he finds himself seated next to a NASCAR driver wearing cowboy boots under her dress. With nothing in common on paper but everything in vibe, they share an awkward two-step, a sweet escape into the rain, and quiet conversations beneath an oak tree. What starts as a miserable evening slowly transforms into a night of surprising connection. Somewhere between missteps and shared smiles, the off-season suddenly feels less lonely—and full of new possibilities.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: I'm just gonna drop this and run-

Oscar Piastri tugged at his collar for the sixth time in as many minutes. The tuxedo fit but that didn’t mean it was comfortable. The ballroom glittered with lights and polished smiles, the kind of place that made his skin crawl with formality. He hadn’t wanted to come. He was definitely not the gala type. But the off-season was long, and someone from PR had given him a speech about “visibility” and “brand” and something-something-charity, and now here he was. Alone at a round table, nursing a glass of water and contemplating the nearest exit.

And then she walked in.

Not with the elegance of a movie star or the icy confidence of a sponsor darling—but with a casual swagger that reminded him of pit lane. Her dress was sleek, shimmering under the chandeliers—but beneath the hem, he caught a flash of—were those cowboy boots?

She sat down beside him with a grin, sliding into the seat like she owned the room. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

Oscar blinked. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s also been looking for the fire escape since she got here.”

He laughed before he meant to. Her accent was warm, and the tone confident in a way that didn’t feel performative.

“Y/N. NASCAR. Short tracks, left turns, the occasional fistfight.”

He shook her hand. “Oscar. F1. Chicanes, tire strategy, and uncomfortable tuxedos.”

They clicked faster than either expected.

Over dinner, they traded paddock horror stories, swapped notes on their most dramatic crashes, and debated the merits of different fuel strategies. She teased him for his perfectly combed hair; he asked if she always wore boots under ball gowns.

The music started—a slow, twangy country crossover ballad that made him wince.

“I have no idea how to dance to this,” he muttered.

“Oh, you poor thing.” She stood and offered her hand. “Come on. I’ll teach you to two-step.”

He protested mildly, but she dragged him to the dance floor anyway.

It was a disaster.

His timing was off, his footwork clumsy, and at one point he nearly stepped on her toes. But she laughed every time he stumbled—not cruelly, just charmed.

“Okay,” she said, “you move like you’re still on a race line, but I’m giving you points for effort.”

Oscar became acutely aware of the warmth radiating from her, the steady beat of her heart against his chest. The softness of her breath mingled with his, the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, with hints of apple—lingering in the air between them. For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the distant twang of the music fading into a gentler melody, like a lullaby coaxing them away from everything else.

His mind, usually racing with strategy and splits and lap times, quieted. The noise of the gala—the forced smiles, the glittering expectations—fell away, replaced by this unexpected calm. He caught the way her eyes softened when they met his, the slight curve of her lips as if she was on the verge of saying something important but wasn’t sure if the moment was right.

Then the first drops of rain tapped against the ballroom windows, soft but steady.

Y/N’s gaze flicked upward, catching the change.

“That’s our cue,” she said with a playful grin, pulling gently at his sleeve.

Before Oscar could protest, she was already moving toward the side exit. The cool marble of the floor gave way to the fresh scent of wet grass as they stepped outside.

The rain had come fully now, a gentle shower that cooled the air and blurred the city lights into shimmering streaks.

Y/N laughed, a sound that was equal parts thrill and relief, as she spun once beneath the dark sky, arms wide open, rain soaking through her dress.

Oscar watched her, a smile tugging at his lips despite the damp chill.

“You’re impossible,” he said, reaching to take her hand.

“Maybe,” she admitted, squeezing his fingers. “But I promise I’m fun.”

He tugged her close again, under the wide canopy of an old oak tree that shielded them from the worst of the rain. Their breaths mingled in the quiet night, hearts beating faster—not from the dance, or the cold, but something else. He brushed a wet strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said softly.

She smiled, eyes sparkling with the reflection of the raindrops. “Me too.”

The space between them shrank until their lips met—tentative at first, then with growing certainty—sealed beneath the rhythm of falling rain and the promise of something new. The kiss lingered, gentle and warm despite the cool rain soaking through their clothes. Oscar’s hand rested lightly on her waist, steadying her as if grounding himself just as much as her. She melted into the moment, her fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket.

When they finally pulled apart, breath mingling in the damp night air, her eyes shone—half amused, half something softer. “Well,” she teased, “I still say you’re a disaster on the dance floor.”

Oscar chuckled, brushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m more of a rookie tonight, I admit.” 

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a quiet, sincere tone. “You don’t have to be perfect, you know. None of this does.”

He studied her face—the slight crease at the corner of her eye from laughing, the honest warmth that seemed to come naturally with her presence.

“Maybe that’s the best part,” he said, smiling softly.

For a moment, they just stood beneath the oak tree, listening to the rain drum gently above them. Somewhere distant, the gala music drifted faintly through the night, a reminder of the world they’d stepped away from. The night stretched before them, open and full of possibilities. She leaned her head lightly against Oscar’s chest, her breath steadying as his arms wrapped gently around her. Neither of them said anything for a while, content to listen to the rain and the hush of the world narrowing down to just this — two racers under a tree, hiding from a life that never seemed to slow down.

She tilted her head up, her voice softer now, thoughtful. “We’re always performing, y’know? Even off the track. Always trying to fit into whatever mold they think we should be.”

Oscar nodded. “Smile for the camera. Thank the sponsors. Pretend you’re not tired or pissed off or over it.”

“But right now…” she paused, brushing a droplet from his cheek, “this is the first time in a long while where I haven’t felt like I needed to be anyone else.”

He searched her expression and found himself nodding before the words even formed. “Same.”

The tree swayed slightly in the breeze, scattering droplets across Oscar’s shoulders, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to. The tension he’d brought into the gala—the tight smile, the stiff tuxedo, the mental countdown to freedom—had all dissolved the moment she’d sat down next to him.

Y/N stepped back, just enough to meet his eyes again. “Tell you what, Piastri. Next time they drag us to one of these things, we go together. That way at least we can be miserable with decent company.”

Oscar smiled, wide and real. “Deal. But only if you promise to teach me that line dancing you mentioned.”

She gave a low, teasing laugh. “Oh, you poor thing. You’re going to regret that.”

“I doubt it,” he said. And meant it.

They slowly made their way back inside, both soaked, both smiling, not even trying to play it cool. A few heads turned when they reentered the ballroom, water dripping from the hem of her dress and the shoulders of his tux, their fingers still loosely intertwined.

Later that night, long after the gala ended, a blurry photo would make its way to social media—Oscar and Y/N on the dance floor, laughing, too close to be “just friends,” her boots visible beneath her dress, his hand lingering on her waist. The caption simply read:

#UnexpectedPair or motorsport’s newest duo? 👀🔥

Oscar saw it the next morning. His phone buzzed nonstop with group chats and PR warnings and cheeky messages from Lando.

But he ignored all of them for a moment and sent the photo to Y/N with a message:

“Apparently I’m not just bad at two-stepping — I’m publicly bad at it now.”

Her reply came seconds later:

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re clumsy.”

“Teach me next off-season?” he added.

“Boots and all,” she sent back. “Always.”

He smiled, flipping the phone onto the hotel nightstand, the sound of rain still lingering in his mind. Maybe the off-season didn’t have to be about waiting. Maybe, this time, it was about starting.

[lostintransist]

Divorcing John Price | Reddit Replies

AITA Part 1

I read through some of the responses from my moment of weakness. I shouldn’t have posted to Reddit of all places but dammit I couldn’t talk to anyone about this. My therapist knew but watching her lock down her muscles all I could see was the ‘don’t react, don’t react, don’t react’ screaming through her mind as I dropped the news on her. Objective would be the only kind of conversation I got from her.

“Is there anything he can do or change that would make you want to stay?”

“Have you thought about couples therapy?”

“Let’s check in, is there any part of you that doesn’t want this?”

Telling any of my friends before I told John felt dishonest and shameful, apparently telling the entirety of AITA forum didn’t hit that same bell though. I don’t plan on replying to anyone, but answer them in my head anyway.

Reddit user/veto58468731247

Dude…are you okay?

Heh, I guess? Finding the choices I made at twenty don’t fit as well in my thirties.

Reddit user/ Vanta (say happy cake day)

Have you thought about talking to him? Maybe if you talk with him and let him know you can start a trail of actions and therapy to show you at least tried. IDK 🤷🏾‍♀️ I also think maybe he married you as a beard of you think he is too friendly with the guys he works with. Have you heard of a lavender marriage?

Well, damn. A lavender marriage wouldn’t be that bad. I would want my own money though, need it. I can’t keep up the tap dance of toeing the line between keeping him happy and making sure I can live and enjoy my life. It would have to be a friendship kind of relationship and not a marriage. A friendship means I can go ahead without having to check on things that truly don’t matter to me but will cause stress if mess with. That would be the only way that I could keep going like I have been. I never had a chance to be a dumb twenty-something; the idea of kissing a girl doesn’t light a spark but I want to try you know? Just to see.

Reddit user/ NotReallyDumb:

Poor guy. This is why men should be careful about who they get pregnant. His wife is complaining about being a fucking housewife.

The slow blink that I can’t stop reading this one pairs nicely with the block button. Making sweeping statements about a situation you only know the grievances about will never be helpful for anyone. Like why the fuck would the jerk type that out? ‘NotReallyDumb’ seems really dumb.

Reddit user/ DontDropTheSoap:

Is this who I think it is? Is John [redacted] who I think it is? 👀👀👀

This one got a reply. I shouldn’t have, but if any of his men were sleeping with him and smiling in your face? That roiled in my chest like a hurricane at sea.

I don’t know, Soap, [please read this with a popping of the p]. Why don’t you schedule lunch with the wife of who you think this is and we can compare notes.

I pop the p on Soap at least once every time I see him. Tiny bits bring me joy.

Reddit user/ therapyisforsuckersandassholes

Husband must not be a real man if he can’t do more than crash after coming home from work.

First off, asshole, my husband does crazy hard work and him collapsing into himself wouldn’t be a problem if he could pull himself out of the funk for anything except his men. If I was important to him, if the kids held a higher hold on his heart, he would at least try for us.

Mentally replying to this one caught me in the neck. Tears started without my permission. That was it. The big issue. John would always find the energy to save his men from anything, but couldn’t find the will to schedule a babysitter or take me on a date. He commanded men all day, a captain. But one annoyed sigh from his strong-willed wife and he crumbled. Fucker needed to step up or step out because I couldn’t hold this teeter-totter still much longer.

Reddit user/sharingcaringandassstuff

Do you have a job hun? It sounds like you’re gonna be needing one soon if not.

Not a full-time gig, no, but soon the kids will all be in school and I can swing getting job that pays more and has more h. I’ve been using John’s pay to clear the debt that hasn’t yet been wiped away. While you want the house I won’t fight him for it. I would happily find somewhere to sleep during the weeks he is home and with the kids. Honestly, keeping it for them would be the best option in my opinion.

Reddit user/8675309999971

Does your husband do anything?

Both too much and not enough. Therapist said he sounded avoidant and that if he can’t face the ninety seconds it would take for his brain to stop throwing panic why would I want to keep trying for this marriage? Can’t I step back and keep him as a co-parent instead of drowning under the weight of my own unmet needs?

Three days later a text from John’s sergeant, Soap, with an offer to go to grab lunch solidifies the fact I cannot stay as I am.

Drafting the options takes several days. There it sits in stark black and white, the end of what we were and the beginning of what we could be.

If he chooses divorce, I won’t ask for alimony. I will fight tooth and nail to be the primary custodian of our children though. Between his job and his long absences, any well-educated person could see that child support payments would be cheaper than a nanny.

However, if he chooses a lavender marriage I want him out of the main bedroom. I get two days free every month to do whatever the hell I want while he gets to be home with the kids. I will treat this legal agreement exactly like what it is. A legal agreement. The thing about contracts is they can be updated, adjusted, changed, if both parties agree.

John will balk, but the man had ten-plus years to buck up and try for something different. I’m not waiting on his inconsistent timing anymore.

Masterlist | Taglist

Shout out to @miss-vanta-likes-to-write and @skeletonsucker for helping me with the reddit replies 😘

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Peace - Act II : Chapter four

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

Warnings: None

A/N: Writing Jackie in this has been like writing someone about to blow up😭 rip to my Taylor girls.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the lamp on Lottie’s nightstand. The television is still on, volume barely audible, some grainy nature documentary humming in the background.

The both of you are sprawled on Lottie’s bed, a mess of pillows and shared blankets, limbs relaxed, socks mismatched. It’s the kind of comfort that only comes when the world outside has gone still.

Lottie’s lying on her side, head propped up by her hand. You’re flat on your back beside her, staring at the ceiling like you're thinking about something too big to say out loud. The silence has stretched long, but it isn’t awkward. Just full.

You felt like you were drowning. Jackie…you’re best friend. Your person. Someone you knew you could always just fucking rely on. Was being an asshole.

And you couldn’t figure out why. You hated the way it made you feel. Especially when all you wanted to do was-fucking talk to her. Talk to the one person who gets it. Gets how everything fucking sucks.

You were back in this fucking small town. The place your parents died. Fighting memories and the shadows of their faces, that have started to fuzz around the edges.

Your grandparents keep pulling your brother further away from you. Harder to talk to him, every conversation ending with abrupt stop from them. To top it off you fucking never know if your aunt will be home, if there was food at the house, if the bills were paid, and if she is home whether she is coherent or hungover, or in one of her…moods.

Then there’s Lottie. This sweet, kind, beautiful, pure…safe person. Who came into your life like a storm. And she makes it easy to just breathe. Gives you permission to be. And you can’t help it.

Why is this all so fucking overwhelming?

Then within the silence, you gather the courage to speak, quiet and a little hoarse. “I don’t know how I got here.”

Lottie blinks, turning her full attention to her. “What do you mean?”

You huff a soft breath. “Here. With you. On this bed. In this house. Feeling like I’m not just… surviving.”

Lottie watches you carefully. Your voice is even, but there’s something just under it, raw and real. You lick your lips. You have to keep going.

“I don’t really feel like I belong anywhere,” you continue, voice soft. “Most days, I’m either holding my breath or trying not to disappear. But with you… I forget I’m supposed to be struggling.”

Lottie’s heart clenches. She doesn’t speak, not right away. She just shifts a little closer, resting her hand lightly on your wrist. Not pulling, not asking. Just there. You turn your head slightly to look at her.

“I’m really thankful for you,” you say, almost in a whisper. “I don’t think I’ve said that.”

Lottie’s expression softens in that open, unguarded way that only happens in the dark, when no one’s looking. “You don’t have to,” she murmurs. “I know.”

There's a pause.

“But…” she adds, with a small, crooked smile. “I like hearing it.”

You let out a quiet laugh, then turn to face her fully. Your heads are close now, sharing the same air, the same warmth. Lottie reaches forward and gently tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek without thinking.

You don’t flinch away. Instead, you whisper, “This is the safest I’ve felt in a long time.”

Lottie swallows, trying not to show how deeply the words hit her. “Then stay,” she says. “For as long as you want.”

You nod once, slow and certain, and when you finally close your eyes, Lottie watches her a little longer, like if she looks hard enough, she can memorize this version of you. The one at peace. The one that trusts her.

Outside, the wind rustles the trees. Inside, the only sound is the low hum of the TV and two steady heartbeats, side by side. And for a while, neither of them says anything at all.

The next day, the hallway is alive with noise, lockers slamming, laughter ricocheting off the walls, sneakers squeaking across the linoleum.

You're at your locker, head tilted slightly as you adjust the strap of your bag. Lottie is beside you, leaning against the next locker over like she always belongs there. There’s a softness in the bubble of just the two of you, like the noise doesn’t quite touch you both.

Lottie says something, probably a dumb joke, and you do that quiet laugh you only seem to do with her. Lottie beams like she’s just won something. Then it happens again: the light touch.

Just Lottie’s fingers brushing down your arm as she reaches to point something out in her open notebook. Casual. Barely there. But you don’t flinch. Don’t blink. You smile, your shoulder leaning just slightly into the space between them.

Jackie sees it from the far end of the hallway. She’s flanked by Allie and Shauna, arms crossed, textbook clutched tight to her chest. Her steps falter.

Allie keeps talking, oblivious. Saying something about her chemistry partner being the “literal worst.” But Shauna stops. Her eyes flick from Lottie and you back to Jackie. She catches the pause, the way Jackie’s mouth presses into a thin, perfect line.

“You gonna say something?” Shauna asks, voice low.

Jackie doesn’t answer. She just watches the two girls across the hall. Lottie reaches out again, tugs a small thread off your flannel sleeve, her fingers lingering a beat too long. Your eyes flick up to hers. It’s nothing, but it’s not nothing.

“No,” Jackie says finally. Her tone is clipped, unreadable. “Why would I?”

Shauna narrows her eyes at her. “You used to care about things like that.”

Jackie exhales sharply through her nose, turning toward her locker. “Caring and reacting are two different things.”

Shauna studies her for a second, something unreadable flickering behind her gaze.

“You sound like your mom.”

That gets Jackie’s attention. Her head snaps toward Shauna, eyes flashing. But Shauna doesn’t backpedal. She just gives Jackie a look that says you know I’m right and starts walking. Jackie stays behind, staring down at her locker handle.

Across the hall, Lottie and you have started walking toward class, arms bumping once, twice. The hallway swallows them up. And Jackie stands in place, picture perfect, polished, silent — while everything underneath her skin threatens to split wide open.

[mysafehaneul]

SEVERALTY: CHAPTER 2

A SEVENTEEN MAFIA X DOCTOR AU!

PAIRING: Choi Seungcheol X Reader

CHAPTER 1

WARNING: blood, strong language, ADULT AUDIENCE ONLY.

CHAPTER 2

SONG: SOFTCORE BY THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

Opportunities in life rarely arrive on a silver platter, neatly arranged and waiting to be claimed. Instead, they appear like fleeting glimpses, teasing possibilities that dangle just out of reach. Only those sharp enough to recognize them will seize the moment and make it their own. This was a lesson never lost on Choi Siwon’s father, who, at just eighteen, stepped into the sprawling city of dreams with nothing but ambition—and built an empire.

How did he do it? By choosing fear—his fear, and the fear he instilled in others. Life offered him two choices: to live cowering in the shadows or to become the shadow that others feared. He chose the latter. From the dark corners to the bright lights, the mere whisper of his name was enough to send chills down anyone’s spine. 

Siwon, growing up in that legacy, made one thing clear—no one in his family would ever take that fear for granted. It wasn’t just their shield; it was their power.

The night had settled over the house, casting deep shadows across the room. The curtains were drawn, barely allowing the flicker of city lights to seep through. A soft hum of wind outside whispered through the trees, while the rest of the household lay quiet in the embrace of sleep.

Siwon sat upright in bed, a book open on his lap, though his eyes had drifted from the pages long ago. His mind was far from the words, consumed instead by the events of the day. After Seungcheol had left, Mincheol  had advised that no one leave the house, a precaution Siwon reluctantly agreed to. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes, memories pulling him back to the moment Mincheol  was born. That day was the first time he had felt true fear—not for himself, but for someone else. The fear of protecting not just his own back but the lives of the woman he had come to love and their newborn son.

Mincheol  had always been mature beyond his years, calm and rational. Siwon had raised him as the heir, shaping him with an iron will, and in many ways, Mincheol  had inherited his mother’s grace. Siwon’s thoughts softened as he glanced at the bathroom door just as it opened, revealing his wife, dressed in her nightwear. She walked with effortless grace toward the dressing table, beginning her nightly routine. It baffled him that even after thirty-two years of marriage, she still had that undeniable pull over him. Wherever she went, his eyes would follow.

She caught his gaze in the mirror and smiled softly, the kind of smile that held years of understanding. Taking a small pump of hand cream, she walked over to his side of the bed. Siwon watched her every move as though he were seeing her for the first time, and when she sat down beside him, he extended his hands without a word. It was a ritual of sorts—one of their many small acts of love. She began to gently massage the cream into his hands, and they sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound being the rustling of sheets and the faint whisper of wind outside.

"I’ve been noticing for the past few days that you’ve been worried about something," she said finally, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, knowing, but still gentle enough to coax him out of his thoughts.

Siwon sighed deeply, his thumb absently brushing against her hand. "It’s Seungcheol," he admitted. "When I look at him, I can’t help but worry. His head’s in the right place, but his pace… it scares me. The dock work, the new hospital—I’m proud of him, but he moves so fast. Too fast. Sometimes I worry that he’s going to crash before he has a chance to soar."

He stopped, gripping her hand as if grounding himself. His wife gave him a reassuring squeeze, her touch a comfort as always.

"When I look at him, I’m reminded of you," she said with a knowing smile. "Same temperament, same unbridled current running through his veins. Don’t worry too much about him. Once he has responsibilities of his own—and I don’t mean work—he’ll change. He’ll slow down."

Siwon leaned back into the pillows, letting out a soft chuckle. "Marriage does have a way of settling you," he murmured.

She raised an eyebrow, playful curiosity in her eyes. "What do you mean by that?" she teased.

He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Nothing, nothing at all. But I doubt Seungcheol will be as lucky as his father when it comes to marriage."

She rolled her eyes at him, but her smile remained as she swatted him lightly. Siwon took her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of it.

Before either could speak again, there was a soft knock at the door. Their grandson’s small voice followed, muffled but unmistakable.

“Grandma”

They exchanged a look, and Siwon’s wife called out, “Come in, sweetheart.”

The door creaked open, and their grandson appeared, clutching his stuffed bear tightly, his eyes sleepy but full of worry.

Siwon made space for him on the bed. “Come on, little man. Hop in.”

The boy climbed in and nestled between them, his little body cuddling close to his grandfather’s side. Siwon tucked the blanket around him, stroking his hair.

“Are you okay?” Siwon asked softly, noticing the frown on his grandson’s face.

The boy nodded but whispered, “Mummy and Daddy are fighting again.”

Siwon’s heart tightened slightly as he glanced at his wife. She gave him a reassuring smile before turning back to the boy.

“Sometimes grown-ups argue, but they still love each other very much,” she said gently, brushing a hand through the boy’s hair.

Siwon added, “You don’t need to worry about that, okay? We’re here, and everything’s fine.”

The boy snuggled deeper between them, his small voice sleepy. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Of course, buddy,” Siwon whispered, pressing a kiss to his grandson’s head. “You’re always safe with us.”

Within moments, the boy drifted off to sleep, nestled between his grandparents.

𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪

Min Jae-in hadn’t expected things to escalate this quickly when he received the call. He paced his office, his fingers gripping the cigar between them, a trail of smoke curling lazily into the air. The tension was thick, but beneath the surface, there was something deeper—a simmering resentment that had been brewing for over two decades.

Twenty years ago, Choi Siwon, once his closest comrade, had betrayed him. Siwon had chosen to save his own skin, leaving Jae-in to take the fall. The consequences were devastating, ripping apart everything Jae-in held dear. His family was destroyed, his daughter taken from him, and most painfully, the woman he loved lost forever. 

Jae-in’s gaze lingered on a worn photo frame on his desk. Inside it was a picture of a woman holding a little girl, their faces beaming with happiness from another time—a time before everything fell apart. Next to it was another photo, one of two young men sitting side by side, laughing at something only they knew, a snapshot of better days when friendship still held meaning. But those days were long gone.

Taking a deep puff of his cigar, Jae-in exhaled slowly, the smoke merging with his thoughts. Ten years ago, when he had finally emerged from prison, he knew that if he wanted to get back at Siwon, he would need to rise to his level. Revenge couldn’t be sloppy or impulsive; it had to be methodical. And so, he began his ascent. 

The first step had been easy—marrying the daughter of Choi's biggest rival at the time. That move had given him the leverage he needed to burrow his way into power. Slowly but surely, Jae-in took over his father-in-law's empire, transforming it into something that could stand toe-to-toe with Siwon's vast enterprises. Where the Choi family had dominated in pharmaceuticals, export, and construction, Jae-in expanded his reach into public politics, stepping out of the shadows Siwon had been content to lurk in.

But Jae-in had learned one crucial lesson from the elder Choi: to truly persist, you must think of your roots. If you have the support of the people, especially those who are overlooked and marginalized, you will always have power. So he built factories, and created jobs in the most ghettoized parts of the city, and soon, nearly every street corner had a store linked to his businesses. Whether owned by him or sponsored, Jae-in's influence was everywhere.

A deep sigh escaped his lips as he made his way down the dim hallway, stopping outside his son’s room. Inside, his son lay in bed, his leg heavily bandaged. The bullet wound from Seungcheol’s men had left him furious, and the anger radiated off him in waves.

“We have to do something about these Choi bastards,” his son spat, struggling to sit up, his face contorted in pain. “Seungcheol and his dogs did this to us. They think they can get away with it.”

Jae-in, still holding the cigar, scowled at his son's recklessness. “You need to learn to control your temper. This isn’t how we fight.” His voice was stern, but his son’s defiance was met with a glare that brooked no argument. “Call your men back. We can’t afford any more impulsive mistakes.”

His son’s face fell, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but he knew better than to argue further.

Leaving the room, Jae-in walked back to his office, his thoughts heavy. 

His eyes darkened as he picked up the phone, dialing a number. The other line clicked, and a voice on the other end greeted him. Jae-in’s tone was low, and controlled, but his words carried the weight of years of pent-up fury. 

“It’s time,” he said simply. “Let them know we’re coming.”

𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪

The tires screeched to a halt with a deafening screech, the black car stopping so abruptly that bystanders scattered, gaping at the reckless arrival. Doors flung open, and two men, breathless and frantic, hauled a third from the backseat. He was barely conscious, blood pouring from his body like a river, soaking his clothes. Panic surged through the hospital entrance as the men dragged him forward.

"Get the doctor! NOW!" one of the men bellowed, his voice raw with desperation. The emergency department staff froze in place, wide-eyed, taken aback by the intensity of the scene.

"FAST!" another voice shouted, snapping the staff from their paralysis. They scrambled, rushing forward with a stretcher, but the sight of the bleeding man—so pale, so lifeless—had them rattled.

The man’s companions weren’t in much better shape, but they clung to a dangerous determination, their clothes drenched in blood. One leaned in close to the injured man, voice trembling. “Mingyu, stay with me, dammit! WHERE THE FUCK IS THE DOCTOR?!”

As they sped into the hospital, a nurse, her voice shaking, spoke up. “Sir, this is a police case. We have to notify the—”

“Do you have a death wish?” the man spat, pulling a revolver from his jacket. He pressed it firmly against the male nurse's temple, eyes blazing with fury. “You wanna see your brains splattered all over this room?”

Seungcheol, trailing behind, had barely stepped through the entrance when the sight froze him in place. But before he could intervene, a blur of motion cut past him. It was a woman—a doctor—who moved with such force and speed that even he, usually unshaken, hesitated.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing in my ER?” she demanded, her voice sharp as a blade. She marched up to the man with the gun, her fearlessness palpable. Standing just a breath away from the weapon, she shoved him back, hard. “Put that away, or you’ll wish you hadn’t set foot here. Do you think bullying us will save your friend? If you don’t back off, your friend will die right in front of you.”

The man, despite the gun in his hand, blinked in disbelief at her audacity. His grip wavered.

She turned on her heel, barking orders at the staff. “Call Dr. Khan and Dr. James. Prepare OT4—now! We’re running out of time.”

One of the nurses looked unsure, glancing nervously at the tall man with the gun. “But Dr. Y/N—”

The man took a threatening step forward, but before he could speak, a voice boomed from the back. “Wonwoo, stand down.”

It was Seungcheol’s voice, cool and lethal. Wonwoo's gaze flickered from Dr. Y/N to Seungcheol, his jaw clenched tight. After a tense pause, he lowered the revolver.

The ding of the elevator echoed down the hall, and from it emerged the head surgeon, his face a mask of shock as he saw the bleeding man. "CEO Choi!" he gasped, bowing immediately. “Why is everyone standing around? MOVE!"

The staff, finally snapping into action, rushed to wheel Mingyu to the operating theater, but Y/N stood still, her eyes narrowing in confusion. Her superior’s behavior was strange—far too respectful. Her gaze darted back to the man by the door, Seungcheol. He was watching her with a look she couldn't quite place, something halfway between amusement and calculation. His lips curled into a smirk, almost daring her to challenge him.

Y/N’s stomach twisted with unease, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. She shook her head, brushing the unsettling feeling away, and rushed after the stretcher.

Seungcheol watched her go, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

The doors to the operating room swung open with a cold, sterile clang as the team rushed Mingyu’s stretcher inside. The air was thick with tension, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling their lungs. Overhead, the surgical lights flickered on, bathing the room in harsh white light. Dr. Y/N, along with Dr. Cordon, Dr. Khan, and Dr. James, stood at the ready, masked and gloved, their faces grim.

"Blood pressure’s dropping fast," the anesthesiologist warned from the head of the table. "We need to stabilize him, now."

Dr. Y/N’s eyes flickered to the heart monitor—Mingyu’s pulse was erratic, his heartbeat faltering with every second. She gripped the surgical tools, her hands steady despite the urgency racing through her veins.

"Prep for a transfusion. We need O-negative stat!" Dr. Y/N called out, her voice calm but commanding.

"Already on it," replied the nurse, scrambling to get the necessary blood. The faint beeping of the heart monitor became a steady rhythm, too slow for comfort. The room buzzed with controlled chaos.

"Scalpel," Dr. Cordon demanded, stepping forward beside Dr. Y/N. The incision was swift and clean, the layers of Mingyu’s blood-soaked skin parting as they worked quickly to locate the bullet. His internal bleeding was severe—each cut revealed more damage.

“Dammit, he’s bleeding out too fast!” Dr. Khan cursed under his breath.

Dr. Y/N’s hands moved deftly, despite the rising tension. "Suction!" she ordered, her voice clipped but clear. The nurse immediately complied, the hiss of the suction machine filling the room as it cleared the blood pooling inside Mingyu’s body.

"There it is," Dr. Cordon muttered as they finally spotted the bullet lodged deep near his lung, dangerously close to vital arteries. "We need to get this out, now."

The sound of metal scraping against bone was unsettling as Dr. Cordon carefully gripped the bullet with forceps, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Dr. Y/N stood at the ready, anticipating the moment it would come free.

Suddenly, the heart monitor let out a loud, continuous beep.

"Heart rate’s crashing! He’s flatlining!" the nurse yelled, her face paling.

“Shit! We’re losing him!” Dr. James exclaimed, his eyes wide with urgency.

"Get the defibrillator!" Dr. Y/N shouted, her focus sharp, her voice steady despite the chaos. The tension in the room spiked. Every second counted.

The nurse hurried over with the defibrillator. Dr. Y/N took the paddles, looking around the room. "Clear!" she called out, pressing the paddles against Mingyu’s chest. His body jolted violently from the shock, but the heart monitor remained a straight line.

“Charge it again! Higher voltage!” Dr. Y/N ordered, refusing to let the panic settle in. Her eyes darted to the bullet still in Dr. Cordon’s grip.

Dr. Khan’s hands moved swiftly, applying pressure to Mingyu’s side as blood continued to seep out. "We need that bullet out before we lose him for good."

"Clear!" Dr. Y/N shouted again, shocking his chest with a higher charge. Mingyu’s body jerked on the table, but still no response.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, but she refused to back down. "Charge it again! Come on, Mingyu!"

Dr. Cordon finally dislodged the bullet, holding it up triumphantly, but the room was far from relieved. The flatline continued its haunting whine.

"Clear!" Dr. Y/N tried one last time, sending another jolt of electricity surging through Mingyu’s chest. For a breathless moment, time seemed to stop.

Then, the heart monitor beeped once.

And again.

A faint, steady rhythm appeared on the screen.

"We got him back," Dr. Khan whispered, a sigh of relief sweeping through the room.

The tension finally released, Dr. Y/N let out a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the rising and falling of Mingyu’s chest.

"Stabilize him, transfusion's in progress," she instructed, her voice calm as she handed the paddles back to the nurse. The room had erupted into chaos moments ago, but now, a tentative calm settled in. Mingyu was alive, barely, but alive.

Dr. Cordon gave a nod of approval, stepping back as the nurses continued the transfusion and closed up the incision. "Good work, everyone," he said, but his gaze lingered on Y/N. She met his eyes, offering a small, weary nod.

𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪

The first light of dawn seeped through the hospital window, casting a soft glow across the quiet corridor outside the operating theater. Seungcheol stood leaning against the wall, smoking, his thoughts as dark as the smoke swirling around him. It had been three grueling hours since the surgery began. After sending his men down to get treated and rest, he had been left alone with his thoughts—too many thoughts.

Today shouldn’t have gone this way. Ever since that youngest Min brat took over his father’s port operations, he'd been acting like a rabid dog desperate to prove his worth. There was always rivalry, always animosity, but there were rules, boundaries. In their world, everyone had the right to succeed, but only if they stayed in their lane. Cross the line, and you signed your own death warrant. The rules were simple: survive by respecting the invisible boundaries. 

Seungcheol glanced down at his phone. Missed calls. Dozens of them from his brother, his father, and the men from his office. Mingyu, his most trusted man, lay behind those doors—fighting for his life. To the world, Seungcheol was CEO Choi, a successful businessman with no visible ties to the bloodied underbelly of the city. But beneath the surface, he was something else entirely. He rarely got his hands dirty, leaving the confrontations to others. Mingyu was one of the few who dealt with the dirtier side of their operations, and now… this.

He took a deep puff of his cigarette, the smoke burning his lungs as he bit the inside of his cheek. Maybe he should’ve aimed for Min’s head instead of his leg. End this once and for all. A gang war would’ve been messy, but final. Their feud would have been over—done and dusted.

Lost in thought, Seungcheol didn’t notice the door to the operating room swing open until he heard footsteps approaching. Dr. Cordon stepped out, followed by the woman who had pushed Wonwoo earlier. They stood in front of him, their presence pulling him back to the present. 

"The surgery was a success, but the next 48 hours are critical," Dr. Cordon said, his tone professional yet cautious.

Seungcheol gave a firm nod, his gaze drifting briefly over to the woman, Dr. Y/N. She seemed tense, agitated even. Her eyes were on him, her expression unyielding. With a subtle tilt of his head, Seungcheol raised his brows, silently asking if she had something to say.

"You can’t smoke inside the hospital," she said, her voice steady but sharp. "Especially not outside the operating theater."

Her composed tone barely masked her irritation, and Seungcheol couldn’t help but raise a brow, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Is that right?" he asked, his voice calm, almost mocking.

Before the situation could escalate, Dr. Cordon let out a nervous chuckle, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. "No, no, of course not, sir. This is your hospital. You can do whatever you want."

Seungcheol took another deep puff, holding the cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily from his lips as he watched Dr. Y/N closely. She wasn’t backing down. She had guts, talking to him like that. People in his world knew better than to challenge him, especially over something so trivial.

"Well then," she said, her voice unwavering, "it makes it even more important to set an example of model behavior."

Seungcheol’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let the cigarette dangle from his lips, studying her as if deciding whether she was worth the trouble. It wasn’t every day someone had the nerve to talk to him like that. Finally, he flicked the cigarette to the floor, crushing it beneath his shoe and blew the smoke on her face. She couldn’t help but clench her jaw at this man’s behaviour. 

Dr. Cordon cleared his throat awkwardly, sensing the tension. "Dr. Y/N, perhaps you should get some rest. We’ll need you in the morning to monitor Mingyu’s progress."

Seungcheol gave Dr. Cordon a glance before nodding. "Meet me in the office," he said to the surgeon, his tone commanding. "I want a full briefing on Mingyu’s condition."

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Dr. Y/N standing in the hallway, the scent of smoke lingering in the air.

𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪

Y/N was fuming—well, more irritated than outright angry. She had her whole evening planned: drinks with Jeonghan and some school friends, a bubble bath, then cuddles with her dog. A perfect end to a grueling day. But those plans had gone up in smoke the moment Seungcheol and his entourage burst into the ER with their entitled behavior. Treating patients was her duty, of course, but the coercive, arrogant attitude they brought with them was something she loathed with a passion. It wasn’t just about the money or power—it was the sheer disregard for people beneath them, something that triggered a deep resentment in her. Memories of losing her mother, having her scholarship snatched away, flashed through her mind.

And that man—Seungcheol. He reeked of arrogance, as if the world existed solely to serve him. Y/N rolled her eyes at the thought, plopping down onto the breakroom's bunker bed, exhaustion creeping in. She must have closed her eyes for an hour at most when her pager buzzed. Dr. Cordon was calling her to his office. Groaning, she dragged herself toward the elevator, when a voice stopped her.

"Y/N, wait!" Jeonghan caught up to her, his face etched with concern. "I heard what happened last night. Are you okay? What has this hospital come to, Jesus..." He gave her a quick once-over. "God, you look dead."

"I feel dead," she muttered. "The surgery went fine, but those people—ugh!" Her irritation bubbled to the surface.

Jeonghan frowned. "What were they like?"

"Don't ask." She sighed. "One even pulled a revolver on Yang. Can you believe that? Bunch of thugs, I swear. But the worst of them was their boss."

"Choi Seungcheol?" Jeonghan raised a brow

Y/N frowned. "I never said his name. How do you know him?"

Jeonghan looked taken aback for a split second, then chuckled. "I talked to the nurse before coming here."

"Oh, I see," she nodded, her suspicion easing, but still bothered by the entire situation. She continued, "He stinks of entitlement, like everyone around him exists to serve his whims." She shrugged, trying to shake off her irritation. "But duty comes first, I guess. Still, I’m surprised the police haven’t shown up yet."

Jeonghan’s gaze sharpened slightly at her words, but he said nothing, just offering a sympathetic nod.

As they reached the head surgeon's door, they parted ways, promising to catch up later. Y/N knocked on the door.

"Come in," came Dr. Cordon’s voice.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N stepped inside.

"You have some nerve," Cordon began, throwing his glasses on the desk. "Can’t you read the room? That man holds our careers in the palm of his hand."

Y/N stood her ground, biting her cheek. "I was just doing my job."

"Y/N, you're one of our best heart surgeons," Cordon sighed. "But you need to keep your attitude in check. Choi Seungcheol is the new owner of this hospital."

Y/N snorted in disbelief. "So we’re a corporate entity now?"

"Ya, ya, ya," Cordon waved his hand, clearly irritated. "Do you want to get hit? Listen, I get it. I understand. But sometimes, you have to bite the bullet to survive. Seungcheol will be back in the evening, and you'll be in charge of his friend, Mingyu. He’s a VIP."

"Everyone is a VIP," Y/N mumbled under her breath.

Dr. Cordon sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, just... be invisible. Don't catch his eye. Got it?"

She nodded, exasperated, and turned to leave.

As she walked out, Dr. Cordon couldn't help but remember the first time he saw Y/N as a 15-year-old, sitting next to her ailing mother in the government hospital. She had come a long way, but her fire-- though admirable, could also be dangerous in the world of powerful men like Choi Seungcheol.

𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪𓆰𓆪

Present day

A sickening sensation ran through your veins, each pulse intensifying the throbbing at the back of your head. You didn’t know if what you were seeing was real or some twisted illusion. Jeonghan had been right—it was about time you applied for that vacation. 

Your eyes scanned the room, trying to make sense of the faces surrounding you. Seungcheol stood behind you, his imposing presence unnerving as always. Then there was the man at the desk, eerily resembling him. Another figure sat in an adjacent chair—a man you were certain had been dead. And a boy with curly hair, looking almost out of place, as if he belonged in some strange storybook rather than this unfolding nightmare. 

“What’s going on?" you asked, your voice trembling as you looked at them, desperately searching for answers in their expressions. "Any of you… can anyone tell me what’s happening?"

No one responded, and the silence felt suffocating. You didn’t like this situation one bit. 

“Who are you?” your voice shook as you turned to the man who looked disturbingly like your father. 

"Y/N, doll…" His voice was soft, familiar, and it made your skin crawl.

You shook your head, backing away instinctively. "No, no, no. You died. I remember it well. You died." 

Your heart raced as the room spun. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real.

Your hands were trembling when a bored voice cut through the tension. “Well, spoiler alert, he didn’t,” said the curly-haired boy, limping slightly as he walked toward the couch. He sank into it casually, as if none of this bizarre situation phased him in the slightest.

The man you thought was dead stepped forward, his face a mix of guilt and desperation. “Y/N, it’s Dad,” he said, trying to close the distance between you. 

You took a step back, shaking your head in disbelief. The room felt too small, too suffocating, and you didn’t realize you had backed into someone until your shoulder brushed against their firm chest—Seungcheol, but your mind was too scattered to register it.

"Listen, baby, calm down," your father said, his voice soft, pleading. "I know it's hard to believe, but I did all of this to protect you and your mom."

Your heart clenched. "Mom is dead," you spat, eyes blazing with anger. "She died because we didn’t have money! She withered away in pain, and you did nothing! So don't you dare take my mother’s name out of your filthy mouth!"

The curly-haired boy looked up from the couch. “Hey, watch your mouth,” he muttered, but your father raised a hand, silencing him.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “I don’t know what you want from me, or what any of this means, and honestly, I don’t care anymore. So why don’t you all just fuck off?”

Before the silence could settle, Choi Siwon cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “Enough of this family drama. Now that it's confirmed your daughter is alive, whose existence you quite vehemently denied. the terms of the deal stand. You’ll need to fulfil your end of the bargain.”

“Bargain?" you asked, the word hanging in the air like a bad omen. "What bargain?"

You searched their faces for answers, but none came. Instead, all you got was an impending silence and the apologetic, almost broken look in your father's eyes. Something deeper was at play here—something you weren’t prepared for.

END OF CHAPTER TWO 

Tag list: @seonghwaexile, @asyre, @xyzzzs-things, @kohielatte (Click the link on Tag List to be added.)

AN: Chapter 3 will be uploaded shortly.

[somuchforahobby]

que lo malo sea bueno e impuro lo bendecío

Summary: obiwanxsith!reader /Your constant encounters with Obi-wan soon turn into something else. Who will be the first to cross the line? ♡ Inspired in Rosalia's El Mal Querer ♡ Warnings: mentions of depression, mentions of physical punishment and violence overall. Some flirting and fluff. This is basically an enemies to lovers with angst Word count: 5.8 k Read on AO3Writer's note: Apparently I am unable to write smut, this started as a smutty one-liners challenge and ended up being the angstiest piece I’ve written for this man. Sorry :/ whenever I mention loose hair this is what i have in mind (my dream hair tbh)

Your lightsaber crashed against his, bathing the room in a purple hue. A thin layer of sweat covered your forehead, and your lower lip trembled between your teeth.

He was stronger and bigger than you—there was no denying it. That was why you were ready to bend backwards once his wrestling made you lose your guard. You rolled onto your back until you were standing again, gaining a few steps from him.

“You are a lot more flexible than I thought,” Obi-Wan said with a smirk.

You grinned back. “So you have thought about it?”

Your teasing tone was enough to make him lose focus, so you launched at him. Your blow was stopped by his left hand.

He scoffed a laugh. “Often, I must say.” His lightsaber rolled on his wrist and charged toward your arm.

You deflected. “While you were playing with your lightsaber?” You twirled and charged again. Your smirk illuminated red.

“Actually,” he defended with a teasing grin, “while I was training with Anakin.”

You pouted. “Oww, don’t tease me like that.”

You pushed him away with a flick of your wrist, but he pulled you back to him.

Taking a step forward, you pressed the hilt of your lightsaber against his chest, looking up at him with a wicked grin. All it would have taken was to press a button, and he would have been gone.

Then, he was the one to push you away, but with his bare hands on your biceps.

The contact sent both of you flying to opposite sides of the room.

“What the Force?” you mumbled while getting up.

“The Force itself, I believe,” Obi-Wan responded from the floor.

The next thing you heard, after the buzzing in your ears faded, was the humming of a ship nearby.

“They won’t give you the same courtesy as I did,” he said in between panting.

You allowed yourself to look at him for a second; he was unarmed, clearly hurt and in pain. You could have killed him, ended it right then and there, but the closer you got to him, the stronger the Force pulled you away.

“We’ll continue this later, Master Kenobi,” you said. You walked back to your ship and left the scene before his backup arrived.

***

You walked down the busy streets of Coruscant, still trying to get used to the buzz of the city. Your eyes were wide with wonder at the shops, the passersby, and the technology. Your right arm was almost numb from carrying a tote bag filled with groceries while you carelessly looked around the bazaar. People came and went, none of them paying any attention to a girl eating ice cream as she walked. None of your Sith attire was on you; instead, a sage green dress fell off your shoulders and trailed down to your ankles, paired with simple sandals. Your hair lay loose down your back.

You tried not to think too much about what your master would say if he saw you. “Unworthy of the Sith” was the first thing that crossed your mind as your tongue flicked out to catch the thick drops of pink cream falling off the cone in your hands. You scoffed at the mental image.

It had been weeks since you last saw Obi-Wan, yet your arms still carried bruises from where his fingers had gripped your skin.

The heat of the crowded place was enough to confirm that the sudden chill down your back didn’t come from the weather, but from a threat—though you heard it before you saw it.

“I never thought much about a Sith’s diet, but I definitely wouldn’t have guessed it was based on that,” he murmured, his beard brushing your shoulder as his warm tone wrapped around your senses.

When he stepped back, you turned to him, already missing his closeness. “Maker forbids a girl treats herself after making a Jedi bite the dust.”

Obi-Wan laughed. “You running away from a fight is making me bite the dust?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Well, I wasn’t the one calling for backup desperately,” you said, then moved to make a full display of your tongue against the ice cream.

You caught a faint blush on his cheeks before he turned away with a scoff. “We can do a rematch anytime.”

You shrugged, eyeing the thick robes on his shoulders. You pointed at them with your chin. “Do you want to take it off, or should I do it for you?”

That drew a teasing smile from him. “Come on, you have to work for it.”

“Oh? How so?” you asked, resuming your walk. Surprisingly, Obi-Wan matched your pace almost naturally.

“Bring out your saber, and I’ll take off my cloak to fight you.”

You groaned. “It’s my day off, Kenobi. Let me wander.”

“You actually have days off?” he asked in a mixture of squeaking and whining. “Now that’s appealing.”

You glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. “A bit offensive, if a day off is what you find appealing about the dark side.”

The blush returned to his cheeks. “I will neither admit nor deny anything in that sentence.”

You hummed, stopping in front of him. “Are you going to arrest me?”

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “On your day off? Now that would be uncivilized.” Obi-Wan winked before turning on his heel and walking away.

If your master knew about this...

***

You had become a light sleeper, ironically, ever since turning to the Dark Side. Anxiety and fear had heightened your senses in an almost annoying way—so much so that any noise or movement startled you awake.

You turned to your side, trying to ignore it, but the sensation of another body next to you sent a jolt through your chest. Instinctively, you called your lightsaber to your hand and ignited it right next to the intruder.

Positioning it near his face, you heard him groan. As your eyes blinked against the glow, adjusting to the light, you saw him squeeze his own shut. But nothing had prepared you for the face that slowly came into focus.

It was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Lying in your bed, grunting and pushing your wrist away so the light wouldn’t bother his sleep.

“Go back to sleep,” he mumbled.

“What the kriff are you doing here?” Your saber stayed close—still ignited, though no longer threatening his face.

The sound he made was closer to a growl as he turned his back on you, rolling to the other side. “I’m not.”

You pressed a hand to his torso. He was real. He was here. “You are here.”

“It’s a—” a yawn cut him off, “Force bond. If you ignore it, it will dissipate.”

You stayed frozen, trying to make sense of what he’d just said.

“Turn that thing off, Maker,” he muttered, dragging a pillow over his head.

You shut off the saber and returned to your original position, but sleep didn’t come—not with one of the most important Jedi in the galaxy lying right next to you.

***

The next time you crossed paths it was in the Outer Rim. You were protecting a group of Separatists, and the next thing you knew was a flash of blue light slashing its way in.

You groaned the moment he came into view.

After slaying the protective droids, he halted a few steps from you, his chest heaving with rapid breaths.

“Nice to see you again,” he said, igniting his saber once more.

“I must confess I prefer the latest version I was privileged enough to witness,” you replied.

He rolled his eyes at your remark.

“Alright, no teasing,” you added, your own eyes rolling. “Let it go, Kenobi. These people are within their right to choose their planet’s destiny.”

“I’m afraid I must take some of them to Coruscant,” he said, stepping forward, though his guard remained down. “You should come too.”

With a grin, you lifted your guard, a red hue illuminating your eyes. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Obi-Wan. I can’t let you take any of them.”

Your lightsaber crashed against his, buying the Separatists time to escape. He did not dodge, nor step back. Instead, he leaned in closer to the sabers, and almost like a mumble—or a prayer—he whispered your name.

Your brows furrowed as you felt his signature brush against yours.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” you warned, then charged toward him again.

He stopped your attack swiftly. “They’re wanted. Not for politics, but for abuse.” He waited for your reaction, the purple hue of your combined lightsabers casting light across your tense expression. “I must take them back to face their trial.”

“Abuse?” you pressed, moving against him again.

His wrist circled before he raised his guard. The clash of sabers set his jaw tight. “They committed severe crimes against children.”

You held his gaze for a few seconds, then your Force signature brushed against his, searching for the truth.

He let you in.

And you saw it all—signed affidavits, children’s testimony, the Jedi Council's ruling.

You shut off your saber and stepped back. “Punch me or something, at least.”

“Uh?” he asked, caught off guard.

“I’ll need an excuse for why I passed out.”

He took a step closer. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You huffed. “Aren’t you famous for slaying Sith Lords?”

His eyes locked onto yours—firm, steady, unwavering—and with every passing second, he seemed to inch closer to the truth buried beneath your presence.

“You’re no Sith,” he said quietly.

Now you rolled your eyes. “Kriffing hell.”

You ignited your lightsaber again and charged him.

He dodged and turned, each of your strikes met only with precise, measured defense.

“Attack me, Kenobi,” you demanded through gritted teeth. “Hurt me.”

He looked at you with doubt in his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line as he came to a decision.

Then he lifted one hand and sent you flying across the room.

The last thing you saw before passing out were his guilt-creased eyebrows.

***

You felt him nudging at you later through the bond. You scoffed to yourself— Of course Obi-Wan Kenobi would knock on an open Force bond.

“How are you?” His voice was just as vivid as it had been earlier.

You glanced up to see him sitting in some sort of ship, but you continued working on your arm.

“Been better,” you muttered, your right hand quickly wrapping a bandage around your left wrist.

“Why are you bleeding? I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” you interrupted, “but I was taught a lesson by my master.”

“Oh.”

You heard the breath coming in and out of his nose as you removed your cloak.

“I am sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be. You did the right thing. As expected.” Your brow lifted, even though your eyes remained downcast.

“Why did it matter to you?”

You scoffed sarcastically, your gaze cutting through him. “Do not insult my intelligence—or your own—by pretending not to know why you even brought it up.” You turned away, removing your shirt to tend to the wound on your stomach.

He murmured your name.

“WHAT?” you snapped, turning to him with a scowl.

“Your back is…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence for you to know he was staring at the lightsaber scars that laced your skin.

You stood in front of a mirror, dressed only in a sports bra and pants, using your own lightsaber to cauterize an open wound on your ribs. You hissed from the sting just as he called your name again—louder this time.

“Come here,” he ordered.

Without the energy to defy him, you stepped closer. “What?” you asked, now standing between his parted knees.

You watched as Obi-Wan pulled a piece of paper from a rubber rectangle and pressed it gently to your wound.

“You shouldn’t be this harmed,” he murmured, still patching you up. And though you didn’t know him well enough to name the emotion he was projecting, you guessed it was anger.

“You might be the only Force user I’ve faced who hasn’t marked me,” you teased.

Obi-Wan scoffed. “If I were to mark you,” he said, his voice dark and warm, “I’d give you a hickey.”

Your blood ran cold. “Do you say that to every sith in distress?”

He laughed softly, his warm breath fanning across your sternum. “Only to the pretty ones.”

“Oh, lucky me,” you quipped, wiggling your eyebrows at him.

He pushed at your waist, turning you around so your back faced him, then healed another five wounds. His hands, however, lingered on your skin a little too long.

You stood silently, facing away from him, a line of water threatening to fall from your eyes at the realization that this was the most care anyone had shown you in years.

“You could kill me right now,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“If I’d planned to do so, I wouldn’t have wasted six perfectly good bacta patches.”

His hands guided you to turn and face him again. His fingers moved over your skin with surprising ease, almost instinctively.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and you thought the conversation was over. But before severing the bond, he tugged lightly at the invisible leash that linked you together.

“You don’t belong with them.”

You gave him a cynical smile. “I belong in a religious cult that can grant me protection—and since the Jedi casted me out, this is the next best thing.”

You didn’t wait for another word. You raised your defenses until his face vanished from your quarters.

***

“I haven’t seen you out there in a while,” Obi-Wan’s voice sounded somewhere in the room.

Due to the punishment you had endured, you no longer had the strength to keep your mental walls up.

You didn’t answer, choosing instead to remain lying on the bed, eyes half closed.

“Hey,” his voice echoed, closer now. “Are you alright?”

His kind eyes searched your features, looking for an answer.

“You’re starving.”

He disappeared from your line of vision for a few minutes, then returned with a handful of pills and some food packets, which he tossed onto your bed.

Patiently, he sat beside you and fed you until color returned to your face.

With weary eyes, you looked up at him, his hands cradling your jaw.

“Thank you,” you muttered, as articulate as you could manage.

“It’s no ice cream, but…” he scoffed, though he didn’t sound amused. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s part of the penance.”

With his thumb, he stroked your cheek gently. “What for?”

Your eyes lifted to his, unable to speak the truth.

“Because you let me go?” he pressed, his hold on you tightening.

“Please,” you begged, though you didn’t know for what—for the punishment to stop, or for your life to end; for him to stop being so gentle and kind, or for him to rescue you. You didn’t know why you were begging, but you were, as tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs catching each one.

“Come to the Temple. Please.” His voice was a soft caress to your weak body.

Still, you shook your head. “I can’t.”

“You can. I’ll make sure you get a fair trial. This is wrong. No Jedi prison can be worse than this.” His thoughts seemed disorganized, or perhaps it was the pounding in your head that made them seem that way.

Your eyes closed again as he guided your head to his chest, fully embracing you.

Tears kept falling as you thought of this bittersweet comfort the Force had given you. The safety of his arms could very well be the reason you would be killed—if anyone ever found out. Either by his own hand, his masters’, or your own.

But you nuzzled into his grip nonetheless. If you were going to die anyway, you might as well savor the smell of his skin.

***

The room was illuminated purple, though where the light came from, you had no idea. Your saber had cut a man’s throat, and he dropped dead on the floor. Your hand flicked once more, dropping the gates for the victims to escape. Sweat rolled down your forehead from the effort. They started running the second the gates opened, using every limb to get out and climb into your ship. “There is room for everyone,” you assured them. A child looked up at you and screamed in terror. “I saved you,” you tried to reassure him, but your voice came out rough. Your body leaned toward him, and he flinched, taking a step back. He was screaming, and your head was spinning. “I saved you!” you repeated, harsher. “You are a monster,” the kid spoke, but the voice that came out of him belonged to someone else. It was the voice of an older man—one you had heard before. A woman took the child into her arms, lifting him up. “You do not belong here.” You finally recognized the voice. “Master?” The hold on your lightsaber felt clamsy. Your fingers were sweating against the metal as you rolled it in your hand. It grew warmer and warmer until the heat from the crystal started to melt the hilt. It burned your palm, so you dropped it to the ground instinctively. Your master’s voice echoed in the room, calling your name, as your blue lightsaber sank in blood. “You do not belong here.” The room was in complete darkness now; all the light was gone. You were left without one of your senses as you tried to find your lightsaber. You knelt, your hands moving over the floor, searching for it—but it was gone. “I saved them,” your hands moved frantically through the blood puddle, now inches deep. “I saved them!” you repeated, louder each time. The liquid climbed up your limbs. “I saved them, I saved them.” Your name was being called, over and over again, until your eyes opened. A sigh left your lips when you spotted Obi-Wan’s creased brows and light blue eyes on you. His hands were gripping your biceps, lifting your torso off the bed. “Shit,” you muttered. “It was a nightmare,” he said softly. He is not here, you told yourself, trying to calm the guilt that his warm presence stirred in you. “No, it wasn’t.” You pushed yourself to sit, and his hands dropped from your arms. “It was a memory—sort of.” He looked at you in silence. You could almost see the thoughts running in and out of his head. “Come to the Temple with me,” he offered softly. At the smirk on your lips, he quickly added, “There is good in you, I can feel it.” “If your goal is to make me feel better, maybe you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense,” you muttered, scoffing. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he smiled. “May I?” he asked, a hand near your jaw. You nodded in silence. As his hands cupped your jaw, his eyes closed, brows furrowed. He swam through your mind with expertise.

You showed him that night—how you showed no mercy to the slavists. You showed him the Local Jedi Temple where you grew up and your master looking down on you. You let him feel your master’s arrogance, his rejection of you. “You don’t belong here,” he had gritted out. He had pulled the robes off your shoulders, making you fall to your knees. “The Hutts will kill me for spoiling their ship,” you had begged, your eyes weary. “Master, please.” “Your lightsaber,” he had said, extending a hand toward you. “Master,” you had cried out, “please.” He had slapped your cheek and demanded the weapon again. Facing the ground, you unclasped it from your belt and handed it to him. “You are no Jedi,” your master muttered.

Obi-Wan gasped, and the next thing you knew, his skin was off you and he was looking at you in concern. “You saved them,” he whispered, as if confessing a crime. You only nodded once. “I thought so too.” “Is that why you left?” “I didn’t leave,” you gritted your teeth. “They kicked me out.” “No, your master did—not the Order. You can appeal. Come to the Council,” he said with such urgency that you almost felt sorry for him. “Obi-Wan, it’s too late for me,” you said with tenderness. “They’ll kill me if you take me. Your guys, my guys, or the slave owner organization I massacred. I’ll die either way.” His brows furrowed. “No.” His head shook side to side frantically. “The Order can protect you.” Your head leaned to your shoulder. You couldn’t help but empathize. “Only a soul as pure as yours could think that, Obi-Wan.”

***

Your hand toyed with the glass of sparkling drink in front of you. Standing next to a high table, you pretended to be just another girl at the club, while in reality, you were making sure an exchange of smuggled substances went smoothly. This wasn’t your favorite type of mission, but it also wasn’t the worst. No one would need to get hurt if everyone stuck to their business. That was, until you felt a certain Jedi walk into the club. Dreading how your night had just gotten a whole lot more complicated, you downed all your wine in one sip before standing up and joining him at the bar.

“If I’d known you’d be here, I would’ve worn something more suitable.” There was a smirk on Obi-Wan’s lips as his eyes scanned you up and down. “That skirt couldn’t be useful in a sword fight,” he said, guiding a glass to his quivering lips. “Oh, but it could be for other things,” you teased, taking a step closer to him. “Especially when I don’t bring my lightsaber.” You gestured to the bartender to fetch you another drink. “But why talk about my clothing when we could talk about yours?” You hit his chest lightly with the back of your hand. “It was—uh—Anakin’s idea,” he muttered, his cheeks tinting pink as he gestured to his black leather jacket. 

“Why are you here?” he asked, pushing the question out of himself and making you smirk. “Why are you here?” you asked, your words laced with suspicion. He scoffed. “To have fun.” “That would explain the outfit,” you murmured into your drink. “Pardon me?” “Well, I don’t think the Jedi robes are very popular with the ladies,” you scoffed, “or lads.” “Actually,” he began before clearing his throat, “they’re very popular with the ladies and the lads.” “The appeal of the forbidden, of course,” you said with a smirk, leaning in a little closer. “You would know about that.” “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, taking a sip of his drink—though his pink cheeks remained. “Well, I didn’t mean me, but thank you.”

As he looked away, you noticed the tips of his ears had turned red. “Why are you here?” he pressed. You groaned. “It wouldn’t be very smart to tell you, would it? But let’s just say—for the same reason as you.” “Without your lightsaber?” “So you are here for a fight.” He rolled his eyes. “You think I’d change my clothes and come to a bar just to hang ?” You made a show of looking him up and down, biting your lower lip as you did so. Then you inched closer. “You could be stalking me,” you whispered, your breath close enough to reach his face. “And I bet you’d like that,” he said with a smirk.

You could feel, through the Force, that the dealer had entered the club and was heading toward your client. You decided to push the act, leaning your face against Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Perhaps I would,” you said, gazing up at him through your lashes, your tongue briefly wetting your lips. “Tell me, Obi-Wan Kenobi… how would you like this night to end?” He sighed. “With you—and the smuggler you’re looking out for—in handcuffs.” “Would you really get that kinky on our first date?” you teased, making him scoff. “Shut up,” he said, but the glint in his eye betrayed his amusement.

One of your hands climbed slowly up his chest, coming to rest on his shoulder. “Is that what you really want? For me to be imprisoned for the rest of my life?” His hand came to rest on your waist. “I’ve told you before—I want you to come to the Temple with me.” “You offer me death by Jedi sword,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarser than you’d ever allowed it to be near him. His fingers tightened against your skin. “I wouldn’t allow that.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on shutting him out of your mind while you scanned your client. The exchange was a success—your contact was already leaving the club. You exhaled slowly. You lifted your head from his shoulder, but his hand didn’t leave your waist. “Come with me,” you said. “Where?” “To my place.” “Why would I?” He took a sip of his drink. “It could be a trap.” You cooed, “You are so virgin it’s almost cute.” “I am not a virgin,” he said, his hand rounding your waist and pushing you gently against the bar. His eyes locked onto yours, noses nearly touching. “It’s okay if you are. Nothing to be ashamed of,” you said, rising onto your toes in a playful attempt to provoke him. “You are a monk, after all.” “I am not,” he scoffed, “a monk.”

Buzzing with excitement, you bit your lower lip to control yourself. With his thumb, he freed it. “Don’t do that.”

The gesture shocked you. Your core pooled with desire, your eyes fixated on his lips. Your head spun with need as you weighed your chances of pulling his face down to crash against yours. Your bodies were so close you could hardly understand how it had come to this. His cologne filled your lungs, suffocating you in the best and worst way.

He maintained that piercing eye contact until you placed your hand against his chest and gently pushed. The simple touch was enough for him to release you. “My apologies. I didn’t realize we were so—” “I did,” you blurted, then added, “But it’s fine.” Your chest heaved as your breath came out ragged. You were moving before you could think. “I should go. The sale is finished anyway.” He grabbed your elbow, stopping you in your tracks. “The sale?” His eyebrows rose.

You looked up at him. A wave of honesty threatened to break through— I need to eat, I’ve been living on the streets since I let you go, you idiot! —but nothing came out. Instead, you said, “Well, I am a Sith, aren’t I?”

And with that, you walked out of the bar and into the dark streets of the capital.

***

You had called to him through the Bond, asking him to meet you outside the city. You knew it was reckless—he had no reason to come, and you were putting both of you at risk. But he had to know.

You had barely gathered the strength to get there, certain you were close to death. A lightsaber burn scorched your neck. Your lip and eyebrow were split. One of your eyes was swollen shut.

You had betrayed the Order. Faced your master. And in response to your accusations, he had nearly killed you.

“Obi-Wan,” you whispered from beneath your robe in the dark alley, your voice cracking with pain.

His eyes raked over your injuries. “You need a bacta tank. Now.”

“No—no, wait. I have to tell you something.” Desperation clung to every word.

He knelt beside you. “What happened?”

“Lord Sidious—he—” You gasped. “It doesn’t matter. Obi-Wan, you need to help Anakin.”

“Anakin?”

“He’s been—” your voice broke. “He’s been groomed by the Sith since he arrived on Coruscant.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes sharpened. You were speaking to General Kenobi now. “ Don’t you think I would have noticed ?”

You shook your head, frantic. “Don’t you wonder why he’s so volatile? He’s been under Sidious’s influence from the start. Obi-Wan, you have to save him.”

He scoffed. “And you would be the one to warn me? Don’t make me laugh, darling.” He pulled out a set of cuffs and snapped them onto your wrists.

They were Force blockers, you realized. A numbing white pain traveled through your body at the loss of sensitivity to the Force, layered over the pain that already seared through your broken ribs and hip. You could barely move.

“Obi-Wan, don’t take me there. They’ll kill me.” Tears slid down your cheeks.

“You’ll be a prisoner. You’ll get a fair trial and be judged according to the Code.” He hauled you to your feet.

You cried out in agony.

“You have to believe me. Who do you think did this to me—and why? I faced him!”

“Make sure to tell that to the Council,” he muttered, guiding your stumbling steps.

“Obi-Wan, don’t do this.” You collapsed to your knees, sobbing. “Kill me yourself instead. I beg you. Give me that dignity.”

He stopped and turned. His lips pressed into a flat line, and his piercing blue stare cut through you. It was a look he had never given you before. Cold.

“You knew the rules when you left the Order. And still, you became a Sith. You’re an enemy of the Republic—and you’ll be treated as such.”

The disregard in his voice broke something inside you, making your shattered bones feel like the least of your concerns.

“Only a Sith deals in absolutes,” you snapped, your voice raw. “What’s the difference, then?” You dragged yourself to your feet despite the agony. “The Jedi will kill me for not being one of them. So will the Sith. They’re just opposing sides of the same credit. The only difference is that now you hold the power.”

He said nothing. But then, without a word, he freed your wrists.

“You have to believe me. Anakin is in danger—and so is the entire galaxy.”

He smirked. “Well, you’re in danger. And you’re not under Jedi protection. I’d suggest you take precautions.”

Obi-Wan turned and walked away, leaving you alone… to run.

***

You had followed him for weeks—maybe more. Just watching, waiting, trying to find the perfect moment. With each rotation, your heart sank further as you came to the horrible conclusion that this was not the same man you had known all those years ago.

But as time passed, your task grew more and more urgent, until one afternoon, you decided to approach him.

“General,” you murmured into his ear, the breathing system of your mask disguising your voice.

He flinched. But quickly, his shoulders squared into the posture of a soldier.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.”

You escorted him out of the tent, your hand guiding him by the shoulder.

From behind, you saw how gray his hair had turned—the perfect beard that used to be neatly trimmed now grew untamed across his face.

He offered no resistance as you brought him aboard your ship.

“What do you want with me?” he asked hoarsely, his hand rising instinctively to his hip.

“No need to get melancholic. I can and will shoot you on the spot, General.” You tilted your head. “You’re the most wanted man in the galaxy. The Empire offers a big reward for you—dead or alive. So give me one good reason not to turn you in.” Your voice flickered with thrill.

His brows lifted, and a slight scoff escaped his lips. “Oh, how very nice of you.”

A wave of hope exhilarated you—to find scraps of his humor still alive.

You shrugged as best as your armor allowed. “Just a girl trying to restore the galaxy’s faith in humanity.”

A flicker of anger crossed his otherwise calm eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“If I get paid—absolutely none,” you scoffed. “I’ll be a very rich lady.”

“That goes against the principles of Mandalore,” he said solemnly.

“Never been,” you replied as you circled in closer. “Aren’t you going to plead your case? This can’t be the Republic’s great Negotiator.”

He sighed.

“Come on, this isn’t the General Kenobi I know.”

That caught his attention. His blue irises lifted to yours—and even those looked different.

“You knew me?”

“Very well,” you said, sitting on a bunk to remove your armor. “A long time ago.”

You felt his signature brushing against yours through the Force. You pushed it away with a jolt. “ Hey , that’s not nice!”

“As opposed to arresting me?” He took a step forward.

“I did no such thing!” You stood abruptly, torso still armored, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I merely escorted you to my ship. It worries me deeply that you didn’t even try to fight!”

He scoffed. “I’m retired.”

Taking advantage of your helmet’s technology, you studied his face closely: he did look tired. The smile lines around his eyes had become dark bags. You could almost touch the weight of his burdens on his shoulders. The bright blue eyes that once thrilled and invited now brimmed with shame and grief.

“Just take me to them. Turn me in,” he murmured.

With one last click, you removed your helmet, your hair falling free across your shoulders. “In your retirement? Now that would be uncivilized.”

He sighed at the sight of you, and for a fleeting moment, you saw him again—the man you had known.

He said your name like a question—or a prayer.

You walked toward him, placing your hands gently on his chest, looking up at him with kind eyes.

“Where have you been? I—I haven’t felt our bond in years,” he said, his hands sliding to your waist.

“Some Nightsisters helped me hide for a while. Then I needed to eat… and became this .” You shrugged.

“You were right.”

Every word came out painfully.

Your brows creased in sympathy. “I am so sorry.”

With a deep breath, his head dropped to your shoulder. Your fingers moved gently through his gray locks.

“Are you really going to turn me in?” he mumbled against your shirt.

You laughed softly. “I think I owe you a pardon or two. So… no.”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as he leaned back to look into your eyes. A playful smirk curled his lips.

“So you’re going to break the law? Help a fugitive of the Empire?”

You looked up at him, a smile playing on your lips. “Well… I am a Sith, aren’t I?”

And finally, he closed the distance between your bodies, pressing his lips to yours.

[grapegiuce]

found a very interesting anaylisis of the current charles leaving rumors on twt! it's in italian so i'll translate it!

This Italian journalist says that those who wrote the articles claiming Charles' inner circle has doubts over Ferrari's performance for the future are reliable pens, those who reported in Italy the scoop of Lewis coming to Ferrari last year, so he says it's curious. It might be something substantial, but at the same time it's curious how these rumors appear now, in the wake of the new Ferrari upgrades, when ferrari is taking small steps forward. The Ferrari crisis has been going on for more than three months so it's nothing new.

The analysis goes over three figures in Ferrari: Vasseur, Hamilton and Charles.

Vasseur: There is an interesting detail in the articles concerning Fred's contract, which apparently would be up for renewal at the end of 2025. The journalist says there is a big difference between not getting renewed and getting kicked out. But at the same time, the SF-25 isn't the first car with a TD chosen by Vasseur himself. Fred does have enormous responsibilities for the SF-25 incredible failure, and denying this would be moronic. But yet another TP change would not solve anything. BUT! There could be Antonello Coletta as a replacement, the ferrari Endurance TP. He has a heavy palmares, a strong personality and ideas, and he'd deserve to guide Ferrari in F1, even without any experience in F1, not for a fault of his own. But according to this journalist he could work as an Andrea Stella, and so a figure in the politics of F1 Zak brown style would be needed.

Hamilton: He goes over him quickly, saying that apart from that poorly placed insta like, it is evident something isn't working in what was pictured as the marriage of the century. He crashed into the Leclerc wall surely, but also doesn't he have affinity with the team? Did he expect to be treated as the saviour? He performs not consistenlty on track, never comparable to Charles, and to the outside he doesn't give any confidence. Creating a tailor-made team on him to make him perform better wouldn't make much sense as an investment bc he's at the end of his career also.

Charles: The journalist wrote, after Imola, that if he were Leclerc, he'd start looking around, bc the SF-25 failure is something epochal, seen the INTERNAL expectations the car had. But still, nothing new. Charles' contract DOESN'T EXPIRE IN 2029, what expires in 2029 is a renewal option that can be activated starting from 2026. So when the contract talks in 2023 happened, Leclerc and Todt Jr covered for themselved for 2026. If the Mercedes PU will really be dominant, in 2027 Max won't be the only one looking for those engines, and Charles would be dumb not to look for a way out if Ferrari takes on yet another loosing era. Charles isn't doing charity after all. A different thing would happen if Mercedes tried to rip away Charles from ferrari for 2026, replacing George. But in between contractual sanctions and the salary of Charles, that would be a big surprise. And Charles' love for Ferrari would be translated into another chance in 2026. It is all up to Maranello to keep him and give him what he deserves, bc he's the best asset Ferrari has, as the track showed us.

[localfanbaselurker]

HOLY SHIT GUYS. OH MY GOD

[dent-de-leon]

cards I got for tonight: Love, History, The Maiden :')

[luetta]

idk if people on tumblr know about this but a cybersecurity software called crowdstrike just did what is probably the single biggest fuck up in any sector in the past 10 years. it's monumentally bad. literally the most horror-inducing nightmare scenario for a tech company.

some info, crowdstrike is essentially an antivirus software for enterprises. which means normal laypeople cant really get it, they're for businesses and organisations and important stuff.

so, on a friday evening (it of course wasnt friday everywhere but it was friday evening in oceania which is where it first started causing damage due to europe and na being asleep), crowdstrike pushed out an update to their windows users that caused a bug.

before i get into what the bug is, know that friday evening is the worst possible time to do this because people are going home. the weekend is starting. offices dont have people in them. this is just one of many perfectly placed failures in the rube goldburg machine of crowdstrike. there's a reason friday is called 'dont push to live friday' or more to the point 'dont fuck it up friday'

so, at 3pm at friday, an update comes rolling into crowdstrike users which is automatically implemented. this update immediately causes the computer to blue screen of death. very very bad. but it's not simply a 'you need to restart' crash, because the computer then gets stuck into a boot loop.

this is the worst possible thing because, in a boot loop state, a computer is never really able to get to a point where it can do anything. like download a fix. so there is nothing crowdstrike can do to remedy this death update anymore. it is now left to the end users.

it was pretty quickly identified what the problem was. you had to boot it in safe mode, and a very small file needed to be deleted. or you could just rename crowdstrike to something else so windows never attempts to use it.

it's a fairly easy fix in the grand scheme of things, but the issue is that it is effecting enterprises. which can have a looooot of computers. in many different locations. so an IT person would need to manually fix hundreds of computers, sometimes in whole other cities and perhaps even other countries if theyre big enough.

another fuck up crowdstrike did was they did not stagger the update, so they could catch any mistakes before they wrecked havoc. (and also how how HOW do you not catch this before deploying it. this isn't a code oopsie this is a complete failure of quality ensurance that probably permeates the whole company to not realise their update was an instant kill). they rolled it out to everyone of their clients in the world at the same time.

and this seems pretty hilarious on the surface. i was havin a good chuckle as eftpos went down in the store i was working at, chaos was definitely ensuring lmao. im in aus, and banking was literally down nationwide.

but then you start hearing about the entire country's planes being grounded because the airport's computers are bricked. and hospitals having no computers anymore. emergency call centres crashing. and you realised that, wow. crowdstrike just killed people probably. this is literally the worst thing possible for a company like this to do.

crowdstrike was kinda on the come up too, they were starting to become a big name in the tech world as a new face. but that has definitely vanished now. to fuck up at this many places, is almost extremely impressive. its hard to even think of a comparable fuckup.

a friday evening simultaneous rollout boot loop is a phrase that haunts IT people in their darkest hours. it's the monster that drags people down into the swamp. it's the big bag in the horror movie. it's the end of the road. and for crowdstrike, that reaper of souls just knocked on their doorstep.

[aromanticasterisms]

okay. okay.

[pucksandpower]

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don’t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

You say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. “Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

[pencil-n-pen]

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

[imaginedisish]

Close to You (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Oh my god. I got so carried away with this. It was not supposed to be this long. Anyway, here's the beach fic, y'all. This one is inspired by "Close to You" by Gracie Abrams...which is an absolute banger. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: The team goes away on a weekend beach trip, and your pining for Logan comes to a head when you're forced to share a room...

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!! SMUT!! Thigh riding, oral (f!receiving), fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan, soft!Logan, feelings, fluff, afab!reader/fem!reader, reader wears a bikini (no descriptions at all, though!), one bed trope (muahaha), friends to lovers, cursing, absolutely some grammatical errors bc this fic is so long, I think that's it!

Word Count: 6,577 this was so self indulgent

You step out onto the concrete and the salt in the air immediately coats your skin. The breeze is sticky and slightly humid, but it smells so good. You can hear the waves crashing against the sand, seagulls squawking above. Laughter on the boardwalk. Carnival music blaring from all the rides. It’s perfect—the sun is high, fluffy white clouds framing the endless blue sky.

“We’re going to have so much fun!” Jubilee cheers, closing the car door as she slides out of the Jeep. 

Jean and Scott step out of their car, parked just up ahead, unloading their bags. “It’s so nice of the Professor to give us the weekend off!” Jean says excitedly, placing her bag down onto the sidewalk and wheeling it up to the porch of the house. “I can’t believe he rented this place for us.” It’s a yellow, two-story cottage with a lemonade porch, adorned with white shutters and a shingled roof.

Logan makes his way to the trunk of his Jeep, pulling out bag after bag. You rush to his side, reaching inside the trunk. “Let me help you,” you mumble as the rest of the team excitedly approaches the house. 

Logan smiles and shakes his head, reaching for the same bag you are. His fingertips brush yours as he takes the bag away, your heart beating in your chest at the sudden contact. “Don’t worry, princess,” he huffs, smirking as he places the bag down in front of you. Heat rises to your chest at the nickname. “Don’t lift a finger. Go inside and check out the place.” He nods his head towards the front door and grabs another bag. 

You smile, throwing your backpack over your shoulder, grabbing two bags, and carrying them to the front door in protest. “Gonna help you anyway,” you say over your shoulder. Logan chuckles as he closes the truck, grabbing the rest of the duffle bags and following behind you. 

He meets your side as you walk through the doors. The walls are pale blue, and the bottom halves are lined with white shiplap. Beechwood covers the floors. The living room is light and airy, white curtains floating through opened windows. The kitchen is off to the side, and to the back is a large open sunroom. Just straight ahead are the stairs. 

Jean and Scott settle some groceries on the counter as Jubilee, Kurt, Rogue, and Gambit head upstairs to see the bedrooms. 

“Hey, guys?” Jubilee calls from upstairs. You can tell by the sound of her voice that something is off. “I thought the Professor said there’d be six beds.”

Jean puts away a bag of chips and steps back into the living room, following Jubilee’s voice up the steps, and disappearing as her feet hit the landing. “How many are there?” She asks, her voice muffled.

“Five,” Jubilee answers. “Three queens and two bunk beds, and Kurt and I took the bunks already.”

“That’s fine,” Jean says, shrugging her shoulders as she heads back downstairs. “We’ll all just be a little tight—closer quarters than usual.”

And that’s when it finally hits you. Three queen beds—and Kurt and Jubilee took the twin bunks. 

You’ll be sharing a room with Logan.

You turn to him and find that his eyes are already on you. “You okay sharing, princess?” He asks, nodding to the steps.

You swallow harshly, trying to mask your nervousness, hoping Logan can’t hear the way your heart beats out of your chest. “Yeah!” You say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Totally fine with it.”

He nods, smiling softly as he walks towards the steps, his bags in his hands. You follow behind him, the wood stairs creaking with every step you take. 

Jean was not exaggerating; the upstairs of the house is extremely small. There may be four bedrooms—but bedroom is a generous title. Each room is only large enough to hold a queen bed, a single dresser, and a small nightstand on either side of the bed. There’s little to no walking room. One of the rooms—Kurt and Jubilee’s—has just a bunk bed and a nightstand, with a tiny wardrobe in the corner. In the center of the tight hallway is a bathroom with a simple sink, toilet, and a stand-up shower. 

Logan steps into the first bedroom to the left of the stairs and puts his bags down on the ground. “You sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, watching as you put your bags down next to his. “I can sleep on the couch if you’re uncomfortable.”

You shake your head, walking over to the window and taking in the view of the ocean. “Don’t worry,” you say, watching kids run across the sand, trying to distract yourself from how close Logan is to you in this tiny room. “We’re adults.” You turn to face him, fighting the urge to let your eyes trail up and down his body. “We can share.” Or at least, you hope you can. 

You can handle this for a weekend. You can force down your feelings—can ignore your massive crush on Logan for seventy-two hours. That’s all this is. A weekend trip. This is doable. You’ve been through so much worse than this. 

“If you change your mind, you can let me know,” Logan says, reaching his arm out towards your shoulder. His knuckles brush against your bare skin, and you let yourself lean into his touch. He’s warm, solid, cozy—

“Let’s go to the beach!” Jubilee interrupts, Logan’s hand falling from your shoulder instantly. “We didn’t come here to sit in a house all weekend, did we?” She jumps away from the door and runs down the stairs. 

 “Kid has a point,” Logan says, shrugging his shoulders and nodding towards the door. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling widely. “Already have my bathing suit on.” Logan smiles back and grabs your wrist, tugging you into the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re sitting on the beach, watching as Jubilee and Kurt splash each other recklessly in the water. Jean sits in a chair, reading a book, while Scott lays on a beach towel, eyes likely closed behind his glasses. Rogue and Gambit walk down the shoreline, hand in hand.

Logan stands up from the beach blanket you share, tugging his beater up and over his head. “I’m going in,” he says, just to you. “Wanna come?” He reaches out his hand again, the same hand that tugged you the whole way here. You bite your lip, nerves building in your stomach again. “Come on,” Logan says, smirking. “I don’t bite.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you take his hand, standing up. You let go and tug your shorts down your legs. You look up at Logan as your fingertips find the hem of your tank top, his eyes trained firmly on you. Your stomach somersaults as you pull your shirt up your body, revealing your bikini top, knowing Logan is watching. 

Logan’s throat bobs as he swallows. He nods towards the ocean, wordlessly grabbing your hand again and tugging you along. 

The waves lap at your ankles, and you force yourself into the cold water. Logan seemingly has no problem at all, pulling you along from a few feet ahead. The water is already up to his hips. He looks behind at you, all wide-eyed and happy. 

“You’re not afraid, are you?” He teases, squeezing your hand tighter. Your heart drums against your ribcage at the feeling. He’s never held your hand like this. You try to shove down your feelings, to brush away how having him this close makes you feel, but nothing changes. You want him all the same. 

You take a deep breath and shake your head as the cold water barrels against the middle of your thighs. “No,” you protest. “I’m just freezing.” 

Logan smiles wider. “You gotta get all the way in!” He tugs you further, pulling you closer to him so that you’re shoulder to shoulder. You can’t tell if it’s the icy waves or your proximity to Logan that makes your heart freeze in your chest, that makes you crave the warmth of his body. You want to be close to him. You want him to pull you into his chest and hold you. 

“Do I have to?” You ask playfully, a half-smile turning up at the corner of your mouth. 

He jokingly rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, dropping your hand and wrapping his arm around your waist instead. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. You choke on your own breath as he guides you further into the water. “You okay?” He asks. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble, his fingertips pressing against the bare skin of your stomach. Goosebumps pebble your flesh. Finally, Logan guides you all the way into the water, up to your shoulders. It’s a surprisingly calm day—the waves easy and gentle. 

Logan lets go of your waist and treads water, slipping underneath the dark blue current and coming back up—his hair wet, drops of water dripping down his face and neck. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips at the sight. 

“Your turn,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes half shut as he swims towards you. 

Your smile drops as you swim away. Logan grabs your ankle, pulling you towards him. You yelp as he tugs you closer. You turn around and splash him playfully, freeing yourself from his grasp as he wipes the salt water off his face. 

You laugh, still backing away from Logan. He creeps forward, assessing you like an animal stalks its prey. “You’re not getting away that easy, pretty girl,” he huffs. 

What was that? Your eyes widen as those last two words repeat in your head. You’re so distracted that you don’t notice him closing the gap between the two of you. Suddenly his hands are on your hips, dragging you into his chest. 

His grip is like iron around your waist, keeping you in place, your hips pressed to his, your chests touching lightly. You don’t feel the coldness of the water anymore—you can’t feel anything except Logan. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” He asks, his voice low and raspy. The world stopped long ago, his arms wrapping around your back now, pulling you closer. The playfulness of the moment disappears—this is something else, something more serious. Logan brings his face closer to yours, his lips just centimeters away. This is it, you think to yourself. The moment when everything finally changes—

“Hey!” A familiar voice calls from the beach. Logan’s eyes fall closed—an almost defeated look painting across his face. Your head whips to the sand, and the team is standing by the beach chairs. Jubilee waves you and Logan over. “We’re going to the boardwalk! Come on!”

Logan opens his eyes. You think he’s going to push you away, to let you go, but he only holds you tighter. “Give us a second!” He shouts, frustration clear in his voice. 

But Jubilee crosses her arms against her chest. Scott chuckles and walks ahead with Jean. Gambit and Rogue look at each other knowingly, and Kurt teleports to the edge of the water. 

“And just like that…” Logan murmurs, half to himself, half to you. “Moment ruined.” 

You tilt your head, the implication of his words wracking your brain. “What do you mean—” 

But Logan is pulling you along with him to the shore before you can finish asking for clarification. His arms drop from your waist, his hand grabbing yours to guide you onto the sand. He bends down, picking up your shorts and top from the beach blanket the team left out, and passing them to you. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, your hands parting as he shoves his beater up and over his head. Once you’re dressed, flip-flops and all, you join the team and make your way up to the boardwalk. 

Gambit is talking with Logan about something just ahead, trailing on and on, clearly irritating Logan, while Rogue falls back to walk with you. 

“So,” she says softly, her eyes flitting between you and Logan. “What’s going on there, sugar?” She asks, smirking. 

You furrow your brows, trying to hide your smile. “Nothing that I know of,” you say, somewhat honestly. This might be nothing—might just be a friend teasing another friend. A friend whose lips were just inches from yours, so close that you could feel his breath fanning across your face. A friend who dug his fingers into your waist to pull you closer to his—

“Nothing, huh?” She asks, snapping you back to reality. “Because I think he would’ve kissed you if Jubilee didn’t interrupt,” she whispers so only you can hear. 

Heat rises to your chest at her words. “I don’t know. We’re just friends…” You trail off. 

“We’ll see about that, sugar,” Rogue says, walking ahead, tearing Gambit away from Logan. Logan’s shoulders visibly relax once Gambit is gone, and he looks back at you, slowing his steps so that you can meet his side. 

“Hi,” he husks, smiling down at you. 

You smile back, the warmth of his hand suddenly spreading across your lower back. It’s gentle, the ghost of a touch, almost not quite there—more tentative than in the ocean when it felt like no one was watching. But it’s solid and centering all the same. 

“Let’s go on the Ferris wheel!” Jubilee suggests, holding out the ticket booklet that Jean and Scott ran ahead to buy. She tears out tickets—three for each person. Jean and Scott hold hands and walk to the front of the line. Rogue leans over to Jubilee, whispering something into her ear that makes her eyes widen. She nods and pairs off with Kurt. Rogue turns around and winks at you while Logan isn’t looking. 

You look up at him and see that he’s staring off at the sun slowly setting. Pink, orange, and red erupt in the sky, the colors blending, painting across the wispy clouds. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” you say as the others climb into the Ferris wheel gondolas in pairs. 

Logan smirks, his eyes finding yours as you approach the front of the line. “Looks like it, pretty girl,” he husks. There it is again. Pretty girl. The ride attendant slows down the wheel, and you and Logan slip inside the gondola. You think maybe he’ll sit across from you, but he sits next to you instead. 

The attendant closes the door of the gondola, and the ride starts up. Once you’re off the ground, Logan slips his arm around your shoulder, his palm warm against your bare skin. “This okay?” He asks, his lips at the shell of your ear. 

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as his thumb brushes gentle circles into your arm. You let your head rest in the crook of his neck, and he leans against you, fitting together like puzzle pieces. 

It’s silent communication—knowing, but not saying. You can feel his intention as his arm tugs you closer, his lips at the crown of your head. Your heart beats out of your chest—for the millionth time today—and you know he can hear it. 

You reach the top of the Ferris wheel and look out at the ocean, the sun hitting the water, turning the blue waves to gold. “It’s beautiful,” you mumble, the current rippling against the shore, glistening vibrantly like the ocean figured out alchemy. 

Logan chuckles softly. “I can think of something prettier, you know,” he husks, his lips still pressed into the crown of your head. Your heart thumps in your chest at his words. You lift your head, looking up at him.

His eyes meet yours, a soft smile playing upon his lips. “Logan, I—”

But the gondola comes to a sudden stop, and the door to the car swings open. You’re already back on the ground. The attendant crosses his arms, waiting for you and Logan to get out. Logan rolls his eyes, grabbing your hand and helping you back onto the boardwalk. The team is already off the ride, waiting for the two of you at the exit.

“Why don’t we play some games and then head back to the house for the night?” Scott suggests, his arm wrapped around Jean’s waist. 

Jubilee smiles widely. “Yes! I wanna play the game where you throw the lobster into the pot!”

“Gambit’s gonna win chere a prize,” Gambit drawls, tugging Rogue into his chest. “The biggest one Gambit can find.” Rogue giggles, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Jubilee and Kurt run off to the other side of the boardwalk, immediately finding the lobster-pot game. Jean and Scott follow behind, making sure they don’t get into trouble. Rogue and Gambit go out on their own, heading toward the ring toss game. 

You and Logan are left alone. Again. Surely everyone is doing this on purpose. “What do you wanna play?” You ask, nodding towards the array of games lined up on the opposite side of the boardwalk. 

His eyes meet yours, flitting down to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Whatever you want, darlin’.” You smile, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards balloon darts. 

You approach the booth, and Logan pulls out his wallet, handing a five-dollar bill to the woman running the game. She slides a cup of five darts towards you and Logan, and steps off to the side, away from the balloons. Logan watches as you grab a dart and throw, completely missing the balloon you were aiming for. You groan, rolling your eyes, and grab another dart. 

“Here,” Logan rasps, standing behind you. He holds your hand in his, lining the dart up to a balloon. His other arm wraps around your waist, the front of his hips pressing into your back. “Like this,” he murmurs, pulling your hand back. You let go of the dart when he thrusts forward. The dart pierces a balloon, the pop echoing through the booth. 

You look up at him, his face close to yours, and smile. He grabs another dart, his eyes still focused on you, and throws without looking away, popping another balloon. “Now you’re just showing off,” you say teasingly as your smile grows wider. He grabs another dart, aiming at a bigger balloon this time, and pierces it with ease. 

“Gotta win you a prize, pretty girl,” he says, grabbing the last dart from the cup, and tossing it across the booth, directly into the biggest balloon on the board. It pops—of course—and the game attendant’s jaw drops. 

She shakes her head, walking over to the bigger prizes. “Never seen anyone do that before…” she trails off, pointing to the giant plushies. “You can pick any of these.”

Logan’s arm sneakily wraps around your waist as he waits for you to pick between a giant fox, panda, or dolphin. “The fox, definitely the fox,” you decide. 

The attendant grabs the fox and pulls it down, handing it to you. You squeeze it to your chest, Logan’s grip on your waist tightening. “He’s so cute!” You giggle, looking up at Logan, who’s guiding you towards the edge of the boardwalk. “Thank you,” you say softly.

He shakes his head and looks out towards the water. “It was nothing,” he says, his arm still around your waist as you lean against the railing of the boardwalk. The sun is falling behind the horizon, stars rising in the sky. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he turns to face you. “Listen…” He starts, his jaw working as his grip on your waist falls away, his forearms bracing on the railing. Your shoulder presses against his, the tension between you palpable. “I’ve been thinking…” But he pauses again, his eyes searching yours. 

“We ready to head back to the house?” Scott asks, interrupting the conversation. Logan’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he leans forward. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Logan mutters, thinking you can’t hear him, resting his head against the railing. 

Jubilee grabs your arm, holding up her little stuffed teddy bear. “Look what I won!” Her smile drops when she sees your giant fox. “Oh my god, my bear is nothing compared to that! That thing is massive!”

You smirk, glancing over at Logan. “Wouldn’t have gotten it if it wasn’t for him.” Logan lifts his head and smiles sheepishly at you. 

The moon rises high in the quickly darkening sky. You’re not quite sure where the day went. Everything happened so quickly—the hours spent on the sand, Logan tugging you into the water. It was perfect. Beyond perfect. And now it was time to head back. 

The team treks down the boardwalk and onto the street, trailing a few blocks before arriving back at the house. You and Logan walk shoulder to shoulder the whole way there, leading at the front of the group. Logan grabs the key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and you all head inside. 

Jubilee and Kurt run into the kitchen scavenging for snacks. Gambit and Rogue crash onto the living room couch. 

“We’re gonna head to bed,” Scott says, Jean following him up the stairs. “Night, guys.” Everyone mutters soft goodnights in response, and a comfortable silence falls upon the house. 

“Gonna steal the upstairs shower before they get to it,” you whisper to Logan, nodding to Jubilee and Kurt. 

He smirks. “I’ll shower down here,” he says back. “See you upstairs?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” you answer, suddenly remembering that you’re sharing not just a room with Logan, but a bed. You walk away and head upstairs, grabbing your pajamas from your duffle bag and making your way to the bathroom.

You turn on the water and undress. The shower is warm and relaxing, releasing the tension you had spent the entire day holding in. But the peace is temporary—your thoughts drift off to Logan. You imagine him sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, waiting for you to join him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach, and you try to ignore the heat growing at the bottom of your belly. Maybe you should’ve taken a cold shower instead. 

You finish up in the shower, turning the water off and grabbing a towel. You reach for your pajamas, only to realize you forgot your bottoms and your bra. You step into your panties and shrug your oversized band t-shirt over your head. You push the bathroom door open just a crack, and seeing no one in the hallway, you make a break for it, tip-toeing to your room. You slip inside and shut the door. 

Logan coughs from behind you, and you whip around. “S-sorry,” he stutters, standing up from the edge of the bed. He’s shirtless, just like you imagined he’d be, wearing only a pair of boxers. His hair is still damp from his shower. “I didn’t mean to—”

You cut him off. “No, no,” you assure. “It’s totally fine.” You’re worried you sound too eager, too focused on making sure he stays. You clear your throat nervously, stepping towards your duffle bag. You lean down, hoping your t-shirt is still covering your ass as you rifle through your belongings. You groan when you finally realize you forgot to pack pajama shorts. You stand up and make your way around to the left side of the bed.

“Everything okay?” Logan asks, following suit and walking to the right side of the bed. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I, um…” You trail off, motioning towards your duffle bag. “I forgot pajama bottoms,” you finally spit out. “If you’re uncomfortable or—”

“No,” Logan cuts you off this time. “I’m not uncomfortable at all.”

You smile, climbing into the bed and slipping under the covers, and Logan does the same. He rolls onto his side and turns off the lamp—the only light on in the room. The space is engulfed in darkness save for the pale light of the moon pushing through the curtains. 

You take a deep breath; you’re more nervous than you can comprehend. You could simply turn away from Logan, but you’re too anxious to move. Your stomach somersaults as his knee brushes against your thigh. You force your eyes shut, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. 

“I can hear your heartbeat, you know,” Logan mumbles into the dark room, shuffling under the covers. “You okay?”

You swallow harshly, humming a soft mhm, too distracted to form a complete sentence. 

“I know you aren’t telling the truth, pretty girl,” Logan whispers, his hand finding your waist. “I can sleep on the couch, if you—”

“No,” you protest, the words escaping your lips almost uncontrollably. “It’s f-fine,” you stammer. “I’m fine.”

He chuckles darkly. “Then what’s got you so worked up, huh?” Oh. He knows. He has to know. You can hear it in his voice. 

“N-nothing,” you lie, your eyes fluttering open. Logan is closer to you now, his fingertips trailing down to your thighs, to the hem of your shirt. 

“Relax,” Logan husks, his hand slipping back up your body and settling on your waist. He tugs you closer to him. “This okay?” He asks, and you hum a quiet yes. You can feel the tension thickening, feel it readying to snap. He breaks the silence. “Thought about this all day, you know.”

Your eyes widen at the confession. “Th-this?” You ask, your legs tangling with his. 

“Being alone with you,” Logan rasps. Your shirt hikes up as he pulls you into his chest. “Wanted to get you alone earlier,” he says, his hand sliding back down your body, playing with the hem of your shirt before slipping underneath. His fingertips drag along your stomach. 

You curse under your breath, Logan’s forehead pressing against yours. “Logan,” you whisper, his name the only thing you can think of. You’re sure he can smell the arousal building between your thighs. 

“There’s no going back from this. You know that, don’t you?” He whispers, his breath hot against your lips. He’s so close, his thigh pushing between your legs, bumping against your core. 

“Yes,” you sigh. “Don’t wanna go back.” 

Your eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by how close Logan is to you. “Good,” he breathes. “Because you have no idea how much I need you.” 

His lips crash against yours, his thigh dragging along your core. You moan into his mouth, his tongue swiping across your lower lip. You part your lips, inviting him inside, his tongue tasting yours. 

“Logan,” you whine, involuntarily bucking your hips, grinding down on his thigh. “N-need you too.”

“I know, beautiful,” he soothes, gripping your waist, rolling you onto your back, pushing you into the mattress. “Fucking thought about you all day, always thinking about you.” He slides your shirt up above your tits, drinking you in with his eyes. “Wanted you for so long, pretty girl.” He hovers over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand explores your body.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he palms your left breast, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and then doing the same to the other side. It’s dizzying having him this close. You can smell his body wash—notes of musk and pine and a hint of leather on his skin. 

“Please,” you beg, not quite sure what you’re even begging for. All you know is how badly you want him—need him. 

Logan buries his face into the crook of your neck as his thumb rolls over your nipple, biting down on your pulse point and sucking the sensitive skin between his lips. “Please what, darlin’?” He mumbles, continuing his assault on your neck. 

“F-fuck,” you whimper, your hips rocking against Logan’s. “W-want you to fuck me.”

“Yeah? That what you want?” Logan teases, his hand pushing between your legs, his fingertips finding your clit through your panties. “What if I wanted to taste you first?”

“W-whatever you want,” you moan, grinding down onto his hand. “I’m yours.”

He lifts his head from your neck and presses his forehead to yours. “Whatever I want?” His voice is thick, cocky, almost mocking. “You’re mine,” he husks, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, then to your jaw, your neck. “All fucking mine.” He crawls down your body, trailing kisses down the valley of your breasts, your stomach, stopping just above the hem of your panties. 

Your hips lift off the mattress as his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and he tugs them down your legs, throwing them to the floor. He nestles between your thighs, his breath hot against your cunt. You tremble in anticipation, watching as he breathes you in, his jaw working. You can see in his eyes that he’s holding himself back. 

“Are you sure you want this, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice suddenly soft, his cockiness replaced by genuine care. "Not gonna be able to stop once I start.” But you know he doesn’t just mean in the moment, right now—he means forever. 

“I’m sure, Lo,” you whine. It comes out like a prayer, like a desperate cry, a guilty plea. 

And then he buries his face into your heat, his tongue swiping through your folds. He grunts against you, flicking your clit before stroking his tongue through your folds again. “Fuck,” Logan groans, his face pressing harder into you, his tongue exploring your cunt. “Tastes better than I ever imagined,” he mumbles against you, the vibrations of his voice pulsing against your core. “So fucking sweet.”

Your hips jolt away from him as his tongue laps at your sensitive clit. His palms quickly slide under your legs, wrapping around your thighs, yanking you back to his face, and holding you down onto the mattress. “Don’t move, princess,” he chides, his nails digging into your flesh. “Wanna eat this pretty pussy.” 

“L-Lo,” you stutter as his tongue draws tight, rapid circles around your clit. You’re already close, his teasing words enough to push you over the edge. But you know he’s nowhere near done—he’s only getting started. 

His right hand loosens its grip around your thigh, his nails dragging down the curve of your ass and towards your folds. His fingertips prod your slit, spreading your slick. “So fucking wet for me, pretty girl,” he praises, his lips wrapping around your clit, his teeth grazing the bud lightly as he sucks. “Want my fingers?” He asks, knowing your answer, but wanting to hear you beg for him. 

“Yes, Logan, please. Need—” 

He’s thrusting two long, thick fingers deep inside you before you can finish your sentence. “Fuck,” he whispers, pulling out and pumping back in—down to his knuckles. He stills inside you, letting you adjust to him. “So goddamn tight.” His tongue laps at your clit. “Gonna have to work you open for me, hm?” He mutters, thrusting in and out now. 

You’re so overwhelmed, your swollen clit already overstimulated. He wraps his lips around your clit again, sucking harder this time, his fingers unrelenting as they plunge deeper with every pump. His tongue draws long, hard strokes around your bud, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. 

It feels like a wildfire is spreading through your veins, a current dragging you under and holding you down. Warmth blossoms in your belly. “Doing so good for me, beautiful,” Logan praises, his fingers fucking into you. Your walls flutter around him at his words, sucking him in deeper. “Know you’re close, pretty girl.”

“Logan,” you moan, his tongue drawing those tight circles around your clit again. He’s adding more pressure, his fingers dragging along your walls, scissoring inside you, splitting you in two. “Please, need to come…” You trail off, your back arching off the mattress, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

“Come for me,” Logan demands, his voice dark and filled with lust. “Wanna know what it tastes like.” His tongue presses harder into your clit, his fingers rocking in and out of your entrance. “Wanna see that pretty face when you let go.” 

And then the tension breaks, white-hot heat pouring freely from the bottom of your belly. Your vision goes blurry as Logan laps at your clit, his fingers still pumping in and out, working you through your high. You moan his name, pleasure ripping through your body in intense waves. 

His pumps relax, his fingers stilling inside you before he finally pulls out. His face is still buried against your cunt, licking long stripes through your folds. He’s savoring the taste of your release, drinking every last drop you have to give. “Can’t get enough of you,” he husks. “Could do this forever.” 

He licks one last long stripe through your folds before lifting his face from your cunt. He’s a mess—your release glistening on his chin, his hair disheveled, his boxers all wrinkled. Your heart beats in your chest at the sight. All this, just for you. 

Logan crawls up your body, hovering over you again, lowering down onto his forearm. “Wanna fuck you, beautiful,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to yours. “Wanna know what you feel like.” His hand slips between your legs, his fingertips finding your swollen clit and giving it a gentle pinch. Your hips buck against him at the sudden sensation. 

“Wanna feel you too,” you whimper, your arms wrapping around his back. “Want you inside me, please.” 

And then he’s tugging his boxers down his legs, his erection pressing against the inside of your thigh. You can’t see—but you can feel just how massive he is. His tip slides through your folds, spreading your arousal. 

“You know how bad I need you?” Logan whispers, his lips finding yours. He bites your lower lip and kisses away the pain. “You know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” And then he sinks himself inside you, down to the hilt with one smooth, fluid thrust. “Thought about this every day since I met you.” 

Your muscles release and contract at his words. His hips stall, letting you adjust to the size of him. You feel indescribably full. He’s splitting you open, stretching you out, claiming you as his. His hips pull back, his cock sliding out, and he plunges back in, somehow deeper this time. 

“Th-thought about you too,” you stutter, already too fucked out to form a coherent thought. “Always wanted you.” Logan sets a reckless pace as his fingertips find your clit again, working long, languid strokes into the bud, teasing you, leading you on. 

“You feel so perfect,” Logan praises, rocking into you, his cock dragging along your walls. “So fucking warm, so tight. Made for me.” His lips are on yours again, his tongue slipping into your mouth, tasting you, swallowing your moans. “Never gonna want anybody else, pretty girl.”

His hips snap against yours, his fingers circling your clit faster now. “Just want you, Lo,” you choke, the tension building at the bottom of your belly, a fire burning through your bones. “Only want you.”

“I know,” he whispers, his voice suddenly soft, contrasting with the way he pounds into you recklessly, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every pump of his cock. “It’s you, just you.” You can hear the emotion in his voice, the sincerity, the desperation, the aching longing. 

Your chest heaves against his. He’s fucking you to get closer to you, to be as deep inside you as possible. This isn’t just sex—this isn’t just some tension that needs to be broken. It’s an invisible string keeping the two of you tied closely together. Maybe it was stitched by the Fates centuries ago, laid out carefully, a plan to be executed. Maybe everything that led you to this moment was always meant to be. Because here you are now, his lips soft and hungry against yours, his words tearing through your resolve, his cock buried deep inside you, searching for a way to get deeper. And all you can think is…

This is it. This is what people mean when they talk about love—that word that changes its meaning every time you say it. The word with a definition that always escapes you. You know what it means now. 

“Logan, I’m gonna…” You trail off, that fire in your belly spreading through your body as he rams into you, the sound of your skin slapping against his echoing along the walls of the tiny room. His fingers press harder into your clit, pinching softly, and then circling again. 

His cock twitches inside you. “Me too, beautiful,” he hums, his pace growing sloppier, his cock throbbing again. “You’re so perfect,” he praises. “Love you so much, pretty girl.”

And then the tension snaps, electricity buzzing through your nerve endings, fire prickling your skin as you melt into him. “Love you too, Lo.” Your muscles contract and release, squeezing around him, coming undone. 

Your walls clench around him again, and you know it’ll be the thing that pushes him over the edge. “Fuck, wanna come inside you,” he pants.

You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him close. “Please,” you beg, and with one more thrust he’s painting your walls, filling you up and letting go. 

You share one breath, panting, foreheads pressed together as Logan’s pumps slow, his cock stalling inside you. His fingers slip away from your clit, his arms reaching under your back as he carefully pulls out. You feel empty without him inside you. 

“Y-you can stay inside, if you want,” you offer as Logan rolls you onto your side, pulling you into his chest. 

He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Is that what you want, pretty girl?” He asks, his lips pressing to your nose now. 

“Yes,” you whisper. He swallows harshly as one of his hands slides down your body, hiking your leg up and over his hip. He lines his half-hard cock up with your entrance, his lips finding yours as he slides back in. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling of being full of him again. 

He groans as he bottoms out. “So fucking good,” he praises, his arms wrapping around your back again, tugging you into his chest. 

You lay in comfortable silence, listening as Logan’s breathing becomes rhythmic. Your eyes grow heavy, and you bury your face into Logan’s chest. You can hear his heart beating.

“Love you,” he mumbles against the crown of your head. You can hear the sleepiness in his voice, the exhaustion. 

“Love you too,” you whisper, your breathing matching his, like you’re no longer two separate people, but one.

He presses a kiss to your head. “So lucky I met you,” he huffs. You smile against him. “So lucky I finally figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” You ask, looking up at him. 

He smiles down at you. “What love is supposed to feel like...” He trails off, and you watch as he chooses his next words. “What living is supposed to feel like.” 

You can feel tears brimming in the corners of your eyes, and you do your best to blink them away. “Me too, Lo,” you whisper, pausing…

“Me too.”

tags: @wittyjasontodd @galacticglitterglue @silversprings-mp3 @zxaera @spiderset @alastorssimp @alsoprettyinpink @figsnpassionfruits @prettyseaveins @ilysmdovie12 @evasmlp @derbygracie @rammakela @fanfic-writing-barbie @pedrohoe04 @cosmiccandydreamer @movhoney @honeyfewr @ricefordays-blog1 @maniuplatour *as always, I'm so sorry if I forgot to tag you*