#something something cracking up on the rocks

[pucksandpower]

All the Way Home

Toto Wolff x Lauda!Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turn. “Sorry about your shirt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clearly.”

“You’re a student?”

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

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

“Finance.”

He chuckles. “Of course you are.”

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

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

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

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

“That was the point.”

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

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

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

Toto’s face hardens. “I know.”

You cross your arms. “Do you?”

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

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

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

You blink. That hits somewhere unexpected.

“I’m sorry,” he adds.

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

“It does.”

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

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

“I don’t want a coffee.”

“Something else, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he says. “Out of care.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

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

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

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

“Anyone?”

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

“But why?”

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

His expression falters. Just slightly.

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

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

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

“I know.” A pause. “But I still do.”

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

You exhale.

“It’s been a long time,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not the same person anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

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

He grins. “That bad?”

“Very.”

“Will you be at the lecture?”

You snort. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

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

“Impressive.”

You shrug. “It keeps me busy.”

“Where’s the offer?”

“London.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe,” you say.

He beams.

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

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes. “Goodbye, Toto.”

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

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

You stop. Half-turn.

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

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

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

***

It starts with an email.

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

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

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

Subject: An Apology, Properly This Time

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

Dear Y/N,

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

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

Wishing you a good rest of the semester.

Warmly,

Toto

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

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

I’m fine, thanks.

And hit send. Done.

Or so you think.

***

A day later, another email.

This time, the subject line is just your name.

Y/N,

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

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

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

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

- Toto

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

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

Don’t get used to it.

***

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

He stands when he sees you.

“You came,” he says, as if surprised.

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

He grins. “Persistent, not annoying.”

“Debatable.”

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

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

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

He chuckles. “That bad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

“Were,” you say. “Past tense.”

He shakes his head. “Not for us.”

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

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

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

He straightens slightly. He doesn’t interrupt.

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

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

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

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

You nod. “I know. I know he did.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard.

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

Toto doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then he died. And everything stopped.”

You pause. The air turns heavier.

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

Toto’s brows furrow. “Gone?”

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

Toto looks like he’s going to be sick.

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

“But the team-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care.”

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

“You’re here now,” he says. “That’s-”

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

His mouth opens, then closes again.

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

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

That hits somewhere it shouldn’t.

The food arrives. You both pretend to eat.

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

Toto blinks. “I told you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

“I’m not coming back.”

He nods. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Then don’t take it.”

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

He smiles. “Only for people who matter.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

Niki Lauda probate case.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow they won.

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

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

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

***

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

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

“I read the will.”

You sit up. “What?”

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

Your stomach drops.

“Toto-”

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

“I know,” you snap.

Silence.

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

“You didn’t tell me-”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

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

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

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

“I do.”

“You’re lying.”

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

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

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

“But I do,” he says.

You freeze.

“No,” you say quickly. “Don’t.”

“You know I can help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why?”

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

His breath catches on the line.

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

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

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Another long silence.

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

You hang up.

***

You avoid him for two days.

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

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

It throws you off balance.

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

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

Because you don’t. Not anymore.

***

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

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

You stop. Groan. “Seriously?”

He turns. Smiles.

“I thought you were leaving,” you say.

“Tonight.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

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

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

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

“No,” he says. “I really don’t.”

You sigh.

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

Your jaw tightens. “Toto-”

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

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

You stop walking.

“I said no,” you say, firmly.

“I know.”

“And you did it anyway.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

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

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

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

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

“I never stopped.”

That makes your breath catch.

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

You snort. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not the way you deserved.”

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

You look away. “You should go.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“Goodbye, Toto.”

He nods, once. “For now.”

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

The subject line of the email reads:

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

You open it, already sighing.

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

I think you should come.

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

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

- Toto

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

You hit reply instead.

This doesn’t mean anything.

Y/N

Two minutes later:

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

- Toto

***

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

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

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

Toto meets you at the entrance to the paddock.

“Welcome home,” he says.

You give him a look. “It’s not home.”

He lifts a brow. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

***

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

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

You nod politely. Keep walking.

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

You are.

The Mercedes garage comes into view.

You stop. Your breath catches.

And then the crowd parts.

“Y/N?”

The voice is soft, stunned.

You turn. Lewis Hamilton.

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

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

Hard.

You freeze for a beat. Then you melt.

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

“I know.”

“No one knew what happened.”

“I know.”

He studies your face. “You okay?”

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

“You’re here now,” he says.

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

***

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

We missed you.

Where have you been?

Is it really you?

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

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

You take it.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just a lot.”

“I know.”

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

“You knew this would happen,” you say.

“I hoped,” he admits.

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

“Wasn’t my best lie.”

“No,” you say. “It really wasn’t.”

He grins.

***

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

There’s wine waiting. Of course.

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

You hesitate. “You could … stay.”

His brow lifts.

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

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

***

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

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

“So,” you say. “This was your plan.”

“Plan is a strong word.”

“Plot, then.”

“I prefer ‘gentle manipulation.’”

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

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

He nods.

“Also horrible,” you add.

He nods again.

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

“I know.”

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

Toto smiles faintly. “He did say that.”

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

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

Toto puts down his glass. You keep talking.

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

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

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

He leans forward. “You were a child.”

“I was supposed to be smarter.”

“You were grieving.”

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

Toto doesn’t speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

LAUDA: A HISTORY IN MOTION

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

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

For when you miss home.

No pressure. No agenda. Just memory.

- Toto

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

***

Three days later, a message lights up your phone.

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

You stare at it.

You type: I can’t.

You delete it.

You type: Maybe.

You delete that, too.

You end up sending just: When?

His reply is instant.

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

***

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

“You came.”

“You invited me,” you say, shrugging.

“You still came.”

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

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

You snort. “You’re disgusting.”

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

***

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

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

He tops off your wine. You sip too fast.

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

You nod. He waits. You cave.

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

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

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

“You never owed me anything,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

He presses his forehead to yours.

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

You’re holding your breath.

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

Your chest aches.

“I don’t think that.”

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

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

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

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

You open your eyes again.

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

You sit in the silence for a while. Breathing.

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

“I’d never.”

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

***

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

In the morning, there’s a note.

Didn’t want to wake you.

I’ll be back in Cambridge soon.

In the meantime …

Remember you were never lost. Just waiting.

- Toto

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

***

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

“Hello?”

“It’s done.”

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

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

“Check your inbox.”

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

“I told you I would take care of it.”

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

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

You close your eyes.

***

It started two months ago.

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

You remember the silence that followed. Heavy. Intentional.

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

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

“It should be.”

“It’s over.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

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

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

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

You winced.

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

***

The legal battle is fast. Brutal. Clinical.

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

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

He’s panicking.

Tried to get the press involved.

We stopped it.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toto slides a folder across the table.

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

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

***

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

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

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

Vienna hasn’t changed. You have.

He’s silent beside you.

“You okay?” He asks eventually.

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t look okay.”

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

He doesn't answer.

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

He turns to you. “You’re not gone.”

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

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

You glance at him. “And now?”

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

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

It’s a fact.

***

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

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

“It still smells like him.”

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

You look up. “Me too.”

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

You shake your head.

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

You take a long sip of wine.

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

He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.

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

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

***

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

Everyone treats you differently now. You hate it.

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

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

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

***

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

“Fine.”

He pauses. “You always say that.”

“It’s the safest answer.”

There’s a beat.

“Come to Hungary,” he says.

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

“No,” he says. “It’s become a hobby.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

“You flew here,” you say, deadpan.

“Yes.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did,” he says simply.

“Did you consider texting?”

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

You fold your arms. “Because I am.”

He tilts his head. “Are you, though?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

You chew slowly. Swallow.

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

“I told you. I missed you.”

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

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

Silence.

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

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

You look down at your hands. “Toto-”

“I know.”

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

You break off.

“But?”

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

He leans in, voice low.

“Do what?”

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

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

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

You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

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

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

***

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

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

He glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Take care of everything.”

He shrugs. “I like it.”

“No, seriously. Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

He nods, not asking which part.

“I want you.”

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

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

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

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“I know.”

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

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

You nod.

“And you learned not to need anyone.”

Another nod.

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

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

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

You go quiet.

Toto shifts closer, but still not touching you.

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

Your throat tightens.

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

“I noticed.”

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

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

You nod.

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

A truth you’ve both tried to ignore.

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

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

“I won’t let you be alone,” he says.

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

***

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

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

You’re safe now.

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

***

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

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

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

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

But no one says it too loud.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s an awkward pause. Nico keeps going.

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

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

You watch it later in your hotel room, stunned.

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

***

The paddock changes after that. The questions don’t stop — but they get quieter. People look you in the eye when they greet you. Mechanics you haven’t seen in nearly a decade stop you in the hallway.

“You look like your grandfather,” one says, voice thick. “You always did.”

Lewis finds you again in the back corridor of the hospitality suite on Sunday evening, just after podiums wrap.

He’s still in his race suit, zipped down to his waist, red fireproofs damp with sweat. You’ve barely opened your mouth when he pulls you into a tight, quiet hug that lasts almost too long.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you more.”

He smiles, but his eyes are glassy. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You pause. Then nod again. “Better than I’ve been in years.”

Lewis glances behind you, toward where Toto’s voice carries from the other room. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wider. “I can see that.”

***

It’s late when you return to the hotel. The lights in the hallway hum gently. Your heels click across the polished floor.

He unlocks the suite door for you. You step inside. It’s quiet.

And then-

“I saw you,” he says.

You turn.

Toto stands near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, shirt undone at the throat.

“I saw you today,” he says again. “Really saw you.”

You breathe in slow. “I was terrified.”

“You didn’t show it.”

You step closer. “I didn’t want to.”

He studies you. “You were magnificent.”

Your breath hitches.

He takes a step. Then another. And another. Until his hands are cupping your face and your eyes are locked on his.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he says quietly.

You nod.

His thumbs brush your cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another nod.

He leans in. And kisses you.

***

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. The world stays outside.

His fingers are in your hair, at your waist, guiding without pulling, urging without demanding. You follow. The bed is too soft. The sheets too white. But his hands are steady, and you anchor yourself in the weight of him.

When your blouse slides from your shoulders, you think this isn’t about sex. It’s about being seen.

He doesn’t undress you. He undresses with you. Like it’s a slow collaboration. His mouth doesn’t take. It gives. Praise and patience, murmured reverence.

“Beautiful.”

“Every part of you.”

“You’re not broken.”

You tremble under the weight of it.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says against your neck.

“I want to,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“No,” he says. “You don’t have to want this like it’s an obligation. You deserve to be wanted for you. No guilt. No debts.”

You look up at him — this man who’s so much older, so much taller, so much more — and you don’t feel young. You feel safe.

And when his mouth trails reverent kisses down your skin, when he touches you like he’s been dreaming of it for years — like it’s a privilege, not a right — you understand what people mean when they say worship.

It’s not about power. It’s about surrender. You let yourself fall. You let him catch you.

You lose track of time. Of shame. Of the version of yourself who thought she didn’t deserve this.

After, you lie tangled together in the dark. His hand stroking your hair. Your fingers curled at his chest. He breathes, slow and quiet, like he could stay like this forever.

You whisper, “I don’t know what this is.”

He says, “It doesn’t have to be defined yet.”

You press your mouth to his collarbone. “But it’s real.”

“Yes,” he says, voice low. “Very real.”

You fall asleep there — his arms around you, your skin still humming, your heart finally still. And for the first time in your adult life, the future doesn’t feel like something to brace for. It feels like something to reach toward. With him.

***

The email comes at 3:08 a.m.

You’re awake. Not because you can’t sleep — those nights are mostly over — but because you flew halfway around the globe on a long weekend, the world feels lighter lately, and you’re learning to hold it in your hands without gripping too tight.

You read it twice. Then again.

Dear Miss Lauda,

We’re pleased to offer you a summer position with the Petersen-Welling Foundation. Your application was exceptional, and we’re eager to have your voice on the upcoming F1 Heritage and Inclusion initiative …

You don’t smile at first. You just exhale. Slowly. Like you’ve been holding your breath for a very long time.

***

Toto finds you in the kitchen of the penthouse in Monaco — barefoot, hair tied back, his hoodie drowning you. He’s already showered from his morning run, towel slung around his neck, coffee in hand.

He pauses when he sees your face.

“What happened?”

You hold out your phone.

He scans the screen. His mouth twitches.

“That’s a hell of a line on your resume,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Harvard, Lauda, and now an F1 foundation. Soon you’ll outrank me.”

You roll your eyes. “I already do.”

He hums. “True.”

There’s a beat. You pick at your thumbnail.

He softens. “What’s the hesitation?”

You shrug. “It’s … a lot. Another adjustment. Another version of me.”

“You don’t need to become anything you’re not.”

You glance at him. “Even if who I am isn’t enough?”

His voice lowers. “You are more than enough.”

You look down. Then up again. “Harvard said they’ll work with the Foundation to let me finish the final term remote. Conditionally. Since I’ll need to be based in Europe.”

“And?” He prompts gently.

“I think I want that.”

He nods. “Good.”

You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“I was hoping you’d say yes.” He grins. “I already made a copy of my keys-”

You groan. “Toto.”

He’s smiling too much to apologize.

***

It doesn’t happen all at once. Because nothing between you ever does.

You don’t move into his life like a storm. You settle like sunlight across the floor — gradual, warm, steady.

First, it’s the right side of the bed at his house near Brackley.

You joke that it’s more like a hotel than a home. He tells you to put your books on the shelves. You bring two at first. Then twelve. Then your sweaters. Then the half-finished sketchpad you stopped using at nineteen.

“Is this permanent?” You ask one night, curled beside him.

“Only if you want it to be,” he answers.

Then it’s Monaco. His penthouse. Your toothbrush beside his. Your name added to the concierge’s approved list. The first time someone calls you Madam Wolff, you laugh for five minutes straight. He grins, wide and unguarded, and doesn’t correct them.

Switzerland comes next. The chalet is silent but not lonely. He lights the fireplace. You bake (badly). He eats your too-dense banana bread like it’s gold.

“This is dry,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re lying.”

“Of course.”

You both laugh until it hurts.

***

But Austria is the hardest. The Lauda estate feels frozen in amber. Rooms locked. Curtains drawn. Silence echoing down marble halls.

You stand in the entryway, keys shaking in your hand. Toto waits beside you, quiet.

“I don’t know if I can go in,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

You pause. Then step forward.

The door opens with a groan.bIt smells like dust and memories.

The first room you enter is the library.

You stop cold. Nothing’s changed.

The old desk. The leather chair. The framed photo of you and Niki at age fourteen, covered in grease and pride, standing between Lewis and a smiling Toto.

You sink to your knees. He kneels with you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve-”

Toto catches your face in his hands.

“You were a child. And they failed you. We all failed you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let’s bring it back to life. Together.”

***

You do. Not quickly. Not easily. But you do.

The internship is demanding, exhilarating, and so completely you. You organize roundtables on legacy, inclusion, youth development. You write memos late at night in Monaco, edit presentations in Brackley, fly to interviews from Switzerland, and finally host your first panel in Austria.

At the Lauda estate.

You host something here. By choice. It’s full circle and forward motion all at once.

The old house feels different now. Softer. There are photos of you and Toto on the mantle. A few of your old sketches, framed. Your books. Your grandmother’s piano.

A home. Your home. Not just because it has your name on the deed again. But because you live in it on your own terms.

***

The night after the panel, you and Toto walk the long slope behind the house. The air is cool. The stars are out. You carry your heels in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

“You haven’t stopped working in weeks,” he murmurs beside you.

“I’m trying to catch up.”

“You don’t owe the world an apology for existing.”

You look at him. “Sometimes I think I owe Opa.”

He stops walking. “You don’t.”

You glance down.

“He’d be proud,” Toto says. “But he wouldn’t ask you to pay some imaginary debt to keep his memory alive. You do that just by being you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you say softly.

“Anything.”

You face him fully.

“Do you think I belong here?”

He frowns. “Here as in …”

“In F1. In this world. In your world.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes your wineglass. Sets it on the stone wall.

Then takes your face in his hands. “I think,” he says, “that for six years, this world has been missing something vital. And now it’s whole again.”

You blink too fast.

“I think,” he continues, “that you belong here more than anyone.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “But more than that … you belong in your world. Whatever shape that takes. Wherever you build it. And whoever you let into it.”

You don’t answer with words. You answer with your arms, sliding around his waist. Your cheek against his chest. His heart steady against your ear.

***

Later that night, back inside, you open your laptop. There’s an email waiting from Harvard.

Term completion approved.

Dean’s note: we expect great things. You’ve already begun delivering them.

You sit back.

Toto passes you a cup of tea and slides onto the couch beside you.

“Big news?” He asks, eyes amused.

You look at him. And then you say it. Not for the first time. But for the first time with full, undiluted certainty.

“I’m home.”

He sets his tea aside. Pulls you close. Whispers into your hair, “You always were.”

And for once, the past doesn’t pull at you. The future doesn’t scare you.

Because it’s not just about where you live or what you’ve lost. It’s about what you’ve claimed. What you’ve chosen. What you’ve built.

A home. A career. A future. A man beside you — not in front, not above — but beside.

And a life, finally, that is yours.

All the way home.

[sugarwarachan]

horny brainrot: bnha

andy's notes: ahhhh i've missed y'all!! getting back into the swing of things (work was hell this week) and hope you like this particular bit of filth while i crack into prompts

content warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, not free of spoilers just by character names alone lol, pregnancy kink, panty kink, oral fixation, brat taming, oral m!receiving, cnc, throat fucking, scent kink, slightly yandere behavior with feathers, size kink

characters: kirishima eijiro, tenko shimura, shinsou hitoshi, hizashi yamada, aizawa shouta, keigo takami, shouto todoroki

kirishima has the nastiest pregnancy kink, no one can convince me otherwise, so he's delighted when he finds out you have one, too. but when you're trying for a baby, your everyday life becomes horny hell because he insists on treating you like you're already pregnant. when you want to do something around the house, he tells you to "think of the baby," wide grin on his face when you flush and squirm your legs together. shows you maternity clothing ads of all the things he can't wait to buy you, patting your tummy. "you're gonna look so good in this sundress when your bumps start to fill out, honey." it gets so bad that literally the mere swipe of his thumb across your lower belly makes your pussy clench. (you get a positive pregnancy test two weeks later)

tenko puts on a pair of your silk panties because he has "nothing of his own left to wear" but he's actually been thinking about how the material would hug his balls ever since he pulled them off you days ago. the silk clings to his dick, dragging over the shaft with a feather-like caress. he groans and ruts his hips into his palm. pre-cum darkens the silk. arousal unspools in his belly and his cock twitches, aching at the fact that your cunt rested here, right where his balls now hang. your pretty pussy lips dragged over this fabric too, leaving your juices on the gusset. he rolls into the mattress, humping your pretty pink sheets. he hears whimpering and whining and realizes it's him drooling out your name into the pillow as he cums harder than he ever has

when you're done being a mouthy little brat, shinsou loves to cup your jaw and sink two fingers into your mouth, the cold metal bands of his rings clinking gently against your teeth as your cheeks hollow, sucking and humming around his digits like the greedy little whore you are. "look at me," he says, tipping your head back and holding your gaze. "keep your eyes on me while i keep your mouth full.''

hizashi loves when you take charge, when you tie him to a chair and stuff your panties in his mouth while giving him the sloppiest head of his life. he ruts his hips up into the delicious hot suction of your mouth, but you hold him down and pull away with a plop. you smear spit and pre-cum over your lips with the head of his dick, smirking when it twitches. you do this for hours, until his dick is flushed dark, engorged and aching, balls drawn up so tight against his body your mere breath against them is torture. when you finally let him cum, he explodes down your throat and onto your lips, a creamy gloss that you lick away after

the first time you broach aizawa about cnc you don't miss the way his jaw clicks shut like he's swallowing down every thought. "you're sure?" is all he asks and then you get a questionnaire in your email a few days later regarding hard limits. cut to a month later, he's fisting your hair and bullying his cock down your throat. "break eye contact and i'll paddle your ass raw." you're already slobbering all over his shaft, drool slipping down your chin and neck. your eyes burn with tears and mascara and you know you look like a fucked-out mess, but your body is tingling, flying. "you love to be used like this, don't you?" aizawa fucks even deeper into your mouth, rocking into the curved concave of your throat. "nothing more than daddy's little cumdump?"

keigo gave you one of his feathers for a totally normal reason, he swears - not because he wants to keep an eye on his attractive personal assistant on your off time. it backfires, though, because you know all about his feathers' capabilities. the first time you stroke the feather keigo thinks he imagined it. but no, the more he interacts with you, the more he memorizes your scent, the swollen bud of your lower lip. when he feels you kiss his offering, it nearly brings him to his knees. but he scents you next, the musky sweetness of what can only be your arousal. when he lands on your window sill and sees the feather slipping between your thighs, you merely smile and ask him what took him so long to get there

shouto "doesn't have a size kink" todoroki hearing you whine "it won't fit" when he slots the head of his cock against your pussy. he's never really paid attention to how much smaller you are than him, how much his body overwhelms yours. he'll have to work hard to make sure you're ready for him. he rubs your swollen clit with his thumb, the palm of his hand hot on your belly. your pussy jumps and flutters around the thick head of his dick, already flushed red and weeping. he taps your belly button, knowing that's where he'll be soon. "i'll make it fit."

2025 © all works belong to @sugarwarachan. do not repost, translate, or steal any of my works pls. reblogs and comments always appreciated <3 If you'd like to be added to my general taglist, let me know!

general taglist <3 @cielito--lindo, @one-scarred-mofo, @uekarashi, @waterfal-ling, @iluvikeu, @bach-ira

[fic-girlie]

Hiiiii. I want to request a fic where oldman!Joel is sometimes struggling to get it up and keep it up with his younger gf so one day he manages to get his hands on some smuggled blue pills and take them. He doesn't tell reader but she notices later when he's rock hard and ready and even after he cums he's still up for more. She asks what happened and he insists "he's just craving her tonight". Multiple orgasms later he embarrassedly confesses to taking them magic pills 😏 reader is boneless and thinks that's nothing to be embarrassed about

Craving you

Pairing: oldman!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: He takes a blue pill to impress you — you notice, love him anyway, and the next morning, he’s sore and all yours. Warnings: established relationship, explicit sexual content (+18), age gap (reader is in her 30's, Joel is in his early 60's), oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, p in v sex, aftercare, cuddling, soft morning

You notice it the moment he walks into the bedroom, the way his hand rests low on his stomach, thumb brushing over his belt like he’s nervous, restless. Joel always has a weight to him, that quiet gravity that makes everything he does feel deliberate — but tonight there’s something wound up tight under his skin. Something buzzing beneath the stillness. You’re curled up on the bed in one of his old flannel shirts, legs bare and warm under the throw blanket, and when he looks at you like that — like he’s starving — the pages of the book in your lap stop mattering.

He’s looking at you like he needs something more than he’s letting on. His eyes track up your legs, linger on where the shirt hangs open at your thighs. You smile slow, lazy, the kind of smile you give him when you're already thinking about what comes next, but there’s an intensity in his gaze tonight that’s different.

“Joel?” you ask, setting the book aside, shifting onto your knees with the blanket sliding off your legs. “You okay?”

His jaw works as he steps closer. “M’fine,” he mutters, voice thick with something you can’t quite name. His hands move to his belt again, not unbuckling yet — just toying with the leather like it’s anchoring him. Then, after a long pause, he says it low, under his breath, “Just...cravin’ you tonight.”

That line would be charming enough if his voice weren’t so gruff, almost tense. Your eyes narrow slightly as he finally undoes the belt, hands moving quicker than usual, urgency tightening his movements. He’s already hard when he pushes his jeans down, thick and flushed, bobbing up against his stomach in a way that makes you blink.

Usually Joel takes his time. Usually you have to touch him, warm him up slow, coax the arousal into something steady. He’s been open with you about how age has changed things — how sometimes it takes longer to get hard, how sometimes he doesn’t stay that way without help. You’ve never minded. You love him, not his dick. But tonight he’s standing there already full and heavy and rock-fucking-hard, like he’s been worked up for hours without touching you once. Your eyes flick down again, curiosity blooming.

You crawl closer on the bed, reaching between his legs with gentle fingers. “Jesus, Joel…”

He hisses in air when your hand wraps around him, thick and pulsing. His cock jumps a little in your grip, and he grabs your wrist without meaning to, thumb pressing hard into your skin like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I—” His voice cracks around the edges.

You stroke him slowly, just to feel how ready he is, how he doesn’t even twitch from sensitivity. “You sure you’re okay?” you murmur again. “You’re…already this hard?”

He looks down at you like he’s weighing something — not fear, but something close. Shame? Guilt? But then he leans forward, catching your mouth in a rough kiss, and when he speaks again, it’s against your lips.

“Told you,” he says, “I’m just cravin’ you.”

You’re too distracted to press him further. Especially once he pulls you beneath him and kisses his way down your body like a man on a mission. You’re bare for him in moments, thighs pushed open, and he doesn’t tease this time. Doesn’t take his time with lazy fingers or soft praise. His tongue is on you in seconds, and when he licks you — slow, deep, deliberate — it hits so hard your back arches off the bed.

He devours you with single-minded focus, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. And when you come — crying out, thighs trembling around his face — he doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He keeps going until you’re writhing, too sensitive, shivering, and only then does he move up to kiss you, mouth slick with you.

When he presses into you, he groans like he’s finally home. Like this is what he’s been waiting for all fucking day.

And God, he feels different. Not just harder. He lasts. He moves with that same slow, grinding rhythm that always makes you feel full, but this time he doesn’t falter. No pauses. No struggle to stay hard. He holds your hips and fucks you through every wave like it’s easy — like he’s twenty years younger and desperate to wear you out.

You come again before he does. He doesn’t even slow down.

And when he finally groans low in your ear, thrusts deep and comes inside you, his breath hitching and body shaking, you wait for him to soften — for the usual gentle winding-down. But his cock stays thick and twitching inside you, still pressing into your walls like it’s hungry for more.

You blink.

Joel is panting above you, sweat clinging to his hairline. His body is trembling just slightly, like it took a lot out of him. But his cock is still hard, hot and heavy and leaking inside you, and his hands are moving again. Up your thighs. Over your hips.

You touch his cheek gently. “Joel.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Joel…baby. What’s going on?”

He brushes the hair back from your face, kisses your forehead like nothing’s off. “Just…told you. Cravin’ you.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes him smile. That crooked, sheepish grin that always betrays him.

“Joel,” you say again, soft but firm.

He sighs. Then mutters, barely audible: “Got a hold of some…pills.”

You blink, heart thudding. “Like…blue ones?”

He nods. “Someone was tradin’ ‘em in town. Kept ‘em for a while. Just thought…maybe it’d help.”

You pause. Then laugh — not cruelly, not mockingly. Just soft and breathless and utterly charmed. “Baby,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him close again. “You think I’d be upset about this?”

He shifts above you, clearly unsure. “Didn’t wanna make a thing outta it. Didn’t wanna admit I needed—”

You shut him up with a kiss. Long and slow. Then you grind up against him, feeling how he’s still thick inside you.

“You don’t need them,” you whisper, pressing kisses to his jaw. “But damn, I’m not complaining.”

He groans low, mouth dragging over your neck. “Still want you. Still need you.”

“Then take it,” you murmur, your hands clutching at his back. “Take all you want, Joel. I’m yours.”

And he does.

He fucks you again like he’s been waiting a lifetime for it. Fucks you until you’re crying out his name, until your voice is hoarse and your legs are shaking and your body is too wrung out to move. You don’t know how many times you come. At least once more with his mouth. Twice more on his cock. Every time you think he’s spent, he keeps going — slow and firm, whispering how good you feel, how much he needed this, needed you.

When he finally, finally softens and rolls over beside you, you’re both drenched in sweat, trembling, breathing like you just ran through the mountains. You drape yourself across his chest, boneless, utterly ruined.

Joel strokes your back gently. “You okay?”

You hum. “I’m perfect. You?”

He lets out a sheepish chuckle. “Think I’m gonna need a week to recover.”

You grin, nuzzling closer. “Worth it.”

And when he murmurs “yeah” against your temple, pulling you in tight, you know this wasn’t about pills. Not really.

It was about you — the way you still make him feel alive.

——

The light creeps in slow through the half-open blinds, casting pale grey stripes across the bed, across your skin, across the soft rise and fall of Joel’s chest where it lies half-covered by the crumpled edge of the sheet. It’s early, too early — the kind of stillness that only exists before the birds stir, before the neighborhood creaks awake. The silence is almost sacred, muffled and tender like the inside of a held breath. And beside you, Joel lies in a state of half-conscious ruin, body sprawled, mouth slightly parted, brow furrowed like even in his sleep he’s feeling the weight of what the two of you did to each other last night. The smell of sweat and sex still clings to the sheets, a warm, earthy imprint of all the places he touched you, claimed you, gave you more of himself than you thought one man possibly could.

You’re the first to stir, but even the simple act of moving your leg sends a sharp little reminder zipping through your thighs — a deep, warm ache that makes your breath hitch. You feel like you’ve been wrung out, squeezed dry, your entire body humming with a kind of sleepy soreness that’s more intoxicating than painful. It’s not just the sex — though that alone was enough to leave your bones like jelly — it’s the way he loved you last night. Relentless and reverent. Like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like you were the answer to something he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching for all his life.

And now, the man himself lies still and limp beside you, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach like it’s the only place he can manage to put it. You watch the rise and fall of his chest, the slow wrinkle of his nose as he shifts in his sleep and lets out a deep, gravelly grunt that sounds like the very definition of regret.

“Joel?” you murmur softly, leaning in close, brushing your lips just below the sharp edge of his jaw. “You awake?”

“Mmgh,” he groans, the sound rough like he hasn’t used his voice in years. He blinks one bleary eye open, squinting toward the light. “Barely.”

You laugh, burying your face in his shoulder for a moment before pulling back to look at him. “You sound like someone ran you over with a horse.”

“Feel like it too,” he mutters, voice so dry and low it’s practically sandpaper. “Christ almighty, what the hell did you do to me?”

You grin. “Me? You’re the one who went full damn stallion. Four rounds, Joel. And that fifth one… I think I saw the light.”

His hand lifts weakly to cover his face again as he groans, this time with the weight of his embarrassment. “Don’t remind me. I ain’t got the strength to be humbled right now.”

You push yourself up onto one elbow, looking down at him with warm amusement. He’s flushed beneath the scruff of his beard, faint little stress lines bracketing his mouth, and despite everything — the sore muscles, the overspent body — there’s still something so deeply satisfied in the way he’s laid out, like a man who won the war but has absolutely nothing left to give. You let your hand drift down his chest, brushing softly over the worn muscle.

“I mean… you could’ve told me,” you say gently, tracing a small circle over his stomach. “That you’d taken something.”

He exhales through his nose, eyes still closed. “Didn’t wanna make a thing of it.”

You smile, pressing your lips to his shoulder. “It was never about the pill, Joel. It was about you. The way you looked at me, the way you touched me, how you couldn’t get enough even when you were shaking. That didn’t come from a little blue capsule.”

His eyes open again, just barely, and he shifts to glance at you with a soft, wrecked expression. You see the honesty in it, the tender vulnerability he’s never quite been able to hide from you when you’re like this — when everything’s quiet, and raw, and real.

“I just wanted to give you more,” he says after a beat, voice low, words slow like he’s thinking through every one of them before speaking. “Sometimes I look at you and I wanna do everything. But my body’s…” He grimaces, gives a soft, bitter chuckle. “Well. She don’t always listen like she used to.”

Your chest aches for him, for the quiet truth in that confession. You curl your fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at the back of his scalp as you lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and lingering.

“You gave me everything,” you whisper. “Every time. Doesn’t matter how many times or how long or how hard. It’s always you. I always want you.”

He makes a sound then — something half between a breath and a sigh — and you feel him melt a little under your touch, his body surrendering to the softness, to the comfort, even through the soreness. And when you pull back and nudge his arm off his face, he lets you, his hand falling limply to the bed beside you.

“I think I fucked myself stupid,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You grin, hand brushing over his hip. “You did. And now you can’t move. Congratulations.”

He snorts weakly. “You’re real smug for someone who could barely stand after.”

“Yeah, well, I’m younger. I bounce back.”

His groan is long and dramatic, and it makes your heart bloom with affection. You watch him shift, wincing as he tries to stretch his legs. “Even my fuckin’ toes hurt.”

You laugh and kiss him again, this time slower, longer, your fingers slipping through his silver-threaded hair. “Stay here. I’ll make you coffee. Breakfast. Whatever your poor broken body needs.”

He reaches up, barely, and tucks a hand around your waist. “Just need you, darlin’.”

And that — the rasp in his voice, the softness behind it — that’s what gets you. You press your forehead to his, eyes closed, your body still aching in places only he knows how to reach.

“You’ve got me, Joel,” you whisper. “Always.”

And when you slide out of bed, wearing his wrinkled shirt and nothing else, he watches you go with a lazy smile that says he might not be able to move — but his heart is still full, still hungry, still completely and totally yours.

[gwennkoi]

Sightings of the Pale Widow are cataloged by the newspaper, and there is a little board they keep to show to haunting tourists alongside particularly famous sightings. Each new year, the uniformly covered map is archived away, and a new one is brought out. It was the same every year.

Until Bob moved to town.

The map slowly started to fill in over the year, as per usual, but there were a few blank spots that refused to receive sightings. As the weeks fell off the calendar each month, three places that were usual haunts of the Pale Widow went unvisited. Something was repelling their urban legend in a way that holy water and consecration had yet to affect.

The first anomalous locale was centered on Debbie's Diner, a local eatery so old that no one was sure who the original Debbie was as it had passed hands more times than locals could remember. The newspaper had a popular old clipping about how a pair of newlyweds saw the Pale Widow staring through the window at them while they were eating dinner. When one of the men ducked under the table and his husband looked away from the glass for an instant, the Widow was gone without a trace. Similar stories keep being repeated year after year until now.

The second was centered on the southwest corner of the park, which locals generally only visited during the day due to the legends. The only nighttime park patrons tended to be teenagers responding to a dare or test of courage challenge. The Pale Widow supposedly appears in the center of the park next to the ancient standing stone during the new moon when the sky is at its darkest. Most locals have a story about seeing her face covered in a tattered veil on a moonless night while they were scared and alone in the park. This year? Nothing.

Last is the old pharmacy on Main Street, which recently got converted to an ice cream parlor by a transplant from out of state. Old records say that there was actually an apothecary in virtually that same location when Main Street was a dirt cart path that took you from Rock Ridge to the east out to Scosdale to the west. The old pharmacy stayed at almost the geographical center of the town as it grew like a star following the crossroads that formed over time.

And then Bob bought the old pharmacy. He came into a moderate sum of money, never quite explained how, and decided to move somewhere quiet where he could be his own boss. Bob and his fluffy mutt of a dog, Mercutio, live in a flat above the ice cream shop. They eat dinner at Debbie's every night, and then he takes the dog over to the park to run around a bit while Bob doomscrolls through his phone from the bench and absent-mindedly lobs a ratty tennis ball for Mercutio to fetch.

It had to be a fluke. It's just a sampling error that showed up one year. It had surely happened in the past. Or, perhaps, locals had started avoiding reporting stories of the Pale Widow since the advent of social media. There's also the possibility that a few locals have been trying to silence reports so as not to have reports of their establishments being considered haunted. Except being haunted was great for business with the tourists.

The only constant in all three locations was Bob. But, surely, next year, things would go back to how they were.

Except they didn't.

Another circle free from sightings appeared on the map around the local gym. The building used to be a brewery back in the 1800s which held boxing matches originally between workers who were having disputes, but later became a healthy side hustle for the owner to sell pints and make a fistful of dollars managing the gambling. All of that got closed down when one of the fighters died in a fight, and the teetotaler mayor used it as an excuse to crack down on the brewer.

Bob had purchased a membership and tried to get over there a couple of times a week. There were now four spots in town that the Pale Widow refused to haunt any longer.

The Pale Widow has been a terrifying urban legend for centuries, haunting and traumatizing a small town. The only thing she's terrified of is... a regular dude named Bob.

[lummachriss]

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ pairing: nerdy!matt x cheerleader!reader

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ warning: smut, public play, slight exhibitionism, fingering, grinding

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ glasses slip & heart skips Sitting on his lap was supposed to be innocent. But the way he stiffened, the way he looked at you—helpless and desperate—told a different story. And you weren’t even sorry.

You knew he didn’t like parties.

Didn’t like the noise, the sweat, the red cups littering the floor or the unfamiliar faces crowding too close. But being you meant going—cheerleader, popular, always invited—and being his meant following. You’d begged him with wide eyes and that soft please, baby, tugged his sleeve and pouted until he finally said yes, too sweet and soft-spoken to deny you.

Now he was perched on the edge of a couch in some stranger’s house, shoulders hunched, flushed and visibly miserable, nursing the taste of a single shot like it had personally betrayed him.

You hadn’t even stayed.

You’d dragged him out, cooed over how cute he looked in his hoodie, then let your already tipsy friend shove a red cup at him and slur something like, “You have to, nerd boy, you’re so tense—loosen up!” before you’d giggled and wandered off. He hadn’t even wanted it—he hated the taste, but he downed it anyway, just to be polite. Just because you were watching. Just because you were smiling at him.

Then you'd dropped into his lap without thinking. Like it was nothing. Like he was just your seat. You were laughing at something on your phone, skirt shifting as you sat squarely in his lap, the warm weight of you pressing into his thighs—and maybe, maybe it wasn’t on purpose, the little roll of your hips to get comfortable, the rock against the bulge that’d been forming ever since he walked in beside you.

You didn’t mean to make him hard.

But now he was sitting there alone. Still.

Fists clenched tight between his knees, his cheeks hot and pink. He was blinking a little slower, the cheap shot buzzing faintly in his veins, but it wasn’t alcohol making him dizzy—it was you. The press of your body, the warmth you left in his lap, the scent of your perfume still clinging to his hoodie. And now you were across the room, smiling with your friends, dancing, hips swaying like you didn’t know what you’d done to him.

And Matt?

Matt was trying not to cry.

His cock throbbed under the denim, so hard it hurt, and all he could do was sit there—flushed, glassy-eyed, trying not to palm himself like a loser in someone else’s living room. You looked back once. Maybe. And he thought he saw your lips curl up in a smile, thought he caught your eye before you turned away.

He felt small. Forgotten. Like you’d dragged him out into the world and left him behind.

He didn’t make a decision. He just moved.

Legs a little unsteady, vision swimming, breath caught somewhere behind his teeth. He followed the sound of your voice until it led him down the hallway—away from the bass, away from the noise—until he found you in the dim light of a bedroom, scrolling through your phone at the foot of the bed, cup forgotten beside you.

“Baby…” His voice cracked as he said it.

You looked up, brows lifting, a slow smile creeping across your lips. “Yeah?”

He didn’t answer.

Just walked straight to you, grabbed your waist, and turned you gently—pushed you forward until your palms hit the wall, and his body crowded up behind you, his chest warm against your back, breathing hard like he’d run miles to get here.

“Matt—”

“You can’t…” His voice was thin, broken. “You can’t do...that— w- why just leave me.”.

Your mouth opened, but he kept going, grinding forward helplessly, hips already rutting against you from behind like he didn’t know how to stop. “You...y- you sat on me—and then you rocked—just a little, j- just...ngh enough—and then you were gone. Just laughing. With them.”

He was humping now.

Soft, clumsy little thrusts, so needy it made your heart ache. His hands held your hips like you might disappear again, face buried in the crook of your neck, mumbling against your skin.

“Hurts,” he whispered, voice thick and baby-soft. “I didn’t touch it, I promise—I didn’t—I was just sitting there, and it got worse...nghh and I waited...b- but you didn’t come back— b- baby, why?”

The door clicked softly behind you both, and before you could even steady your breath, Matt’s hands were braced on the wall beside your head, pinning you gently but firmly as his chest pressed flush against your back. His warmth seeped through your clothes, grounding you, but the tension humming through his body was impossible to miss.

He began grinding into you, hips rocking forward with small, desperate thrusts that left you breathless. His jeans and boxers were tight, but then, with a shaky motion, he tugged the waistband of his boxers down just enough to free his tip. His fingers trembled as he pushed the fabric down, revealing his already hard, flushed length.

“Baby…” His voice was soft, broken, needy. “I… I can’t stop…”

His fingers slipped down to the hem of your shorts, pulling them down just enough to expose the bare skin of your hips and thighs. Then, almost shyly, he used his fingers to spread your folds apart through your underwear, making room for his tip to press snugly between the warm, slick skin.

His cock nudged gently against you, pushing past the soft fabric, teasing that sensitive spot beneath your folds. His hips rocked in slow, clumsy circles as he sought a rhythm, each movement shaky but desperate, his breath hitching with every press. “I don’t wanna make a mess,” he whimpered, voice barely above a whisper, desperation clear.

“You poor thing…” you murmured, sliding your hands down to cup him, feeling the tension there.

“Don’t—don’t wanna mess your shorts, or your legs—I’m sorry—I just need—” His voice cracked as he stuttered, fingers working awkwardly but eagerly inside you, tracing uncertain paths over your folds.

“Are you gonna hump like a puppy? Baby?” you teased softly, voice low, warm.

He whimpered, hips bucking harder against you, fingers slipping clumsily inside, trying to find the right spot. “I just… wanna make you feel good,” he breathed, tongue catching on his lip. His thumb pressed against your clit in slow, uneven circles, and his breath hitched, hips stuttering with helpless desperation.

“I’m gonna—gonna cum,” he whispered, face flushed bright with shame and want. “Please—please don’t wanna make a mess…”

Your hand slid down, palming him firmly, stroking his sensitive length as his fingers worked inside you, unsteady but devoted.

He gasped, body trembling, hips bucking into your touch as he spilled release after release, breath ragged and face flushed with relief. His pluse sprunting, thick—rope by rope as His entire body softened, melting into you like you were the only thing holding him upright.

You kissed his temple, voice soft and soothing. “You did so good, baby. Next time, I’ll show you more.”

He whimpered again, already half-hard, pressing back into you, needy and fragile, clinging to you like you were his whole world.

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as he melted into you, breath slowing, eyes fluttering shut—completely yours

♡⠀⠀LUMMA ⠀© 2025⠀⠀/ && 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 next few posts gonna be either fluff or suggestive cuz I'm running out of ideas :(

⊹ㅤ @sturniolo-szn2 @slvt4subchratt @grace-sturnz @starsashley00 @cayleeuhithinknott @courtenaybird @rriverscuomo @ifwdominicfike @mattsplaything @whore4-chrissturniolo @bernardsbendystraws @h8aaz ㅤ. .ㅤ. @tezzzzzzzz ⠀!

[mrspiastri]

✩ babbles and first words 🍼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, early parenthood, small fights, and baby fever warnings

wc: 3.6k words

an: wanted to write a second part to this, :)) ty for the req idea @cabbagescorp

The newborn months came in like a storm. Everyone had told them it would be hard: the books, the classes, the friends who’d already been through it. But no one could quite prepare them for the bleary-eyed, bone-deep kind of exhaustion that settled into their bodies during those first few weeks after Sophie was born.

She was beautiful. Perfect and endlessly fascinating. But she also didn’t sleep longer than ninety minutes at a time. Ever. Not in the middle of the night. Not during the day. Not in the car or the stroller or the bouncer that Y/N had read 1,200 glowing reviews about.

The house took on a strange rhythm. Day and night bled into each other until Y/N couldn’t remember what the sun looked like. Their once-tidy kitchen table was now a battlefield of bottles, burp cloths, and half-drunk mugs of tea. And Lando, usually composed, had dark circles under his eyes and milk stains on every single hoodie he owned.

Sophie cried constantly. And sometimes she screamed. The kind of scream that pierced through walls, through nerves, through reason.

It was one night, maybe around week five, that it happened.

Y/N stood in the nursery, swaying on tired legs, holding Sophie against her shoulder as she sobbed inconsolably into her mum’s collarbone. It was three in the morning. Again. The third night in a row where Sophie hadn’t slept more than forty minutes in one stretch.

Lando came in, moving slowly, eyes half-shut, hair a mess.

“Let me take her,” he said, reaching for the baby.

“No, I’ve got her,” Y/N muttered. “She just needs a few more minutes.”

“She’s been screaming for over an hour,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Maybe she’s hungry again.”

“She’s not. I fed her already.”

“But maybe she’s still hungry.”

Y/N turned sharply. “I said she’s not.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Sorry.”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “I just… I’ve been trying. She was calm for a bit. Then she just started again.”

“I know. I’m just saying maybe she needs something else. We could try a bath? Or maybe her reflux is acting up—”

“She’s not broken, Lando.”

“I didn’t say she was!” He snapped.

“You’re acting like everything I do isn’t enough!” Y/N’s voice cracked, and Sophie whimpered louder, reacting to the tension.

Lando stepped back, his jaw tightening. “I’ve been up with her every night too, Y/N. I’m trying just as hard as you.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting tears. “Well, maybe your best isn’t working either.”

The words fell between them like glass shattering.

For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of Sophie’s cries.

Lando looked away first, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to take a walk,” he said quietly, and left the room.

Y/N sat down in the rocking chair, heart pounding, shame and frustration rising in equal parts as Sophie cried against her chest. She rocked slowly and gently, whispering little nothings, but her own tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

She hated fighting with him. She hated feeling helpless. And most of all, she hated that she couldn’t make Sophie feel better, no matter how hard she tried.

It was twenty minutes later when Lando returned, his eyes a little clearer, a warm towel in one hand and a bottle in the other.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Y/N blinked, surprised.

He knelt beside her, gently brushing Sophie’s back with his knuckles. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just tired. We both are.”

She nodded, her throat tight. “Me too.”

He shifted closer, placing the warm towel across Sophie’s back. “I passed the mirror in the hallway,” he said, half-smiling. “I look like I’ve been dragged through four tornadoes.”

Y/N let out a tired laugh. “You do.”

Lando looked up at her then, and his eyes softened. “You don’t. You look like her mum. Which is to say, kind of amazing.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while. Just sat there, close together, as Sophie slowly began to calm in the warmth of their shared presence.

Eventually, they managed to get her down in the bassinet, asleep at last, her fists curled like she was dreaming of clouds.

They curled into bed together, not even changing out of their worn clothes. Lando wrapped his arm around her, pulled her close, and kissed the top of her head.

“We’re going to figure it out,” he whispered into the dark.

“We’re already doing it,” she whispered back.

In the months that followed, things didn’t get easier overnight, but they got better.

Sophie learnt to smile first. A gummy, glorious smile that came one random afternoon when Y/N was bouncing her on the couch and Lando made a ridiculous noise.

Then, she started crawling, flipping onto her stomach and determinedly moving towards her parents. She was everything but calm, much like her dad.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, folding a small mountain of tiny onesies and baby socks. She was humming under her breath, watching Sophie out of the corner of her eye. Their daughter, now just shy of eleven months, had pulled herself up to stand using the edge of the couch and was gripping the fabric like it was the most important thing in the world.

She’d been doing that a lot lately, pulling herself up, cruising cautiously along the furniture, standing in place and squealing with excitement when she managed to balance for a few seconds .

Y/N had seen the signs. She knew they were close.

Still, she didn’t expect it to happen today.

Sophie let go of the couch for a brief second and clapped her hands together, giggling at her own bravery. Then she plopped back down onto her diaper-padded bum and crawled in that odd, determined way babies have toward their mum.

“Hi, my love,” Y/N murmured, reaching out to brush a curl from Sophie’s forehead. “Tired of standing?”

Sophie replied with a babble that sounded like “mamamamama” and shoved a stuffed elephant in her face.

Y/N smiled and kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Ten minutes later, Lando wandered in from the kitchen, sipping a smoothie and wearing the same hoodie his daughter had coloured up with marker three days ago. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he looked freshly awake, despite the ever-present exhaustion that hung around both of them like fog.

“Everything alright in here?” he asked, setting the cup on the table.

Y/N nodded. “We’re doing laundry and watching a nursery rhymes video compilation.”

“Of course. Essential for child development,” he said seriously, then grinned and flopped down onto the floor beside her, long legs splayed out in front of him.

Sophie perked up immediately, crawling toward her dad like he was made of light. He scooped her up and blew a raspberry on her neck, earning a shriek of laughter.

Then he set her down again, sitting upright just a few feet away from her. She wobbled on her knees, looking at him, then at Y/N, then back at him.

And then, she stood.

No hands. No furniture. Just a baby standing in the middle of the living room like it was nothing.

Y/N gasped, clutching Lando’s arm. “Oh my God.”

“Shhh, shh—don’t move,” he whispered, frozen in place.

Sophie stood there for a moment, uncertain. Her arms flailed for balance. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as she concentrated hard, brows furrowed, curls bouncing ever so slightly with her tiny tremble.

Then she took one step.

A pause. A squeal.

Then another.

And another.

Three whole steps; wobbly, wide-legged, magical, until she lost her balance and fell forward right into Lando’s lap.

The house exploded in joy.

Y/N covered her mouth, eyes wide and wet with sudden tears. Lando scooped Sophie up and twirled her in the air, both of them laughing.

“You did it! You did it, baby girl!” he shouted, grinning like a man who’d just witnessed a miracle.

Sophie giggled and clapped, clearly thrilled with herself, before immediately trying to wriggle free and do it again.

Y/N was already grabbing her phone, fumbling to open the camera. “She just walked. She walked, Lando.”

“I know,” he said, pulling Y/N into his arms with Sophie still wedged between them. “I saw it. I saw all of it.”

They sank back down onto the floor, tangled together in a heap of limbs and joy, with Sophie babbling and bouncing excitedly between them, clearly not understanding why her parents looked like they were about to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

🪻🪻🪻

Sophia, now officially Sophie to just about everyone, was toddling unsteadily across the living room floor in a onesie decorated with tiny orange ducks, her hair sticking up in gravity-defying wisps from the post-nap haze. She had one sock on, one sock off, and a plastic spoon clutched victoriously in one chubby fist. Her steps were wobbly, like a baby deer on a trampoline, but she was determined, charging toward Lando with the serious, dramatic focus only a ten-month-old could muster.

“Dadaaa,” she announced proudly as she stumbled into his legs, clinging to his jeans for dear life.

Lando, who had been kneeling beside the coffee table attempting to fix one of her musical toys, immediately dropped everything. His face lit up like it was Christmas morning. “Yes! That’s me! Dada is me!”

Sophia beamed up at him, cheeks flushed pink, drool glistening on her chin like it was the most fashionable accessory around.

“She said it again,” Lando said over his shoulder, looking toward the kitchen with wide eyes. “Did you hear her?”

Y/N was watching from the doorway, sipping a lukewarm coffee with the softest smile. “She’s said it four times this morning, babe.”

“Yeah, but this one felt really intentional. Like she really knew what she was saying.” He scooped Sophie up and kissed her cheeks noisily, making her giggle. “You said your first word! Again!”

“She also said ‘duck’ yesterday,” Y/N pointed out gently.

“Okay, yeah, but that isn’t as important.”

“You’re such a loser sometimes.”

Lando ignored that, because Sophie was now squishing his cheeks with her little hands and making high-pitched babbling noises that sounded vaguely like a monologue in an alien language.

“Oh my God,” he whispered dramatically. “It’s like she’s giving a TED Talk. It’s so cute.”

“Pretty sure she’s just asking for another biscuit.”

“Then I will give her ten biscuits. She deserves a whole bakery.”

Sophia let out a squeal of joy, flailing in his arms, which made Lando panic and adjust his grip like he thought she might catapult herself into orbit. Y/N walked over and plucked the baby spoon from Sophie’s tiny hand.

“What was she doing with this anyway?”

“No idea. She found it in the toy box and made it her mission,” Lando replied solemnly.

Y/N reached over to push Sophia’s flyaway curls back, then leaned in to kiss Lando’s temple. “You’re kind of the best dad, you know that?”

Lando turned his head to her, eyes softening. “I’m just trying to keep up. You’re the reason she’s this happy and fearless.”

Sophie, clearly sensing a quiet moment, seized the opportunity to dramatically gurgle into the space between them, startling both of them.

Lando grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Later that evening, after dinner (and an incident involving a sippy cup being hurled like a missile), Sophie was freshly bathed and wrapped in her favourite towel, a yellow one with a duck hood. She toddled around the nursery while Y/N tried to wrangle her into pyjamas, and Lando readied the bedtime book.

“Okay, duckling,” Y/N said, finally catching her and landing her on the changing table. “Pyjamas now. Please. For the love of sleep.”

Sophie responded by sticking her tongue out, giggling, and patting her own belly like it was a drum.

Lando peeked in, book in hand. “Did she do the belly thing again?”

“She did.”

He put a hand over his heart. “It kills me every time.”

When Sophie was finally zipped into her sleeper and snuggled in Lando’s lap, he read Goodnight Moon for the sixth time that week, complete with ridiculous voices and dramatic pauses that made her giggle and babble back. Y/N sat beside them on the rug, just watching the two of them. Lando’s hand cradled her little foot absentmindedly as he read, and every once in a while, he’d look at her like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

After the last page, Sophie blinked slowly and leaned her head against his chest, fighting sleep with all the might of a baby who didn’t want to miss a single thing.

“You can close your eyes,” Lando whispered. “We’re right here.”

And eventually, she did.

🪻🪻🪻

It was just past ten in the morning when Max arrived at the front door, looking only mildly panicked and about five per cent more rumpled than usual. He had his 14-month-old, Lily, in his arms, dressed in a soft lilac onesie and a matching knit hat that was slightly askew from her latest nap.

Y/N opened the door with a warm smile, holding a mug of coffee in one hand. Lando was just behind her, cradling Sophie on his hip.

“Thanks again for this,” Max said, shifting Lily a little higher against his chest. “Just a few hours. I’ve got a team meeting, and no one else could cover.”

“Of course,” Y/N said easily. “We’re happy to have her.”

Sophie perked up at the sight of another baby, eyes wide with curiosity as she leaned forward against Lando’s shoulder.

Lando chuckled. “I think Sophie’s already interested.”

Max handed Lily over with gentle hesitation, his hand lingering an extra beat. “She might cry when she realises I’m not around. Or she might not notice at all and just betray me completely. Either way, I’m preparing emotionally.”

“She’ll be fine,” Y/N reassured him, already bouncing Lily lightly on her hip. “Go. We’ve got this.”

Max looked between the three of them once more, nodded, and left.

The door closed, and the quiet lasted only a second before both babies locked eyes. Sophie, now seated on the living room rug surrounded by soft toys, blinked a few times at Lily as if trying to figure her out. Lily, laid gently next to her, looked just as curious. After a beat of silent baby inspection, Lily made the first move — a slow, uncoordinated reach that resulted in her hand landing directly on Sophie’s foot.

Sophie gasped dramatically, then let out a delighted giggle that sounded more like a hiccup. Lily responded with a squeal, and just like that, the two of them were babbling back and forth in completely incomprehensible but deeply enthusiastic tones.

“They’re talking,” Lando said quietly, crouched beside Y/N as they watched from the couch.

“They’re definitely talking,” Y/N agreed. “About what? I have no idea.”

The babies leaned toward each other, noses almost touching. Sophie gently smacked her palm against Lily’s knee, which made Lily let out a burst of laughter that sent her toppling sideways into a plush elephant. Unbothered, she flailed her limbs in what looked like applause.

Sophie squeaked and followed, rolling closer until they were lying side by side, cheeks squished together, giggling at absolutely nothing.

They spent the next hour like that, with Sophie and Lily crawling around the room like tiny adventurers. Sophie shared her favourite musical lion toy by dropping it gently into Lily’s lap, then immediately snatching it back with a suspicious look before offering it again, a bit more slowly.

Lily babbled in return, cheeks round and dimpled, her feet kicking like she was composing a song with just enthusiasm.

When it was time for their bottles, they sat side by side in their respective baby chairs, both swaddled in tiny blankets, clutching their bottles with both hands and occasionally turning their heads toward each other, eyes wide and sparkling.

Lando fed Sophie while Y/N gently helped Lily, and every so often, Sophie would stop drinking to let out a string of sleepy nonsense that Lily would match with a soft coo or blink.

By the time Max returned, both girls were asleep on the rug, lying opposite each other like a mirrored set. Sophie’s arm was flopped across Lily’s leg, and Lily had one fist curled loosely around the corner of Sophie’s blanket.

“They napped?” Max whispered in disbelief.

“They played. Then they conked out mid-conversation,” Lando replied, just as quietly.

Max crouched beside them, his eyes softening immediately. “Look at them.”

Y/N handed him a photo she had taken on her phone. “Don’t worry; we documented everything.”

He laughed under his breath, staring at the photo like it might be his new lock screen. “First playdate ever?”

“And a very successful one,” she said.

Max looked down at the sleeping babies again, Lily’s tiny nose brushing against Sophie’s knee, and smiled.

“Looks like they’re already ahead of us.”

🪻🪻🪻

The house was still and quiet in the soft blue hour of the morning, the kind of quiet that only existed before a party. Down the hallway, the nursery remained peaceful, Sophie still curled up in her sleep sack with her plush duck tucked under one arm.

Y/N stirred when she felt Lando gently tap her shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered, crouched beside the bed, already dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair unbrushed but eyes bright. “Come with me. Just for a second.”

She blinked, confused, then glanced at the clock. “It’s barely six.”

“I know. Trust me.”

She groaned lightly but sat up, stretching. “Is this about balloons? Did one pop?”

“No. No balloons. Just come on. You need shoes.”

A few minutes later, wrapped in her favourite cardigan and walking down the back steps into the garden with Lando’s hand in hers, she finally noticed the faint glow of candles flickering under the pergola.

There was a tiny round cake on the patio table, frosted in pale yellow with a single candle lit in the centre. Beside it, a wrapped box with a ribbon sat waiting.

She stopped in her tracks. “Lando…”

He gave her hand a little tug, tugging her closer. “I figured everyone’s going to be looking at Sophie all day, as they should. But before that happens, I wanted to say, Happy one year of being a mum.”

Her breath caught.

“You made it through sleepless nights, teething, pureed carrots in your hair, and a thousand loads of laundry,” he continued. “You sang lullabies at 2am and danced in the kitchen with her when she cried. You became her whole world. I know today’s about Sophie. But I wouldn’t have made it through this year without you.”

Y/N blinked rapidly as she looked at him, then down at the little cake.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said, voice catching.

He smiled softly. “I know. But I wanted to. Because it’s your day too.”

She leaned into him, burying her face into his chest for a second before he pulled back and nudged the box toward her.

“Open it.”

Inside was a necklace; gold, delicate, with a tiny charm in the shape of an ‘S’.

She touched it like it might dissolve under her fingertips. “Lando…”

“You can cry,” he said, grinning a little. “I’ll allow it. Just for today.”

She shook her head, laughing through tears. “I don’t deserve this.”

“I know you deserve more,” he said simply.

They sat together on the garden bench, splitting a slice of cake.

“Happy one year of being a dad, Lando,” she smiled as she leaned closer.

“Wouldn’t be one without you.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her impossibly closer.

“Well, if you weren’t so supportive and helpful, I’d be pretty shit at this whole parent thing. So thank you.”

He didn’t respond to her, just smiled and let his gratitude be conveyed through another spoonful of cake he fed her.

Later that morning, the living room slowly filled with the sounds of celebration; balloons tied to every chair, soft toys wrapped in cheerful paper, and family voices echoing through the kitchen.

Sophie, wearing a pale yellow dress with a duck print, sat like a tiny queen in her high chair, clapping her hands as everyone sang. She had cake on her nose and frosting in her curls within ten minutes.

Her grandparents snapped photos from every angle, with Lando and Y/N clapping along with her. Max brought Lily with him, who was equally excited about the cake.

Sophie babbled through it all, saying “Dada” and “Ake” to almost everyone and throwing a burnt-out candle at one point.

And in the middle of it all, Lando and Y/N moved together like they’d been doing this for years, lifting Sophie’s hands to help her clap, swapping bites of cake and little laughs.

At one point, as everyone chatted in the kitchen and Sophie napped upstairs after a long morning of overstimulation, Y/N leaned into Lando where he was sitting on the couch, Lily asleep in his arms now.

“Thank you for this morning,” she said softly. “It meant more than you know.”

He turned his head toward her, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “You’ve given me everything. This was the least I could do.”

And when the day was done, and the balloons had deflated slightly, and the kitchen smelt like leftover sugar and fruit, they stood at the doorway of the nursery, watching Sophie sleep with her hands tucked under her chin.

Lando whispered, “One whole year.”

Y/N reached for his hand. “The best one. And only seventeen more to go.”

“Don’t make me cry again!”

baby sophie has my whole heart! a very rare part 2 was necessary!

[dr1diot]

when everyone else is gone

pairing: kakashi x fem!reader

synopsis: kakashi hadn’t been expecting to lose everyone. his whole team—obito, then rin, then his sensei. it seemed like everyone he loved was slipping through his fingers one after the other—except for you. only you were left now—and so he clung to you like a man lost at sea would cling to a piece of driftwood.

it was after the fourth hokage’s funeral that kakashi found you.

you’d been standing silently with your chin dipped and eyes closed as the village—for indeed, it seemed as if the entirety of konoha had come—took a moment of silence for the hokage, his wife, and the many others that had lost their lives in the nine tails attack.

some wept. some glared at the ground. some stared blankly at the sky. yet all grieved for the lost, most of all for their beloved hokage and his wife. a beautiful young couple lost too early.

yet none grieved more than kakashi. even though he did not weep or glare, his heart broke more loudly than any other.

minato had been a second father to him, and kushina a mother. there was no bottom to the well of grief that he’d been dropped into. that he’d slowly been slipping into as more and more of his heart cracked and splintered off, until only one shard was left—you.

you’d been there for him after every loss. at every funeral. at night, you’d hold him in your arms, rocking him gently without a word—you did not offer comforting words or promises that everything would be alright. because that was something you couldn’t guarantee. but you were there. and for him, that was enough. a reminder that there was someone left out there who still cared for him, who’d hold and love him. that was enough.

and now, once again, he found himself in your arms.

the rain hadn’t let up the whole day, continuing into the night—yet the pitter-patter faded into the background as you shut the curtains, joining kakashi on your bed.

you said nothing as he laid down, resting his head on your lap—his eyes remained half-lidded, staring at nothing as you wove your fingers through his silver locks, massaging his scalp gently.

silence once again flooded the room, the only sound the distant drumming of rain against the windows and roof, the faint sound of breathing, and the groan of the mattress as you shifted your weight.

kakashi sat up suddenly, taking your hands in his as he twisted to face you. “y/n.” his voice was raspy from disuse, and his eyes were bright with pain. “you won’t leave me, too, right? promise you won’t leave me.”

you only shook your head, throat clogging at the desperation dripping from his very being. “you know i can’t. i’m a shinobi. in this field, we never know when we’ll die.”

“then—then retire. quit being a shinobi. i’ll pay for everything; i’ll make sure you ‘re happy and comfortable. so just…please…” he trailed off as you, again, shook your head.

“i’m sorry, kakashi, but i can’t just run away when there’s danger, you know? i’m a proud shinobi of the leaf, i can’t just quit. i—we—both have an obligation to this village. it’s our home. if we don’t protect it, who will?”

“there will always be someone else to take your spot. always. we have so many up-and-coming genin, so many—we can afford to lose one shinobi—” you silenced him with a finger to his masked lips.

“i am a jonin, kakashi. we form the backbone of konoha’s fighting force. even the loss of one is devastating. you understand this, too. do not let your emotions cloud your judgement.” it was what you both had been told your entire lives. the same rule that every shinobi in all the lands abided by. or tried to, at least.

he wilted before your eyes, seemingly shrinking as he lowered himself again, surrendering himself to your soothing ministrations.

there was a pregnant pause before he spoke again. “then…promise me you’ll stay alive as long as you can.”

“mm. i promise.”

“good.” he nuzzled his face into your lap, inhaling deeply “good.”

he exhaled. “if we both survive long enough…i swear i’ll marry you. is that ok with you?”

you laughed. “yes, kakashi. that’s ok with me.”

“kakashi-sensei! you’re late!”

three genin stood in front of the silver-haired jonin, one with his arms crossed and off to the side, the other two with accusatory fingers and glares pointed in the direction of their teacher.

“aha, sorry! on my way here, a black cat crossed my road, you see…”

“liar! you probably overslept or something!” the loudest and most obnoxious one stepped forward, voice resonating through the air as his blond haired swayed in the wind.

“now, now…” kakashi put his hands up in front of his in an appeasing manner. “let’s calm down…”

“nah, i bet kakashi-sensei was enjoying a nice, hot breakfast made by his wife this morning while we had to wait out in the cold since dawn! isn’t that right, sensei?!” the pinkette on the blond’s right exclaimed, emerald eyes burning with anger at her sensei.

“a-ahaha…wait, how did you know i have a wife?”

“the ring on your finger, duh!” she exclaimed, gesturing towards it—and yet it was seemingly the first time either of her teammates had noticed it, both the uzumaki and uchiha’s eyes going wide as saucers at the band of silver.

“wait wait wait, kakashi-sensei has a what now?!?”

[demie90s]

juju x influencer reader, just reader being a huge juju simp online thinking that juju wont see her posts fangirling abt her but she does, Juju then sees her courtside while reader is on live and starts flirting w her and the clip gets posted online

ᴊᴜᴊᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴋɪɴꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Caught Slippin’ (But Make It Cute)

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re that influencer—pretty, unserious, and always online. Thirsting over Juju Watkins for months on your socials, convinced she’d never actually see any of it.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, Humor, Flirty Chaos, Social Media

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Mild language, intense thirsting, reader being real unserious

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.3k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: Baddie meets baller, live caught slippin, “ain’t no way she heard that” turned “yes she did and now you blushing on camera”

⸻

You were already being dramatic the moment your courtside pass hit your hand.

You hadn’t even made it to your seat yet when you opened your live with:

“Juju can guard me any day. In fact, I insist.”

Chat was already on fire.

“pls ur in public”

“GET A GRIP”

“what does she MEAN by that 😭”

You adjusted your sunglasses—indoors, obviously—flicked your lip gloss wand like a weapon, and panned the camera to the court.

“Now chat,” you whispered like this was a Nat Geo special. “Get a load of her. The bounce. The braid. The thighs. The control.” You zoomed in shamelessly. “IM TRYINGGGGGG.”

You collapsed back into your seat like the performance just took you out. You sipped your overpriced soda for dramatic effect, then whispered to your phone, “Rock, paper… lemme eyp.”

The game hadn’t even started.

You crossed your legs, chin propped in your hand, pretending to be civilized, but then she walked out. Juju. USC warmup on. Locked in. And it was like God pressed slow-mo on your soul.

“Google,” you muttered into your mic, live still rolling. “How do I become a basketball. No like spiritually. Biblically. I’m ready.”

The chat exploded.

You stayed hunched like a girl in mourning, whispering, “This made my hole week—I mean my whole week. Sorry, my bad. Freudian slip. Or maybe prophetic. Depends on her.”

And then.

Then.

You saw her glance your way.

Just for a second. Barely a flick of her eyes.

But it was enough for you to throw yourself back like you were shot.

“NO. NOPE. NOPE. CAMERA OFF,” you gasped, trying to cover your face with your sleeve while your friend next to you screamed laughing. “SHE LOOKED. SHE FUCKING LOOKED. WHO SAID SHE HAD PERIPHERALS LIKE THAT???”

You didn’t turn off the live, though. Let’s not lie.

First quarter. You tried to chill. You sat pretty, nodded along, lips glossed, whispering sweet nothings to your Coke bottle like it was her. The chat begged you to behave.

Then halftime hit. And that’s when everything derailed. Juju glanced up again. But this time, she didn’t just glance. She looked. Locked.

And you? You were mid-live, mid-sip, mid-stupid comment—something about “I wanna be her mouthguard so bad”—when she walked toward your sideline during a break.

You froze. Camera still rolling. Your friend already ducked out of frame, whispering, “You’re on your own.”

Juju leaned on the barrier, towel around her neck, sweat still gleaming like divine proof of her workout. She looked you dead in the eye, smirked, and said—

“You sayin’ all that, but you real quiet in person.”

The SCREAM you let out was ungodly. You covered your mouth like that would save you from the cameras that were definitely filming.

Your voice cracked: “I—I—raw raw or whatever Lady Gaga said.”

She bit her lip and laughed. Laughed. Wiped her brow with the towel, and walked off like she didn’t just leave you combusting in your seat.

Chat lost it.

“YOU WON”

“ain’t no way she said that on camera”

“how’s it feel being GOD’S FAVORITE???”

“girl you need to PRAY”

You ended the live 30 seconds later with your face hidden behind your sleeve, whispering, “Okay. Bye. I have to go cry in a bathroom or throw myself at her feet. Whichever happens first.”

You were trending on TikTok by the end of the night.

#jujusimp

#courtsidecrush

#thismademyholeweek

“You sayin’ all that but real quiet in person” [10M views]

The next day? Juju reposted the clip.

With your @.

Caption: “Don’t be shy, say it with your chest next time.”

And you? You reshared it.

“Say less.”

[leriexoxo]

SKZ HEADCANON SERIES (18+)

Chapter 2: Leeknow - The Cold Choreographer

OT8 SERIES MASTERLIST

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Minho didn’t like you. He made that clear from day one.

He didn’t bother hiding the eye-rolls when you walked into the studio. Didn’t pretend to like your style. He questioned your counts. Picked apart your blocking. Said things like “That’s not sharp, it’s sloppy” in front of the entire crew.

You fired back with the same icy venom. “If I wanted your input, I’d ask someone with rhythm.”

The dancers lived for it. Every rehearsal was a silent war, two choreographers co-leading a group and refusing to budge. And still—he never missed a session. Never skipped a beat.

Never looked at you without that quiet, infuriating heat in his eyes.

⸻

You were both assigned to craft a special stage for an end-of-year award show. A duet. “Perfect tension,” management said. “Push and pull. Fire and frost.”

You and Minho were the embodiment of both.

The song was sensual. The choreography called for intimacy. Close holds. Breaths shared. Fingers laced. You tried not to flinch every time he touched you.

He never flinched at all.

Just pressed close. Moved with control. Lifted you like you were weightless, spun you like you were a secret in his hands.

⸻

One Night After Everyone Left

The group had cleared out. You stayed behind, annoyed by a transition that didn’t flow the way you wanted.

You didn’t hear him come back in.

“You keep stuttering on the third eight-count,” he said from behind you, voice smooth, slow, unforgiving.

You turned around sharply. “And you keep breathing down my neck like that’s part of the choreo.”

He stepped closer. “Maybe it should be.”

You swallowed hard.

He crossed the floor, that feline grace in every step, and hit play on the speaker. The track echoed through the studio. He held out a hand.

“You want it clean? Let’s go again.”

You hesitated. Then placed your hand in his.

He pulled you into place with exact precision—body flush to yours, one hand guiding your hip, the other lacing your fingers.

The music dropped.

Every movement was slower. Tighter. Like he was dragging the tension out of your bones and molding it into something unbearable.

His fingers brushed your lower back. His thigh slipped between yours. His lips hovered by your ear.

“You’re always so uptight,” he murmured. “No wonder your moves are stiff.”

You exhaled, hot. “I’ll show you stiff.”

“Do it.”

The next step hit, and you pushed him back, grinding against him with the rhythm. He caught your wrist mid-movement and yanked you close.

That’s when it cracked.

He kissed you hard—no warning, no hesitation. Lips bruising, teeth grazing, his hand tangled in your hair. You gasped, and he used it, tongue sliding in like he owned your mouth.

You broke the kiss to speak. “You hate me.”

He smirked, breathless. “I really fucking do.”

Then he spun you around and shoved you back against the mirror. The cool glass stung your spine as he crowded your front, one thigh slotting between yours.

“You’ve been looking at me like you wanted this for weeks,” he whispered, fingers dragging your waistband down. “So shut up and give in.”

You did.

His hand slipped between your thighs, and you arched into him with a moan. His touch was rough. Confident. He knew exactly how to ruin you.

When he dropped to his knees, his reflection stared back at you—smug, hungry, glowing under the studio lights. You were panting, squirming, rocking your hips into his mouth as he licked and sucked you open.

“Minho—fuck—”

He hummed against you. “Louder.”

Your hands slapped against the mirror for balance. He didn’t stop until your legs trembled, until you were gasping out broken cries into the glass.

When he stood, he kissed you again, messy and eager.

“Condom,” he whispered against your lips.

You fumbled for your bag, handed it over with shaking fingers.

He turned you around—body pressed tight, breath warm on your neck—and slid inside slow. Deep. Delicious.

Your eyes caught the mirror.

It was filthy. Perfect.

His hand wrapped around your throat lightly, just enough to make you focus. His other hand gripped your hip, snapping his hips up into you with a pace that made your knees weak.

“Look at yourself,” he growled. “Look how good I fuck you.”

You did.

You watched your mouth drop open, eyes glaze over, body bouncing against the mirror to the beat of his thrusts.

Every filthy sound echoed.

Every moan was his name.

When you came, he held you up with one arm, still pounding into you like he was chasing his own high—and when he spilled inside the condom, he bit down on your shoulder and groaned like you’d taken the soul out of him.

⸻

Silence. Heavy breathing. Sweat on skin and glass.

You leaned your forehead against the mirror, trembling.

He pressed a kiss to your neck.

“I still think your counts suck,” he murmured.

You turned and kissed him again. Hard.

“Then help me fix them tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Only if we end rehearsal like this every time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar

[vaginalvr]

spencer buys reader a plushie and walks in on her humping it

content warning: Masturbation (Reader humping a plushie), voyeurism, light embarrassment, mutual teasing, possessiveness, oral (m!receiving), unprotected PIV sex, praise kink, soft dom!Spencer, established relationship.

a/n: yes!

word count ~ 1.1k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Spencer had bought you the plushie on a whim — a sleepy-looking bunny with oversized floppy ears and a squishy belly that reminded him of how you looked curled up in bed on your days off. He hadn’t meant for it to become… that kind of toy.

It was cute. Soft. Gentle.

He hadn’t expected to come home early and find you riding it.

The door to your apartment clicked shut behind him, and he smiled as he toed off his shoes, juggling his satchel and a manila folder. “Y/N? I got off early—traffic was surprisingly light on the—”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

There you were. Naked from the waist down, shirt bunched up around your hips, one leg thrown over the giant stuffed bunny he’d bought you two weeks ago. Your face was buried in a pillow, hips rocking rhythmically over the plushie’s belly, grinding your soaked cunt down into the soft fabric. The bunny’s head was squished under your thigh, and the ears flopped with each needy movement of your hips.

“Oh… my God.”

You gasped. Froze.

And then immediately scrambled off the toy with a panicked yelp, slipping as you tried to get your panties back on. “Spencer—! I thought you weren’t getting home until seven!”

“I, uh—” His voice cracked, cheeks flushed scarlet as he stood motionless in the doorway to the living room, watching you fumble for the nearest throw blanket. “Yeah, I was gonna call, but then I figured I’d surprise you…”

“Well,” you said, flustered and breathless, “mission accomplished.”

You avoided eye contact as you pulled the blanket over your lap, crossing your legs beneath it like a guilty kid. Your face was burning, and you knew the moment you looked at him, he’d never let you live this down. How were you supposed to explain humping a plushie he gave you? How could you not die from sheer embarrassment?

“I’m sorry,” you blurted. “That was weird—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

But when you finally dared to glance at him, what you saw wasn’t judgment. It was want.

Spencer had gone from shocked to mesmerized. His eyes, half-lidded and dark, trailed slowly from your flushed cheeks to the poor plush bunny sprawled on the carpet with a very noticeable damp spot on its belly. His jaw flexed as he swallowed hard.

“…Are you mad?” you asked softly.

He blinked out of his daze. “No. Not even a little.”

“Then why are you staring?”

He stepped closer. His bag dropped to the ground, long fingers reaching for his tie to loosen it. “Because that might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You. Grinding on something I gave you. So desperate you couldn’t wait for me. You used that soft little bunny like it was my lap—like you needed it.”

Your throat went dry.

He knelt between your legs, pushing the blanket aside and gently parting your thighs. “Do you need me now?”

You nodded.

“Good.” Spencer reached back for the plushie and pressed it against your core again, right where it had been before. “Then keep going.”

You froze. “What?”

His voice dropped. “You heard me. Show me what you were doing. I want to see all of it this time.”

Your breath hitched, but your hips answered before your voice could. You whimpered as the soft, damp fabric met your clit again and resumed your slow, desperate grinding motions, face already flushed from the earlier teasing.

Spencer watched every second. One hand cupped your inner thigh, the other stroking his hardening cock through his slacks as he knelt in front of you. “God, you’re filthy,” he murmured, voice full of awe. “So pretty and needy. I didn’t know you liked it this much.”

“I didn’t mean to—it was just—soft—Spencer, please—”

“Don’t apologize. You’re perfect like this.”

You rocked harder against the plush, moaning as your slick soaked into the fabric again, riding it as if it were his thigh. Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you—your parted lips, your trembling thighs, the way your clit twitched against the soft fabric.

“I wanted you so bad,” you whimpered, “I was going to finish and then shower and act normal—”

“I never want you to act normal again.”

His voice was raw now. Throaty. His cock strained against his pants.

You cried out as the pressure built, your hips stuttering, hands gripping the poor bunny’s sides as your orgasm started to crest.

“Look at me while you come,” Spencer whispered. “I want to see your face.”

Your eyes met his, wide and wild, and you shattered.

You rode it out with a strangled moan, clit pulsing against the plushie, thighs shaking as Spencer reached out and replaced it with his hand mid-orgasm, dragging his fingers through your mess and pressing them directly to your overstimulated clit.

You bucked into his touch with a sob. “S-Spencer—”

“Such a good girl,” he murmured. “You made such a mess. I should’ve come home hours ago.”

You were still breathless when he leaned forward, kissing your inner thigh, then your mound, and then gently licking up your slick—slowly, indulgently—until your head rolled back and you nearly choked on another sob.

“Please,” you begged, “Spencer, I want you. Need you inside me.”

He stood, finally undoing his belt and yanking his pants and boxers down enough to free his cock—already flushed, leaking, so hard.

You barely had time to adjust before he lined himself up and slid into you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a groan. “Fucking hell—you’re soaked.”

You wrapped your legs around him instantly, clutching him to your chest as he started to move. He didn’t tease. He didn’t go slow. Not this time.

He gave you what you needed.

Deep, rolling thrusts that hit your sweet spot over and over, lips on your throat, fingers tangled in your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. You clung to him like a lifeline, nails digging into his back.

“I bought that bunny so you’d think of me when I wasn’t around,” he growled, fucking you harder now, deeper. “Didn’t know you’d fuck yourself on it like some desperate little thing.”

“I am desperate,” you gasped. “I missed you so much, I—ah—please—”

“Yeah?” His hand slipped between you, stroking your clit again. “You gonna come on my cock now? Not that stuffed toy?”

“Yes—Spencer—God, yes—”

You came again, clenching around him so hard he nearly lost it right there. His thrusts grew erratic, desperate, until he buried himself deep with a sharp groan and spilled inside you, panting your name into your neck.

For a long moment, the two of you just lay there—sweaty, breathless, tangled up together, your thighs sticky and trembling.

Then, still inside you, Spencer glanced over at the poor, discarded bunny and gave a soft laugh.

“I guess I need to start buying you more plushies.”

You grinned, pulling him down for a lazy, breathless kiss.

“Only if you promise to walk in on me again.”

[gh0stvi0lets]

𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘯 𝘊𝘺𝘤𝘭𝘦,

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺. Even in a world full of monsters, sometimes love spins quietly between the rinse and repeat.

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. Sam Winchester x reader

𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦. fluff

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 388

𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴. Thanks to @g8taloadofdisguy for the idea, this so cute <3

─────── ⋆⋅ ♰⋅⋆ ─────────────────

You weren’t expecting your Friday night to be spent watching clothes tumble dry at a run-down laundromat off I-80, but here you were.

And somehow, it wasn’t all that bad.

Sam leaned against the humming washer, arms crossed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His flannel was a little worn, and his hair was a bit longer than usual, falling into his eyes in soft waves. He looked...relaxed. At peace. Maybe for the first time in weeks.

“This isn’t exactly the most romantic date spot,” you teased, dropping a few quarters into the dryer and shutting the door with a metallic clang.

Sam grinned. “Yeah, but we’re not exactly the candlelit dinner type, are we?”

You tilted your head. “Speak for yourself. I can rock a little black dress and salt a ghost in the same night.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “True. But you also wore a Led Zeppelin shirt to our first hunt.”

You pointed a finger at him. “And you said it was hot.”

“Still true,” he admitted, and you caught the flush in his cheeks as he ducked his head.

You plopped down on the cracked plastic bench, leaning back, eyes on the machines spinning your lives into something vaguely clean. Sam sat beside you, his thigh warm against yours.

The laundromat was quiet, save for the hum of machines and the occasional buzz of a flickering overhead light. You both sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Just breathing. Just being.

“I like this,” you said softly.

Sam looked over at you. “What, the smell of detergent and mystery socks?”

You laughed. “No. Just... this. You and me. Somewhere simple. No blood. No salt. No screaming banshees or cursed dolls.”

Sam reached out and laced his fingers with yours, his touch gentle, grounding. “Yeah. I like this too. You make even the weirdest places feel like home.”

You looked down at your intertwined hands and smiled. “Cheesy, Winchester.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “but true.”

The dryer buzzed, signaling the end of the cycle, but neither of you moved.

“Wanna fold later?” you asked, resting your head on his shoulder.

Sam smiled against your hair. “We can leave them wrinkled.”

You nodded sleepily. “Good. Wrinkled is fine.”

And for once, the world outside could wait.

[rooksamoris]

💞 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃'𝐒 𝐇𝐘𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄.

💞 — in which malleus dreams of the waste land and finds him grieving you and the old friend of his you resemble.

💞 — malleus draconia x reader

💞 — warnings: hurt/comfort type fic. mentions of death, religion, and grieving.

💞 — 1.5k words. heavily inspired by the poem "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot. this is extremely experimental but i think the poem suits malleus for some reason.

April is the cruelest month. With the coming of spring came the warmth that would speed up the decay of corpses long buried beneath the soil. Lively blossoms appear from under the earth, eating away at dead lovers for sustenance. Fallen soldiers are pulled in by weak branches, taken away to become the grass of next spring, hidden beneath layers of snow in the wintertime. 

This same grass would hear the laughter of children as a retired general held his boys on a sled, “Lilia, I’m scared,” but gentle hands would guide the young prince to hold on tightly. It was like flying down the mountains. Soon all three of them would laugh and fill the air with joy, but the dead could hear nothing. Not the crows above their tombstones, and not the laughter layers above their corpses.

It was not Malleus's hands which created this Waste Land, but his eyes witnessed it. Fae did not need sleep for energy as other creatures did, but when he did sleep, it became a spiritual experience. He would find himself in the Waste Land. Was this place far into the future, or far into the past? 

When he looked to the side, he caught the sight of someone. He recognized this person, “Child of man,” he uttered, the only sound in this land aside from the crumbling hopes of the families whose sons and daughters had fallen in battle, “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago. They called me the hyacinth prince,” but you had never come back. He had known nothing.

A spirit sings, those are pearls that were his eyes, nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change, into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell. Your hair was wet, fear death by water. But there was no water in this desolate land. 

The soil was dry and cracked, thirsty. Malleus could remember it vividly. Dancing with the young nymphs by the lake. Only then did he realize how fragile human life was. Water, which the earth cried for with its cracked form, water which filled the lungs and sank bodies. 

Unreal city, where the nymphs had departed, and hot mountains reigned as palaces. The dogs barked helplessly at tombstones. The sweet river ran softly as Malleus sang his song. The nymphs had departed, leaving him alone, sitting at the riverbank, reaching into the water and finding nothing. Dread pooled in his stomach, the young prince bent forward further and continued to grasp for nothing. All he found was burning hot rocks.

O Lord Thou pluckest me out.

He loomed over the young prince Malleus, dressed in flowing robes. Stoic but not comforting, a figure of great power to guide the fallen soul from the river of the valley to the river traversed by the ancient soldiers. Malleus had noticed this figure before, when he brought his friend to dance with the nymphs, “Who is that with you?” he asked his friend, “It is always you, me, and that third figure which follows you. Who are they?” He learned that day who that figure was, his scythe shimmered under the moonlight once the nymphs had departed.

That was the beauty of the Waste Land. There was no water to pull young friends apart, dragging them with the current before young fae hands could come and save them. It was dry and sandy and rocky. No water. No life. He looked to the child of man, you watched him with pearly eyes, “If there had been water, we should stop and drink,” he said, looking back out into the miles of cracked earth. It was better there was no water, your weak human body could fall in and drown. No nymphs to come rescue you, just a young fae prince.

You had come back to him in the shape of another. A new child of man, with hyacinths in their warm human hands. Datta. Those compassionate hands which traced over a broken horn with the gentleness of a mother. Dayadvham. It was hard to control his urges. His dear friend was back and all he could think was to hide them away from water, leaving the land to suffer in his selfishness. Damyata. 

All he could think was that young friend, dead for longer than a fortnight, dragged by the lake and rivers to the sea. They could not hear the cry of gulls, tugged down by the sea's cruel currents. Malleus begged that all who gazed into the sea thought of his friend, once as lively and handsome as you.

The chapel was empty, all he could hear was the rattle of bones and the cawing crows. It was a lone building standing weakly in the wasted land, doors and windows swaying open with the wind. Malleus stepped inside, following after you. He sees you, kneeled in the front. Some prayer falling from your lips, “Child of man?” he calls, but you do not answer.

He comes closer and then kneels beside you, gazing up at the stained glass figure of a mother he would never know. Regal, with dark hair cascading like the river which took his friend to the sea. Malleus could hear your prayers a bit better now, “O Lord Thou pluckest me out.”

The chapel's doors slammed shut. There was a flash of lightning, illuminating the green eyes in the stained glass figure and then came the patter of rain. It sounded more like the footsteps of fall soldiers ready to drag his beloved to the river of the dead. Rain. Water. 

The Waste Land was dark when Malleus left the chapel at your side, rain falling over his pale skin. He followed you to the shore, sitting down beside you, watching this ocean where Phlebas the Phoenician and his friend rested. You looked just like them. Sounded like them too, with feet desperate to dance in danger among the happy nymphs. These fragments of the past seemed to wash up with the sea foam. He looked at you. You looked at the sea. His eyes were made of pearls. 

Madame Sosostris warned of the death by water.

He could see your lips tremble from the cold, but he could not move to offer a coat. He was the viewer of the Waste Land, he could not intervene. 

When Malleus woke up in his dorm room, he was quick to sit up and look for a certain figure. His panicked hands reached out and touched the sheets beside him, only relaxing once they felt the familiar heat of human flesh. Translucent layers of skin covering all the most vital things to him. Those veins and arteries. All it would take was a sharp enough blade and some time and soon they would be like Phlebas the Phoenician. He sighed, “You are too fragile.” 

You stirred due to the movements around you and turned to face Malleus, bleary eyes shimmered like pearls under the dim light which came from the moon outside of his window, “Are you alright?” you ask as if you had not been the very cause of all his fright.

He merely nodded and laid back down, tugging your figure close to him, burying his face like a casket into your hair, “Worry not about me, little human,” he said. Your prayers in the chapel of the Waste Land had frightened him, but it was you who brought back the water to fertilize the land.

“I always worry about you,” you said, as if you were invincible and he was the one who could easily slip into a river and be dragged away by the currents. Your warm arm slipped around him to keep him close.

Malleus could feel your lashes against the skin of his neck. Your worry was a naive endeavor. He was fully capable of protecting himself. It was you he worried for, with this warm human body that could become cold so quickly. His hands dug into the plushness of your figure, clinging to whatever he could like a desperate mourner at a funeral, “You needn’t worry about me,” he repeats.

“I think I do,” you muttered. At the bedside were the hyacinths you so carefully picked today. Out in the forest, far from the campus. Little flowers sharing a single stem, holding onto one another like desperate lovers.

If he could have, Malleus would have stuck himself to you forever. He would have dug himself a place in your skin and lived there, peacefully watching the pulse of your heart. Instead, he just sighed once more, wistfully this time. It had rained in the Waste Land, fertilizing the cracked earth. Grass would grow and freeze in the winter before April came and tugged the bodies of fallen soldiers into the soil. Hyacinths would grow for a reckless child of man to pick.

But right now, he was in the comforts of his sheets with his beloved. His eyes fluttered shut and he did not dream.

Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

©rooksamoris 2025. do not steal or translate my work!

support me on ko-fi!

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

All That Lingers PT3

Jake seresin x fem!reader

don't get mad.

PT 4 up now too.

The front door clicked shut with a soft finality, the kind that made silence feel heavier than it should. Y/N stood still in the dim entryway of the one-story home — the home she and Bob had built a life in, the one where every corner still whispered his name.

Jake gently shifted Baby Robert against his chest, adjusting the blanket the baby had kicked loose during the drive home. His face was unreadable as he nodded toward the hallway. “I’ll get him to bed.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She just followed, her footsteps soft against the hardwood floors, her eyes scanning the familiar living room. The toys by the couch. The framed photo by the door. The unopened stack of mail. All still here. All untouched. But different now. After today, different in a way that couldn’t be undone.

The nursery light was already on, casting a warm gold glow across the room. Jake stepped inside, moving slowly, carefully — reverent in the quiet. The rocker sat near the window, and he settled into it with Robert in his arms, rocking gently as the baby sighed in his sleep.

Y/N hovered in the doorway like a ghost.

“Come here,” Jake said softly.

She hesitated, then crossed the room and sat on the carpeted floor at his feet, leaning her head against the rocker’s cushion. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the area rug, and she didn’t look up.

“I thought bringing him to see Bob would help,” she said after a while. “Like maybe it’d settle something in my chest. But I just—”

She choked, and Jake stilled the rocker with one hand, leaning down slightly to hear her better.

“It made it worse. I saw his name on the stone and our baby in your arms and… it just made it real in a way I’ve been trying to outrun.”

Jake stayed quiet. His hand moved gently up and down Robert’s back.

“I never even got to see Bob hold him.” Her voice cracked. “He never saw his eyes. Never heard his laugh. He wanted this so badly, Jake. He wanted a family.”

Jake finally spoke, low and steady. “You gave it to him. You gave him the beginning of that dream.”

She shook her head. “Not enough time.”

“No,” Jake agreed. “Not enough. But what he had with you? What he left behind? It matters. It still matters.”

The baby stirred in his sleep, tiny fingers brushing against Jake’s chest. Jake looked down and smiled faintly.

“You know, I talk to him about Bob when you’re not around,” he murmured. “I tell him what kind of man his dad was. What he believed in. How steady he was. How funny, when he wanted to be. How brave.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“I don’t want Robert to grow up without knowing him.”

“He won’t,” Jake said. “Because you’ll tell him. And I’ll tell him. And every single person in that squad will keep Bob alive for him.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath and rested her cheek against the cushion again, eyes fluttering closed. She didn’t want to sleep — not really. But she didn’t want to move either.

Jake rocked the chair again gently.

“You want me to stay out here with him?”

She nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

And he did.

Jake stayed. Long after the baby settled into sleep. Long after Y/N’s breathing evened out. He stayed as the clock on the wall ticked past midnight and the whole house fell into stillness again. Because love — real love — doesn’t stop when someone’s gone. It keeps going. Quiet. Steady.

Like a rocking chair in the dark.

———

She didn’t expect anything. But sleep — this sleep — didn’t feel like rest.

It felt like stepping into something sacred.

The sun was low in the sky, warm and golden, pouring over a familiar porch in Texas. Wind moved through the grass in slow waves. And there, standing barefoot on the wood planks, wearing that old navy t-shirt he used to mow the lawn in, was Bob.

He looked exactly the same.

No uniform. No weight of duty. Just Bob.

And he smiled when he saw her.

Y/N didn’t move. Her breath caught. Her heart felt like it had stopped and started all over again. Her hands went to her chest like she was afraid it would shatter.

“Bobby?”

He stepped forward slowly, and she felt his hands cup her face like they always had.

“I see you,” he said, voice warm like the sun behind him. “I see him, my boy. My family.”

Her eyes filled so fast she couldn’t even blink them away.

“You’re—are you—” she tried, but the words caught.

“I’m here,” Bob whispered. “Not in the way I wanted. God, not in the way I wanted. But I’ve been here.”

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I saw you in the hospital. I saw you hold him. I’ve been with you every time he laughed. I see the way you rock him when he’s sick. I see the way you smile when he pulls your hair. I see everything.”

She reached up to hold his wrists, sobs pulling from somewhere deep.

“He looks just like you.”

“I know,” Bob whispered, his voice cracking now too. “You gave me the greatest gift. You made me a dad. I wish I could’ve stayed. I wanted to. So bad. But… that doesn’t mean I’m gone.”

“I miss you,” she sobbed.

“I know,” he whispered, brushing a tear from her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “But you’re not alone.”

She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. But Bob stepped back a little, his eyes soft and knowing.

“Jake,” he said gently. “He’s a good man.”

Y/N shook her head, lips trembling. “No. No, not like that, I couldn’t—”

“I’m not asking you to forget me,” Bob said, quiet but firm. “I’m asking you to live. To raise our son surrounded by love. And Jake… he’s already showing you what love looks like.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks now, silent and endless.

“Promise me you won’t close your heart forever.”

She was shaking, trying to breathe through it all, but Bob stepped closer again and held her. Arms warm, solid, safe. Like everything had been a dream and this was the only real thing.

“I will always love you,” he said into her hair. “I will always, always love you.”

And then the light began to shift. The wind died down. And Bob leaned back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Go,” he said. “Hold our boy for me. And let yourself be held.”

Y/N tried to speak, tried to call his name — but the world was slipping. Fading.

And then her eyes opened.

The bedroom was quiet. Dim with the gray light of early morning. Her pillow was damp from tears.

She sat up slowly, touched her face, and let the sob fall from her mouth before she could stop it.

——-

The house was quiet, bathed in the pale gray of dawn. Y/N pulled the blanket off slowly, still half in the dream — or whatever it had been. Her legs felt heavier than usual, her chest full in a way she couldn’t explain.

She stood, quietly, not bothering to turn on a light. The path was familiar: the hallway, the creak in the floorboard just before the living room, the warm baby cries calling her forward like a beacon.

She moved slowly past the archway — and then paused.

Jake was on the couch, just where he’d been for the past few nights. He hadn’t said much when she told him he could stay, hadn’t made any comments when he started leaving a change of clothes in the drawer in the guest room that he never used. But he hadn’t left, either.

Now, he was still asleep. One arm tucked under his head, his body curled awkwardly on the small couch. His duffel bag sat by the coffee table. A bottle of water half-finished beside it. His phone lit up once, then went dark again.

She stood there for a second longer.

Jake had been everything — kind, quiet, patient. There when she asked. Silent when she couldn’t speak. He had held her hand through the longest night of her life. He had fed Robert with one arm while reading out loud from the parenting book he never admitted he’d bought. He had stayed.

Y/N blinked quickly and turned, walking the rest of the way toward the nursery.

Robert’s cries had softened into soft whimpers by the time she pushed the door open.

There he was, standing in the crib now, holding onto the rail with wobbly knees. His onesie was twisted, his hair tousled, and his face crumpled from sleep — but when he saw her, he lit up. Just like Bob used to when she walked into a room.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered, voice breaking already.

She scooped him up and pressed her face into his soft hair.

“You missed your daddy too, didn’t you?”

Robert babbled something incoherent, one chubby hand patting her collarbone as if to say there, there. She held him tighter.

“I had a dream,” she said quietly, walking over to the rocking chair and settling in. “He was there. He was really there.”

Robert tucked himself under her chin like he always did.

“He said he sees us. Said he loves us.”

Her voice cracked, and her hand stroked slowly across Robert’s back, grounding her.

“He told me to live,” she whispered. “Told me to let myself be loved.”

Robert sighed — that baby sigh that sounded too old for his age. She kissed the top of his head.

“I miss him,” she murmured. “But I’ll try.”

And as the sun began to rise through the blinds, soft and gold, Y/N stayed in the rocker with her son. Her hand on his back, her cheek against his hair, the ghost of Bob’s words still lingering in the air.

I see you.

———

The smell of eggs and cinnamon carried through the air like a memory. Y/N hadn’t realized how long she’d been in the nursery until the sun began to pour through the curtains, and Robert had drifted back to sleep against her chest.

She stirred gently, kissing his head again, whispering, “Let’s go see Grandma before she leaves, huh?”

Her legs protested when she stood — stiff from sitting in the rocker too long — but her heart had softened some, like the edges of grief had been smoothed just slightly by the dream, by Robert, by this moment.

She padded out quietly, carrying Robert close, and walked toward the kitchen.

Margaret was at the stove, her hair twisted up, still wearing the robe Y/N had offered her the night she arrived. The radio played something old and country in the background — a station Bob used to keep on when cleaning the house. The smell of cinnamon toast mingled with scrambled eggs and fresh coffee.

Jake was already up too, standing at the counter, slicing strawberries with easy precision. His sweatshirt hung low on his frame, his hair still messy from sleep.

Margaret turned first.

“Well, there’s my two sleepyheads,” she smiled softly, setting the spatula down. “Someone didn’t want to let go of their mama this morning, huh?”

Y/N smiled faintly, tired but warm. “It’s been a slow start.”

Jake looked up and offered a quiet, knowing smile.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” Y/N whispered as she passed by, brushing her hand lightly across his arm in thanks.

Jake poured a mug and set it beside the seat where she always sat. Margaret handed her a plate without asking, and she slid into the chair, Robert nestled on her lap now, eyes blinking slowly open again.

Margaret sat across from her, watching her grandson with that same expression she’d worn the first time she saw him — awe, sorrow, gratitude, love all tangled into one.

“He looks just like him,” Margaret whispered.

“I know,” Y/N replied softly, brushing back his hair. “Every day a little more.”

Jake came over, setting down the bowl of strawberries, but didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the sink, letting the morning settle around them.

Margaret reached across the table, touching Y/N’s hand.

“I know this can’t ever be easy, sweetheart,” she said gently, her voice thick. “But you’ve built a good home. A safe one. He’d be so proud.”

Y/N’s throat tightened again, but she managed a nod. “I just… I try to do what he would’ve wanted. What he would’ve done.”

Jake finally spoke, quiet and steady.

“You’ve done more than that.”

Y/N looked up at him.

“You’ve made sure this little guy knows love every single day,” Jake said, gesturing toward Robert. “That’s what Bob would’ve wanted most.”

Margaret nodded in agreement, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “You’ve kept him alive in the way that matters.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her hand tightening on Robert’s back.

They ate in silence for a while after that. The kind of silence that felt safe. Heavy, yes — but safe.

Eventually, Margaret glanced at the clock. “I should go pack up. Flight’s at noon.”

“I’ll load the car,” Jake said, already pushing off from the counter.

Y/N stood too. “Let me help you with your things.”

Margaret shook her head. “No, honey. You stay here. Sit with the baby. Just being here with you both was all I needed.”

And before she left, she kissed Robert on the cheek and whispered something too quiet to hear. Y/N thought she caught the words “he’d be so proud,” again.

Then Jake helped her out to the car, and Y/N watched from the doorway, Robert now cradled in her arms again.

The house was too quiet when the door closed behind them.

But it was still a home.

Bob’s home.

Their home.

And somehow, that still mattered.

———

The house felt still in a way it hadn’t for days.

Margaret’s goodbye had been soft and warm, her arms wrapping tight around Y/N, kissing Baby Robert’s cheek with tears in her eyes. “He looks more like Bobby every time I see him,” she’d whispered. “You’re doing beautifully, sweetheart. I’m proud of you. He would be too.”

And then she was gone. Jake had driven her to the airport that morning, offering to handle the early drive so Y/N could get a little more rest. He’d promised to swing by later, “just to check in.”

But now it was just her. And him.

Y/N stood in the center of the quiet nursery, Baby Robert still half-dozing against her shoulder after a morning nap. The walls were painted in the same soft sage green Bob had picked months before he died. His books lined the shelf, untouched, except for the ones she read to Robert every night.

She swayed on her feet, gently rocking their son, pressing a kiss into his fine dark hair. Her eyes scanned the room, softening when they landed on the photo on the dresser: Bob in uniform, one hand on her waist, the other on her belly when she was still pregnant. He’d looked so proud.

Y/N sat down in the rocking chair, still cradling Robert Jr., and let herself breathe — really breathe — for the first time since the party.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t terrible either. It just was.

She stared down at her son. “It’s just us for a little while,” she whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. “We’ll be okay.”

A small sound broke the moment — a quiet coo from Robert Jr. — and her heart clenched. He had Bob’s eyes. Exactly. She didn’t even realize she was crying until she tasted the salt on her lips.

She wiped her face quickly. “I miss him too.”

Later, after she put Robert Jr. down for a nap, she wandered the hallway and paused outside the bedroom. Their bedroom.

She hadn’t changed anything. His side of the closet still held his shirts, his flight jacket hung near the door. His cologne sat untouched on the dresser. She walked over and picked it up, twisting the cap off and letting the scent hit her like a wave. Fresh, familiar, and utterly heartbreaking.

Y/N curled into the bed without changing, Bob’s old navy sweatshirt pulled over her arms. She didn’t plan to sleep. But when her phone buzzed beside her an hour later, it woke her from a dream she didn’t remember.

Jake: Just got back. Want me to bring you anything?

She stared at the text. He’d stayed in the periphery all day. No pressure. No pushing. Just being there.

Her fingers moved slowly.

Y/N: Just you, if that’s okay.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Jake: Always.

———

The knock was soft. Not rushed, not urgent — just a quiet little tap tap that felt like a question more than an announcement.

Y/N opened the door, and there he was.

Jake stood on the porch, dressed down in a gray t-shirt and jeans, a small brown paper bag in one hand. His hair was still wind-tousled from the drive, and his eyes scanned her face like he was checking for fractures, invisible but familiar.

“I brought food,” he said gently. “Figured maybe you hadn’t eaten anything that didn’t come from a box or a bottle.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just opened the door wider.

Jake stepped inside like he belonged — not intruding, not assuming, just fitting into the quiet in the same way he always had.

The house was dim, lit mostly by the late afternoon sun slipping through the windows. Robert Jr. was still napping, soft breaths curling out of the baby monitor on the side table. Y/N led Jake into the kitchen, where he unpacked the bag — warm takeout from the café just off base. Her café.

“Figured it was safe,” he said with a small shrug. “You never hate your own cooking.”

That got a quiet laugh out of her — not loud, but real.

They ate at the small dining table, the baby monitor crackling softly between them. Y/N’s appetite wasn’t quite there, but she tried. She owed Jake that much. And herself. And Bob.

For a while, they didn’t talk. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was, with him. Jake had a way of letting the silence settle, never rushing her to fill it.

He cleared the plates when they were done, rinsed them gently in the sink, then paused like he was unsure what to do with his hands.

“You okay if I stay a little?” he asked. “Not all night. Just—until.”

Y/N nodded. “Please.”

They ended up in the nursery, sitting on the floor just outside the crib after Robert Jr. woke up fussing. Jake had rocked him in his arms until his eyes fluttered closed again, then laid him gently back in the crib, staying by his side until his breathing deepened.

Y/N watched him from across the room.

“You’re good with him,” she said.

Jake glanced over. “I love him.”

It was so simple, so honest, that it made her chest ache.

“I don’t think I could do any of this without you,” she said, voice trembling before she even realized it. “I know I say thank you a lot but it doesn’t feel like enough.”

Jake crossed the room slowly, crouching in front of her. His hand settled lightly on her knee.

“You’re not supposed to do it alone. And you never have to—not while I’m still standing.”

Tears stung again. But they didn’t fall.

Not this time.

They just sat there, together, knees touching in the middle of the nursery that held a thousand memories and a thousand more waiting to be made.

Jake didn’t leave until nearly midnight. And when he stood in the doorway, shoes in hand, she found herself blurting:

“You can sleep on the couch again, if you want. Just in case he wakes up.”

Jake didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

—————

The dream started in the softest way.

Y/N was sitting in a sunlit field. Somewhere wide and open. There was a breeze, warm and familiar, and tall grass brushing her fingertips. Baby laughter echoed from somewhere close. The kind of golden, echoing sound that made you feel like the world was still good.

She turned—and there he was.

Bob.

He was younger than she remembered, maybe how he looked when they first met. Hair a little longer, smile easy, wearing that light blue t-shirt he always swore was lucky.

He was holding their son.

Tiny Robert was in his arms, giggling, pulling at his dog tags.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t real. She knew it wasn’t. But it didn’t matter.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Bob said softly.

She wanted to cry. Scream. Run to him.

But she couldn’t move.

She could only watch.

“You’re doing so good,” he said, still looking down at their boy. “You’re tired, I know. You’re scared. I see it. But you’ve never once failed him.”

Y/N’s voice cracked when it finally came.

“I miss you. I miss you so much I can’t breathe sometimes.”

Bob nodded. “I know. I feel it. Every day.”

He looked up, and his eyes held that calm, endless kind of love. Like even now—especially now—he’d hold all her heartbreak if he could.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “You’re never alone.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’re already doing it.”

There was a pause. The breeze carried the sound of rustling grass and that little giggle again. Bob looked down at their son and kissed the top of his head.

“He’s going to need someone to show him how to be a man,” Bob said quietly. “How to be strong and kind and brave.”

She closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking.

“I should be that person,” Bob continued. “But I’m not. I can’t be. Not anymore.”

A beat. The breeze stopped.

“And as much as Jake doesn’t want to admit it, I know him. I know what’s in his heart. He wants to be there. With you. For him. All the way.”

She opened her eyes again.

Bob had tears in his.

“I need you to know—he’s not a replacement. There’s no such thing. But he’s the right man. The right kind of good. I trust him. I trust you.”

Her chest cracked open.

“He loves that boy like he’s his own,” Bob whispered. “And maybe, just maybe, you need someone who can remind you that you still get to be loved. That you don’t have to freeze in time with me.”

Y/N tried to step forward, but the world was already starting to slip away.

Bob smiled through it.

“I’ll always be here. But he’s there. And that little boy—our little boy—he needs someone who stays.”

His voice echoed as everything faded to white—

“Let him love you the way I would’ve wanted to. The way you deserve.”

⸻

Y/N woke with wet cheeks and a chest that felt both shattered and whole.

In the quiet of her bedroom, just down the hallway, she could hear Jake’s voice. Low and soft.

Telling Robert Jr. another story about his dad.

The quiet held her like a blanket, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It was warm. Full of breath and memory.

Y/N stayed in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, one hand pressed gently over her heart—like she was afraid if she moved too quickly, she’d lose him again.

Bob.

Her Bob.

His voice still echoed in her ears, soft as wind through wheat fields.

“Let him love you the way I would’ve wanted to. The way you deserve.”

She exhaled shakily, then sat up, barefoot on cool hardwood. She didn’t rush. She couldn’t. Everything felt suspended in time—just her and the echo of a life that used to be.

As she stood, she walked past the hallway mirror and caught her own reflection. Pale from the dream, eyes swollen. But something was different. Her shoulders weren’t curled in so tightly. The grief wasn’t strangling her. Not right now.

She passed by the living room.

Jake was sitting on the couch—same spot he always did—his back turned to her, baby Robert tucked into the crook of one arm, bottle in the other. His voice was low, soft, like lullabies wrapped in denim and Texas sun.

“Your daddy… he flew better than anyone. Not ‘cause he was fast. Not ‘cause he was flashy. He just… understood the sky. Like it spoke to him.”

Jake laughed under his breath, eyes locked on the baby’s.

“He used to talk about you before he even knew you were real. Said he hoped you had her eyes. Her laugh. That you’d love the stars, too.”

Y/N leaned on the doorway, listening.

And thinking.

Jake was there the day they found out she was pregnant. He’d driven over after work, arms full of takeout and a carton of chocolate milk, and didn’t leave for hours—even when she didn’t say a word, even when all she did was cry into the sleeve of his jacket.

He was there every week after that.

Dropping groceries on her doorstep when she didn’t feel like being seen.

Letting himself in when she stopped answering her phone.

Sitting on the floor with her when she swore she couldn’t survive the grief and the hormones.

He was there when her water broke—hands trembling, voice calm. The only person she trusted to stay. To stay.

He never once asked for anything.

Not a thank you. Not a place. Not a promise.

But he showed up. Every time.

Her eyes blurred again, but this time it wasn’t panic or grief. It was… clarity.

Maybe Bob was right.

Maybe Jake was the one standing in the doorway of the life she’d never thought she’d rebuild.

She looked at the quiet scene on the couch—Jake whispering softly into their son’s ear—and she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“I’m not forgetting you,” she whispered aloud, voice trembling. “I could never forget you.”

It felt like a prayer.

A promise.

To Bob.

To herself.

To the man on her couch who had given her space to break and still stayed close enough to help her rebuild.

You’ll always be my heart, Bob.

But maybe you’re not my ending.

And in the warm hush of early morning, she took a breath—and walked toward the life that was still here.

————

Jake gently lifted baby Robert from his chest, easing the little boy into the crook of his arm. The bottle was empty now, and his soft breaths were even again—tiny fingers curled in the fabric of Jake’s shirt. Jake stood slowly, careful not to jostle him.

The nursery was quiet and dim, only the faint glow of the nightlight painting shadows on the walls. He hummed low as he settled the baby into the crib, brushing back the soft curls that had started to form on the boy’s head.

“Sleep tight, little man,” he murmured, hand lingering for a second longer before stepping back.

He padded down the hallway in socked feet, expecting to find the house still and silent.

But Y/N was sitting on the couch.

She was curled into the corner, wrapped in the same throw blanket Jake always used when he crashed out there, and she was awake—eyes distant, but soft when they met his.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he said, voice low.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t you.”

Jake stopped in his tracks, reading something in her expression. Her eyes weren’t just tired—they were… full. Full of something he didn’t know if he was allowed to hope for.

“I had a dream,” she said.

He didn’t sit. Not yet. He just watched her, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweats like he was steadying himself.

“It was Bob,” she added softly. “He was here. Talking to me. I… I think he really was. I know that sounds crazy, but it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like he was really there.”

Jake took a cautious step forward.

She didn’t stop him.

“He told me he sees us. Me. The baby. You.” Her voice cracked. “He told me you’re a good one. That… you could be the one.”

Jake didn’t breathe.

“I think…” She looked away, blinking tears that didn’t quite fall. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

That broke something loose in Jake. Not a smile, not a grin—just something so soft and reverent in his face, it nearly shattered her.

“I think I’m falling in love with you too,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Have been. For a while now.”

Her breath hitched.

“But,” she said quickly, hands tightening around the blanket, “I can’t rush it. Jake, I can’t.”

“I know,” he said, sitting beside her without hesitation. “You don’t have to.”

“I want something with you, I think I really do. I just… I still cry in the shower. I still talk to his photo when I brush my teeth. I’m still figuring out how to live again.”

Jake nodded. “You don’t have to rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

She turned toward him, her expression raw and open. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

“You won’t,” he said simply. “I knew what I was walking into the second I sat on that hospital bench holding your hand. I’m not here for fast or easy. I’m here for you.”

That broke her.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and grateful, and when she leaned against him—just gently, just enough—he lifted his arm so she could tuck herself beneath it.

They sat like that in the dark for a long time.

Nothing fast.

Nothing rushed.

Just the slow, steady thrum of something that might one day become love.

Something already becoming home.

Jake didn’t say anything when she stood up, tugging the blanket tighter around herself. She hesitated for a moment, glancing back over her shoulder where he still sat on the couch, hands resting on his knees like he wasn’t sure what came next.

“Come to bed,” she said softly.

His eyes lifted, searching hers. “You sure?”

She nodded. “It’s just sleep, Jake. And you haven’t slept in a real bed in months.”

That made something in his chest pinch, because she’d noticed. She always noticed.

So he followed her down the hallway without another word.

Her bedroom was dimly lit from the small lamp on her nightstand. The baby monitor glowed faintly on her dresser, soft static in the background. The bed was made, though a little messy from her tossing and turning earlier, and she peeled back the covers like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jake hesitated again at the edge, but she turned to look at him with that quiet calm she always seemed to have around him lately.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered.

That was all he needed.

He slipped into the bed beside her.

She curled in first, back facing him, and for a minute it was just the silence between them again, so easy and warm. Then, slowly—carefully—he moved closer, letting his hand rest at the small of her back before sliding around her waist.

She didn’t flinch.

She leaned into it, in fact—into him—settling back until she was tucked into the curve of his body.

“I can feel my heart again,” she said softly, barely audible. “It used to hurt so bad. It still does sometimes, but… I think I can feel it beating again.”

Jake’s lips pressed against the back of her shoulder. “Then we’ll take it slow. One heartbeat at a time.”

Her fingers found his under the blanket and laced them together.

And for the first time in over a year, Jake Seresin fell asleep in a real bed.

Next to her.

Not as a soldier filling a space left behind.

But as a man who had held her hand through every storm.

And would keep holding it as long as she let him.

———

The soft wail of the baby monitor stirred her just before seven. It was the kind of sound she knew by heart now—not frantic, not scared. Just tired and in need of something only she or Jake could give.

She blinked against the soft morning light slipping through the curtains and instinctively reached across the bed.

Jake wasn’t there.

Before she could even sit up, she heard footsteps padding gently down the hallway, the quiet creak of the nursery door opening and closing. A beat later, the cries settled into muffled whimpers, then silence.

She let out a long breath and rubbed her eyes.

Jake.

She rolled out of bed and made her way into the kitchen, the hem of her old sleep shirt brushing her knees. The house smelled like clean sheets and quiet. She flicked on the coffee maker, the comforting drip and hiss starting up as she leaned against the counter, grounding herself.

She didn’t hear him come in—just felt the air shift as he appeared in the doorway, Baby Robert nestled against his chest, fast asleep again.

Jake’s voice was soft. “He just wanted to be held.”

She turned to face him, something warm and aching unfolding in her chest. Robert’s tiny fist clutched at Jake’s shirt like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged there.

“You didn’t have to get up,” she said, her voice still rough with sleep.

Jake shrugged gently, not to disturb the baby. “Didn’t want you to have to.”

She looked at him, standing barefoot in her kitchen with her baby pressed to his chest. Her baby. Bob’s baby. And yet…

Jake didn’t look out of place.

He never had.

She poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to him as he eased himself down onto the couch, keeping Robert tucked close. She followed, sitting beside him, her knee brushing his.

They sat in the soft, still moment of the morning, the house quiet except for the hum of the coffee machine and the birds outside the window. She took a sip and glanced over at Jake.

“You’ve really been here through everything, haven’t you?”

Jake’s eyes didn’t leave Robert’s sleeping face. “I didn’t want you to do it alone.”

“I know. And I didn’t want to either. But I thought I had to.”

Jake looked at her then. Really looked. And not with pity. With something patient and steady.

“You never had to,” he said simply.

Her heart thudded quietly behind her ribs.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For never letting me feel alone. Even when I swore I was.”

Jake gave her a small, tired smile. “You were never alone. Not for a second.”

They sat there like that for a while longer—just the three of them—until the sun crept a little higher and Baby Robert stirred in Jake’s arms.

It was going to be a long day.

But maybe, she thought, not a lonely one.

————

By the time they’d changed Robert, fed him a little breakfast, and had their second round of coffee, the sun had fully risen. The sky outside was that soft, golden blue—cloudless, warm but not hot yet—and the breeze that drifted through the open window smelled like grass and sunlight.

Jake was the one who suggested it.

“Want to take a walk? Feels too nice to stay inside.”

She glanced at the clock—it was still barely past eight—and looked at the way Robert’s chubby legs were kicking on his blanket in the living room. He was wide awake, full of energy, his little voice babbling to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s get out of the house for a bit.”

They dressed slowly, comfortably. She tucked herself into soft shorts and a faded cotton tee that had once belonged to Bob—it still hung loosely on her even after all this time—and pulled her hair back. Jake changed into a clean t-shirt and joggers he’d left in the guest dresser drawer weeks ago.

They worked together in practiced rhythm—Jake strapping Robert into the stroller while she grabbed a burp cloth and a water bottle. She added a sun hat and a little zip-up hoodie to Robert’s outfit, even though it wasn’t cold, just in case.

They stepped outside.

It was quiet, suburban peace—lawns being watered, birds chirping, a distant lawnmower buzzing to life. Robert’s house was on a quiet street, tucked in a corner where cars rarely passed.

They walked in silence at first, Jake pushing the stroller with one hand and keeping the other casually close to her. Not touching her—but near enough that if she needed it, it was there.

Robert babbled at the trees and the birds. A leaf blew across the sidewalk and he squealed.

Jake smiled. “Kid’s got lungs on him.”

She laughed softly. “Just like his dad.”

Jake glanced at her, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah. Just like his dad.”

They kept walking.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It just was. Two people—grieving, healing, rebuilding—with a baby who didn’t understand the weight they carried but gave them a reason to carry it anyway.

They were halfway down the block, passing a house with a freshly painted white fence and pink hydrangeas lining the front yard, when someone stepped out onto the porch.

“Hey there!” a woman called.

They paused. She looked to be in her late 40s, in a flowing sundress, a mug in hand. Kind eyes and a soft smile.

“You just move in?”

Jake shook his head politely. “Nah, been here a while.”

“Oh! I haven’t seen you two before.” Her gaze drifted to the stroller. “And who’s this handsome little man?”

Robert kicked his legs and let out a coo right on cue.

The woman beamed. “You two make beautiful kids.”

Jake opened his mouth to correct her—an automatic habit now—but before he could speak, Y/N smiled softly and said:

“Thank you.”

Jake looked at her, surprised.

She didn’t take it back. Just smiled again, gently, as she bent to adjust the sunhat on Robert’s head. The woman waved them goodbye, and they kept walking.

When they turned the corner, Jake glanced sideways. “You didn’t have to let her think—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “But… it didn’t feel wrong.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a long while. Then:

“It didn’t feel wrong to me either.”

They made it a full loop around the neighborhood and stopped at the little park two blocks away. The kind with a slide and a few swings and a bench shaded by a tree.

Jake sat on the bench, Robert balanced on his knee, and Y/N sank beside them, watching the breeze rustle through the branches.

“You’re really good with him,” she said after a few minutes.

Jake smiled without looking at her. “I just try to love him the way I’d want someone to love my kid.”

She blinked against the sting in her eyes.

“I think Bob would have loved you for that.”

Jake finally turned to her, and his voice dropped to something low, barely audible.

“I already loved him. He was my brother before anything else.”

Her throat tightened.

She reached over, resting a hand on his arm.

And they sat like that for a while longer—her leaning into him, Robert babbling and kicking, the world moving gently around them.

————

It had been a few weeks since that walk. Long enough for the heaviness in her chest to settle into something quieter. Not gone. Never gone. But softer around the edges. Manageable.

Little Robert was now walking more than crawling, and talking just enough to make her ache with pride—and ache with something else, too. He had Bob’s smile. His quiet calm. His light, inquisitive gaze. Every day, she learned something new about her son. Every day, she missed Bob in some new way.

And Jake… Jake was still there.

He was always there.

Which was probably why, when Phoenix texted the group chat asking if they wanted to do a small barbecue at Rooster’s place that weekend—just the team, nothing big—Jake had already offered to drive them before she even answered.

So, Saturday came, warm and golden like it had been made for old friends. Y/N packed a small diaper bag. Jake brought a cooler of drinks and extra sunblock. Robert had a little Dagger Squad onesie on that Phoenix had gifted them before he was even born. It was slightly too small now—snug around his belly—but she couldn’t resist.

“Stealing hearts already,” Jake said when she buckled Robert into the car seat.

He didn’t say it in a flirty way. He said it in a way that made her heart flutter and ache at once. Soft. Admiring. Gentle.

They got to Rooster’s house a little after two. Everyone was already there. The grill was on. Music was low. Drinks were cold. Someone had even brought a little inflatable pool for Robert, who immediately squealed and splashed like it was his full-time job.

Phoenix came over and wrapped Y/N in a hug that lingered, and Bob’s name didn’t have to be said for it to be felt. She looked at Robert like he was something precious, and Y/N saw her blink quickly like she was holding back tears.

“Look at him,” Phoenix whispered. “Would’ve made Bob so proud.”

Jake stayed close but didn’t hover. He helped Rooster at the grill, tossed a football around with Coyote and Payback, made Baby Robert laugh so hard he hiccuped when he put a slice of watermelon on his head like a hat.

It was easy. It was safe.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still bittersweet.

Y/N sat on a blanket beneath a tree while Robert played nearby. Nat sat beside her, stretching her legs out and sipping from a lemonade.

“You okay?” Nat asked gently, not prying, just offering.

Y/N nodded. “Getting there.”

Nat glanced across the yard to where Jake was lifting Robert into the air, making airplane noises as he flew him gently over his shoulder. The baby giggled, shrieked with delight.

“You’re not alone, you know,” Nat said.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s what makes it bearable.”

She didn’t say Jake’s name. But Nat didn’t need her to.

Later, after food and cake and stories and quiet toasts to the one who wasn’t there, Robert had grown sleepy. Y/N settled into one of the deck chairs, baby boy pressed to her chest, heavy with exhaustion.

Jake came over with a blanket and draped it across her lap.

“Ready to head home?” he asked softly.

She looked up at him, nodded. “Yeah.”

He took the bag. He packed the car. He carried Robert out like he was the most fragile thing in the world.

And when they pulled into the driveway later, stars beginning to bloom across the sky, Y/N looked at the home that used to feel so broken without Bob—and now felt something else.

Something healing.

Jake unbuckled Robert, who stirred only a little, and whispered, “We’re home, buddy.”

Y/N’s hand brushed his as they walked inside.

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t let go either.

————

The house was quiet by the time they got inside. Not silent—never truly silent, not with a baby in the mix—but calm in the way that made her breathe differently. Deeper. Slower.

Robert stayed asleep in Jake’s arms, his small cheek resting against Jake’s shoulder. His little hand gripped a fold of Jake’s T-shirt, and Y/N could see the soft rise and fall of his back—so peaceful it made her chest ache.

Jake didn’t ask what she needed. He didn’t need to.

He took Robert straight to the nursery, moving slowly, like every step mattered. She followed a few minutes later after rinsing the sticky watermelon juice off her hands, padding barefoot down the hallway.

By the time she got there, Jake had already changed Robert into a soft cotton sleeper. He was leaning over the crib now, carefully lowering the baby down with the kind of tenderness that no one expected from Jake Seresin—but that she saw every single day.

When Robert was settled, Jake didn’t rush out. He stayed, one hand resting on the edge of the crib, watching him like he couldn’t quite pull himself away. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest—not closed off, just holding onto something.

“Does he ever feel real to you?” she asked quietly. “Bob, I mean.”

Jake turned to look at her. He knew better than to answer quickly.

“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “Not always. But yeah.”

She nodded. Her voice was soft. “Sometimes I still catch myself thinking I’ll turn around and he’ll be coming through the door.”

Jake crossed the room slowly. He didn’t touch her yet. He stood close, close enough for her to feel the heat of him, the steadiness. “I think he’s here in a lot of ways,” he said. “In Robert. In you.”

“And you?” she asked, eyes flicking up to his.

His smile was slow, sad, and honest. “I try my best. I think if he’s watching, he’d want that.”

She reached out and took his hand then. Finally. Laced their fingers together. She looked up at him and said, “You do more than your best.”

Jake didn’t say anything. He just squeezed her hand.

They turned the nightlight on and walked quietly out of the nursery, down the short hallway into the kitchen, where the last bits of light from the outside faded into dusk.

“I’m gonna make some tea,” she said. “You want some?”

Jake nodded. “Sure.”

He sat at the kitchen table while she boiled water, then grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. The moment didn’t need to be filled with words. It was all there in the quiet: the clinking of the spoon against ceramic, the hum of the kettle, the faint buzz of the baby monitor on the counter.

When she finally brought the tea over, Jake had already settled back into his chair, legs stretched out, one hand resting across the table. She placed his mug in front of him and sat in the chair beside him—closer than usual.

“You’re staying tonight,” she said.

He blinked at her, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “But not on the couch.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

She nodded once. “It’s been a long year, Jake. You deserve a bed.”

So did she.

So later, when the mugs were empty and the dishes were rinsed and the house was truly still, they found their way to the bedroom—not in a rush, not with urgency. Just in soft steps and familiar quiet.

They climbed into bed fully clothed. She curled into him, her head resting on his chest, his arm around her waist. There was no pressure. No tension. Just two people who had walked through hell and were learning how to breathe again.

Jake kissed the top of her head once.

And she whispered into the dark, “Thank you for not leaving.”

He squeezed her tighter and murmured, “I never could.”

And with the weight of the day behind them and the hum of the baby monitor whispering softly in the distance, they both closed their eyes. Not because they had forgotten. But because, at least for now, they felt safe.

———

Three months passed.

The house was still quiet most mornings, still filled with soft light and softer memories, but things felt different now. Warmer. Steadier.

Jake didn’t sleep on the couch anymore.

He hadn’t for weeks. Not since that rainy Friday night when Robert had a fever, and Y/N climbed into bed and pulled Jake in with her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Since then, the nights belonged to all three of them. Jake’s hand often rested somewhere over hers as they slept — or on her waist, or tangled in her hair. He never reached for more. He never needed to.

But Y/N had started reaching back.

It was slow at first — brushing his shoulder in the kitchen, pressing her cheek to his chest when they stood too long by the laundry machine. Then one morning, after a shared cup of coffee, she kissed him goodbye on the cheek.

Now? It wasn’t unusual to find her curled against him at the end of the day, Baby Robert tucked between them. It wasn’t strange when her lips found his jaw as she passed behind him, or when his hand held hers as they strolled through the grocery store.

Affection had taken root — not in a rush, but like something planted deep. Solid. Grown from grief and gentleness.

Jake had learned all the rhythms of their little life. He knew which sippy cup Robert preferred. He knew how Y/N took her coffee and which brand of lotion she used. He’d installed a nightlight in the hallway, because she confessed once that sometimes the dark still scared her.

She’d learned him, too.

She knew his quiet wasn’t distant, it was observant. She knew he carried tension in his shoulders when he worried. And she noticed the way he smiled — soft and almost shy — when she kissed his forehead without saying a word.

It was late on a Sunday afternoon now.

Baby Robert had fallen asleep early, worn out from the splash pad and too much sun. He was sprawled out in the crib, damp curls clinging to his forehead, cheeks rosy from the heat.

Y/N stood in the doorway watching him, one arm folded across her chest, the other resting on the doorframe. Jake came up behind her, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder.

“Wiped him out,” he whispered.

She smiled. “That nap’s gonna last ‘til morning.”

They made their way back to the living room, settling into the couch without much thought. Her legs across his lap. His fingers absentmindedly tracing little shapes into her calf.

She looked at him.

He looked back.

And for no particular reason at all, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was a soft, easy kiss — not desperate or fast. Not because they needed something. Just because it felt right. Like breathing. Like safety.

“I like this,” she murmured, forehead resting against his.

“Yeah?” he asked.

She nodded. “You. Us. All of it.”

Jake didn’t say much. He just kissed her again, slower this time. Then he tucked her in close, and they sat like that until the sun dipped behind the trees and the world turned quiet again.

They were building something — slow and sacred. Not to replace what was lost, but to honor it. To keep going. Together.

———

Christmas morning came softly.

No snow, not here, but the cold had settled in deep overnight. The windows fogged at the corners, the grass silver with frost. Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and pine. The little tree Jake picked out from a lot by the naval base stood in the corner of the living room, decorated with mismatched ornaments and a crooked star that leaned just slightly to the right.

There were only a few wrapped gifts under the tree. Just enough. More than enough.

It was still dark when Y/N stirred. She reached out instinctively — not for the baby monitor, but for Jake. He was already awake, lying there beside her, quiet.

“You’re not sleeping,” she whispered.

Jake shook his head, eyes still on the ceiling. “Too excited.”

She smiled sleepily. “You know he’s not gonna care about the presents.”

Jake shrugged. “Still wanted it to be a good morning.”

A pause. Then she pressed her face into his shoulder, let herself linger.

“It already is.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes — a silent stretch of warmth before the day began. Then, predictably, the soft little fuss of Baby Robert from the other room broke the quiet. Y/N groaned, but Jake was already sitting up.

“I got him,” he said.

She didn’t argue.

Jake padded out of the bedroom barefoot, tugging his sweatshirt over his head. She could hear his voice down the hallway — low, gentle, full of warmth. By the time she reached the living room, Robert was on his hip, chubby fists tugging at Jake’s hair, his sleep-warm face tucked into his dad’s — no — Jake’s neck.

That thought still caught her sometimes.

Jake wasn’t Bob. Would never be Bob. But he was here. And watching him press a kiss to Robert’s temple — murmuring something about Santa Claus and cinnamon rolls — she felt her heart catch in her throat.

She turned toward the kitchen without speaking, needing something to do with her hands.

She made coffee. Poured juice. Heated the prepped breakfast she’d made the night before — the one with Bob’s mom’s recipe card tucked under the magnet on the fridge.

She set the plates down as Jake came back in, Baby Robert now fully awake and babbling nonsense. His hair was a mess. His onesie said “My First Christmas.” Jake said nothing when he saw the mist in Y/N’s eyes. Just stepped forward and kissed her cheek.

“Let’s open a couple before breakfast,” he said softly.

She nodded.

Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, Robert in his lap, tearing at the corners of wrapping paper like he didn’t fully understand but liked the noise anyway. They opened a picture book. A stuffed giraffe. A soft blanket embroidered with Robert’s name. Then a tiny pair of sneakers that Y/N hadn’t even remembered buying.

Jake smiled.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” he said. “All of it.”

“So are you,” she replied.

He didn’t say anything to that. Just reached for one last gift — this one small, wrapped in plain paper with a red ribbon.

“This one’s for you,” he said quietly.

She looked at him. “I told you not to—”

“I know,” Jake cut her off. “Just open it.”

She did. Inside was a simple silver chain, barely-there elegant, with a tiny locket no larger than her fingertip.

She opened it.

One side had a photo of Baby Robert, gummy smile and soft curls.

The other… Bob. In uniform. Looking off-camera, laughing.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Jake looked down. “I didn’t mean to overstep, I just… I thought maybe you’d want to have both of them close.”

Y/N was crying now, quietly, chin trembling as she reached across and held his face in both hands. She kissed him, once, softly. Then again.

“You didn’t overstep,” she whispered.

They ate breakfast cross-legged on the floor, still in pajamas. Baby Robert mashed cinnamon roll into his lap. Jake spilled coffee on the wrapping paper. The lights twinkled behind them, and Y/N felt something like peace settle in her chest.

It was a different Christmas. A new one. A quieter one.

But it was filled with love. And laughter. And memory.

And it was enough.

———-

It started with Phoenix.

She was the first one to notice. Not because she was nosy — though she was, proudly — but because she looked. She’d always been the one to watch for what wasn’t being said.

So when Jake showed up to the Hard Deck with a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and a teething ring hanging off his finger like it was a keychain, she raised an eyebrow. When Y/N walked in five minutes later — cheeks pink from the wind, Baby Robert asleep against her chest — Phoenix just knew.

Jake stood a little too fast when he saw them. Took the diaper bag. Fixed the strap on Y/N’s coat. Brushed her hand without meaning to — or maybe meaning to.

Phoenix didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.

They were all there — Rooster, Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, even Bob’s old instructor who came around from time to time just to “check in.” Margaret had flown back home the week before. It was just them now. Just the chosen family.

And for the first time, it really felt like it.

“Look who’s here,” Rooster said, standing to hug Y/N. His hand went instinctively to Robert’s back, gentle as ever. “Little man’s getting huge.”

“Solid food’ll do that,” Jake said, like he hadn’t been the one feeding him mashed bananas and singing lullabies with the lights off two nights ago.

Robert stirred, and Y/N rocked slightly, instinctively. “He’ll probably wake up in a minute.”

Fanboy stood with a mock-serious expression. “We’ve got two bets running — first word after Mama, and who he likes best.”

Jake scoffed. “It’s me.”

“You’re not even related,” Payback said.

Jake blinked. “Don’t need to be.”

It came out too fast. Too sure.

The silence that followed was small, but sharp.

Y/N looked over at him. Jake didn’t look away. Not from her. Not from the team.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “You two want to sit?”

They did.

Jake settled beside Y/N, shoulder pressed lightly to hers, and Baby Robert slowly stirred in her arms. His eyes fluttered open, and his little fist curled around Y/N’s necklace. His face turned, bleary-eyed, until it found Jake — and he smiled.

Rooster saw it.

He leaned toward Phoenix. “He does kinda look at Jake like he hung the moon.”

Phoenix didn’t answer. Not right away. She was still watching Y/N.

Watching how she looked at Jake now — how she softened when he wiped something off Robert’s cheek, how she smiled when he murmured that quiet “hey buddy” that no one else ever heard but her.

“How long’s it been?” she finally asked.

Y/N looked up, a little startled. “Since what?”

“Since it stopped hurting when he walked into the room.”

Y/N blinked.

Jake froze.

And Y/N, voice quiet, finally said, “I don’t think it’s stopped. I just think… it doesn’t hurt alone anymore.”

There was a long pause.

Then Phoenix stood, walked across the table, and wrapped her arms around Y/N. Not with pity. With relief.

“I just wanted to make sure it was love,” she said into Y/N’s hair. “Not loneliness.”

Jake looked down, swallowing hard.

Rooster clapped a hand on Jake’s back, squeezing hard. “You’re doing good, man.”

“I’m just trying to be there.”

“You are.”

Baby Robert laughed — full and sudden — like he was thrilled the attention was finally back on him. Jake lifted him easily, holding him high, and Y/N smiled through glassy eyes as she watched Robert squeal and reach for Jake’s nose.

Phoenix stepped back, wiping at her own cheek.

“You ever think Bob would’ve been mad?”

Y/N looked over.

“No,” she said. “I think he would’ve picked Jake, too.”

Jake didn’t say anything. But he sat back down, Robert cradled to his chest, Y/N leaning into his side. The team talked around them — stories, jokes, old flights, new drama. But the whole time, Jake and Y/N were this quiet thing in the corner, wrapped in toddler giggles and warm glances and the kind of love that didn’t ask for permission — only patience.

The first time Bob’s name was brought up, it was by Rooster.

“You know, he would’ve made fun of Jake for the diaper bag.”

Y/N laughed. “Bob made fun of everyone.”

Fanboy grinned. “Except you.”

“Even me,” she said softly. “Especially me.”

Jake smiled, but said nothing.

That night, when they left, Phoenix pulled Y/N into a quiet hug before she climbed into the car. Whispered, “I’m proud of you. For loving again. And for letting him love you.”

And for once, Y/N didn’t flinch.

———

As soon as they pulled into the driveway, Robert started kicking his little feet against the car seat, a soft stream of babbles bubbling out of his mouth like music.

Jake parked the car and turned with a grin. “Think he knows we’re home?”

Robert squealed in reply — a loud, delighted sound, followed by a stream of nonsense syllables: “Da-da-ba! Ga-go!”

Y/N unbuckled her seatbelt with a tired smile. “I don’t know what he’s saying, but he’s definitely saying it with conviction.”

Jake climbed out and opened the back door, and Robert’s arms immediately shot up. “Mm!” he insisted, hands grasping, brows furrowed like why are we even talking when I clearly need to be picked up.

“Okay, okay, come here,” Jake murmured, lifting him out of the seat. Robert’s arms instantly wrapped around his neck as he pressed his cheek into Jake’s shoulder.

Y/N stepped up next to them, brushing her fingers over Robert’s wild curls. “Someone’s feeling cuddly.”

Robert didn’t say anything — just nuzzled closer into Jake’s shirt with a soft sigh.

“He’s wiped,” Jake said gently. “Too much excitement. We wore him out.”

Y/N leaned her head on Jake’s arm as they stepped toward the porch, Robert still pressed against his chest, little fingers twitching against Jake’s collar.

Inside, the house was dim and warm and quiet. Jake set Robert down just inside the door, and instantly — without a single word — the toddler took off with that stumbling run that made both of them instinctively reach out, even when they knew he was okay.

Robert plopped himself down next to the basket of toys and started digging through it with fierce purpose, babbling softly to himself.

Y/N watched him for a moment, heart aching with love.

“He doesn’t have to talk yet,” she said quietly. “He says everything he needs to.”

Jake looked at her — that small smile on his face, the one that meant I know what you mean.

“I get it,” he said. “He’s already got your eyes. He’s got Bob’s heart.”

Robert let out another string of happy nonsense, holding up a stuffed plane in each hand and waving them at the sky.

And even though he wasn’t speaking yet — not really — Y/N felt it in her bones:

We’re home.

———

(another time skip because if i write more this will be a 6 hour story)

It crept up quietly, the way the seasons shifted — one soft day folding into the next, cool mornings turning into sunny afternoons, and before she knew it, Y/N was crossing off days on the calendar until Baby Robert’s second birthday.

Two.

He was almost two.

Nine months of raising him side-by-side with Jake. Nine months of slow, deliberate healing. Nine months of leaning into something that neither of them had rushed but had still somehow found a home in.

Jake hadn’t said I love you yet, not in words. But he said it in other ways — in every late-night bottle, every early-morning diaper run, every afternoon walk where he carried Robert on his shoulders and pointed out the clouds like they were constellations.

He’d built them a life without asking for anything in return.

Y/N stood at the counter one quiet Thursday morning, scribbling a grocery list for Robert’s small birthday gathering. They weren’t doing anything huge — just the Dagger Squad, Margaret if she could make the flight, and maybe a few of their neighbors who’d become familiar faces.

She heard them before she saw them. Jake and Robert, stomping their way in from the backyard, Robert laughing in that gasping, hiccuping way he did when something was really funny. He was covered in grass stains and sunscreen, his curls wild, his mouth sticky from whatever Jake had bribed him with to stay outside for twenty minutes.

Jake came in right behind him, lifting Robert into the air like he weighed nothing. “We’re home,” he said with a grin.

Y/N smiled, brushing her hands on a dish towel. “Did he eat the blueberries or just squish them?”

Jake looked at Robert, who had a suspicious purple smear across his shirt.

“Little of both,” Jake said, kissing Robert’s cheek before setting him down. “He tried to feed one to a butterfly.”

Y/N laughed, already wiping Robert’s hands. “That’s very generous of him.”

Robert ran off toward the hallway, babbling something they didn’t quite understand, and Jake leaned against the counter beside her.

She glanced up. “You realize he’s almost two.”

“I know,” Jake said, looking after him with a softness in his eyes. “It’s wild.”

Y/N paused, pen still in hand. “You’ve been doing this with me almost every day for the past year.”

Jake turned his eyes to her. “I’d do it for the rest of my life if you let me.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full — charged with something deeper than any birthday plans or party balloons. It was the kind of quiet that holds a thousand unsaid things.

She met his eyes. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

“We are,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Robert’s footsteps echoed from the hallway. He appeared a moment later with a stuffed bear in one hand and a sandal in the other. “Boo-boo bear!” he announced proudly, offering the bear to Jake.

Jake took it like it was priceless. “Thanks, buddy. He looks like he needed a nap.”

Y/N watched them — the man who had stepped into this chaos without flinching, and the little boy who had unknowingly saved her.

Two years. She had survived two years since Bob.

And now, somehow, she was planning their son’s second birthday with the man who had loved them both through every impossible moment.

———

There were tiny paper airplanes hanging from the tree branches in the backyard, swaying lazily in the spring breeze. Some were blue, some yellow, and one or two had clearly been colored by toddler hands, their crayon markings outside the lines but proudly intentional.

A hand-painted banner stretched across the back fence — Happy 2nd Birthday, Little Aviator!

It had been Jake’s idea. He’d shown up a week ago with a box full of supplies and a sheepish smile.

“He doesn’t know what it means,” he said. “But maybe one day he will. And you will. Because I know how much it means to you.”

The Dagger Squad had shown up hours early. Phoenix had made a balloon arch. Fanboy had somehow become the unofficial face painter. Rooster was on the grill, pretending he wasn’t too sentimental about the fact that the little boy with Bob’s middle name was now running around calling him “Woo-Woo.”

Y/N stood in the middle of it all, barefoot in the grass, watching her son wobble-run toward Jake, who was crouched down with open arms and a big grin.

Robert had grown into his name more and more every day. He had Bob’s thoughtful quietness and that little tilt to his head when he was curious. But he had Jake’s boldness, too — this fearlessness when he ran, like the whole world was waiting for him to explore it.

He crashed into Jake’s arms, giggling, and Jake lifted him easily, settling him on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was. It had become second nature — they had.

Margaret sat nearby with a cupcake in hand, talking to Bob’s old commanding officer who’d come just to see her grandson. She caught Y/N’s eye and gave her a smile. It was a little misty, but she looked happy.

“You okay?” Phoenix’s voice was soft behind her.

Y/N nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

She turned just in time to see Jake handing Robert a little cupcake of his own. Vanilla with light blue frosting. A small silver star on top.

“Go ahead, buddy,” Jake said gently. “Make a mess.”

Robert looked up at him with a huge smile, then dove face-first into the frosting.

Y/N laughed through the sudden tears in her eyes.

It wasn’t perfect. It would never be simple. But it was real. It was love. And it was theirs.

Later, when the sun dipped low and guests had said their goodbyes, Y/N and Jake sat on the couch with a frosting-sticky toddler between them, both of them leaning against one another with soft smiles and tired hearts.

“He loved it,” Jake murmured, brushing a bit of cake out of Robert’s curls. “Our little pilot.”

“He did,” she said. “And Bob would’ve, too.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I think… he already knows.”

She looked over at him, her hand settling gently over his.

And in the quiet hum of the house — balloons swaying gently in the corners, leftover cake in the kitchen, and Robert asleep between them — she realized something.

This wasn’t a life she had planned.

But it was the one she was still lucky to live.

———-

The last balloon popped under Jake’s foot around 9:12 PM.

“Sorry,” he winced, glancing toward the hallway in case it woke the baby. But the monitor stayed quiet, the faint sound of white noise still humming. “That was the last one.”

Y/N snorted from where she was sweeping cupcake crumbs into a dustpan. “It had a good run.”

The house was finally clean again — mostly. Stray ribbons curled under furniture, a forgotten plastic fork on the window ledge. But it was quiet now. Still.

Jake stretched his arms over his head, back cracking as he moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll take him down. He’s out cold anyway.”

Robert had fallen asleep in the soft pile of blankets and pillows they’d made in the living room, utterly wiped from the excitement. His little socks were mismatched. His cheeks were still sticky from cake.

Y/N followed, watching as Jake scooped him up like second nature, like muscle memory. He brushed a kiss to the top of Robert’s head before disappearing down the hallway.

She leaned against the counter, scanning the fridge automatically, mostly out of habit. There were a few leftover bottles of water, a covered tray of deviled eggs, and—

“Damn it,” she whispered.

The gallon of milk sat in the fridge door, light as air when she lifted it. Not even enough for cereal in the morning.

Jake returned just in time to see her grabbing her keys.

“Hey,” he said, brow furrowing. “Where are you going?”

She held up the empty gallon. “Just the corner store. Two minutes. I’ll be back before you finish the dishes.”

He hesitated. “I can go—”

“You just wrangled twenty sugar-high adults and a toddler with frosting in his ears. I’ve got this.”

Jake looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded instead. “Okay. Text me if they don’t have your oat milk.”

She grinned. “It’s California. They’ve got oat, almond, cashew, and probably yak milk.”

Jake chuckled, walking her to the door. “Be careful, alright?”

“I will. Lock the door behind me.”

She kissed his cheek, soft and familiar, before stepping into the quiet night.

The street was still. The porch light clicked off behind her as she got into the car, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway.

The store was only seven minutes away.

She never made it.

The screech of tires was the last thing she heard — sharp and sudden, like the world cracking wide open.

The headlights that weren’t supposed to be there.

The sickening crunch of steel on steel.

Everything turned upside down.

Her phone buzzed once in the cupholder.

From Jake.

“You forgot your wallet.”

But she didn’t see it.

The world went silent.

And then: black.

[lackinggravitas]

part seven :) of stan if coyote at heart….

i miss when i was able to write these in a week...... study hall i'll mourn you forever. i mean that and i think the chapters were shorter back then but ya know

heads up: probably going to take the ao3 version off of anon. because i should put a little more bravery in my life. so yea, if you see it under an ao3 account, no theft going on there, just the same old me :-)

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 (you are here!) / part 8 (eventually)

ao3 vers

The sky hung overcast and gray above the bay. Muted and dull wood piers rotted where they stood, and the ocean was tepid and slow as it lapped at the sand. 

Ford inhaled slow, the brine, sea-weed and cigarette smell filling his lungs like a haze, breathing life into every cell. He let his eyes slip closed, and the sounds of distant, muffled Jersey accents and the rocking ocean washing over him in languid waves. Somewhere, a swingset creaked. 

Letting his eyes drift open again, Ford took a moment to take it all in. The gray sand, the muted colors of the glass embedded in it. The sailboats, far away on the horizon. The dull, sluggish sea stretching out before him.

Then he stepped forward, and began to walk.

The beach seemed to yawn on forever. The buildings of Glass Shard Beach were all blurry and indistinct; even though Ford could have sworn he remembered each building and each street in exacting detail, more than he could even remember his own mother’s eye color. He’d spent every spare moment of his childhood wandering, trying to escape that house for as long as he could. 

But now all he could parse in any vividity was the sea, and the jagged edges of glass in the sand.

A fog Ford hadn’t realized was there peeled back, revealing the rickety boardwalk. The smallest of smiles drifted across Ford’s face - he walked a little faster, glass cracking underneath his steps. 

The wind sighed, rustling through his hair. The sand was oddly damp, making a wet sound as he walked, leaving the distinct marks of his boots behind him. 

Wood rotting, the boardwalk seemed to groan under its own weight. Barnacles and mussels clung to its stiff legs, algae and sea-grass growing in the wood that had been discolored from the unrelenting hand of the tide. At present, it was low tide - the sea shrank back from the beach, gathering at the last dredges of bank, seeming to watch Glass Shard Beach with glittering eyes.

Ford had one hand on the edge of the boardwalk and a foot on one of the supports under the bridge, about to hoist himself up the side, when he heard it. 

It was a faraway, distant call, but it stopped Ford dead in his tracks, every muscle seizing, frozen. It wasn’t the same as the indistinct, garbled voices he could hear from the boardwalk, from the street beyond the beach - this one was clearer. This one was trying to say something. 

“-xer!”

“Sixer!”

“Stanley?” Ford rasped, hands suddenly shaking. Gathering his voice, he shouted, “Stanley! Is that you?”

“Sixer!”

Ford threw himself off of the side of the boardwalk, hurrying down the beach. He couldn’t tell where Stanley’s voice was coming from - his eyes scoured the beach, the sea, the town, but he couldn’t see him. He couldn’t see anyone - where was everyone? The beach was never good but people still went there. Swimmers and divers, sunbathers and seashell-collectors, it was low tide, there should have been someone, but Ford was utterly alone-

“Sixer!”

“Stanley! I’m over here! Where are you?” Ford ran over the sand, whipping his head back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse, just a single glimpse, of his brother. 

He found nothing. There was no-one in the windows of the houses, no one in their cars, no one walking down the street, no one on the beach. Looking back, he could see even the boardwalk was empty. 

He was utterly, completely alone. 

“Sixer, hey Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called to him, voice light and laughing, just like Ford remembered it. Like a child calling someone over to see something. 

“Stanley! Are you hiding? This isn’t funny!” Ford planted his feet in the damp sand, looking around wildly. “Where are you?”

“Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called back.

“Stanley!” Ford called back, voice going thin with desperation. “Stanley, please!”

The sea rumbled. The water rose, dashing against the boardwalk, against Ford’s ankles. The tide was rising. The sharp calls of gulls rose in the air, the sky darkening, the wind rushing in Ford’s ears. 

“Sixer, Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called, except he didn’t sound happy anymore. “Sixer!”

The water was crashing against Ford’s mid-calf now, and it smelt like sharp iron and rot. He tried to run, but the water only seemed to rise, and he kept feeling something hit his legs. So he looked down.

Floating belly-up from the water, washed up from the waves, were fish. Dead fish, silvery black scales rotting off their pale bones. Glassy, empty eyes. There were more and more of them with every incoming wave, the growing smell so putrid Ford gagged with it. 

“Stanley, where are you?” Ford shouted, looking everywhere and nothing. “I can’t follow your voice- please, where-”

“Sixer!” Stanley screamed, and it barely carried over the deafening roar of the wind and the sea, and it was all Ford could hear. 

Every higher thought stopped, and Ford’s head was just Stanley, Stanley, where is Stanley, he’s gone, I can’t find him, I can’t, I have to, he needs me-

The beach was gone. The ocean consumed it, Ford was up to his waist in water - the sea was roaring, an all-consuming sound, and there were dead fish in the water, dozens, hundreds, sloughing like sickly rot. 

“Stanley! Can you hear me? I’m here, Stanley!” Ford ran clumsily, fast as he could, but the waves smashed against him, rocking on his feet, and the water was rising. 

Up to his chest now, the stench of death choking his lungs, and he gagged with it, heaving, but he had to find Stanley.

“Sixer!” Stanley’s voice shrieked, terrified, and it was the worst sound Ford had ever heard.

“Stanley!” Ford cried. 

The sea and wind howled in his ears, bashing into him, waves frothing and foaming, and where was Stanley, he had to find Stanley-

“Stanley! Please, where are you- Stanley!” Ford tried lunging forward, tried to run, but the sand gave underneath his feet, sending him crashing down into the red water - red? It tasted like copper, why did it taste like copper - white foam and slick, cloying crimson water swallowing him, yanking him down. 

Ford’s eyes burned from the salt. Something bumped into his side - he glanced over to see the blurry shape of rotting fish. Hundreds. Thousands. Dead fish and blood, and he was swimming in it.

Ford shot out of the water with a strangled shout, lunging towards where the shore should have been - but there was nothing, just boiling red sea of hate, growing and growing, and he was alone. 

His mouth tasted like copper and the ocean roared in his ears and waves slammed continuously against him, and he was the only person in the world.

A dead fish looked up at him, floating right in front of him, a fishhook skewered, gouged deep in its scales, wound gurgling blood. Ford’s shaking hands reached out without conscious thought, plucking the fish up, holding it gently in trembling hands. The only thing he could control.

Its body moved gently underneath his fingers, scales shifting with an unnaturally breathing body. It looked up at him, glassy eyes and bloodied scales, and it blinked. 

“Sixer?” it croaked up at him, blood and spittle frothing out of its mouth, oozing out around the gouged hook. Its eyes were glassy and unseeing, and its voice was so small, and so scared. “Is that you?”

Wakefulness came to Ford without clarity. 

The dream- nightmare still clung to the edges of his consciousness, and for a moment he almost thought it had been real, in that hazy, unlucid sense. But there was no sand and salt clinging to his hair and clothes, no fish-grime or blood on his hands. His cheek was pressed into a solid, unyielding surface. There were no waves, and no water. 

A dream, Ford realized. It was just a dream.

It had felt real. His heart still pounded with phantom adrenaline. His breath still felt short and fleeting in his lungs, like he could lose it if he wasn’t careful. 

As reality slowly came back to him, he let out a soft groan, throwing a hand over the back of his head and squeezing his eyes shut. 

That wasn’t a new nightmare. He’d been having it for a very, very long time. 

He’d almost thought he’d grown past it at this point. He’d thrown himself into his studies at a young age, dedicating himself more and more to outrun that pervasive feeling of emptiness. To fill the hollow cavern yawning inside his chest where the very foundation of his heart had been carved out. 

His studies kept him from the thoughts that doggedly haunted him. Thoughts of Stanley, thoughts of the missing persons case going cold on some desk somewhere, all of the what-ifs and if-onlys.

He balled his fist in hair, fingers tangling in the short, curly strands. He was too old to be having nightmares. 

(It was the tugging on his bedsheets that woke him up, blinking blearily awake, eyes adjusting to see his dark, blurry ceiling, shadowed shapes coming into focus. He rolled over, squinting at the guardrail on his bunk, the wrinkle in his sheets, and the small fist pulling insistently on them.

“Stanley?” Stanford spoke into the dark, voice still groggy with sleep. “...did you have a nightmare?”

“...mhmm,” came Stanley’s fear-tight reply. He stopped pulling on Stanford’s bedsheets, but his hand didn’t leave either, resting there, loosely grasping sheets in his still tense hand.

Stanford sighed softly, rubbing his eyes with a soft huff. He shimmied out of bed without another word, clambering down the ladder - it was a big bed, the same one their uncles had slept on, a long time ago. The gaps were wide, window-like for the small Stanford - he could see, in the blur and the dark, his brother's huddled form. 

Climbing down was less like actual climbing and more like calculated falling and catching himself for Stanford, but he was used to it. He awkwardly shambled down, sitting down on Stanley’s bunk and shuffling over to him. 

Stanley had huddled in the corner of his bed, back to the wall, and yanked his blankets over his head, so that he looked more like a mass of blankets than a boy. Stanford pulled on the blankets, peeling them up a few inches to look into Stanley’s eyes, still wide and fraught with tension. 

“Hi,” Stanley whispered.

“Hello,” Stanford whispered back. “Care for a gam?”

That got Stanley frowning at him, face curling up in a pout. “M’ a pirate, Sixer, not a whaler. You’re supposed to ask for permission to come aboard.”

“Sorry. Can I come aboard?” 

“Permission to-”

“Permission to come aboard, Captain Stanley?” Stanford amended quickly. He tugged at the blankets. “Come on, you have to.” 

“You should say please more often,” Stanley admonished, but he still lifted his grip enough to allow Stanford to wiggle in next to him, and he still tucked his nose into Stanford’s shoulder when he got close enough, hiding from the world behind his brother, like a shadow.

The blankets went over both of their heads, and Stanford mused absently that it was going to get rather stuffy in here if Stanley didn’t let up soon. Hiding under blankets was only a comfort for so long, before the trapped heat and stifled air got to you. 

Worries for later. It was comforting enough now. 

Stanford wrapped his arms around his brother, hand coming up to pet Stanley’s hair in a way he’d learned from Ma. It always got Stanley calming fast, fear dropping away beneath the comfort of it. 

Whenever Stanford had bad days or nightmares of his own, Stanley would do the same for him - wrap him up, let him hide from cruel edges and stares of the world digging into his back, talking low, running a hand up and down his back, a steady lighthouse. 

Stanford’s method of easing Stanley was a little different. He was never so good with words like Stanley was - where Stanford could carefully string together detailed, exacting diatribes to spool out onto the page in written word, Stanley always seemed to know exactly what to say in the moment. He had their Ma’s showman, conman tongue, quicksilver and catlike. 

So Stanford didn’t talk to reassure. He talked to fill the silence, and to distract. 

“Want to hear a story?” Stanford asked in the quiet between them. 

“Don’t go,” Stanley answered immediately. Stanford wasn’t very good at making things up on the spot like Stanley was - an offer for a story was an offer to get up and grab a book. “Jus’ tell me about…” Stanley paused for a moment, thinking. “En-ki-doo.”

“Enkidu?” Stanley nodded against him. “See, I told you you’d like the Epic of Gilgamesh,” Stanford said smugly. “And you said it was boring-”

“Sixer…” Stanley grumbled into Stanford’s shoulder.

“Yes, yes, alright- how did it start again…” Stanford set his cheek on Stanley’s head, his brother’s hair tickling his face. Exhaling, watching Stanley’s hair rustle slightly in the artificial breeze. He squinted into nothing, trying to arrange the words in his head into the right order. “Once upon a time, there was a great king named Gilgamesh…”)

Crash!

Ford jerked up, the memory playing in his head grinding to a halt.

There was shouting from outside Ford’s office, banging and thumps. Not gnomes again, Ford thought immediately, half hysterical with the idea. The last thing he needed were gnomes. 

His eyes traced a path towards the diagrams and charts spread out on his desk, pinned up around him. He’d just woken up, but he suddenly felt so tired. His hand shook a bit, and he clenched it, trying to bite back the tremors. 

Then he stood, chair squeaking against the floor as he pushed himself off his desk and walking towards the noises. 

The door groaned softly as he pushed it open, peeking his head out and looking around. 

Remus whipped around the corner, raucous growling rumbling out of his chest. His gaze snapped to Ford, eyes widening slightly and bee-lining straight for him. 

A weight that Ford hadn’t fully realized was weighing him down eased slightly as Remus darted over to him. Ford widened the crack in the doorway without even thinking about it, letting Remus wiggle past and duck behind him, hunching flat on the ground and growling loudly. 

And then Fiddleford came thumping down the hallway, holding a baggy shirt in his hands and pinched expression on his face. He looked around the hall, before his eyes landed on Remus and he scowled. 

“There you are!” He stepped forward, causing Remus’ growling to grow louder. A flash of fear crossed Fiddleford’s face, but he visibly steeled himself. “This is ‘fer your own good. You can’t go running around buck-naked all the time, it just ain’t right.” 

“You’re trying to clothe him?” Ford asked.

“Emphasis on tryin’,” Fiddleford grumbled, frowning at Remus. “He’s bein’ more stubborn ‘bout it than I thought he would be.” 

Ford frowned slightly. “He does seem to be reacting more strongly than I might have thought he would.” He glanced down, seeing the way Remus held himself with rope-taut tension, the unceasing sound of his growling. “Did something happen?”

“Nothin’ all that outrageous,” Fiddleford said. “All I did was crouch down next ta’ him and try to put it on him - slowly, mind you, I ain’t a dunce. Didn’t even get it over his head ‘fore he started freakin’ out.”

“Hm.” Ford reached a hand up to absent-mindedly scratch at his stubble, trying to think. “Perhaps he’s claustrophobic?”

“I thought that too, but I don’t think that’s it. I mean, he was lookin’ pretty apprehensive the minute I took the shirt out, and it wasn’t even that close to him before he tried to bolt. I think it’s got something to do with the shirt itself.” 

Ford’s eyes flicked down to Remus again. He was eyeing the shirt, face tense, pulled back to show off his teeth. But it wasn’t offense, Ford could tell - he was on the defense, shoulders squared, gaze cautiously flitting around like he was trying to assure himself of an escape plan. 

“Hand it to me,” Ford said to Fiddleford suddenly, stretching a hand out to him expectantly. “I’ll try.”

Fiddleford gave him a doubtful look, but he passed the shirt over to him regardless. “I don’t think you’ll have any more luck than me,” he warned. 

“Let me try something. I have a theory.” 

The shirt was old looking, off-white with age and stained. It certainly wasn’t one of Ford’s - likely a spare shirt of Fiddleford’s, something he brought along if all else was unwearable. It was big too, big enough to be quite baggy on Ford, and likely engulf Fiddleford entirely if he wore it. It would be a roomy fit for Remus - not too tight as to agitate him, just loose enough, but not so much so that it would fall right off of him. 

It smelt of nothing in particular either. Just the faint fragrance of laundry detergent and something that could be defined as the smell of Fiddleford, barely a ghost in the threads. Rubbing a thumb along the fabric, he found that the texture wasn’t bad either - it was a simple, loose shirt, any uncomfortable edges long worn down to nothing. 

In essence, there was nothing wrong with the shirt. Just as Ford had suspected.

He moved aside a bit to give himself enough room to crouch down in front of Remus, knees hitting the wood floor with a soft thump.

Remus eyed him suspiciously, gaze flicking between Ford and the shirt like he thought it was about to jump at him. He hunched himself even more, torso nearly touching the floor with how low he crouched, everything about him radiating wariness. 

“Now, Remus,” Ford started, “You know Fiddleford here would feel more comfortable if you conducted yourself in a more, ah, civilized manner-”

Fiddleford made a face. “I wouldn’t say it like that-”

“-and really, I think you’ll find this shirt perfectly fine. You’re a tad bit smaller than me, weight-wise, so it should be quite comfortable. In fact, I think you’d like it, if you tried,” Ford continued unfalteringly, extending the shirt to Remus, holding it out to him invitingly. “Here, is it unfamiliar to you? Is that the problem?”

Remus shrank back when the shirt came out, growling unhappily. 

Ford simply waited. 

Hesitation hanging off of every movement, Remus slowly inched forward, reaching out to sniff at the shirt. He snorted softly at the smell of it, something like recognition flashing in his eyes. 

“Smells like Fiddleford, doesn’t it? See, it’s perfectly safe. Won’t bite you or anything like that,” Ford encouraged. “We’re just trying to help you.” 

The tension slowly leached out of Remus’ frame, and he sighed, becoming visibly calmer. The growling petered off and died entirely, and he exhaled, face going smooth with calm, and he looked at Ford cooly. 

“There you go,” Ford said. “No issue at all. Now let’s get this on you.”

But as soon as lifted the shirt up, holding it in such a way so as to easily slip it over Remus’ head, the newfound calm disappeared. Remus snarled loudly, gnashing his teeth warningly and backing up until his back was to Ford’s desk, eyes never leaving Ford, nor the shirt.

Ford raised an eyebrow. “That is odd.” 

He lowered the shirt, and Remus calmed slightly. He lifted it again, and Remus growled louder, letting out a soft huff of a bark.

Ford lowered the shirt again, dropping it onto his lap so that he could drum his fingers on the floor thoughtfully. “It’s as though it’s not the shirt itself that’s the issue, but perhaps the idea of wearing it - if he even understands that that's what we’re trying to do.”

Something between worry and dread mixed on Fiddleford’s face. “Now why would that be?”

Ford shrugged. “I can’t read his mind.” He paused, then brightened up. “Unless of course I use the spell the Shady Sorceress of the Swamp gave me to enter his mindscape and go through his thoughts!”

Fiddleford opened his mouth, something admonishing clearly already on the tip of his tongue.

“If it was a robot instead of magic, would you think it was fine?” Ford interrupted him before he could even speak. 

“Well, I-” Fiddleford paused, thinking. “I… hm. Fair enough.”

“Quite,” Ford said primly, content to leave it at that. He gathered up the shirt, tucking it under an arm and standing up, free hand dusting himself off. “I don’t believe we’ll get any farther with this today. And as much as I’d truthfully love to go through Remus’s mind, I don’t want to get sidetracked. After the machine is finished, maybe.” 

Remus made a long-suffering, tired noise, slinking back until he’d ducked underneath Ford’s desk, eying the both of them warily, as though waiting for something. 

“Poor fella,” Fiddleford mumbled. “Ya gotta wonder how he turned out like this.” 

“There have been plenty of documented and undocumented cases of children being raised by wild animals. Though it certainly is odd to see in our modern day, what with technology being advanced as it is, and civilization so widespread across the globe…” Ford shook his head. “Nonetheless, Remus is far from the first. His behaviour is very reminiscent of the observed behaviour of other children in similar situations.” 

Fiddleford looked interested to hear that. “I wonder what methods folks used to help those kids then.” 

Ford shrugged. “Most of the articles I skimmed were vague on the specifics. I believe the library in town has more information, if you’d like to look into that.” 

Fiddleford shot him a frown. “I know you don’t think he’s yer brother, but even if you’re right, you outta be more interested in helpin’ the guy. It’s you he likes - pretty sure he just tolerates me for your sake.” 

“Nonsense, he likes you plenty. And, well-” Trailing off, Ford’s eyes drifted towards Remus, who he found was looking up at him, brown eyes wide under the cover of the shadows under the desk. “...I simply don’t understand your insistence, is all.” 

Fiddleford spluttered. “Stanford, he thinks he’s a dog!”

“Very few self-perceptions ever line up with reality - honestly, it’s quite common. This is just an extreme case.” Ford shook his head. “Look, he doesn’t seem unhappy as he is. What’s really the harm?”

“He ain’t living his life to the fullest,” Fiddleford said.

“How can we define that?” Ford argued. “Just because it seems strange to us?”

“Oh fer- it’s not ‘cause I think he’s weird, Stanford! It’s ‘cause this clearly ain’t good for him!” Fiddleford gestured towards Remus. “Lookit him! He looks like he hasn’t seen a decent meal in years! And humans ain’t meant to go walking around on our hands and knees - poor fella’s prolly got all sortsa’ joint pains.”

“Don’t we all?” Ford dismissed flippantly. “All I’m saying is, who are we to say what the right way to live is? What the right way to act is? Doesn’t that make us no better than the people that once harassed us for our perceived differences?” 

“That ain’t the same thing. We were… I dunno, we were weird, an’ awkward I guess, but we weren’t living some sort of life of delusion! I get where yer comin’ from and all, but Stanford, humans ain’t made to be living out in the woods without other people, eating raw meat and what have ya. He coulda’ gotten rabies, or lyme, or get eaten by fuckin’ cougar, or any number a’ things - to be frank, it’s a damn miracle he made it this long!”

Indignation flared alive in Ford’s chest. He knew Remus best - who was Fiddleford to tell him he was wrong? “Anyone can get diseases regardless of lifestyle, and Remus is an incredible individual in his own right. He can hold his own-”

“Doncha think he’s got family, Stanford?” Fiddleford suddenly burst out, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “How would you feel knowin’ your, your missing boy, boy was runnin’ around in the woods buck naked, thinkin’ he’s a dog?”

Ford faltered. Fiddleford seemed to be growing truly agitated now, and Ford wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Does this strike more of a nerve for him than I realized? “...most cases of individuals raised by animals are actually cases of parental abandonment or orphaning, not wanted children going missing,” Ford tried, making an awkward there-there motion with his hands at Fiddleford. “The likelihood of such you’re proposing is probably, statistically, quite low-”

“And what if it was Stanley?” Fiddleford snapped. “What then?”

Ford’s mouth snapped shut on its own accord, his whole train of thought slamming to a halt.

If it was Stanley. If it was Stanley…

Despite his better judgement, he couldn’t help but consider that earnestly. If Stanley was walking around on all fours, ribs poking out of scarred skin, voice reduced to growling and barking. If Stanley thought he was a coyote…

A well of dread oozed up in Ford. “That would never happen,” Ford said weakly. 

“I said it was a hypothetical, didn’t I?” Fiddleford sighed roughly. “What good do we do Remus if we just let him go on as he is? He ain’t livin’, Stanford. He’s just surviving.”

A half-formed protest jumped up on Ford’s tongue - but then he remembered Stanley, pictured Stanley, and it died completely.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to.

“…do as you will,” Ford said eventually, mutedly. “Just don’t stress him - and don’t let it get in the way of our work.”

Fiddleford seemed as though he wanted to protest for a moment, but the look slid off his face quickly, replaced with acquiescence so quickly Ford wondered if he’d imagined the hesitancy. “Alright. If you think that’s what’s best.”

A moment of quiet passed.

"Fer the record, I'm sorry for fightin' wit' ya," Fiddleford said, a bit abruptly. "I don't like doin' it, never have. I just want to help S- Remus. You know that." He sighed.

Ford nodded stiffly. His eyes trailed over to Remus, who was still hunkered down underneath Ford’s desk watchfully. 

Remus met his gaze and held it, eyes like he was awaiting Ford’s next move. But the way he held himself, the way he seemed almost to slump onto the ground rather than crouch, belied less than exuberant amounts of energy. 

Just looking at him made Ford feel just as tired. 

“Let’s turn in for the night. We can get an early start in the morning,” Ford said decisively. He absent-mindedly juggled the shirt up and down in his hand for a moment - until accidentally overshot on his upswing a bit, causing to swing up in the air. He caught it, looking down at it, a bit startled. Had he been holding this the whole time? “Where’d you get this shirt, anyways? I don’t recognize it.” 

“Oh, that’s just a spare nightshirt of mine. Figured it’d fit him.” Fiddleford shrugged, reaching over to pluck it out of Ford’s hands - which Ford allowed easily. “Now what’s all this ‘bout goin’ to bed? Doesn’t sound like the Stanford I know - not that I’m complaining.” 

Scoffing, Ford turned to the door, moving towards the hall. “My sleep schedule is perfectly reasonable for a man such as myself; we’ve had this discussion many times, Fiddleford - I’m a scientist! I don’t have time to waste, I need every spare moment.” 

Remus, apparently deducing that the shirt threat had passed, hefted himself out from under the desk with a weary groan of a noise, stretching a leg as he lumbered after Ford. The injury from the gnomes had been healing superbly well - Remus barely even winced as he walked on all fours as he did, not limping at all. 

That salve was showing some real potential. Ford made a mental note to gather more supplies for it some time. 

“Furthermore,” Ford continued, a bit abashed, “I simply… do not wish to deal with the measures Remus takes when he deems it time to sleep. It’s best to remain a step ahead of him, to prevent it.”

Fiddleford skittered out of Remus’s path, shoes thumping on the hardwood as he practically flinched backwards. 

Hm. Not ideal - Fiddleford still wasn’t entirely comfortable around Remus, that much was clear. It was almost ironic - Ford had initially been worried more about how Remus would take to him, not much considering the inverse problem. 

Funny, then, how Remus barely even batted an eye at Fiddleford. Meanwhile, Fiddleford seemed to be consciously untensing from his little flinch, reminding himself to be calm. 

Something for them to work on, perhaps. 

But Ford shouldn’t let himself get so distracted.

“Goodnight Fiddleford,” Ford said briskly. “Rest well. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Fiddleford jerked a little, blinking like he was resurfacing out of his thoughts. “Wh- oh, yeah, g’night Stanford.” He paused, frowning a bit. “Big day?”

“We have a lot of preparation to do,” Ford said absent-mindedly, more preoccupied with side-stepping Remus and walking out into the hall than he was to paying attention to the conversation anymore. He’d already mentally checked it off as complete. 

“Preparin’ for what? What’s the preparing?” Fiddleford called after him. 

“For the machine,” Ford said, vaguely annoyed that he still had to keep talking even though they should clearly have concluded by now. “Goodnight!”

He didn’t flee down the hall, because he was Stanford Filbrick Pines, and he never did such a thing. No, he walked at a quick, business appropriate pace, because he had excellent time management that was telling him he ought to be done talking to people now. 

He was very professional. Remus, who followed ever-loyally behind him at his heels, clearly agreed. 

Ford flopped unceremoniously onto bed, kicking off his shoes as he dragged himself to the middle of the mattress. His head thumped against the pillow, reminding him that he had forgotten to take his glasses off again. Blindly, he pulled them off his face and dropped them towards the vicinity of his nightstand without looking, then shoved his face back into his pillow. 

Had his bed always been so comfortable? It was as though every muscle in his body unspooled from their tight cords on top of it, the vertebrae in his spine, so used to being hunched over a desk, finally being allowed to realign to a proper state. He groaned, going completely boneless in bed. 

No thoughts plagued his mind like they so often did in the dead of night. His mind was completely overworked, reduced, at the end of a hard day’s mental work, to a sluggish thing muttering contentedly about how comfortable his bed was. He’d forgotten how rewarding it was to throw himself completely into his research like that, to forget everything else. 

Working himself to exhaustion was an excellent cure for insomnia. 

Insomnia. Ford sighed. He’d almost managed to forget that nightmare, the one he’d had earlier, before Fiddleford and Remus had managed to distract him, keeping his mind blessedly too occupied to mull over it. 

Maybe he would have thought of it then, let the thoughts pull him away from the steady decline into sleep he’d almost achieved - before the bed creaked under another weight, and Ford cracked an eye to peer up at the blurry figure moving across the mattress towards him. For a moment his mind drew an utter blank at what he was even looking at - but then, like an old instinct blinking back to life, it clicked perfectly.

“Stanley?” He mumbled into his pillow, watching his brother lower himself down beside Ford, curling up like a dog. Ford reached a sleepy hand over, clumsily patting his brother’s shoulder. “...didja have a nightmare?”

No response. Ford hummed.

Reaching out, he pulled his brother into his arms, dropping his cheek on top of Stanley’s curly hair. Stanley struggled for a minute, before slowly relaxing. “S’ alright,” Ford mumbled. “Even… even Enkidu had nightmares sometimes…”

A soft sigh. His brother smelt kind of bad. Ford should make him shower tomorrow - or sometime, he thought, vaguely remembering he had things to do tomorrow. That’s why they had to go to bed early - he was goin’ on an adventure with his brother…

“Goodnight, Stan.” 

Stanley just huffed at him. Ford's last, conscious thought before he slipped back into the oblivion of sleep was a quiet, I wonder where Remus is. I bet Stanley would like to meet him. 

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[starlight-and-whiskey]

Under Your Skin: Ch5

The new baby is challenging. Arthur steps up.

Sorry, this is a bit of short one, but there is more to come I promise.

Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ao3

Tags: @baizzhu, @chonkercatto, @heron-feathers, @not-minho, @multi-fandom3, @warmsideofthepillow03, @photo1030, @littlebirdgot, @violetlilly2020, @etckristel, @m1stea

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The crying had been going on for what felt like hours, maybe even days. High-pitched and relentless, Jesse’s wails pierced through the camp’s evening hush like a hot knife through butter. You shifted your weight again as your rocked him, your gentle shushing, humming, swaying, swallowed entirely by frustrated screams.  With your six-week-old pressed to your breast, you felt less than useless.

Nothing worked. Nothing.

You swayed on aching legs, arms numb, your chest sticky with sweat while his little face scrunched red with effort, fists balled, legs drawn up tight to his belly as he kicked defiantly against your chest. You’d tried feeding him. Burping him. Changing him. Tried each again thrice more just to be sure. Miss Grimshaw had mentioned something - griping pains, she’d called it, with a sympathetic shake of her head. “It happens. Ain’t no fix for it but patience.”

Patience. You were nearly clean out of that.

“I don’t know what else to do,” you whispered with a cracking voice barely audible over the shrieking. “I don’t know what you need, baby. I don’t know what to do.”

It was just past midnight when you were rocking him helplessly, tears blurring your vision as your back screaming with every jerk of movement, just past midnight when Arthur returned again, his heart breaking at the sight of your wild, shadowed eyes.

“I fed him. He’s dry. He just won’t stop”, you sniffled. With a defeated groan, you watched as Arthur stepped closer with a sympathetic sigh and gently lifted Jesse from your arms, tucking the tiny, wriggling body into the crook of his elbow.

“I got it”, you choked out through exhausted tears.

“I know”, he murmured with a nod as he tried to find your averted eyes. “And I got you.”

You raked a hand through the matted curls of your hair, utterly spent.

“You go lie down a minute,” Arthur said gently.

“Arthur, you've barely slept.”

“Neither have you. I got him.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the pleading edge of his fingers against your ribcage stopped you. So instead, you sniffled back threatening tears and nodded as he wrapped a solid hand against the nape of your neck, pulling your forehead to meet his full lips as he planted a firm kiss against your skin.

“Just lay down, darlin’”, he murmured, watching as you reluctantly eased down onto the cot, every muscle in your body sighing with relief as Arthur stooped to drag the faded blanket across your chest with his free hand. “I’ll go walk him a little.”

“The others…”, you half protested, as though a screaming child would be any less disturbing within the confines your thin canvas walls than it would be in the open sprawl of camp.

“If they got a problem, they take it up with me”, Arthur said firmly.

You watched from the cot as Arthur bundled Jesse in another blanket, tucking him close to his chest as he pulled the tent flap back before glancing back at your tear-filled eyes.

“You get some sleep now, alright?”

“Arthur…”

“I mean it. You’re doin’ enough. More than enough. Rest, please?”

You scrubbed a wrist under your running nose and settled against the pillows, tugging the blanket to your chin as you watched them disappear into the darkness.

*

“You need to stop givin’ your momma such a hard time, y’hear?”, Arthur whispered gently, bouncing gently as he picked his way slowly through camp.

Jesse’s reply came in another strangled, furious scream. His tiny fists balled tight and clutching the pocket of Arthur’s worn shirt, face scrunched in a miserable shade of crimson that made Arthur’s heart ache.

Like a long forgotten laceration that never quite healed, Arthur felt raw and tender red flesh re-open in gaping wounds, the echoes of the past that he’d long since buried now clawing at his skin, dragging him back. Arthur found himself over a decade younger, a newly discovered child presented to him, screaming and kicking the whole damn way. With an unsteady breath and a sharp sniff, he shook his head as if trying to shake off the memory, rough fingers gently adjusting the blanket beneath the sleeping babe’s chin.

“I remember this”, he whispered to the darkness. “Your brother was much the same when he was your age.”

At another sharp and sudden wail, Arthur tucked Jesse a little tighter to his chest, hushing gently as the sound of frustrated grumblings and the creak of cots echoed through the still night air. Slowly, Arthur picked his way towards the hitching post, passing the embers of the fire only hours from simmering out, the silvery moonlight guiding his path.

The soft crunch of hooves and the warm, steady snuffling of breath reached him before the horses came into view. Boadicea was the first to lift her head, ears flicking forward, dark eyes blinking as Arthur approached, ducking her head to nuzzle the spot on his hip where his satchel usually sat. Tonight, there was no satchel, no oat cakes for her. Instead, Arthur reached down, stroking her muzzle with a broad hand, and felt the weight of her leaning into his idle scratches.

“This here’s Boadicea”, Arthur whispered, tilting Jesse a little. “She’s the best of ‘em. You’ll like her.”

Pressing her muzzle firmly into Arthur’s hand, the mare snorted before snuffling her way up his forearm, nudging her nose gently against the blanketed legs of Jesse.

With a gurgle, the cry hitched, broke, fell into a hiccup.

“There now”, Arthur smiled at the relief of silence, “ain’t all that bad, is it?”

Jesse’s tiny fist unfurled, splaying a small palm under Boadicea’s ear, delicate fingertips moving to tangle in her dark mane before releasing again with a contented burble. She responded with a soft nudge against Arthur’s midriff. For what felt like an hour, they stood there in contented silence, Jesse alternating between breaking into half-cries and pawing against her coat, Arthur’s shirt. Arthur watched with breath held tight in his lungs as Jesse’s eyes blinked slower, as his movements became less erratic until finally, he stilled in peaceful sleep nestled within his arms, lashes resting in crescent shadows against his cheeks. Looking up at an inky black sky littered by a thousand burning stars, Arthur sighed at the exhaustion in his bones and grinned to himself. When Boadicea nuzzled against him once again, pressing her head gently against Arthur’s arm as though realising her work was done, he reached out with his free hand and stroked her nose with a whisper of a smile.

“Thank you, girl.”

*

Slowly and carefully, Arthur made his way back to your tent by the glow of the moonlight alone, gently laying Jesse in the makeshift crib by your bed. He daren’t move too quickly, daren’t breath too hard, gingerly retracting his arms until he was sure he wouldn’t wake. It was the creak of the cot that woke you, as Arthur settled in beside you, suddenly realising that the tent was almost silent for the first time in what felt like weeks.

A fragile smile spread across your face as Arthur tucked you close to his broad chest, the thick muscle of his arms curling around you. “He settled?”

“No”, he gruffly drawled, tender lips brushing your hairline. “Left him out for the wolves.”

You sleepily and half-heartedly swatted Arthur on his upper arm as a soft smile pulled at your lips, feeling the rumble of an exhausted chuckle reverberating through his chest against yours.

“He’s just fine”, Arthur whispered, pulling you tighter and humming a contented sigh as he tucked your head under his chin, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns along the flesh of your back. “We’re just fine.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You slipped soundly back into dreams.

[planetpissed]

aaaaaugh…

There you go. You like it? It’s sin-thetic fruit of the Zaqqum tree. Keeps me sane, buddy. Keep it going.

The troll continued to pull from it. 

Who the hell is this asshat?

Please, ‘Asshat’ is my father’s name...

Disturbed the dead fellow read his thoughts, Murder flinched. His diaphragm reacted to the movement and caused him to hiccup and snort boiling, red hot magma-bile up his throat and out his nasal cavity. Part of it splashed onto the living hellhound pipe, it snarling at the startle.

 KEAUGH! KHHHAEGH! KHUEEGH!

aaaaughhh…

RAAUGHRF!! RAAUHFFF RAUGHFF!!

aaauuughh…

It didn’t distract him long, however. He kept smoking - as putrid as the sensations sounded, his demon-troll-state found it pleasant, akin to drinking pints in a sauna. He gathered himself as his tears finally ceased.

 As weird as this random encounter is tonight, the bassist can’t label it as a bad one. Thank you, Son of Asshat, for this… What did the guy say this was again? Better yet, who was this guy? What’s his actual god damn name?

Oh, come on, now!

You know me, buddy... Your band tried to summon me after you all did it for a game commercial, remember? You all wanted to see if I’d ACTUALLY help you order a good pizza if you managed to pull it off? I apologize, but I haven’t a clue what a good pizza would be... Any human food that makes it down here turns to ash once the dead touch it. 

…?

I’m Death. You died not too long ago. God status keeps you golden, though - you aren’t bound here. Lucky bastard.

He hoisted his legs and propped them at the edge of the ferry, revealing a set of stocks around his ankles.

Looks like the both of us are cursed for now, though, aren’t we?

...

Ok. So. He’s dead. Murder kind of gathered that, himself. What an interesting factoid, “Death”.

Pops and buzzes to you, all those words? 

The troll would rather keep smoking. Smoking’s good for you. Doctors used to swear by it, you know? They stopped that health-benefit narrative for Big Pharma-

Uh oh. You haven’t forgotten who you are, have you?

Uh, have you seen him? 

He’s… Murder…? 

Murderkrakish, the Lake-of-Fire Troll? Soon-to-be Gatekeeper of the Doomstar? And he loves eating bones? And hating himself, don’t forget that! Sulking is IN, baby!

…This might help; if you don’t remember, your name is William Murderface. Ring any bells?

..!

Oh, it was ringing many bells. It was as if Death had a bucket of ice water and dumped it onto Will’s head. Murderface stood up, eyes wide in shock he forgot such information, trying his best now to secure it into his mind. 

I AM MURDERFACE! 

Bassist of… A BAND! // My parents died of a MURDER-SUICIDE! //

I am a WARRIOR!

FUCKING CHRIST!

His jaw didn’t drop - it clenched. So hard, if he were still mortal, his teeth would crack. The smoke mix burned into scorching fire;

aaauuuuuggHHHH!!

Hyehhyehhyegh...

Your bull-man mommy’s not here, bubba. How about you join us on the ferry, instead of sulking at the lake crossings of lamentation and woe?

I promise we’ll bring you back before curfew…

Pipe retrieved, now being placed in a pocket,

We need to get some music back into your life. 

He cradled the beast’s head, and looked at him with eons of experience. How can the macabre be so assuring? 

Death understood - he’s complicated, confusing. Harsh. But underneath it all… accepting.

And incredibly disarming.

 Death opened Murder’s mouth wide…

…and crammed his arm down his throat. 

Easy! Easy… We need to… make sure… you’ve got one…

Thereeee we go… don’t be shy.

Relax… Open your heart up…

Ok, don’t move. Stay right there…

You’ve got a big heart for a troll, you know that? Try not to rock the boat...

After some blind searching, he hooked fingers around something, pulling the slobbery object out.

THERE WE GO! PHEW!

It appeared to be a coin, or medallion of sorts.

Here, Charon. Catch.

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