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buckysleftbicep · 29 days ago

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who did this to you? 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader

warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)

summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)

author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!

It started small.

A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.

The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.

But Bucky…Bucky saw more.

You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.

You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.

You made things work. You made the team work.

You were the light that steadied them all.

But lately… that light had gone out.

Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled.

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced.

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience.

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him.

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it.

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered.

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange.

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

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lovelyrotter · 1 year ago

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constantly fighting and loosing the battle to design our own gayboy transneutral version of hades and persephone/kore bc 1) we're gay. and 2) we cant stand LO and how the author goes about. well. everything. but esp gender/sexuality/social roles. its just really fuckin sexist all the way down and incredibly het in the weirdest most divorced way. no overt queers?? in MY greek myth inspired story?? i dont wanna get into LO apollo the scarring is too fresh

#my t #its just the weirdest ''''retelling'''' of that myth weve ever come across #tho most retellings of hades and persephone are imo #idk like #the 'feminist retelling' of this myth was the og dawg #kore is violated and the world plunged into fuckin chaos and death and wasnt right again until she herself was brought justice #she was never Fixed. she never was like magically restored. she was changed. but at the end of the day she had justice (spring and summer)#poor fuckin demeter in LO jesus christ #its one of those stories where we always raise a brow at anyone who tries to like #'''upgrade''' it thru a 'feminist lens' cause what theyre really doing more often than not is 2010s girlbossifying it #and punishing a mother going thru a parents worst fuckin nightmare by turning her into a wicked stepmother?????#idk what those ppl were reading but when i read the myth all i thought was 'oh this is abt stranger danger and grooming and dfab kids #being failed by most or all of the adults in their lives. yeah i get that'#this post brought to you by: LO IS OVER!!!!!! LO IS OVERRRR!!!!!!#worlds most niche bugbear activated #except its like. webtoons poster kid so maybe its not that niche

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iambecomeafangirl · 1 year ago

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Also, a post to anyone, who for some reason, cared about my "Books I've read in 2024" tag - I did not stop reading. In fact, I've read 19 books so far this year.

The thing is, I really wanted to make a series of edits, but then I started reading popular science books, and idk, this thing got harder, so I abandoned it 🤷🏻‍♀️

#random #2024 books #literature #young adult literature #yalit #popular science #also this spring is kicking me in the nuts at work #the pure chaos and tiredness #i stopped writing #i am only working; sleeping; eating; reading #it's the only hobby i'm keeping at this crazy time

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jellyfishsthings · 11 days ago

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I have a grandchild?

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really, just funny banter

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason Todd liked to think he wore many masks.

The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:

Mr. Jay.

He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.

And somehow? He loved it.

Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.

He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."

And he hadn’t told a soul in his family

Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.

“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”

Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.

Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”

“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”

“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”

Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.

It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.

Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.

“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”

Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”

He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”

You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”

Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”

“Haikus?”

“Very serious educational practice.”

You smiled. Something clicked into place.

It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.

That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”

What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.

Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.

He just wanted this one thing for himself.

And somehow, it worked.

You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.

By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.

Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.

And it was home.

He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."

He didn’t correct her. Not once.

You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.

You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”

Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”

So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.

“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.

“Go save the world, I have this covered.”

You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.

“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”

Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”

Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”

What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.

Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.

It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.

The door creaked open.

Jason glanced up.

And froze.

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.

“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.

Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”

Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”

She froze when she saw Bruce.

Bruce froze when he saw her.

There was a long, loaded silence.

Jason opened his mouth.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”

Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”

Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”

“COOL,” she whispered loudly.

“She looks like you,” Bruce said.

“WHAT?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you WHAT?!”

“That you have a child.”

“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”

A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”

Jason died.

Bruce looked like he had transcended.

“She calls you—”

“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”

“She has your nose.”

Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”

Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”

Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”

Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.

“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”

“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”

Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”

Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.

Jason shrugged helplessly.

Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”

When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:

Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.

And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.

He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”

You blinked. “Is it real tea?”

“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”

“Ah.”

“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”

You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”

“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”

You blinked. “Okay. And?”

“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”

“... Did you correct him?”

Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”

Jason groaned into his hands.

You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”

Jason looked up.

You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”

Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Love you more”

Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”

You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”

Jason sighed into the pillow. “Long story.”

Bruce stood. “She’s a good kid.”

“She’s a menace,” Jason mumbled fondly.

Rory woke up and shouted, “GLITTER PANCAKES?”

#jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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dakusan · 18 days ago

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BLOOM UNDER NEEDLES

Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | he’s touched you five times. tonight, he ruins you

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.

💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up. p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin? p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,” you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Love Talk — WayV « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:53 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.��

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin smut #filthy friday #skz smut #황현진

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asterafroditis · 2 months ago

Note

heeeeeyyy! <3

if it's ok with you i wanted to request a scenario where the reader magically gets turned into a baby or a kid (it's temporary) and we get to see how each dorm would take care of them or babysit in their own way

i recently read a fic (Spring of Canathus (AKA: They’re Babies) by cheapshrimpysheep) where the housewardens were the ones turned into babies and the reader had to take care of them so now i’m curious to see the roles reversed and how you write it!

𐔌 . ⋮ tiny trouble .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Platonic TWST Dorms x gn! reader

𓏵 2225 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, they/them pronouns used, fluff

idk if you wanted this to be everyone in the dorms taking care of the reader or just the housewardens so I just did the dorms, hope you don't mind (-ω-；) feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Due to a magical mishap during a potions class, you—an ordinary Night Raven College student—get accidentally hit by an experimental brew that reverts you to a toddler for a week. Crowley, being the usual "problem-solving" headmaster that he is, decides to put you under the other dorms' care for the time being.

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The moment Heartslabyul find a tiny version of yourself—no taller than a stack of textbooks—at their doorstep, Riddle is on high alert. He is not used to this sort of chaos, but he's the type who takes responsibility very seriously. As housewarden of Heartslabyul, he refuses to let the situation spiral into madness. You are scooped up and brought into the dorm with all the care of a noble cradling royalty.

“You are still a student of Night Raven College,” he says sternly, but with a touch of red in his cheeks, “and until the potion wears off, you’ll be treated with the utmost propriety.”

Riddle enforces structure even in babysitting: strict bedtime (8 p.m. sharp), healthy snacks (apple slices and tea, no tarts), and scheduled learning time. He reads to you with perfect diction, often from spell theory books he assumes you’ll enjoy. You fall asleep halfway through more often than not.

Trey is the one who bakes soft, kid-friendly pastries and distracts you with silly flour shapes. He’s the gentle uncle-type, letting you sit on the counter while he bakes. Cater takes the most pictures, snapping selfies with you in sparkly filters. You don't know what a 'Magicam story' is in this state, but he assures you that you're going viral. Ace tries to teach you card tricks and gets pouty when you don’t get them right; Deuce is surprisingly gentle, kneeling down and listening to your babbles like they’re sacred law.

Riddle might scold them all for not following proper babysitting etiquette, but there’s no mistaking the way his gaze softens when he sees you giggling in the lounge with your makeshift 'older brothers.' He insists on walking you to and from classes himself, even if it's just down the hallway, muttering something about how the potion should’ve never spilled onto you. When the effect wears off and you’re back to normal, Riddle clears his throat, adjusts his collar, and says:

“Ahem. See that you don't get into such trouble again. But... if it were to happen once more—I suppose Heartslabyul would be prepared.”

─────────────────────────

The moment you’re put into Savannaclaw's care, Leona sighs like the universe itself has conspired to ruin his nap schedule. Still, he doesn’t pawn you off. In fact, he picks you up with surprising ease, balancing you on one hip like he’s done it before.

“Don’t expect me to run around after you,” he grumbles, settling back on his bed with you nestled beside him. “If you’ve got energy, go climb Ruggie or something.”

He’s far from what you'd call the nurturing type, but Leona’s brand of babysitting is more subtle. He keeps you close, even if it’s under the guise of using you as a ‘weighted blanket.’ He lets you nap with his tail draped over you and flicks it just to make you giggle. There’s a protective tilt to his ears whenever someone gets too loud nearby.

Ruggie is the one who takes over most of the hands-on work. He’s a natural babysitter—playful, clever, and good at keeping you entertained. He sneakily sneaks snacks your way and even lets you wear his oversized hoodie. Jack, while flustered, tries to keep things orderly, gently offering you his hand when crossing rooms and awkwardly patting your head.

Leona doesn’t miss any of it. He watches from the sidelines, pretending he’s annoyed by your antics, but every so often, you catch him smirking when you try to roar like a lion cub. He teaches you how to lounge properly (“Pillows, sunshine, and silence; it’s an art.”) and, surprisingly, hums a lullaby when you can't sleep.

When the potion wears off, he barely reacts, just flicks your forehead and mutters, “About time.” But later that day, Ruggie approaches you and is eager to tell you all about how soft their housewarden got for the small price of a snack.

─────────────────────────

The moment you were turned into a child and put into Octavinelle's care, Azul was both horrified and intrigued. Horrified because this sort of mishap could potentially cause trouble towards the dorm, and intrigued because, well, he knows all about the marketing genius of getting cute kids to advertise your brand.

Despite his usual composed demeanor, Azul would be extremely careful with you. He wouldn't leave you alone in the lounge, and he'd adjust his tone to be more soothing, almost like how he talks to nervous clients. At one point, you ask if he's your dad now (to the amusement of the twins), and Azul nearly chokes on his tea. "N-No! Absolutely not! I'm merely acting in the best interest of your safety!"

Jade, ever the picture of eerie calm, takes on the role of silent guardian. He's the one making sure you eat, giving you nutritious meals (even if they taste suspiciously like mushrooms), and walking you around the halls with the smooth cadence of a butler. When you start tugging on his sleeve and babbling his name out loud, he only smiles and corrects your posture.

Floyd, on the other hand, thinks this is the best thing that has ever happened. He calls you "Shrimpy Jr." (since you're much smaller than before) and swings you around like a plush toy. He’ll let you sit on his shoulders, give you snacks Azul told him not to, and constantly whines when you get sleepy: “Nooo, Shrimpy Jr.’s nap time again? Boring~! Lemme keep ‘em!”

Between Azul’s careful supervision, Jade’s quiet attentiveness, and Floyd’s chaotic affection, you’re constantly watched—and probably a little spoiled.

─────────────────────────

"A baby?!" Kalim shouts, holding you up like you're the rarest treasure in all of the Scalding Sands, having picked you up from Scarabia's doorstep. "Jamil, look! They're so tiny! Can we keep them?!"

Jamil, ever the voice of reason (and sarcasm), groans. "Kalim, they’re not a pet. They're a student who unfortunately fell victim to a cauldron spilling in potions class. We have to take care of them until they turn back."

But for the time being, you're taken under Scarabia's warm, chaotic wing. Kalim is constantly making sure you’re entertained—building pillow forts, teaching you how to ride the magic carpet (at a very slow speed, much to Jamil’s relief), and throwing spontaneous parties. He even tries to share his jewelry with you, which ends with you trying to eat a ruby ring. Jamil intervenes just in time.

Jamil, while grumbling the whole time, is incredibly attentive. He brushes your hair, makes sure you’re not being overwhelmed, and slips in educational games between Kalim’s circus acts. His stern exterior doesn’t last long when you tug at his sleeve and ask him to read to you. He rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and pulls out a book—though a small smile betrays him halfway through the first story.

The rest of Scarabia treats you like a tiny sibling. Some of the dorm members even start playing around with you or gently chasing you around the courtyard for laughs. The atmosphere is vibrant, warm, and full of cushiony comfort.

Scarabia doesn’t just babysit you—they adore you.

─────────────────────────

Pomefiore, known for its emphasis on beauty, grace, and discipline, was not exactly designed for childcare. Yet, as soon as Vil caught wind of your condition, he took it upon himself to ensure you were cared for to Pomefiore standards—which, of course, meant you would be the most well-dressed and well-behaved child in all of NRC.

“You may be a child for now, but that’s no excuse to run wild,” Vil said sternly as he adjusted the tiny, custom-made outfit he had designed for you—embroidered with subtle violets and perfectly tailored to your smaller frame. “A lapse in age is no excuse for a lapse in dignity.”

He was surprisingly good with you. Not overly doting, but attentive. Every meal was nutritious and artfully plated. Every nap was scheduled between soothing herbal tea and classical music in the background. Vil kept you engaged with picture books that had tasteful color palettes, and he always insisted on wiping your face after every snack with a soft handkerchief.

Sometimes, he’d sigh when you clung to him, resting your small head against his shoulder. But he never pushed you away. He’d simply hold you with a gentle firmness, murmuring, “You’re lucky you’re cute. Though I suppose that’s to be expected in Pomefiore.”

Epel, on the other hand, was… not as thrilled. He wasn’t bad with kids—he just wasn’t sure how to handle you. His country upbringing kicked in once he got past the shock, and he’d sometimes sneak you extra sweets or entertain you with silly faces and gestures Vil would scold him for.

“They're just a kid,” Epel muttered once as Vil reprimanded him for letting you run barefoot around the halls. “Shouldn’t they be allowed to have a little fun?” But even as he grumbled, Epel made sure you were never too far from his sight.

Rook treated the whole ordeal like some rare opportunity granted by fate. “Ah, our dear trickster has become even more precious in this petite form,” he’d say dramatically, crouching beside you to speak in soft tones. He was the most patient of the trio—amused by your curiosity, thrilled by your giggles, and more than happy to carry you around when you grew tired.

He’d hum old ballads to you, completely serious, as if serenading a noble in disguise.

There was a calm rhythm to your days in Pomefiore. The dorm members made sure you were safe, clean, and gently cared for. And even when Vil insisted on posture drills and hand-washing rituals, he still tucked you in at night with the quiet pride of someone who didn’t know how to express affection except through precision.

─────────────────────────

The moment Crowley settled your toddler self in Ignihyde, Idia, of course, panicked. Not because he didn’t care, but because this was way outside his comfort zone. "A kid? Here? In my dorm? What if they touch my figurines?! What if they drool on the keyboard?!"

Eventually, after some encouragement from Ortho, he awkwardly ventures out of his room to see you—standing in the middle of the Ignihyde hallway in an oversized hoodie, blinking up at him.

You wave. He freezes.

"...They're kinda cute."

Despite his anxiety, Idia takes good care of you in his own way. He sets up a comfy corner in his room filled with plushies, distracts you with a kid-friendly video game with Ortho, and even gives you a tablet to run drawing apps and cartoons. He talks to you like any game character would to a baby NPC, interacting with you as if you have preset responses and reactions.

Ortho, of course, becomes your babysitter #1. He reads you stories, checks your vitals, and even plays hide-and-seek at slow speeds so you can win. The rest of Ignihyde? Mostly confused. They're not used to visitors—especially tiny ones—but they adapt quickly, always offering you something to distract yourself with whenever you approach them, so they could go back to doing whatever they wanted to.

─────────────────────────

No one in Diasomnia was particularly shocked when you got turned into a baby; strange magical occurrences were practically the norm around this school. What did surprise everyone was how quickly the entire dorm fell into sync taking care of you.

Malleus was delighted. “Child of man, you’re even smaller than usual,” he’d say, beaming. He would speak to you in an oddly formal but gentle tone, lifting you effortlessly into his arms and carrying you through misty halls. His stories about Briar Valley fairy tales might be a bit long-winded for a child, but his soothing voice made you drowsy all the same.

Lilia took over your care like it was second nature. He hummed lullabies from ancient times, cooked suspicious meals that Malleus forbade you from eating, and jokingly encouraged you to ‘practice your dagger form’ using butter knives (which was quickly vetoed by Sebek).

Sebek, torn between duty and panic, kept trying to salute you like you were a visiting dignitary. “You, tiny human, must not—! I mean—you should not toddle into Malleus-sama's room with muddy shoes! Respect the Young Master’s halls!” He kept insisting on reading you Briar Valley etiquette books. You fell asleep halfway through page one.

Silver, dependable as ever, carried you around when you got tired. You fell asleep on his shoulder more than once, his calm aura a comforting presence. He read you animal tales with a soft smile, occasionally nodding off beside you.

Other Diasomnia members kept a respectful distance but left you with trinkets you could play around with.

Under their collective care, you felt like royalty—cradled in a dorm where ancient power met tender affection.

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thesweetnessofspring · 1 year ago

Text

Here we go. About to break my heart again.

#chaos walking #spring reads chaos

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southernimpala · 21 days ago

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big distraction

sam winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ sam needs to distract you long enough for dean to decorate for your birthday, and he chooses the best way possible

notice ↬ birthday smutttt (mdni !) whoop whoop !!, promised some bday smut so here ya'll go, can't believe im 19 now eeeee, oral (f!recieving), unprotected p!v, sam is pussy drunk btw, birthday fluff !, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 2.5k

birthdays were never your thing. and they weren’t a hunter’s thing, either. always being on the road, never knowing if you’d even live another trip around the sun. it all seemed superficial and unnecessary to celebrate.

so when sam and dean find out your birthday is today, you beg them to keep quiet about it.

“no candles and cake?” dean jokes, nudging your shoulder in the booth of an old diner you were getting breakfast at, “or special birthday pancakes?” you see him point to the birthday special written in cursive letters on the sticky menu.

“no,” you solidify, taking a warm sip of coffee, “being alive and with you idiots is enough.”

your boyfriend, sam, who's sitting across from you forking his eggs, shakes his head but stays quiet, like he’s planning a surprise attack behind your back.

you don’t notice him catch dean’s eye as you read over the check, or see them scouting potential places to buy party decorations while you drive to the motel—yes, you insisted to drive baby—and you certainly don’t hear them whispering to each other as you lose yourself in a book on the weirdly comfortable mattress that is probably twice your age.

when dean comes back from an outing later that night—“just talking to potential witnesses,”—he said, totally suspiciously, you’re eyes run down his arm to him carrying inside the large duffle bag he keeps in the trunk, full of salt guns and holy water.

you sit up straighter in your seat against the bed frame, suddenly alert, but sam makes no moves, “what’s wrong, why are you—”

“just would rather have these closer to us,” he rushes quickly, a lopsided smile on his face, dropping the duffle like it doesn’t weigh a ton on the gross motel carpet, giving sam a ‘am i doing okay?’ look that has your brows furrowing.

“dean, can i see you in private?” sam says through gritted teeth, nodding to the bathroom.

dean sends him an awkward grin, nodding before they both disappear behind the off white door. in an instant, you’re pressed up against it, ear turned on the highest setting you can, trying to hear through the loud AC unit and buzz of cars outside the open window.

although, you don’t have to listen too hard. the two of them are so loud, you wonder whether you could’ve stayed sat on the bed.

“alright, here’s the plan, you stay here and set up—i’ll distract her.” sam’s voice.

“why do i have to decorate? the cake’s probably smushed in the damn duffle—”

“just let me handle it, okay?”

“i’m gonna need twenty minutes.”

“it takes you that long to frost a cake and put up a sign—”

“thin ice, sammy.”

you imagine sam’s face and try to swallow a laugh, but the revelation that they’re planning a surprise for you is enough to knock your world off its axis. even though you told them not to fuss, there’s something pure about them doing this for you. something the three of you could use in the midst of the chaos of your lives.

“how are you distracting her? gonna take her into town or something?” dean’s voice.

“i don’t know, maybe, i—”

“no,”

“dean—”

“you’re not having sex in my car.”

your face burns.

“dean, i didn’t—”

“i saw that look!”

your palm comes to cover your mouth, stifling another burst of amusement.

“let me take care of it alright? you just focus on hanging the sign up the right way.”

you hear shoes shuffling against the bathroom tile, and you spring up quick to settle yourself back comfortably on the bed.

the door opens and sam meets your eye, “dean thinks he left something in the car,” he says, as if you’re stupid. the inside of your cheek is shredded so you don’t smile.

“alright,” you throw the book down onto the floral duvet beneath you, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, “shall we?”

both boys’ faces crease in confusion at your compliance. but nonetheless, you follow sam outside as he sweeps the impala’s keys off the table.

once outside, you find it hard to keep your hands off him, rubbing your palms up his arms as he walks you to the parking lot, anxious to surprise him.

when sam shuts the car door, you’re on him in a second, pouncing like a cat onto his lips. he melts instantly into your taste, like every plan and course of action he thought to distract you vanishes from his mind. his large hand comes to cup your cheek, soft under his calloused touch, and you’re moaning at the sensation of his fingers tangling in your hair.

sam pulls from you just slightly to murmur, “you beat me to it.”

his voice, husky with desire, has you squirming in the rough leather seats, aching for his touch to cover you everywhere, and you feel giddy knowing it will, “how else am i supposed to celebrate my birthday?”

a warm chuckle breathes past his lips, swollen and pink, “i thought you didn’t wanna celebrate it?”

you smirk, moving to place chaste kisses along his jaw and down the veins of his neck, eliciting a sultry laugh from him that makes you never want to stop, “i think i can allow this.”

“think or know?” he teases, savoring the pleasure building in his body, fueling a fire only you know how to control, how to burn hotter.

sam’s hands grip your waist at the sensation of your mouth trailing across his skin. with your nose buried in the crook between his shoulder, you smell the fresh soap, old lore books, and something spicy like aftershave as it fills your brain like fog. he rests his cheek on the crown of your head, reveling in your lips for another moment before he’s gently laying you down in the backseat, your legs spreading like muscle memory as he nestles between them.

his fingers slowly hike the white sundress you’re wearing up your legs, making sure to just barely graze your thighs. wetness starts to pool in your center as he recaptures your mouth on his, heavy breaths and gasping moans as his hands trail higher up your body beginning to fill the impala.

“will dean be mad?” you mumble against him, eyes closed in bliss as he palms one of your breasts, “—that we’re doing it in his baby?”

sam laughs mischievously, knowing damn right what the answer is but at this point, you’re both too far gone to stop, and the bulge pressed against your inner thigh, just missing where it needs to be, confirms that for you.

“he won’t mind,” he says, sighing as you start to fumble with the buttons on his shirt, revealing his taut abs and broad chest, adorned with the anti possession tattoo that has your mouth watering.

“oh, he won’t, will he?” you help him shrug the rest of his shirt off while he un-patiently starts to tug your panties down, “pretty, right?”

“so pretty,” he smiles, but tosses them to the side like they’re nothing but a useless barrier between him and the paradise between your legs that’s his, catching them on the steering wheel,“and no, he won’t mind.”

before you can protest again, he’s delving into your pussy, slick and warm with your primal need for him. his tongue moves in agonizing circles up and down your folds, making you writhe and grip his soft locks in your hands to keep you grounded to earth.

but when he sucks your clit past his lips, you’re sure you see heaven.

“sam!” you shriek, bucking your hips into his face as his chin dampens. you feel his smirk against you, he can taste the way you fall apart, but the pressure doesn’t let up.

“mmm, taste’s so good,” he mumbles drunkenly, fingers pressing imprints into your thighs as he holds them down beside his head.

you throw your head back against the back window, trying to ignore the little voice in your head yelling, “you’re in a motel parking lot and anyone can see you if they just—” but the white hot pleasure that explodes from your body as he flicks his tongue right there removes any thoughts other than your need to have him inside you, to give you something to clench around as you jolt and ache.

his name falls from you like a prayer, one he answers faster than god as his pants are off and boxers pulled down before you can even open your eyes.

you manage to get a glimpse of him as he pumps himself a few times, the length you’ve taken oh so many times now a gift that seems too perfect for such a meaningless birthday. but when he pushes into you, hot, sweaty, skin against yours, it’s hard to see how you can’t celebrate the day after this.

“god, yes,” you moan into his ear when he leans down, chest against yours to be as low under the window as possible.

his eyes clench shut in pleasure, “fuck, you f-feel so good,” he sputters, because all he can focus on is the way you’re squeezing him.

sam moves like he was made to fit in you, hitting that spot inside you everytime that has you see stars. even now, as he struggles against the urge to drive into you so hard your legs will need days to recover, he’s gentle, soft, as he stretches and kisses and worships.

the impala shakes and rocks underneath you, and you’re sure if it wasn’t 9:00pm on a tuesday, you’d probably be caught by now; windows fogging and the occasional pop up of sam’s hair through the glass when he lifts up to watch himself disappear in you because he just can’t help it. he throbs at the sight and you feel it deep in your core, pressing your climax faster.

“‘mmm, best b-birthday ever—” you mumble, your words harshly cut with a whiny moan when sam’s idle fingers come to toy with your clit, “jesus christ!”

“not quite,” he gasps a laugh, “oh, fuck,”

your vision blanks. the coil snaps. pussy squeezes so tight sam can barely move.

and the impala seats? soaked.

sam follows close behind, hips stuttering, soft lips parted all the way as your name slips off his tongue, dripping with the taste of you. you swallow his moan, his whine, as he fills you, still pumping through both your highs.

your pussy leaks his warmth. you catch him staring.

“make sure it doesn’t get on the seat!” you worry, starting to sober up.

you can tell he isn’t all the way back to earth, so he drunkenly smiles, “i think we’re past that point, baby.”

as you fix the straps of your dress, sam reaches behind the seat for a rag to wipe the leather, probably the cloth dean keeps in the car in case of oil spills or, well, this.

your legs shake as you step out of the impala, suddenly feeling overexposed and like everyone in the motel was watching somehow. sam’s throws his clothes on, his princess hair barely fixed with puffed lips that match yours.

you try to catch your breath as the wind whispers against your sticky skin, “think dean’s done decorating the room?”

sam’s eyebrows furrow for a moment before lifting them in realization, mind blanking, “u-um, how did you—”

“kinda hard to keep a secret when you both talk so loud,” you nudge his shoulder playfully, unusual butterflies spreading through your stomach as you anticipate the surprise waiting for you inside, “it was a good effort, though.”

“and that’s why you—” jumped my bones, he wants to say, but he knows you know already, “i’m gonna get you,” he promises, grinning crooked at the way you outplayed them, “your next birthday, the surprise is mine.”

“sure, sammy,” you wink, fishing the key out of his back pocket before unlocking the door.

as if on cue, dean, who is by the bedside lamp, flicks it on to expel the darkness and reveal an unevenly hung HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign in holographic letters strung up on the wall above the beds, stuck messily with duct tape. there’s a mixtape on the duvet with birthday girl’s birthday mix written on the top, paired with a dollar store bow dean’s slapped on, and a few books stacked together that you can only assume is sam’s gift.

the cake on the end table, with messy chocolate icing that’s also all over dean’s fingers, is what sends tears teasing your waterline.

“surprise!” he shouts, waving his hands in the air.

sam shakes his hand against his throat, mouthing, ‘she knows’ behind you.

dean narrows his eyes at his brother, rolling them and throwing his arms up, “really, sam? you couldn’t even keep the surprise?”

that forces a watery laugh out of you, cheeks flushed and heart warm, “it’s fine, it’s fine, dean, this is—”

“awesome, right?” he finishes, that shit eating grin right back where it belongs on his scruffy face.

“yeah,” you agree, instinctively leaning against sam’s chest, “it’s awesome.”

sam’s hands come tight on your forearms, rubbing gently to soothe the emotions he knows you’re trying to bite back. your lip wobbles between your teeth as dean reaches for the cake.

“maybe i could get behind none of that gross birthday special pancake crap,” he hands you the cake, which is resting on a flimsy paper plate while he fishes for the lighter in his pocket, “but no candles and cake? sweetheart, that’s just unacceptable.”

dean reaches to switch the lamp back off, the room consumed in pitch black again, save for the moonlight emitting little light through the dingy curtains. the small, orange flame stemming from his lighter illuminates all three of your faces as he burns the tip of the pink candle, mumbling a ‘there we go’ as he flicks the lighter back off.

“make a wish,” sam says softly as he stands behind you.

you shut your eyes, make your wish, and blow.

dean starts to clap. sam’s touch is grounding.

“happy birthday, baby,” he murmurs in your ear, just for you.

when the lights come back on, and dean uses a machete to cut the cake, he notices sam trying to fix the lopsided buttons on his shirt, that was very hastily thrown back on.

what you didn’t realize he’s also looking at, is the medium sized hickey on sam’s neck.

“soooo,” dean starts, trying not to make his starting obvious, “i thought she was the only one supposed to get presents today.”

sam’s forehead creases. you look up from the cake you're actively stuffing in your face.

“what do you—” sam follows dean’s finger to the mirror, where the purple bruise you gifted him rests tenderly on his soft skin, “oh.”

dean chuckles, shaking his head in contempt, “what kinda distraction did you give her?”

sam’s too flustered to speak, so you swallow the smooth chocolatey goodness down your throat and answer for him.

“a big distraction.”

let’s just say you and sam weren’t allowed near the impala by yourselves for a long time.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ tags ↬ @h8aaz , @sacr1ficialang3l <33

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ sam winchester masterlist !

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yourmomsawh0r3 · 2 months ago

Text

The grand life

Joel Miller x Wife!Reader

Warnings: 18+

Word count: 3,443 words 19,394 characters

Sunday mornings at the Miller house were sacred.

There were no alarms, no obligations just the smell of bacon popping in the skillet, the warm sun slanting through the blinds, and the sound of Joel’s heavy boots trudging into the kitchen like a grumpy bear.

You didn’t even look up from the pancake batter as he came in.

“Coffee’s fresh.”

Joel grunted, pouring himself a cup and leaning against the counter, watching you. “You make breakfast just to fatten me up?”

You turned with the whisk still in hand, raising a brow. “You’re the one who asked me yesterday if I’d make pancakes. You begged, if I recall.”

“Didn’t beg. I said I wouldn’t mind some pancakes.”

You smiled, flipping a piece of bacon. “You said, and I quote, ‘Baby, you know I can’t live without your pancakes, please make them, I’ll die otherwise.’”

Joel grumbled something under his breath and took a long sip of coffee, watching you move around the kitchen in one of his old T-shirts and sleep shorts. His eyes softened.

“Still grumpy?” you teased, brushing past him and patting his stomach playfully.

“Not grumpy. Just hungry,” he mumbled, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

“You’re always hungry lately.”

“Only for you,” he said, voice low in your ear.

You were about to respond maybe something flirty, maybe something sarcastic but your phone vibrated on the counter.

Sarah: “Important family meeting. 6pm at Mom and Dad’s. No excuses. I’ll bring dessert.”

Joel read over your shoulder. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Very.”

By 6:00, the house was full of noise again your favorite kind of chaos.

Joel Jr. came in first, tall and broad like his dad, kicking off his boots at the door. “You guys dying or something? Sarah was being dramatic in the group chat.”

“Watch it,” you warned, giving him a playful swat with the dishtowel. “We could be dying. You don’t know.”

“Guess I better stay for dinner just in case.”

Monica entered next, already scrolling through her phone. “If this is another intervention because Ellie says I talk too loud on speakerphone, I swear”

“I never said that,” Ellie snapped, walking in behind her. “I said you sound like a drunk squirrel when you laugh.”

“I do not!”

You were about to tell them all to quiet down when Sarah finally walked in, holding a bakery box and looking well, glowing.

“Hey, everyone.” She was smiling nervously.

Joel perked up, sensing something.

You watched as she placed the box on the coffee table and said, “Before we eat, I need to tell you something.”

Everyone went still. Even Ellie stopped chewing her gum.

Sarah opened the box, revealing a neat row of cupcakes half pink, half blue with tiny plastic booties on top.

Joel Jr. blinked. “Wait. Are those baby cupcakes?”

“Yeah,” Monica whispered. “Those are baby cupcakes.”

Sarah looked up at her siblings, then at you and Joel.

“I’m pregnant.”

It was like the air left the room.

Joel sat down hard on the couch, eyes wide. You stood frozen, hand over your mouth.

Then came the chaos.

Monica screamed, Ellie dropped her phone, Joel Jr. muttered something like “I thought this was about Dad’s cholesterol”, and you walked over to Sarah and pulled her into a hug, tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, honey. Oh my God. Really?”

Sarah nodded, laughing through her own tears. “Yeah. I found out last week. I wanted you all to be the first to know.”

Joel was still silent, holding a tiny cupcake in his calloused hand like it might bite him.

“Joel?” you asked gently, eyes searching his.

He looked up, jaw tight. His voice cracked.

“You’re… you’re havin’ a baby?”

Sarah smiled. “I am, Daddy.”

He stood slowly, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around her. He didn’t say anything else. Just held her, tight and quiet, like the weight of the years was finally settling in.

After the kids had left still shouting across the driveway, Monica already planning the nursery you and Joel stood in the kitchen, the leftovers cooling on the stove, the house quiet again.

You turned to him, resting your arms around his neck. “You okay, old man?”

He looked down at you, his eyes warm, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“I watched her take her first steps in this damn kitchen,” he said softly. “Now she’s havin’ a baby of her own.”

You kissed his chest. “I know.”

Joel leaned in, touching his forehead to yours. “She’s gonna be a hell of a mom. Just like you were. Just like you are.”

Your fingers slid under the hem of his flannel. “You know what I was thinking?”

“What?”

“That we’re alone now. The kids are gone. House is quiet…”

He raised an eyebrow. “You makin’ a move on me, darlin’?”

“Joel, I just watched you cry over baby cupcakes. I’ve never been more in love with you in my life.”

That was all it took.

He hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, kissing you like it was the first time, his hands rough but reverent as they skimmed up your sides. The cool tile beneath you only made his body feel hotter, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, your breath catching when he murmured against your skin.

“You gave me her, y’know,” he whispered. “And now she’s givin’ us another piece of her.”

Your hands found the edge of his shirt, lifting it as you whispered, “I gave you four pieces, Joel Miller. Don’t forget the twins and Ellie.”

He laughed really laughed and kissed you hard.

The moment your hands slipped under Joel’s flannel, his breath hitched.

The kitchen was warm from the oven, the scent of bacon still lingering in the air, but nothing compared to the heat building between your bodies.

Joel leaned in, his nose brushing your cheek, his voice rough and low.

“You got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? Hm?” he murmured, his lips grazing your jaw as he slid your oversized T-shirt up, revealing soft skin and a pair of cotton panties that made his groan audible.

“You’ve been walking around in my shirt all damn day, legs bare, ass peeking out just enough to drive me crazy.”

You bit your lip, watching his pupils darken as he settled between your legs on the kitchen counter. His hands gripped your thighs possessively.

“Joel…”

“You think I don’t notice the way you sway your hips when I walk in? That you ain’t doin’ it on purpose?”

“I wasn’t”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, biting your earlobe. “You wanted me like this. Wanted me desperate.”

Your breath hitched as he ground his hips into you, the hard outline of his arousal unmistakable beneath his jeans. His lips crashed into yours hungry, claiming while his hands pulled your panties aside with practiced ease.

“You know what I was thinkin’ all through dinner?” he rasped between kisses. “While the kids were talkin’ ‘bout baby names and nursery colors? I was thinkin’ about how wet you were gettin’ just from watchin’ me be a good dad.”

You whined, arching into his touch as his fingers found you. He swiped once through your folds, groaning when he felt just how ready you were.

“Goddamn, baby. Already soaked for me.”

“I love you like this,” you gasped. “All rough and sweet.”

He smiled against your neck. “Yeah? Love when I talk to you like this, don’t you? When I remind you you’re mine?”

You nodded desperately as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his thumb worked your clit with slow, deliberate circles.

“You gave me a whole family,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “You gave me a home. You made me a father. And now you’re makin’ me a fuckin’ grandfather.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, making him curse.

“You still tight for me after all these years. Still my favorite thing in this whole damn world.”

“Joel, I..I need you”

“I got you, baby,” he promised, pulling away just long enough to shove his jeans down and line himself up. “I always got you.”

He entered you in one smooth, deep thrust, both of you gasping at the contact. The stretch, the fullness, the way his hips snapped into yours with aching precision it felt like the first time all over again.

“Fuck, you take me so good,” Joel groaned, gripping your hips as he thrust slow and deep. “This pussy’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.”

You moaned loudly, nails digging into his back, your body trembling with each stroke.

“You look so goddamn beautiful like this writhin’ for me, beggin’ for it. My wife. My girl. Mother of my kids. And now…”

He leaned close, kissing you softly this time, voice cracking.

“…soon to be Grandma.”

You laughed breathlessly against his lips, clutching him tighter.

“I’ll be a hot grandma.”

He grinned. “You’ll be the hottest fuckin’ grandma Texas has ever seen.”

And he kept moving worshiping you, unraveling you until you came apart around him with a strangled cry, dragging him over the edge with you. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he emptied himself inside you with a low, possessive growl.

He held you there for a long while, panting, pressed forehead to forehead.

“Still got it,” you whispered, dazed.

Joel kissed your shoulder. “Damn right we do.”

That night, you didn’t just celebrate Sarah’s announcement. You celebrated every moment that led to it. Every diaper, every sleepless night, every scraped knee and school play and long road trip in a beat-up car full of kids and Goldfish crackers.

You celebrated the life you built.

Together.

And just before drifting off to sleep, Joel rolled over and mumbled, “We need to baby-proof the house again.”

You groaned. “Not again.”

He chuckled. “Worth it.”

9 months later, Joel was walking around the living room holding a fussy baby girl in his arms like she was made of glass.

“Why’s she makin’ that face?” he asked, peering down at her. “Is that her poopin’ face? Jesus, she looks like Ellie when she’s constipated.”

You laughed from the couch, bottle in hand. “You’re so dramatic. She’s just hungry.”

Joel huffed, gently handing over your granddaughter. “She’s so small. Smaller than Sarah was.”

“She’s healthy. She’s perfect.”

He watched you feed her, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking circles through your leggings.

After she finished and was snuggled up on your chest, asleep, Joel whispered, “Never thought I’d see the day. You, rockin’ a baby to sleep again. Me, worried I’d break her just by holdin’ her.”

You looked up at him, heart full.

“I think we did alright, huh?”

He nodded, eyes damp.

“Yeah, darlin’. We sure as hell did.”

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as ever.

“Still want you. Still love you. Always will.”

The living room was a battlefield of soft pastel blankets.

Joel stood dead center, brows furrowed, lips pressed in concentration as he stared down at his wriggling granddaughter on the couch. The baby blinked up at him with innocent confusion, one chubby arm escaping the sad excuse for a swaddle he’d attempted three times.

“Alright, you little Houdini,” Joel muttered, grabbing the blanket again and trying to fold it like that video Sarah made him watch on YouTube.

From the recliner, you were dying of silent laughter, watching your husband argue with a seven-pound infant like she was an Army recruit who wouldn’t take orders.

Joel gently rolled her tiny body to the side. “Stay still now, sunshine. We ain’t got all day.”

The baby cooed, kicked her legs, and proceeded to stick her entire fist in her mouth.

Joel, visibly sweating, made another attempt tucking one corner under her bottom, folding another across her chest but somehow she ended up looking like a lumpy Chipotle burrito with one arm sticking out and one sock missing.

“I swear to God,” Joel whispered like he was defusing a bomb. “If Ellie saw this, she’d never let me live it down.”

“I’m right here, and I’m not letting you live it down,” came Sarah’s voice from the front door.

Joel jumped like he’d been caught with a Playboy.

Sarah strode into the room, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a smirk in the other.

“Jesus, Dad,” she laughed. “She’s not a camping tent. You don’t need to roll her up like a sleeping bag.”

“She moved,” Joel defended, stepping aside like he was trying to preserve his dignity. “I almost had it.”

You cleared your throat behind your mug of tea. “You also said that last night with the IKEA shelf.”

Joel turned to you with an offended grunt. “That was different. The instructions were in Swedish.”

Sarah sat beside you, gently picking up her daughter and expertly re-swaddling her in less than twenty seconds.

Joel blinked.

“See?” she said, winking at him. “You just gotta make her feel like a little sushi roll. Tight, but not too tight.”

“She’s my granddaughter,” Joel muttered. “Not a damn California roll.”

Sarah laughed, kissing his cheek. “You’re lucky she already loves you. Even if you do swaddle like Frankenstein.”

Joel rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “I raised you, didn’t I? You turned out fine.”

“Yeah, despite the burrito trauma,” she teased.

The baby gave a little yawn, content in her now-perfect swaddle. Joel stared down at her, one hand resting protectively on her back.

“…She looks like you when you were a baby,” he said quietly. “Same sleepy little mouth.”

Sarah softened. “She’s got your grumpy brow.”

He chuckled, eyes a little misty now. “Poor kid.”

You stood, wrapping your arms around his waist. “She’s got the best parts of all of us.”

And for once, Joel didn’t argue. He just nodded, kissing the crown of Sarah’s head, then yours.

The front door slammed open with the sound of sneakers and sarcasm.

“Alright, what did Dad break this time?” Ellie’s voice called from the hallway. “Was it the baby? Please tell me it wasn’t the baby.”

“In here!” you called, cradling the now-swaddled baby while Sarah handed Joel a burp cloth like he was a new recruit on the first day of bootcamp.

Monica and Joel Jr. barreled in behind Ellie, the twins already arguing over who got to hold their new niece next.

“Okay, but I brought the diapers and that organic baby butt cream,” Monica said, hands on her hips.

Joel Jr. rolled his eyes. “She poops. She doesn’t need luxury.”

“She’s a lady, you absolute troll”

“Kids,” Joel barked gently. “Calm down. You’re gonna stress her out.”

Ellie flopped onto the couch, cracking open a soda.

“Stress her out?” she snorted. “You almost wrapped her like a Quesarito thirty minutes ago.”

Joel stood tall, adjusting his flannel like he was at the podium for a presidential address.

“Y’all better show some respect,” he said, voice full Texas. “Because Big Poppa is in the building.”

There was a silence.

Then

“I’m sorry.. what?” Ellie sputtered mid-sip, coughing violently.

“Big Poppa?” Joel Jr. gasped. “Like… like the Notorious B.I.G. song?”

Monica doubled over, wheezing. “Oh my god, please stop. I’m begging you.”

Joel smirked smugly, arms crossed over his chest. “What? It’s got a ring to it. Better than ‘Grandpa Joel.’ I ain’t ready to sound like I wear orthopedic shoes and play bridge.”

You choked on your laugh from across the room, rocking the baby gently.

Sarah blinked. “You literally wore compression socks on the plane to Colorado.”

“That was for circulation,” he snapped defensively.

“Sure, Big Poppa,” Ellie teased, kicking her feet onto the coffee table. “Next thing we know, you’ll be dropping a mixtape called Burps & Bottles.”

Joel gave her the flattest look he could manage. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Ellie grinned. “I’m putting you in my phone as Big Poppa starting now.”

Joel Jr. was already typing furiously. “Group chat rename incoming.”

Monica added, “Oooooh! Can I be Lil G-Ma? Mom, say yes.”

You just groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “I regret all of you.”

Joel walked over to you and leaned down to kiss your temple, grinning as he whispered, “Still got it.”

You murmured back, “God help me, you really do.”

And as the living room filled with laughter, bickering, and the soft, sleepy sounds of your first grandchild sighing in her swaddle, Joel Big Poppa himself wrapped his arms around you from behind and whispered in your ear:

“House might be full again, baby. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The front door shut with a soft click, with a heavy sigh and a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Well, sweetheart,” he murmured, “we survived.”

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up the worn cotton of his flannel. “Barely. You almost got jumped for that ‘Big Poppa’ nonsense.”

Joel smirked, chin dipped down so your noses brushed. “You liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You bit your lip.”

“I was trying not to laugh.”

Joel leaned in, his voice husky, low. “Could’ve sworn you were lookin’ at me like you used to… back when the house got real quiet at night. After the girls went to sleep.”

You raised a brow. “Is that right?”

“Mmhmm.” He backed you slowly toward the kitchen island, his hands already roaming, finding every familiar dip and curve. “Back when you’d pull me by my belt loops and whisper that I was handsome when I was grumpy.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah,” he rasped, pinning you gently against the counter. “But now you’re a grandma when you do it. Real filthy of you.”

You gasped, pretending to swat him. “Joel Miller!”

“Don’t act shocked, darlin’. You know I like it when you get a little bad.”

His lips met your neck, slow and warm, trailing down just behind your ear where he knew it drove you wild. You tilted your head back with a soft gasp as his fingers teased beneath your blouse.

“You cooked me breakfast this mornin’,” Joel murmured. “Fed our whole family. Rocked our granddaughter to sleep. And now…” He pressed against you, unmistakably hard. “Now I wanna ruin you a little.”

Your breath caught.

He lifted you with ease onto the counter, stepping between your thighs, crowding you in. “Let me have this,” he said. “Let me remind you you’re still mine. Every perfect inch of you.”

You curled your fingers in his hair. “Door’s locked?”

Joel grinned. “Sweetheart, I deadbolted it the second they backed outta the driveway.”

He was unhurried with you tugging your shirt over your head, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin like you were something precious. He whispered filthy things against your collarbone how good you smelled, how soft you felt, how no one had ever made him lose his mind the way you still could with just one look.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as his hand slid down your thigh, callused thumb teasing where you ached for him most.

“You’re soaked already?” he murmured, voice gone low and gritty. “Fuck, baby. That for me?”

Your nails dug into his back, breathless.

“Been wantin’ to touch you like this all day,” Joel growled. “All through dinner, all through dessert… watchin’ you with her. You’re so damn beautiful. Gonna have to take my time with you.”

And he did. Right there on the cool granite of the kitchen counter, with your hands clutching his shoulders and his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He worshipped you like the woman who gave him everything a home, a family, a forever.

When it was over, he held you close, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“Still think I’m grumpy?” he murmured, teasing.

You smiled, lazily running your fingers through his silvered curls. “Mmhmm. But you’re my grump.”

He chuckled, lifting you off the counter and carrying you toward the bedroom like it was second nature.

“C’mon, Big Poppa’s got one more round in him.”

“Joel!”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller #joelmiller x reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic #joel miller series #joelmiller #pedroispunk #pedro pascal is hot #pedro pascal fanfiction #pascalispunk

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a-ramblinrose · 20 days ago

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“Spring is a happiness so beautiful, so unique, so unexpected, that I don’t know what to do with my heart. I dare not take it, I dare not leave it – what do you advise? Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.”

― Emily Dickinson, The Letters of Emily Dickinson

#quote #Emily Dickinson #The Letters of Emily Dickinson #Spring #i will take the sun in my mouth #current reading #current reading quotes #not out of void but out of chaos

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bratbarzal · 6 months ago

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Let It Happen (LH43) 1/3

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 17k

If you're ready, all I mean is we could go, I've never craved someone's attention as much as yours.

General Warnings: an almost unbearable amount of sarcasm and snark, even more idiotic shenanigans, many affectionate empty threats of murder/violence, fluff, mentions of golf 🤢, cursing and I'm pretty sure that's it for this half

A/N: in line with the general consensus lmao this has been split, part two will be posted as soon as it's finished (lol) but it's best read as one whole fic, it isn't a multi-part situation really!! it was originally supposed to be my submission for the eras tour fic challenge (hence the graphic I'm too attached to to change) but took a different direction to the song I was given, and I missed the deadline, and I pretty much listened to the secret of us exclusively while writing this whole thing. also dropping an overwhelmingly summery fic in december might actually be my brand. keep your eyes peeled for a christmas fic in july.

very special shoutout to shea @sleepretreat I made a random comment one day that luke gives seth cohen energy, and she fanned that flame like a full time job. ily shea!! I hope this lives up to any expectations and I owe a lot to your instigating!!

AS ALWAYS!!! never proofread!! I'll probably get around to it when the thought of a spelling mistake keeps me awake at night. and also!! please let me know what you think I am like a teeny tiny little plant that can only thrive under the constant shower of validation and you don't want me to wither and die do you? (I’m kidding) (I’m not)

You kind of, sort of, think you might hate summer.

You haven’t always felt this way, though. Growing up, it had always been your favourite time of the year.

No school? Check.

Going on vacation, sometimes multiple, all expenses covered by your parents? Double check.

Getting to do all the cool things you don’t have time for in the school year with all your friends? Concerts, festivals, beach days, bonfires on the evenings. Check, check and check again.

But 4 years ago, your whole world as you knew it was torn apart, and summers have never been the same, since.

A season that was once filled with light and companionship, never ending plans and joviality, became darker - isolated, getting yourself out of the house even if everyone else was busy, driving just to drive and making the best of your own company.

School ended up becoming your escape, especially since you had started college - your studies and the chaos of Greek life distracting you from the calamitous state of your home life, making new friends that became like family and sticking to them like glue, where possible, clingy and possessive to the point of ruin, almost - and so the lack of it in the summers now actually sends you into some sort of warped spiral.

It’s manageable in the winter and spring, the breaks no longer than a few weeks at a time, but going home for summer is somewhat of a nightmare.

It’s hard to go back, hard to ignore the mess your mind has become when it’s just you and your mother - or, you, your mother and whatever bottle of pinot she’s 3 glasses deep into at any given time of the day - and you’re sat in a house that’s a cold reminder of the warmth that once filled it.

But when Ellie - your best friend since moving to college, the girl who took the sister part of sorority sister to the next level at all possible opportunities over the years - found out you’d put your name down to be the caretaker for your sorority house instead of going home, she had put her foot down on your summertime sadness session.

Which is how you end up moving into her family home - spending the first few weeks integrating yourself into their routine while trying to grip desperately onto some form of your own - trying not to get too used to the feeling of such a big family when you know it won’t be forever.

You braid her little sister’s hair everyday, kick a soccer ball around with her little brother when he needs someone to stand in goal, wash the dishes with her mom, talk sports with her dad, and before long, you blend like a chameleon into their dynamic.

You pick up a summer job at the country club to cling back onto your independence. Your commute provides the solitude and quiet you‘ve grown accustomed to in the years before, a bus journey through town with headphones on, watching the scenery and admiring the greenery until you get to work, donning your navy blue polo and tucking your little notepad into your hip apron as you serve tables at the clubhouse restaurant and bar.

It’s a much needed escape from Ellie, if you’re honest.

You love that girl with all your heart, appreciate her housing you more than you’ll ever be able to say, but if you have to hear her sit and mope about how hopelessly in love she is with Jack Hughes for even a second longer, you’re going to vomit. Or scream. Or both.

Jack and Ellie grew up together - their families close, Ellie’s dad best friends with Jack’s uncle, or something - and she’s been into him since he had teeth missing - a point she loves to hammer home when it comes to you always listing that as one of his (many, if it’s up to you) cons. Considering his job, and the fact he already lost one, not too long ago, a toothless boyfriend seems like a massive ick, if you’re honest.

But Ellie is beyond reason when it comes to him. She worships the ground he walks on - talks about him non-stop, messages him every day, regales you with stories you, awfully, but realistically, couldn’t care less about - and it’s the only real problem about living with her.

Even beyond the summer, you two had shared a room your first two years in college, still live in the same house - and it’s a year round problem.

But being unable to escape, having your days tied to close to hers, and knowing that it’s bound to be worse with proximity, Jack back in Michigan for the summer, himself, she’s starting to drive you up the wall.

It wouldn’t bother you if you had never met Jack, but the two of you don’t exactly get along. He’s rude, and self-absorbed, and had looked down on you the first time he ever laid eyes on you, and you really shouldn’t let it get to you, but you do - the thought that your best friend is in love with an asshole, and that she won’t let you hear the end of it.

Won’t stop whining about how he’ll never feel the same, or that she can’t handle another summer of biting her tongue, of being around him, feeling the way she does, and not being able to do anything about it.

She deserves better.

Ellie has a heart of gold, and she deserves someone who handles it with care. If Jack Hughes doesn’t like her back, that’s his loss - but you’re kind of getting sick of telling her that.

Getting through a whole summer of it is going to be hard, you think, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than being entirely alone. So you put on a brave face, use work as your escape in the same way you usually do with school, and avoid blowing your top for as long as you can, suffering through the late nights and heart to hearts where Jack is the sole topic of discussion, and bask in the good stuff.

In the chaos of her siblings, in the closeness of her family, and the way they’ve welcomed you with open arms.

This summer could be okay, you’ve just got to give it a chance.

Luke Hughes loves summer.

He loves being back home in Michigan, spending his days out on the lake, or making the trip out to parade around Ann Arbor, catching up with all his college buddies, making the rounds at all the UMich sporting events he now gets a VIP pass to thanks to his last name.

The routine of it all is familiar, and warming, and it restores a sense of normality that playing in the NHL for the past year has so brutally ripped from him, already.

He had enjoyed starting his summer overseas - making the team for the world championships and competing beyond the abysmal end to his rookie season - had enjoyed the time away from his brothers, if he’s honest. Quinn and the Canucks making it a few rounds into the playoffs, and Jack back home recovering from getting surgery on his shoulder - and it’s the latter he needed the reprieve from.

He does love living with his brother.

Jack looks after him in ways he’ll never really be able to make it up to him for. He always has, Quinn has too, but ever since Luke got drafted to the Devils, Jack has helped him adjust to the chaos of his career without much fuss or hardship.

And he really is grateful for that.

But, God, can he be annoying.

Especially when it comes to his infatuation with his best friend, Ellie.

Jack and Ellie have always been close - despite the fact she’s Luke’s age - and grew up thick as thieves, spending summers together, especially when the family moved to Michigan, and Ellie’s family were just on the other side of town.

He’s always been obsessed with her, even if it hasn’t always been love - but these last few years have been different. Like a switch flipped in his head when Jack saw what Ellie was like when he came to visit Luke in his freshman year of college.

A version of Ellie that was no longer just his - no longer exclusive to their summer bubble, and lived in a world beyond lounging by the lake and hanging out with the Hughes family.

A version of Ellie who liked partying, liked schmoozing and charming everybody she came into contact with, liked being the centre of everyone else’s attention, not just Jack’s.

And it’s that version of Ellie that has driven Luke’s brother crazy, which has, in turn, started to drive Luke crazy. He talks about her non-stop, and it was those much needed weeks away in Czechia that almost had Luke forgetting just how stupid his brother has gotten about the whole thing.

Until he came home to Michigan, and Jack, in all the commotion with his shoulder, with ending his season early and starting his summer off alone, has worked himself into such a stupor about the whole thing that merely a week into his return, he has driven Luke up the wall.

He’s grumpy, all the time - which leads to him being snarky, all the time. He huffs and puffs around the house so much Luke is starting to think he might need an inhaler, and he really can’t take any more.

Not when he’s making such a show of his irritation, stomping around with heavy feet and slamming doors that don’t need to be shut in the first place.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Luke frowns as he follows Jack into the kitchen upon his return from therapy, holding out for the doors he swings open with a little too much vigour so that they don’t swing back into his brother’s slinged-shoulder. “I thought the physio is going alright?”

“It is,” Jack huffs, storming over to the fridge and yanking it open, the jars and bottles in the door clanking together in a way that makes Luke cringe. “I’m fine.”

“Tell that to all the hinges you’re testing the limits of.”

“Don’t start with me, Luke, I’m not in the mood.”

“You just said you’re fine.” Luke rolls his eyes as he starts to scroll through his group chat with his friends from college, trying to check who said they might be free today to get him out of this vicious circle.

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly not.” It’s interactions like this that confirm to Luke just how annoying Jack has become - because what reason does he have to be so evasive? Luke is handing him the opportunity to air out his grievances on a silver platter, and he’s rather slam cupboards and create creases in his forehead from frowning 24/7.

“Fine, it’s Ellie.”

Luke wishes he never bothered asking, although he has been wondering why he’s been seeing way less of her already this summer. He had figured Ellie was away with family until he saw her at the gas station the other night - had watched from the car as Jack had what seemed like a heated conversation by the entrance.

“She’s refusing to hang out with me.”

“Has she said why?” Luke asks, although he doesn’t really care. He’s just asking to get it out of the way in the hopes that Jack talking about it might lighten the load, might make his own life a little easier.

It’s the bitter muttering of your name that captures Luke’s full attention, his neck audibly cracking at the speed in which his head shoots up, no longer caring what could possibly be going on with the boys in the group chat.

“She isn’t going back to whatever fiery hell pit it is that she comes from for the summer, and she’s staying with Ellie’s family, therefore Ellie isn’t staying with us.”

Luke hasn’t heard your name in a while. Not since he left college last year, not since he got caught up in the whirlwind life in the NHL, when a schoolboy crush on a girl he interacted with once in his entire college career became the least of his worries.

But one utterance of it has his spine straightening, just like it would have done just over a year ago.

You’re in Michigan. You’re at Ellie’s, on the other side of town. You’re barely two degrees of separation from him.

“Why can’t Ellie bring her here?” Luke asks, throat dry and voice breaking so subtly that he hopes Jack doesn’t notice. That could be fun. Would make up for the hell his brother has been putting him through since he got here.

Maybe a little glorious sunshine might finally get you to notice his existence. He wouldn’t mind third wheeling Jack and Ellie if you were there, too. It would give him the perfect opportunity to prove he’s worthy of your attention - too shy and too scared to do so, back in college, but he’s different, now. Confident, almost. More sure of himself.

“She hates me.” Jack huffs, “Last time we met she was giving me the stink eye all night.”

And of course it would be his brother to ruin his plans, yet again. You’ll probably hate him, too - a hatred so strong for Jack that it seeps through his entire bloodline, because Luke of all people knows he can be annoying like that.

“Trust me, she probably doesn’t care enough to hate you,” Luke scoffs, not realising the spool of information he’s just given Jack to unravel.

“You know her?”

“We had a class together. I know of her.”

Not the truth, but not exactly a lie.

Luke knows a lot about you. It’s borderline creepy, the observations he can still remember, even after so long.

He knows you like only like coffee if it’s iced, had seen you with too many clear plastic cups to count, had watched plump lips chewing at straws by the time you had finished the drink. He had even, one time, tried to zoom in on a picture of your order printed on the side in one of his many states of delusion where he had been trying to build himself up to ask you out.

He knows you can hold your own in an argument, had watched you debate with the best of them in your business comms class, has watched you shoot down most guys that approach you with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit, and has watched you take down a frat guy or two, usually in defence of your sorority sisters - who Luke noticed you’re the most protective of.

He knows you match your perfume to the colour of your outfit, had notice you smelled citrusy like lemons in yellow, floral like roses in pink, sweet like candy in purple, and clean like fresh cotton in blue.

He knows the pieces of hair that frame your face curl when wet from the rain. Knows you used to volunteer at the pool on the weekends it was open to the kids of the community, would teach them how to swim. He knows you listen to Taylor Swift and has heard you humming just about every song of hers he knows.

But he doesn’t really know you - not on the level Jack is assuming, when his eyes widen and hope flashes across his crystal irises.

“You know how I’m your favourite brother?”

“No,”

“And I let you live with me all year?”

“My name’s on the lease.”

“Maybe you could talk to her for me?”

Luke sighs, shoulders heavy and eyes rolling practically to the back of his head. “I already told you, I don’t really know her like that.”

“C’mon, you could at least try! I’m dying here, Luke! She’s hogging all of Ellie’s time, and she won’t give me the time of day if I try!”

If only Jack knew how much time you’d ever given Luke, he wouldn’t be asking him such an absurd request.

You’re so out of his league, it isn’t even funny. He probably couldn’t convince you to light a candle in a power cut, much less to give his annoying brother a shot to prove himself.

“You’re wasting your time, Jack,” Luke responds, “I’m gonna meet Dylan at the club. No, you can’t come.”

And by the time Luke makes it out to his car, he’s relieved to have ditched that conversation, entirely. He knows what’s waiting when he gets home, what his brother is going to be like for the next few months to come, but a temporary relief is all he needs.

He had already been planning on getting a few late morning holes in at the club, and meeting up with Dylan had been a white lie, needing some alone time away from Jack’s incessant whining to think about how he was going to survive the summer - and seeing you on your break, perched on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard by the clubhouse bar, basking in the sun and talking with your co-worker, he feels like he might have just struck gold.

Since when do you work here?

He supposes since you decided to spend your summer with Ellie’s family - it only makes sense. Ellie doesn’t live too far from the club - not as close as the lake house, but closer than Ann Arbor, at least. She’d worked in the club shop last summer, even when Jack insisted he’d pay for whatever she needed while she was staying with them - had said it was nice to pass the time with something else while they all went off doing whatever - and he assumes you’re doing the same.

It’s the first time he’s seen you in a while, outside of coming across your pictures on his Instagram feed occasionally, or the flash of your figure in Ellie’s stories.

He had thought that, after the year he’s had, he’d be over schoolboy crushes like this - would be over the way his breath catches just at the sight of you, over the way the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and stand to attention, over the way his throat goes dry as he watches your eyes crinkle from afar, watches your lips curve up into a heart-stopping grin.

But it’s like he’s picked up straight from where he left off at the end of his college career, pining after you from afar with hearts in his eyes and feet that start to shuffle at just the thought of approaching you.

If he’s going to do this, though, he needs to be clever about it, he thinks.

Approaching you on your break, limited to the amount of time he can use to put his point across, wasting yours, doesn’t seem like something that will work.

Which is how he finds himself bypassing you completely and walking straight into the bar, offering a friendly nod to the guy stood at the front of house, and letting him point him toward the right section to be served in.

It isn’t long before you’re in front of him, sidling up to his booth, and he had almost forgotten how pretty you are up close. Hair clipped up with loose strands framing your face, chewing at your plump bottom lip as you scribble on your notepad to get your pen to work. And your honeyed voice settling deep in the pit of his stomach, warmth spreading throughout as you introduce yourself, like he has no clue who you are, and tell him you’ll be his server, “What can I get for you?”

“Five minutes of your time?”

The Luke that spent his college years obsessing over you might have stuttered - his voice might have broke, squeaked or choked in your presence - but while his throat does feel a little dry, he’s able to maintain his cool now, even when you look up from your scribblings to meet his eye. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he has matured.

His heart might jump in his chest, his mouth might tingle, his spine might stiffen, but he holds your gaze, hoping if you see a reflection of confidence that you might give him the time of day.

He’s seen you interact with guys before, has familiarised himself with the ten-foot walls you have in place, has seen others fold and try find a long way around, but he thinks that maybe matching your energy is the way to break through.

Who doesn’t love a shortcut?

Your eyes narrow back at him as pouted lips form around a response, looking him up and down before tilting your head, and coming back with, “I all of a sudden feel the need to inform you we do have security here,” you point the tip of your pen to the entrance, where he was greeted on the way in. “I meant a drink.”

“Water’s fine,” his gaze flickers to the movement of your wrist as you click the other side of your pen, not even writing it down. “Maybe with a side of conversation?”

“I’ll go get your water,” you offer a smile, and the insincerity of it does little to cool his bravado, even if you head off with mutterings of why do I always get the creeps?

He watches you as you make your way over to the bar, not creep-like whatsoever, and he channels the nerves that sneak up on him, now that you’re distanced, through fiddling with his fingers on the table, pinching at the tips of them when you glance back over your shoulder, probably telling the girl behind the bar just how lucky you were to once again get the weirdo in your section.

It surprises him how little he cares, possessing more of your attention now than he ever has before, and if he could tell the Luke from two years ago, who spent every shared Principles of Marketing class ritualistically watching you chew on the end of your pen, that he’d be able to make eye contact without dribbling and breaking out into full body sweats, he’d have lost his mind.

He embodies a strange level of dislocated arrogance that manifests itself in his body language, sinking into the booth with arms outstretched across the back, a dangerous smirk teasing the corner of his mouth when you return, placing a pitcher of water down on the table and a glass with ice.

“I’m Luke,” he tells you, placing a hand on his chest and doing his best to ignore the thudding he feels beneath it. “Hughes. Jack’s brother,” and when you look back over to him with a raised brow, he adds, “Ellie’s Jack.”

“And who’s Ellie?” You ask with a tilt of your head, your voice dripping in teasing sarcasm.

“Funny,” he quips, biting back the urge to call you what he actually means. He can hardly call you cute, you’d probably pour that water straight over him. “I went to UMich, we had a couple classes together.”

Your eyes narrow again, and he knows it’s an intimidation tactic, a way to make him feel smaller than he’s acting, shrinking him down to a version of himself you can stamp your authority on, but he finds himself being resilient for once, carrying on like he isn’t affected.

He is. Massively, in fact. Just not in the way you probably want. Your indifference drives him in a way that presses into his spine, an inner voice pleading, notice me, I’m breaking through!

“Bauman’s class, Business Comms, you sat in the second row, I sat in the third, you dropped your pencil one time and I-,”

“I know who you are.”

So he’s been yapping on at you for no reason? Fantastic.

He can’t let his momentum slip, though, so he forces the corners of his lips into a victorious smile, and counters, “So you know I’m not a creep.”

“You literally memorised my seat in a class from 2 years ago, so…”

“I have a good memory,” he’s quick to defend, fighting the urge to let his eyes linger on your pouted lips.

“Right,” you roll your eyes, “What is it you want, again?”

“I came to talk about Jack and Ellie.” He nods to the other side of the booth, and has to roll his shoulders so that his chest doesn’t inflate with misplaced hubris when you shuffle into the seat with a huff, discarding your notepad to the side as you level him with another raised brow.

“What about ‘em?”

“About how they’re hopelessly in love with each other and doing nothing about it.”

“You got hopeless right. What’s that got to do with us?”

Us. Oh, he likes that.

“I’m thinking they need a little shove in the right direction. And maybe we could be the shovers.”

You presses your lips together in faux-apology, a lopsided, patronising, adorable frown taking over your expression. “No can do, I don’t shove, I’m a pacifist.”

“A nudge, then?”

He isn’t giving up easy, no matter how much sarcasm you try to throw his way. You wouldn’t have sat down if there wasn’t something about this situation that irks you, too.

If Ellie is being only half as annoying as Jack is, he knows that you’re having a bad time of it. And you’re supposed to spending her summer with her - it can’t be easy, having your friend constantly pining over someone and refusing to do anything about it, if anything, making it your problem.

“Are you here to eat or annoy me?”

“Both,” he smiles, “I just figured a problem shared is a problem solved, and all.”

“How profound.”

“C’mon, you sat down, you at least agree they’re into each other, and I know you’re staying with her this year, so I know you’ve been getting the same grief I have.”

“I’ve been on my feet 4 hours, I wouldn’t look too deep into me sitting down.”

“Jack’s been moping around about her for years, I can’t listen to it anymore, he’s all, she’ll never like me back, this, and, I’ll never find a girl like her, that,” he whines, imitating his brother’s voice in the most annoying, high pitched tone he can muster, “I can’t take one more breakdown of her snap stories, especially not if it’s all summer if she’s not gonna be staying over, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“How supportive,” the sarcasm in your bite does little to hide the beginnings of your smile, your glare softening into what he hopes is the start of some sort of bond, a shared feeling of exasperation. Finding your footfall in common grounds.

“It’s relentless, we can’t go a single conversation anymore without him bringing her up,” he sighs, slumping into his seat, finally giving in to all the ways this is starting to grate on him. “I don’t get why neither of them do anything.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, too, relenting a little. “She talks about him so much it kind of makes me nauseous.”

“How supportive,” he mimics, nerve endings set alight when your eyes meet his over the table, and narrow in a different way, almost appreciative, almost respectable.

“Can it, Hughes,” you scoff, “Me even entertaining this conversation right now is support enough, I’ve had it in my ear for months about how she doesn’t know how she’ll make it through another summer.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If we can get them together this summer, then we’re both better off. No more whining or crying or earaches for either of us.”

“I’d hope you didn’t make your way out here with the mere promise of no more earaches, Luke.” He tries not to preen at the way you say his name. “What’s in it for me?”

“You and Ellie can stay at our lake house.” He suggests, straightening up before he leans onto the table, elbows extending so that he can rest on them, “It’s closer to the club than her family’s place, it’s gotta be better than having her siblings running around you all the time, I can even drive you to work when I’m free, if you want?”

You blink at him slowly, as if to say, and? “So I can stay at your glorified frat house, and you can be my chauffeur?” You ask with an unimpressed raise of your brow, before letting out a humourless scoff of, “What more could a girl want to do with her summer?

“What do you want?” He asks, leaning further forward.

“To go back to work and not worry about strange guys propositioning me, funnily enough.”

Luke laughs, a deep, breathy laugh that rises from the depths of his chest and comes alive in an almost-bark, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker to his mouth when it comes out.

This is fun.

There’s no way he’s letting you leave this table without agreeing - just the thought of one more singular interaction keeping him on his toes.

“Why don’t we make it interesting, then?”

“It’s about time you tried.” The quiver of your lip tells him everything he needs to know - and that’s without the entertained glint in your eye that accompanies it. You’re enjoying this, just as much.

“We could make a competition out of it.”

“A competition?” You ask, with a curious tilt of your head.

There it is, he thinks. Interest: piqued. He practically has you in the palm of his hand. Who would ever have thought, the way to a sorority girl’s heart would be a friendly little wager?

“Whoever actually gets them together, wins.”

It’s all he can think of in the moment - petulant and part-planned, but it seems to be enough.

“Wins what?” You lean onto your elbows, your gaze levelling his as he mirrors your positioning, having to slouch a little further forward in his seat to meet your pretty eyes.

“Whatever you want.” He doesn’t intend it to come out as low as it does, doesn’t realise how close the two of you have gotten over the table, but he sees the flicker of something cross your features as your head tilts again, eyes still locked on his as yours begin to narrow, still just as pretty even when they’re glaring at him.

“It’s what you want that concerns me.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he jibes, watching the way your lips part in preparation of another witty comeback. “What do you say?” He asks, not giving you the chance, seeing the way it makes your skin crawl that you weren’t quick enough, for once. “Are you in?”

You heave out a sigh, shoulders slumping - a tell-tale sign that you’re about to acquiesce - and Luke starts to feel his chest puff out in victory. This feels like a shut-out. It feels like the best performance of his life.

“You’re gonna make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“Oh definitely,” he smirks, eyes tracking you as you lean back into the booth, retreating from him in defeat, a hand running through your hair as he promises, “You’ll warm up to me soon enough, though.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“I can,” he shrugs, leaning back too. “I’ve been told I’m inevitable.”

Luke can remember, like it was yesterday, the first time he ever saw you.

Freshman year, the week he moved into his dorm at Michigan, Jack had sent him across campus to check in on how Ellie was getting on. He had arrived with some extravagant gift basket in tow, plastic wrapped, a giant blue bow tied around the top and an assortment of snacks inside, and was left knocking for at least five minutes before you showed up.

“Please tell me you’re not another stripper-gram.”

If his throat hadn’t gone so dry all of a sudden, he thinks he would have had more wits about him to have questioned the use of another - a concept that had stuck in his head for weeks until he caught wind of a story of pledges for Pike being sent around campus and forced to lure girls to their house through way of humiliating song.

But God, you were pretty.

Siren eyes narrowed toward him, glossy lips pouted pensively, long lashes blinking impatiently as you awaited some kind of response that didn’t come in the form of an open, drooling mouth.

“I’m Luke.”

“Right.” You had sighed, pretty eyes rolling at him. “You’re blocking my door."

“Oh, I’m-,” he stuttered, immediately stepping to the side for you to come forward and insert your key into the lock. “Does Ellie live here?” He asked, confusion etched into his features as he watched you swing the door open, turning in your place to look him over again.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m Luke.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I know her.”

“Clearly.”

“This is her basket.”

“Does she need to sign for it?”

“No, I-,”

“I’ll make sure she gets it, thanks, Lu!”

And when you had taken the basket from his hands, he had been too distracted by the way your skin brushed against his to properly respond, or worry if you had called him that as a nickname or had already forgotten his name, entirely.

He then spent days thinking about you, looking for you - at parties, in the campus coffee shop, online, despite not knowing your name - trying to commit to memory the way your eyes had sparkled when looking his way, until his first Business Communications class.

He had been a little early, first week nerves playing out and his constant craving for positive validation coming to the forefront, and was watching the door waiting for the professor to arrive. He had been slouched in his seat, chin in the palm of his hand, foot tapping rhythmically against the floor, and he had almost given himself whiplash when you walked in.

He learned your name from there, learned a lot just from watching you in that class, but never really captured your attention.

And if the Luke that has been driving you to work every few days, who has been living with you for the past two weeks - who sits around the same dining table, laughs at the same jokes cracked when you’re all lounging around the house, sits out under the same sun, drinks from the same carton of orange juice in the morning - could tell the Luke that sat pining after you all that time, all the little ways in which he’s captured your attention lately, he’d probably have an aneurysm.

When you and Ellie moved in, Luke had been the only one allowed to touch your stuff - and there’s a part of him that knows it was mainly because you enjoyed watching him work like a packhorse, hauling your cases up the stairs and dropping them in front of you with a huff, but there’s a larger, more delusional part that thinks you preferred him to the others, maybe even trusted him.

He’s taking credit for how quick you’ve adapted to the dynamic of the house, too. Of all the different faces coming in and out - Quinn’s friends, Jack’s friends, his friends, sometimes even his parents. If you’re around, you’re pleasant. You abide by house rules, some of them stupid, but set by the brothers so long ago that they just work now - like no phones outside of your rooms so that you can be more present. You insert yourself comfortably into conversations, you form your own relationships with everyone - you and Quinn trade book recommendations, you and Jack bicker while Ellie mediates. You do your fare share of chores - laundry, dishes, cooking, even.

And he’s so caught up in just sharing space, just being around you, even, that for those first couple weeks, he forgets why you even agreed to be there in the first place.

At least, he forgets the incentive part - because he watches mindlessly as you interfere in Jack and Ellie’s dynamic, without a care in the world for the fact that it means he’s losing.

He watches you push one of them out of the way to claim whatever seat at the table or in the car forces them to sit beside each other. He watches you taunt Jack to just the right point where Ellie interferes, coos at him protectively and he melts into her affections. He watches you agree to plans he knows you wouldn’t in a million years follow along with, just to get them together - and all he can do is admire how easy you make it seem.

He admires when you come out wakeboarding with the group, when you let him fasten you into a vest and don’t flinch when his fingertips brush against bare skin. Watches you bite your tongue over the fact you just got your hair blow dried - a fact you have no problems relaying back to him when he drives you to work the next day, and you’re muttering in his passenger seat about lake water giving you frizz - just so you’re not dampening the mood.

And when you agree to tag along to the golf course on your day off, despite the fact it’s so close to work if could be considered triggering, and you stick by Luke’s side so that Ellie can feign some sort of incompetence until Jack takes it upon himself to correct her form.

You stand by Luke’s side, the two of you watching with mirrored expressions of almost-disgust as Jack wraps his arms around Ellie’s body, and send a shiver down his spine when you lean in for only him to hear as you say, “I’d ask if you’ve put any more thought into what you want out of our bet, but I so have this in the bag.”

The bet.

Luke hasn’t thought about it since that day in the restaurant, if he’s honest, but he had known what he wanted then.

He’s hardly going to tell you, now, though.

If he’s ever going to take you out on a date, he doesn’t really want to force your hand - not that he has a chance, he’s fallen so behind with this Jack and Ellie thing that it isn’t even funny.

He needs to up his game, if only for the fact that you’ll no doubt catch on to his lack of efforts, soon.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he taunts, because it’s what he does best, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“And how long do you plan on keeping them up there?” You call him out so easily, tilting your head when his eyes meet yours, mischief highlighted by the sunshine that speckles in your irises.

“Maybe I’m luring you into a false sense of security,” he shrugs, “Maybe I’m letting you do all the heavy lifting so I can swoop in when those weak arms get tired.” He pokes at your side, basking in the way you scowl like you pertain any sort of threat to him.

He has you figured out, by now.

“I didn’t have you pegged as being lazy, Hughes.”

“You spend a lot of time thinking about me, huh?”

“You wish,” you scoff, shoving when he dares to get too close, and it’s when Luke is biting back a full-blown grin that Ellie comes back over.

“This sun is crazy, I think I left the sunscreen in the locker room and Jack’s nose is going all red, would you come back with me?”

You smile sweetly at your best friend and agree, only glaring at Luke over Ellie’s shoulder when she’s distracted with saying her brief, temporary goodbyes to Jack, and once you’ve turned and made your way over to the cart, he lets his eyes linger on your figure as you retreat.

The soft sway of your ponytail, the expanse of smooth skin along your legs, he’s completely hypnotised, and he needs to pull himself together, he thinks.

He tries to regain focus as he and Jack work their way through the next couple of holes, caddying their clubs around without the cart, and chatting mindlessly until Jack sighs heavily, like he’s been waiting to bring something up.

“I want to take Ellie out on the boat tomorrow,” He states as Luke tees up, resting on his club as he squints against the sun to watch his little brother, “Just the two of us, so we can talk about stuff.”

“Sounds riveting,” the disinterest in Luke’s tone is amplified by the lack of attention he’s giving overall, looking out across the green and trying to measure his swing before he takes it. “Have fun.”

“I was thinking I’d need your help for it to work.”

“I’m not being your boat-butler again,” Luke scoffs, mind immediately going to all the times their parents would make Jack take Luke out with him and his friends, and all the times he was made to wait on his older brother hand and foot to make up for crashing his hang-outs.

“I’m not asking you to tag along,” Jack scoffs, “You third-wheeling would be the ultimate buzz-kill. I thought you could be of use elsewhere.”

“You’re making whatever it is sound so fun.”

Luke takes his swing, driving the ball and watching it soar to his desired point with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Jack watches too, stepping to Luke’s side to measure how far from his own ball it lands.

“Nice,” he mutters appreciatively as the two of them load their clubs into their stand bags. “I need you to keep Regina George busy, distract her or something, she’s stuck to Ellie like glue, it’s beyond annoying.”

If only he knew, Luke thinks, a worry in the back of his mind about how his brother owes more to you than he even realises.

“You worried she’s gonna make her see sense?”

Jack swats at his arm and rolls his eyes.

“I’m worried she’s gonna ruin the good vibes like she usually does and I won’t be able to bite my tongue from saying something and looking like the asshole.”

Distracting you isn’t the worst thing he could be doing with his time, Luke thinks. It’s not like he has to go all out, you’ll no doubt be hanging out around the house and the two of you can hang together. All he has to do is keep you off your phone. Shouldn’t be too hard. You’ve adapted pretty well to mimicking the guys when it comes to staying off theirs.

It ticks off the box of trying to fight for a scrap of your attention. With no one else around, you’ll have no choice but to entertain his company.

And it puts him in front of your little race - lending a helping hand to Jack’s plans to talk to Ellie is surely the same as getting them together. It’s all falling so perfectly into his lap. He isn’t being lazy.

But he can’t let Jack know that, so he heaves out a sigh and offers a slow shake of his head for dramatic effect. “Fine,” he groans, “But you owe me. Big time.”

You’re starting to find it harder and harder to pretend like you don’t want to be at the Lake House.

If you’re being honest, you don’t entirely know why you’re even trying to keep up pretences, but using your disinterest as armour has become like second nature over the years, and you’re hardly going to stop now.

Even if there are already so many little things about being there that are starting to wear you down.

Quiet, early mornings, for one - birds chirping just outside your open window, sun rays pouring in through sheer curtains that flow in the slight breeze, that light feeling that blows through your chest when you’re sat out on the deck behind the house with a fresh cup of coffee, looking out over the still lake and basking in the peace of it all.

And even when it’s not so peaceful, when the kitchen is full of bodies swerving around each other to try and throw together some sort of breakfast spread - pastries and fruit, bacon and eggs, various boxes of cereal on the counter. Quinn had even made a whole batch of pancakes one morning, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t come down every day since hoping to see him donning that same frilly apron that Cole had draped around his waist and working his magic with a pan.

You’ve never really been a part of such a full house. You had been an only child for so long - and by the time your parents split, and it was just you and your mom, on the days she wasn’t already at work when you got up - and were so ingrained in your own routine in the morning that you think you might actually need the chaos to function better. The rush of bodies, the arguments over who drank the last of the juice, the bickering over who’s turn it is to do the next grocery run - it’s a kind of entertainment you haven’t been privy to in a long time.

Being kind of disconnected from everything else isn’t as bad as you thought it would be, either. You’re not attached to your phone, checking socials to see what everyone else is doing, to see if your dad has sent any messages yet this summer, and you find yourself connecting a little more with the people around you and leaving your family stress on the back burner. You’re more focused on what’s in front of you, and your relationships with other people. With Ellie, with some of the guys in the house, with your friends at work, even.

And it’s nice to be closer to work too. You don’t have to rush around trying to make the bus - Luke has been keeping his word and driving you to the club most days, and where he can’t, either somebody else has offered, or you’ve just ridden one of the bikes in the garage that the boys said were free to use - the helmet hair is an easy fix when you have access to the locker rooms.

It’s an adjustment, for sure, getting used to being in a full house. Especially this one - with a constant revolving door of faces, friends of the brothers switching out week by week to come and stay, departing just as you’ve started getting to know them with a promise of dropping by again soon.

So far, you’re almost at double-digits for the names you’ve had to memorise. Some of them you were already familiar with, guys from Michigan who you already knew or knew of, but others were more Jack or Quinn’s friends that you’d never had the pleasure of meeting before now.

Cole Caufield being one of them.

He had arrived a couple of days after you and Ellie moved yourselves in, closer to Jack than the other two brothers, you had noticed, and was going to be staying longer than any of the other visitors - having his own designated room in the house, similar to you girls.

You like Cole - he’s good fun, can take a joke unlike his supposed best friend, and has the kind of smile that almost gives you a buzz whenever it’s flashed your way. Your first few interactions with him were seemingly pleasant, despite Jack constantly in his ear with a hardened glare pointed your way and no doubt unsavoury words uttered. Cole would just shrug him off, laugh, meet your eyes and drop a wink your way - a gesture you’d usually squirm and cringe at, but Cole kind of pulls it off.

He joins in when you chirp Luke, too - which, if your honest, is your main source of entertainment since arriving, so your interactions with him grow day by day.

You haven’t really spent any one-on-one time with Cole yet, though. You were hoping to, before he left to visit home for the weekend - for no other reason than to get the scoop on something you’d happened upon at work last week - and had planned on asking him to hang out on your day off. But with Cole now gone for a few days, Jack and Ellie off doing god knows what, Quinn and Luke working out wherever, you have no choice but to spend your free Sunday lounging around the house, trying to find something to suppress your growing boredom.

You start with your nails, painting them a summery orangey-red and doing your toes to match, then do your laundry, abiding by house rules that you rotate the loads between the machines, and fold out whoever’s clothes were last in the dryer and place them in the hamper on the side.

You’re hoping you haven’t had to fold Jack’s underwear but you decide to live in blissful ignorance - trying to identify the load based on the rest of the clothing in there is impossible when they all share, so it kind of works in your favour.

You FaceTime your mom for almost an hour, getting an update on what she’s been up to with work, and giving her updates on how your summer is going, trying to focus on your time at the club and Ellie so she doesn’t worry too much again that you’re spending your summer in a house filled with boys.

And by the time Luke and Quinn come back from their workout, you’re in the lounge, 50 pages deep into a book you really couldn’t care less about, but there’s something in you that refuses to beg one of them for company, so you suffer in silence.

Even when Luke does join you, throwing himself down onto the opposite side of the couch you’re occupying and pushing your feet off his side like it’s his sole purpose just to annoy you.

“I was comfortable there, asshat,” you frown, lifting your feet back into their previous position and using one to give him a light kick to his thigh.

“Yeah, well, I hardly want your feet all up in my business while I’m trying to relax,” he sighs, sinking into the cushions with hands clasped behind his head, biceps flexing and tightening the arms of his t-shirt in a way that momentarily catches your eye. You’re thankful for his closed eyes, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you divert your attention back to the mundane words on the pages in front of you.

“And yet here you are when there are 2 other couches.”

“Yeah, well, I know how much you like to be near me.”

You try to ignore him, pulling your feet a little closer to your body and focusing back on the book, but it’s hard when Luke has such a presence. You feel the little looks he keeps sending your way like a physical touch, and the couch shifts with every slight movement he makes, so when he constantly shuffles, you start to think he wants your attention.

Of course he wants your attention. This is Luke Hughes.

“Are you just sitting down here to annoy me?”

He lights up, like he’s just been waiting for you to ask, and shuffles in his seat to face you, fully, bouncing in place like a puppy being teased with a tennis ball.

“I’m actually trying to distract you, if you must know.”

“Bold of you to assume you have enough of my attention to be distracting in the first place,” you scoff, trying not to react to the way he smirks in your peripheral, the words in front of you all blurring together. If you were actually focused on them, you’d have lost your place, already.

“I think you pay more attention to me than you’d like to admit.”

“That’s some ego you’ve got on you, Hughes,” you narrow your eyes as you look above the edge of your book, “Is that what you spend that big NHL paycheque on, charisma classes? How to flirt for dummies?”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing? Flirting?”

Damn. You walked yourself right into that one.

Sometimes biting back at Luke comes like second nature, words first, thoughts after - and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it that way. It’s easy, the back and forth, and you can’t really think of an instance with him where you’ve sat in a lingering, awkward silence. You’ve really grown to hate silence, lately.

“You wish.”

“You think I’m charismatic,” he teases in a sing-song voice, knocking at your knee and wiggling his eyebrows when you glare at him.

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“You’re not gonna ask what I’m distracting you from?”

“I don’t really care,” you lie, eyes darting back down and diverting the attention he so desperately craves away from him.

“Jack wanted to take Ellie out on the boat.” He says, ignoring your attempts to ignore him - pushing your buttons like a full time job. Like an operator for your last nerve.

“Good for her.”

“Alone.”

“No shit.”

“To ask her out.”

“Whoop-de-doo.”

“Whoop-de-,” Luke straightens up, like a whack-a-mole with his head positioning itself over the top of your book, and you kind of wish you had one of those soft mallets right about now. It would be so satisfying to bonk at his head, you think. “What do you mean, whoop-de-doo, is this not what you agreed to be here for? To get them together?”

You scoff, flicking to the next page of the book in feigned disinterest. “He isn’t asking her out today.”

This is the exact something you had wanted to talk to Cole about - whispers in the staff lounge at work earlier in the week doing the rounds would imply otherwise, but your main source is kind of a gossip, and you’re not entirely sure of their reliability, despite the few degrees of separation to the subject at hand.

Mutterings of Jack and Cole and their little country club connections.

You can hardly ask Luke of all people if his brother is as much of a man-whore as everyone is making out. Cole was a safe bet - he’d probably just tell you straight up what they’re up to, wear his pride like a shining gold medal. He’s upfront about his promiscuity, at least. Luke is more protective. Of himself, of his family, you’re not entirely sure. There haven’t been as many whispers about him.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because he’s a spineless idiot,” you retort, eyes flicking up momentarily to take in his furrowed brow. “No offence,” comes out of nowhere, and you surprise yourself with the instinct to lessen the blow of your words for the first time in forever.

“None taken, he’s only my flesh and blood,” Luke huffs, “You’re just jealous I’m winning our bet.”

“Sure,” you drawl, eyes widening to emphasise the sarcasm as you make a point of angling your head to the next page, like you’ve taken a single word in for the past five minutes. “He’s been talking to one of the girls from work. There’s no way he’s doing that and asking Ellie out, unless he’s completely brain dead.”

And when you look back at Luke, that furrowed brow has shifted into a full blown frown, pouted lips and eyes cast down as if he’s trying to figure everything out in his head.

It’s probably the pout that has you cushioning your words, once more.

“Again, no offence, I doubt it’s in your DNA.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m no bio student but I don’t think there’s a genetic marker for being a fuckboy.”

“No, about him talking to one of the girls at the club. He didn’t tell me that.”

Why does he have to sound like that? Let down and unsure, quieter than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s like the tone he carries goes straight to your fingers, clasping the book closed without marking your page - because what business do you have carrying on that charade?

“Do you guys tell each other everything?” You ask as you throw the book until it lands on the coffee table with a gentle thud, shuffling until you’re sat against the arm of the couch with knees bent in front of you, giving him your undivided attention and feeling guilty that it might not be enough.

“I thought we did,” he scratches at the back of his head, nervously, “He literally told me yesterday he was taking her out to talk about stuff, why would he make a point of asking me to keep you busy if he’s not serious about asking her out?”

“You don’t want to hear my answer to a question about your brother not being serious.”

“Who’s the girl?” He asks, ignoring your comment despite the slight ghost of a smile you see flash into the corner of his mouth.

“Jessica, she works at the pro shop, apparently they’ve been texting all summer.”

You know for a fact that since you’ve started paying attention, you’ve seen Jack on his phone a lot for a guy who chirps you for your own screen-time, and who has enforced the house rule of no phones outside your room like a prison guard yells out no touching at visitation. So it sort of checks out. You’ve tried to sneak a peak, but he’s protective of his stuff like a yappy little dog with attachment issues at the best of times, so you haven’t really put too much effort into it.

“There were a few people talking about it in the lounge at work the other day,” you shrug, “One of the girls talking about it is Jess’ best friend, so not exactly from the horse’s mouth, but I don’t think she’d be spreading lies about her friend around like that.”

“Can you find out?”

“You ask that like I haven’t been trying.” That gets a full smile, a small chuckle that lifts his shoulder, even, “I was gonna grill Caufield about it but he’s gone. But I know you guys have plans when he gets back tomorrow, so if you want to take Cole I’ll hack away at the grape vine at the club?”

“Does this mean we’re teammates?”

“No. It absolutely does not.”

Hacking away at the grapevine is really a lot more like plucking absentmindedly at an overgrown patch of grass when it comes to workplace gossip.

By the end of your shift, you’re leaving the club with a fist clutched full of loose blades, fingers stained green from the amount of information people were willing to ‘fess up.

Liam who works behind the bar had overheard a conversation where Jack had mentioned Jessica, but could only give you useless tidbits, like how he had to stop by the shop for a new putter, and Jess had been the one to ring him up.

Hardly incriminating, but you had a feeling it would be a small piece of a way larger puzzle. That, and guys are notoriously useless at gossiping, there’s definitely more to that story than Liam could even comprehend in his tiny man brain.

Cassidy who works at the front desk had seen Jack and Jess talking in the main lobby last week, definitely flirting, she had said - with hair flips and giggles galore - and way too familiar to be new.

Much better.

Paola who has the alternative shifts in the pro shop was more than willing to take up ten minutes of your time ranting how Jess’ work is never fully done when it comes to a handover, and she spends half her time on her phone. Kiran, who works the bev cart every Monday, said Jack is always one of the most charming in their golfing group, so it’s no surprise if he is exchanging texts with girls from the club.

You get dirt from most corners of the place, and it leads you all the way back to your station, to reservations set for the restaurant, where tonight’s list - unfortunately a shift you’re not set to work, although you very much question the serendipity of that - has Jack’s name down at 7pm. A table for 2 in the back corner, shielded from prying eyes and intimate.

And if it weren’t for the fact you’ve already worked a full shift, you would consider staying just to get the full scoop.

You know Ellie isn’t going to be the one sat across from him, she’s been sending you pictures all day of her various hauls for her quiet night in. New paints and pencils, a sketchpad, some candles - she has all intentions of working on her watercolour technique.

So it has to be for him and Jessica.

Imagine his face, you think, picturing wide, panicked eyes as you roam up to his table to take his order. He’d actually crap his pants.

But, it’s another set of eyes that you picture when you start to enjoy the scheming a little too much. The sad, teary eyes of your best friend, when she finds out the guy she’s been hung up on for half her life, who she has all but convinced herself isn’t interested, and is - absurdly - ‘far too good’ for her - yeah, right - is dating other girls while taking her out on not-so-platonic boat dates only the day before. A boat date that she had come back to your room, flung herself onto her belly on the bed, and kicked her feet as she gushed all about it.

So you make your way back to the house after a long day, and resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to, yet again, get all your information on Jack’s date second hand.

You primed Cara, your colleague in the restaurant, to keep an eye out, and she promised to send updates on her breaks, and you have been holed up in yours and Ellie’s shared bedroom trying to keep her busy when there is a persistent knock at the door, and a mop of soft, curly brown hair pokes in before his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, Luke!” Ellie chimes, cheery and all too blissfully unaware of the potentially horrific circumstances you’ve stumbled upon. “You need to borrow my conditioner again?”

You scoff from your position on the bed, watching a slight pink hue flush up Luke’s neck.

“What? No,” he denies, running a hand through his hair and seemingly frowning a little at the way it feels. “I’m going to the store, wondered if either of you needed anything?”

“Nah, thanks, we’re good,” Ellie smiles, attention diverting straight back to where she’s drawing in her sketchbook, missing the way Luke widens his eyes and tilts his head as if to encourage you to take him up on his offer.

“Can I come with?” You shuffle from your position on the bed, swinging your legs out from beneath you and over the side as Ellie looks back at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted something.”

“Someone’s got to show the poor guy what’s what on the haircare aisle, El.”

And you’re thankful that Ellie has settled herself in for the evening already by 6:45, showered, pyjamas on, otherwise she might have tried to tag along, too, just for something to do.

You swipe her phone before she can notice and hide it under your pillow before you leave, thinking it might reduce the risk of her getting bored and texting Jack, or, worse, checking his location.

A trip out gives you the chance for you and Luke to debrief each other on your findings of the day - or, as it turns out, just you, because Luke Hughes might be the worst information-gatherer on planet Earth.

Finding his life’s niche in hockey is fortunate, because he definitely wouldn’t cut it as an investigator.

“He just said he didn’t know anything,” Luke shrugs of his earlier encounter with Cole, and you try not to gape at him in disbelief as he fiddles with the screen in his BMW, scrolling through the interface in search of the nearest store.

You swat his hand away with a scoff, typing in a destination, “And you believed him?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“You’re about as useless as a chocolate teapot, Hughes. What is it with guys and gossip, are you all really that dumb?”

“That’s the address for the club,” he points out, ignoring your jibe as he starts driving.

“Well done, you can read.”

“Why?”

“Because, thankfully, one of us is a good detective.” You snark, “Jack’s there.”

“So?”

“He’s on a date.”

“No he isn’t,” Luke frowns, attention momentarily taken from the road as he looks over at you. “I’ve been with him all afternoon, he would have told me if he had a date, tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d he say he was going when he left, earlier?”

He hadn’t been home when you got back from work, but that had been around an hour ago. You figured if he was sneaky enough to book into the restaurant when you’re not working, he’d have his wits about him to avoid you, entirely. Whenever the two of you cross paths, you can’t help but try get on his last nerve, and he’s hardly going to want to start his evening in a foul mood.

“To get his hair cut.”

Jesus Christ, you think, he’s so lucky he’s cute.

“You’re so clueless. He’s at the lounge with Jessica, the girl I told you about yesterday.”

“And what are we supposed to do about that?”

“We’re gonna supervise. And maybe interfere, if necessary.”

You don’t really have a plan, but it seems like the right thing to at least get a look in as to what the hell Jack thinks he’s doing, especially if you’re going to carry on with this whole plan of getting him and Ellie together. If he’s seriously entertaining other girls while making out to Luke that he only has eyes for Ellie, your plans might have to change. You’re not sure if Luke will be on board with the new path you’re willing to take, but you’ll be happy to kill his brother on your own.

“Interfere?” Luke’s eyes are wide, but he keeps them on the road, fingers flexing against the wheel. “I just came out for chips to make nachos, not play spies!”

“Cara’s working tonight, she said she’d keep an eye on them for me. I bet if I cover her hosting shift on Friday she’d sabotage their date. We’d just have to sit back and watch.”

“Oh,” Luke’s brows furrow, as if it’s taking any consideration at all to mess with his brother. “You really are an evil genius.”

You try not to think too hard about who’s been spewing that rhetoric already in his ear, and instead you smile when he casts his eyes your way, proud and pleased.

“Thank you.”

It takes another 15 minutes to get to the club, considering Luke’s best Driving Miss Daisy impression, so their date is already underway by the time Cara is ushering you to a booth in the far corner, where you can see Jack’s table, but he shouldn’t be able to see yours, and agreeing to play along.

“Can I get you guys any drinks?” She asks as she hands over two menus, and you’re too interested in trying to gauge the vibe at the other table while Luke looks over his.

“Two diet cokes, shaved ice, no lemon,” he says, and you can’t help but frown at the way the specificity of that order rolls so easily off his tongue. That’s your order.

“Any food?”

“Could we just get some nachos, please?” You ask, sliding your menu across the table without even looking, not wanting to give Luke too much of a chance to peruse his own out of fear you’ll be here all night. “And extra picante on the side.”

“Extra guac, too,” Luke adds as Cara scribbles the instructions on her notepad, “And some of those chicken tenders, and extra ranch. And maybe some fries. Yeah, chilli fries. And breadsticks.”

You level him with a glare, already proven right in your decision not to give him too much time to think about what he wanted. He’ll order every appetiser on the menu, if given half the chance.

“Thanks, Cara, that’s everything.”

“Sure thing, should be around fifteen minutes. They only just ordered,” she points her pen back to Jack’s table, where Jess is leaning onto the table and Jack is leaning back in his seat - heavy on the distance but even heavier on the eye contact. That little shit.

“Does he have any allergies?” You lean onto your own table to ask Luke, quirking a brow up when his eyes darken in response, mischief swirling in his emerald irises.

“Absolutely not,” Cara interjects, “I’m doing this so you cover my job, not make me lose it.”

“Let me guess, he ordered the steak, medium-rare?” Luke asks, and she nods, hesitantly. “Char it.”

“Won’t he complain?”

“He’ll just grumble to himself about how tough it is. It’ll put him in a bad mood. That’s what we want, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, nodding your head to ease Cara’s worries despite what you really want is for Chef Michael to poison the cut, entirely. If Jack Hughes wants to play with your best friend’s heart, you’ll play with his gut. But you can settle for burnt meat. Luke can work some sort of magic with that, you think, convincing Jack of all people that any first date that resulted in him coming home all sour-puss and sulky should never result in a second. “Bad mood. Bingo.”

“Fine,” Cara grumbles, “But if he even thinks about asking for a manager, you’re covering my next 3 Fridays.”

She storms off to the kitchen, and you and Luke simultaneously sink into your seats, attention immediately diverted back to the table in the opposite corner of the room.

“We should have kept the menus,” Luke mutters from across the booth, “Could have hidden behind them.”

“What are we, children?” You snark, “You can’t think of any more creative ways to stay hidden?”

“I heard PDA makes people pretty uncomfortable,” he leans onto the table, dropping you a wink when you glance over out of the side of your eye, “We should make out to throw everyone off the scent.”

“In your dreams, Hughes.”

Luke sort of envies the charm you hold over people.

The way you can convince people to do your bidding with a mere flutter of your eyelashes or a flash of pearly teeth and a glimmer in your irises.

He has trouble, sometimes, skirting around his honesty or hiding his intentions - and he knows that’s not a bad thing, knows that being clear and truthful is an admirable trait, if anything - but the way you persuade others to bend to your whim with intricate white lies based on observations you’ve made or intel you’ve gathered is a praiseworthy level of genius.

It had taken such minimal effort for you to get Cara on side, to convince her that being a little clumsy is hardly grounds for her termination, and spilling a little of Jack’s drink close to the edge of the table - close enough that it drips onto his pants and Luke can see the steams of frustration exuding from his brother’s skin from all the way on the other side of the restaurant - or bumping her hip on the edge of their table every time she passes are really just harmless irritations, not likely to cause actual complaint.

You had used the mere tone of your voice to convince Liam from behind the bar to squeeze a little lime in Jack’s water, knowing just from observing him back at the house that he hates the taste, face curling in disgust at even the slightest hint of it, and Luke had watched your eyes gleam in delight every time Jack took a sip of his drink and tried not to spit it back out, seeking much needed reprieve to swallow down the world’s toughest steak cut.

You’d even worked your magic on him, pouting your lips when the food had arrived at the table, and he had initially declined to share his chicken tenders with you - your grumblings at him ordering enough to feed the five thousand fresh in his memory, but so easily wiped away by the soft, sad look in your eyes, and your whining of, “But I didn’t realise how hungry I’d get. Plotting and scheming is hard work, Luke.”

You ended up eating half, but he could hardly complain - you were doing the heavy lifting out of the two of you.

He was sitting back and enjoying the show - enjoying your company, if he’s honest. Enjoying the way his gangly limbs would sometimes knock into yours under the table, enjoying the way he kept getting little nuggets of information out of you while you were distracted, sipping at your coke and making little comments about yourself, about your life, without even realising you’re doing it.

And an unplanned, pseudo date ends up being the first time he thinks he’s had a glimpse at the real you.

The you who knows more about hockey than you’ve ever let on before, who comes back to his stories with contextual questions about the game, even has references to a few games of his back at Michigan, and keeps the conversation flowing despite your feigned disinterest, and a constant gaze cast his brother’s way.

That would usually drive him crazy.

He’s experienced it so often that he has come to expect it, people only entertaining his company to acquire the attention of his brothers, but that’s not what you’re doing. Not really.

You pay more attention to Luke than you’d ever let on.

You ask him about his time in Ostrava at the beginning of summer, even though he’s only mentioned being overseas once while you’ve been staying with him - an offhanded comment from Quinn at breakfast that you must have taken on. Ask him about all the food he tried while out there, when he mentions he doesn’t like picante, and you use it as a springboard to talk about what sort of spices he does like, or if he’s the type to try things or stick to what he knows.

You ask him about being the youngest sibling, and it stems from an offhanded comment Luke had grumbled about always being the last to be clued in on stuff, about how Jack had probably confided in Quinn about his extracurricular activities at the club, and didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the fact he’s going out on dates. You ask if he usually figures things out himself before he’s told them, if that’s what makes him so good at observing and analysing stuff, and he hadn’t ever realised he was particularly good at those things before you brought it up. But then you reference a day in class one time, where he had picked up on something in a textbook that you never would have figured out in a million years, and his heart leaps at the praise you don’t even realise you’re giving him.

You sandwich your perceptions in your usual snark, but he doesn’t miss the slight curve of your lips anymore when he bites straight back, knowing now that there is some part of you that feels the nip of his teeth, that acknowledges his existence beyond him being a speck of inconvenience in your peripheral.

And he gets a little carried away in that acknowledgement - stops paying attention himself to what is happening on the other side of the room and tries to focus on what’s in front of him; the girl he pined after his entire college career, sat sharing nachos and pretending not to know him at a level you so clearly do.

You must get carried away, too, because neither of you notice Jack’s date wrapping up until Luke catches him hand his card over to Cara.

He’s lost count of how long the two of you have been at the club, now - way longer than it takes to get chips from the store, that’s for sure - and all he does know is that if Jack catches either of you two here, after a night of mishaps, bad food, spilled drinks and Cara’s incessant clumsiness, he’ll know who’s to blame.

“We better get out of here before he sees us,” Luke sighs, not entirely wanting to wrap up his time with you but knowing he doesn’t really have a choice.

“I’ve just got to pick something up before we head back,” you reply, edging out of the booth at the same time Luke does, “I’ll meet you out front just give me two minutes?”

“Be quick,” he tells you before you scurry off, and he flags down Cara, who tells him you already put your bill on your worker tab. He tells her to switch it to his, and that he’ll drop by tomorrow to pay it off, promising to leave her a good tip for her stellar services for the evening.

He waits where you asked him to, making sure to stick to the side of the entryway where he can duck for cover if his brother makes an appearance - but you show up first, skipping out from the staff lounge with a bag of tortilla chips in hand.

“Let’s go, Lukey boy!” He follows you out like a puppy on a leash, all the way to where his car is parked, almost bumping into you when you stop and turn without warning, stretching your hand out to him. “Give me your keys.”

“Are you crazy?” He snorts, “You’re not driving my car!”

“I know a shortcut!” You reason, stepping forward and making a grabby motion with your fingers, “We gotta beat Jack home, I just paid another server $20 to spill a whole drink on him before he leaves and he’s gonna be pissed. I want to see the meltdown back at the house and you drive like a nun!”

Luke doesn’t know why he gives in so easy - it could be the proximity, the way you’re so close you have to look up at him, eyes twinkling softly under the moonlight, voice carrying over to him like a siren song, or it could just be because he’s weak - but he hands his keys over with a roll of his eyes and climbs into the passenger side, sliding the seat back with a huff to accommodate his long legs and watching as you adjust the driver’s side, cringing at the way he’s gonna have to figure out exactly how he had it before.

You drive like a maniac, to the point where Luke has to screw his eyes shut as you use some back road, can hear the squelch of mud beneath his tires and squirms at the thought of having to take it to the car wash, tomorrow.

But you make it back to the lake house much quicker than if he were driving, he’ll give you that. So quick that you feel comfortable enough to turn to him once you’ve pulled up, in no rush to unbuckle and get out to get inside before Jack gets home.

“Just so we’re clear, this is a point under my name. You’re not claiming tonight as a win.”

Luke chuckles, turning in his seat to face you, features illuminated by the dim overhead light that turns on when the engine switches off and a slight flush of exhilaration to your cheeks. There’s no pretending you haven’t enjoyed yourself, not tonight. “But the steak thing was my idea?”

“If it weren’t for me, you’d be sat watching baseball and thinking he was getting a 3 hour haircut, you can’t seriously be trying to steal this from me, I thought you athletes had integrity!”

“You’re really keeping score?”

“You’re not?”

If Luke’s honest, he hasn’t really thought about your whole wager all night. He’s been too wrapped up in the idea that his brother had lied to him. Twice. And now his whole plan for the two of you all summer has potentially been messed up. But hearing you mention it, hearing you talk about it like it hasn’t been flushed down the toilet by his brother’s idiocy sparks something in him - excitement, anticipation. He doesn’t want to let this go.

“I actually think we made a good team back there,” he shrugs, eyes meeting yours to gauge your reaction to the thought of doing this together.

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re gonna lose,” you retort, eyes sparkling with those same sentiments he had just felt.

“Probably,” he acquiesces, “Also ‘cause you kind of scare me a little after tonight, last thing I wanna do is go up against you when you have the power to turn half the country club against me.”

You smirk, and his eyes are drawn to the plush curve of your lips, watching them as they form around the softly spoken words, “God forbid you can’t go a round of golf without your caddy breaking down.”

“Exactly.” He mutters back, glad to see your gaze is still zeroed in on him when he meets it again. He can feel the thump thump thump of his pulse in his ears, and takes a deep breath before proposing, “Partners?”

He cocks a brow and holds his pinky out over the centre console, and you eye the digit, sceptically, narrowing your eyes into a glare before raising them to meet his. “Fine,” you grumble, then hook your little finger through his and tighten it to shake, a slight yelp of surprise filling the car when he tugs, your lax arm giving way until your knuckle touches his lips and he kisses it.

“Ew,” you whine, snatching your finger back as he fills the space himself with a hearty chuckle, wiping it on his hoody in disgust. “That’s gross!”

“No take backs,” he smiles, victorious, with his chest puffed out, primed for you to swat at with the flex of your hand, and the two of you are only pulled out of the moment by the sound of tyres pulling up on the gravel behind you, both of you stumbling to unbuckle yourselves and climb out of the car.

Jack is exiting his own vehicle behind, and stomps down the driveway, shouldering past you until he realises who he has passed, turning back and looking at you with suspicion cast across his features.

“Where have you twobeen?” Jack asks, glancing a curious eye between the two of you before meeting Luke’s gaze, levelling him with an inquisitive glare.

“We went to the store for chips,” Luke holds the bag up, the crinkle loud enough for Jack to hear, and he feels an insurgence rising within him, spurred on by the way his brother is looking at him like he’s the one who should be ashamed of his actions. “Nice haircut.”

Jack runs a hand through his hair, surprise crossing his features in a brief flash at the call out, like he had never even expected Luke to notice his hair looks no different to the last time he saw him mere hours ago, like he would never even need to question his alibi.

“Oh, yeah, I got the day wrong. Went out for dinner instead.”

“On your own?” You ask from beside him, your presence giving Luke the kind of back up he very much needs right now, a new target for Jack’s narrowed eyes that takes the heat off of him a little, lessens the burden of lying to his brother - despite Jack being the one who started it, it doesn’t make Luke feel any less bad, doesn’t quell the need to word vomit and admit to all the ludicrous things he had done to ruin Jack’s night. “You end up having a little accident there, bud?”

Luke tries not to outwardly laugh as his attention is diverted to the wet patch that still soaks up the front of Jack’s pants, lips quivering as he presses them together, oblivious to the steam pouring out of his brother’s ears as he immediately gets riled up.

“One of your esteemed colleagues at the club apparently lacks hand eye co-ordination. Plus, some of us like our own company,” Jack scoffs, “Some of us can go an evening without the need to annoy anybody else.”

“It’s not news to me that you’re in love with yourself, dude,” you retort back, entirely unbothered by his jibes. “Bet you’ve got all sorts of riveting thoughts swirling around that ginormous head of yours, must keep you busy for hours on end.”

“At least I have thoughts, at least I’m not some airheaded-,”

“Hey,” Luke’s tone is authoritative when he calls out, stern and demanding, “Cut it out, Jack.”

“She started it!”

“She asked you a question,” Luke frowns, disappointed with how quick his brother had taken to escalating the situation, all in an attempt to deflect the attention from his own deception. He knows you don’t need him to protect you from Jack’s sharp tongue, knows you can very much defend yourself, but he needs to vent his frustrations, somehow, without causing a bust up on the driveway. “You could have just give her a straight answer without biting her head off.”

He feels like you’re a little closer, all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know it’s the slight brush of your arm against his or if it’s something else, something less tangible - but it warms him, all the same. Steadies the static thump of his heart in his chest at the thought of starting an argument with his brother out of nowhere.

“Whatever,” Jack rolls his eyes, “I’m going to bed.”

And as Jack turns, Luke sees your lips part, ready to send him off with the last word until a large hand clamps itself over your mouth, and your wide eyes meet his over the sides of his fingers.

He’s not sure why he did it, why he all of a sudden feels comfortable enough to cross the boundaries of purposeful touch, but he doesn’t entirely regret it.

Plush lips press mid-word against his palm, and your skin is soft, cheeks warming ever so slightly beneath his hand.

“You gotta let him go, there’s no use fighting with him tonight, it’s better to drag it out. Didn’t think I’d have to teach you about the beauty of the long game,” he says, voice low as he watches his brother retreat to the house, waiting until he’s safe inside to retract his hand. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Your brother’s an asshole,” you grumble, “Full offence.”

“No arguments from me,” Luke concedes, holding his hands as if surrendering to the fact, himself. “What are you gonna tell Ellie?”

“Nothing.” You sigh, stepping a little down the drive and toward the house before turning back to him. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, partner.”

There have only been a handful of times in your life you’ve ever been thankful for work coinciding with huge plans, but when the group had decided that they wanted to go see Zach Bryan play Ford Field, you had thanked your lucky stars you had been put down to work a full shift at the restaurant and wouldn’t be able to go.

Not only for the fact that he isn’t really your thing, but for the fact that you’re finally getting a full evening to yourself.

So far, in your time at the house, most evenings have been spent with everyone else - group dinners, game nights, movie nights, even a couple of girls nights with just you and Ellie scattered in there, but nothing on your own, yet.

You can’t wait. And with an empty house, you have a full pamper night planned. You’ve been stocking up odd bits on your trips to the store over the past couple of weeks - sheet masks, aromatherapy candles, you’ve even picked up some flower petals from the spa at the club, in the hopes that you might even treat yourself to a relaxing soak in the bathtub. You can play whatever music you want, make whatever food you want, sit wherever you want in the house, out on the deck, overlooking the lake with a book in hand and no chirpy voices in your ear all night.

You can’t wait.

The only downside is not having a ride home, but you haven’t finished too late. The sun will still be up for a couple of hours, and a walk in the simmering heat back to the house doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.

Your feet carry you with ease down the back roads, and you even make the journey without your headphones on, taking in the scenery, the blissful peace of your surroundings, so lost in the tranquility of it all that the sight of Luke washing his car on the drive when you get home dampens your mood as quick as a torrential downpour of rain, flash floods coursing through your evening and wrecking your plans entirely.

“What the hell are you doing?” You can’t help the bite in your tone as you approach, sneakers crunching against the gravel as Luke pauses the hose, looks over at you with the sun in his eyes, and you have to remind yourself he’s just ruined the one night you have for yourself before you get distracted by the fact that he’s shirtless.

“Washing my car?” he calls back, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Detroit right now?”

Luke shrugs, and you have to will your eyeballs not to move any lower than his neck to watch his shoulders lift and drop, lest you get too caught up in the broad expanse of his chest and do something ridiculous like drool.

“Wasn’t feeling it.”

“You weren’t feeling a concert you guys haven’t shut up about for weeks, but you were feeling washing your car?”

He’s dead. When he’s finished with his car and he retreats to his room, you’re gonna smother him with a pillow and discard of his body in the lake. You’re not even gonna let him shower, first. That’s what the lake’s for.

He’s crapping all over your plans because he wasn’t feeling it?

“It needs cleaning,” he shrugs again, and you swear you’re gonna jump in and run him over with the damn thing, “In fact, you really should be helping me.”

There’s a small part of you that feels like the thoughts of violence are worryingly aggressive, but then a larger part of you realises he must have a death wish.

“How’d you get to that conclusion?”

“You’re the one who drove us through a swamp,” he scoffs, a pointed hand flung toward the body of his car, where the sides are lined with a thick layer of dried dirt from the other night, “You get it dirty, you clean it up.”

“As much as I would absolutely love to fulfil your pervy car wash fantasy, I have much better things I could be doing with my time.”

Or you did, until Luke rained all over your parade of solitude.

“Like what?”

“Literally anything but this.” You gesture at the show he’s putting on. The suds dripping from the roof of the car, the hose in his hand, the buckets scattered around the perimeter. “I need to shower, I just walked from the club and I-,”

A death wish might actually be an understatement.

Luke wants you to murder him in the most gruesome, horrific way you could possibly muster - he has to, because there’s no other explanation for why he’d turn the hose on, point it straight at you, and drench the front of you, entirely.

You can feel the fabric of your t-shirt dampening and sticking to your chest, and you scrunch your eyes shut to stop droplets of water slipping into them, thankful that when they open again, his own are looking back at you, and not any lower.

You’d really have a reason to kill him, then.

“You did not just do that.” You growl, glaring back at him with a clenched jaw as the fucker beams back at you, pressing the trigger once more in a short burst that fires straight at your chest, again.

“What, that?”

“You’re so dead.”

You drop your bag and launch for him, aiming to take the hose from his grip, but he fires it again out of sheer panic, the water spouting out from between your splayed fingers, cold and pressured, and it soaks the both of you, raining down as you grapple for the head and Luke remains unrelenting.

There are squeals and yelps called out into the misty air between the two of you, and you get to a point you can’t tell what sounds are coming from who, but you manage to wrestle the hose from his grip and point it straight at him as he jets away with a laugh that rumbles straight from his belly.

It’s the kind of laugh that elicits another, and you don’t realise until he’s circling back to you that the laughter is coming from you - giggling, even, as the two of you engage in a water fight like misbehaving children - and it isn’t long until all aggressive thoughts wash away with the suds that slip to the gravel, forgetting why you were even annoyed in the first place.

It shouldn’t be as fun as it is, but after the long day at work, and the tiring walk back, letting your guard down and engaging it a little mindless chaos seems to wake you up a little.

Your childish game gets Luke what he wanted, anyway, the two of you working together to clean his car when you realise he’s only running in front of all the parts that actually need hosing off and relying on you having bad aim to get the job done, and you figure getting your hands a little dirty is harmless when you’re already soaked through and in dire need of a shower.

And your pamper-plans of a bubble bath and self-care don’t entirely come to fruition, but Luke promises to make up for his petulance by ordering pizza and sticking a movie on, so you bite your tongue to refrain from voicing your initial complaints, and decide to just go with the flow, for once - he hasn’t exactly led you astray, yet.

You take a little longer in the shower than normal, with no one around to complain about hogging the bathroom or worry about them barging in unannounced, and you suppose that’s a small victory - one little luxury you get to cling to as you bask in the steam, letting all the tension slip from your aching muscles after being on your feet all day.

And once you’re out, hair dried just enough with a towel that it isn’t going to drip or soak your t-shirt, and you’re dressed in your pyjamas, you make your way downstairs, where Luke has already set up a plethora of snacks in the living room.

Nachos, popcorn, candy and drinks scattered across the coffee table as he relaxes on the couch, hair extra curly after his shower and an old Michigan t-shirt stretched tight across his now much-broader chest.

“Thought I’d wait for you to pick a movie,” he chimes up from where he’s sat, gesturing with a lazy point to the wall of blu-rays beside the TV.

“Did Netflix never make it to the Hughes household?” You scoff in disbelief as you take them all in properly for the first time. You’d seen them in your peripheral when you’d been hanging out down here, before, but actually looking at them up close, reading all the titles, seeing the sheer volume of how many there are, it kind of surprises you.

“We can look on Netflix if you want. They always take stuff off, though.”

You know. All your favourite movies get taken off of streaming, and you only ever find out about it when you’re really in the mood to watch them. As soon as you realise the wall is alphabetised, you know exactly where to look.

“That’s alright,” you shrug, stepping to the side as you track backwards, through M, L, K and J. “You guys are pretty analogue, I’ve noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The board games, the DVDs, the whole no phones around the house thing.”

“No phones around the house is common courtesy,” he chuckles, “But I guess we’re a little weird about the other stuff.”

“It’s pretty cool,” you shrug, spotting the DVD you want and sliding it out to assess the case. “It’s old school. Probably better for the brain. My little brothers can’t really function without an iPad and they’re 5, it’s freaky, like they’re haunted by the capitalist ghost of Steve Jobs or something.”

“I didn’t know you had brothers,” Luke frowns where you almost expect him to laugh, and you spin on your heel to face him. He has this look about him like he should have known that - like the two of you have ever conversed in anything other than sarcastic quips and scrunched up faces, or whatever attempts at flirting have been on his part.

“Technically they’re half brothers,” you shrug, “They live out in Philly with my dad and step mom, I don’t really get to see them much.”

“Didn’t know you were from Philly, either.”

“I’m not, my dad moved out there when him and my mom got divorced.”

It’s not something you really love talking about.

The few times you’ve tried, you’ve been shot down, patronising tones scoffing at how your biggest trauma is the separation of your parents, as if your whole world didn’t crumble down with the demise of their relationship, the demise of life as you knew and very dearly loved it.

“You don’t see him even in the summer?”

“Him and his family are on vacation in Europe for 6 weeks. England, France, Spain, Germany, the boys are into soccer so they’ll be out there until the Euros.”

You don’t miss the way Luke’s face scrunches at how you call them his family, and you’re not sure you’re ready for him to start pitying you, so you throw the DVD case toward him before you can second guess your choice.

Interstellar.

You hope he doesn’t pick up on why it might be one of your favourites. Especially not considering the topic of the conversation at hand. Something about the crippling regret Cooper has for leaving Murph behind plucks harmoniously at some unidentifiable strings deep within you, but you’re hardly about to admit that to Luke, of all people.

“I love this movie,” he smiles, almost surprised, as if he expected you to throw The Notebook his way. Maybe next time - he’d probably love that movie, too, if he gave it a chance.

“Me too. I love space movies.”

“Like Space Jam?” He asks as he pushes himself up, going toward the TV to set up the movie with the DVD in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“No, like movies about Space,” you say, throwing yourself down onto the same couch he just vacated and tucking your feet beneath you to get comfortable. “Although I guess Space Jam would technically fit into that bracket.”

“I didn’t realise that was a genre,” he chuckles.

“Not the scary ones, though, I don’t wanna be freaked out by space.”

“Is that like a thing? You just like any movie set in space?”

“I like anything about space, period. Movies, documentaries, books. Thinking about it makes me feel really insignificant.”

“Insignificant? Is that not a bad thing?” He asks as he makes his way back, settling into his side and angling his body toward yours.

“Do you ever think about how big the universe is, Hughes? It’s humongous! If I ever feel anxious or panicky I think about just how big it is and how I’m not even a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. If I’m so tiny, how big can my problems actually be?”

“I guess that makes sense,” he seems to mull it over in his head, the thought of him even considering it and not making you feel stupid warms your chest - makes you forget just how much of yourself you’ve shared with him in the last couple of minutes alone, makes you worry less that you’re sharing too much. “I think I might be the opposite, though. Probably the youngest brother in me, I only feel better if I feel bigger.”

You think that might be why he’s always trying to one up you - sassy comments and inappropriate jokes galore. Not that you mind any of it, not really.

“What about you? What movies do you like?”

“You’re gonna be so shocked.”

“Sports movies?”

“Look at you, knowing me like the back of your hand.” He coos, nudging at your knee with his hand. “I’ll watch anything, though. We should take it in turns, whenever it’s just us,” he says like the thought of spending time alone with you has only just crossed his mind. “Picking a movie to show each other.”

You think there’s a lot of yourself in the media you consume. The movies you watch, the music you listen to, and sharing those things with Luke feels like giving him the only other key to a high security vault. It’s something you’ve avoided so far - letting him play his songs in the car, avoiding making any sort of pick in the group movie nights. It’s daunting, and it’s a lot of pressure, and so you don’t know why you agree with so much ease - a shrug, and a casual muttering of, “Sure, why not?”

The pieces of your dynamic slowly start to slot together, and you start to realise why you’ve been entertaining his company so often, lately. Why your mood so quickly de-escalated itself, earlier. Why you’ve found yourself curled up on the same couch as him, instead of literally anywhere else in the house, doing anything other than this. Why you’re so quick to agree to letting him access all these unseen parts of you.

And why you think he might be able to read your mind, after he asks, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Only if I get to ask one back.”

“What were you gonna do tonight, if you were on your own?”

Thank God, you think, your heart jumping at the thought of anything else he could have asked.

“I was gonna do a sheet mask and steal the bottle of wine Quinn stashed behind the laundry detergent.” You admit with a nonchalant shrug, the plans you had been looking forward to all day seeming mundane in comparison to this. “Why’d you stay behind? You love Zach Bryan.”

“I love sheet masks and stolen wine, too.”

Your lips curve up before you get the chance to huff at his non-answer, and you feel your throat go a little dry at the way his curve, too - the way his green eyes darken when they meet yours, and you feel like he’s looking straight through you.

It’s around half way through the movie that you realise how much you’re enjoying yourself - when you look over at Luke, and the light from the screen is still bouncing off the sticky white sheet plastered to his face, only just able to make out his round eyes through the little slit in the fabric.

You sip at your wine to hide your smile, and turn your attention back to the TV until Luke nudges at your feet with his, and your eyes meet over the tops of your bent knees.

“You tell anyone I did this, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Your laugh ripples through every inch of your upper body, rumbling up from your belly and manifesting itself in shaking shoulders, your smile wide and your sheet mask slipping out of place. “You can’t threaten me with a good time, Hughes.”

You spend the rest of the night trying not to think about how there might just be a tiny door in your heart, eking it’s way open for him to squeeze his gangly limbs into.

>PART TWO<

another a/n: I don't want to put a timeframe on when the next part will be posted bc as soon as I do that, my brain will revolt and it won't happen, but I'd love to know your thoughts in the meantime!!! I have a lot of the rest actually written, and what I don't have written, I have drafted, so it shouldn't be too long but!!! like I said no timeframe!! I've had a lot of fun with this dynamic, and hearing any opinions would mean a lot to me!!

this was my first time writing reader insert if you saw any instances of she/her where they shouldn't be, no you didn’t. I tried as best as I could to avoid using Y/N because it takes me out of it I don’t even remember if I put it anywhere but sometimes it's hard to get around I did my best ok!!!

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #luke hughes fluff #my hearts going pitter patter pitter patter like I could throw up #need to post this before I fall asleep lmao #*writing

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pitlanepeach · 20 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language.

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

2024 (Canada — Austria)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was hers.

And she was home.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia blinked once, slowly.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“You okay?” He asked, voice low.

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

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

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Possibly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re an idiot.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia glanced up. “Stop hovering.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” he said.

“You are.”

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

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

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

He blinked. “Unlisted?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. But—”

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

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

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

“It did rain,” Amelia mumbled.

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

A moment passed. Amelia exhaled through her nose.

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

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

Amelia closed her eyes. “Thanks, Mum.”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“High praise,” he said dryly.

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

Lando turned his head. “Split what?”

“The houses.”

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

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

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

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

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

She glanced at him with a raised brow.

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

She was silent. In a thoughtful kind of way.

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

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

Amelia’s mouth twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

She kissed him.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia blinked. Her mouth twitched.

“Right,” she said. “Lesson two.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The baby kicked again, sharp and deliberate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The house felt too big, at first.

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

But it wasn’t home yet. Not immediately.

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

The nursery was the only room that felt fully finished.

They unpacked slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their families came and went day by day.

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

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

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

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed. “As if I could ever”

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

He kissed her again. Just once more.

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

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

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

And the house was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

—

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

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

The kettle clicked off behind her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She paused. A small laugh.

“I told him he’s biased.”

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

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

Lando had remembered.

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

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

The baby kicked gently under her ribs.

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

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

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

—

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

Her mom arrived midweek.

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

“Mom?”

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

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

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

“I think so.”

“You’re safe. He made sure of that.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

FaceTime with Oscar came later, after FP2.

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

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

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

“You asked.”

He paused. “How are you feeling?”

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

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

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

“I said alright. Not good.”

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

—

Lando called a lot.

Between sessions. Before them. After them

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

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

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

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

“I miss you.”

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

Silence stretched.

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

“She got them at Boots,” Amelia said.

“They’re cute.”

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

Another pause.

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

“Coming home.”

“That soon?” She frowned.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Her phone buzzed ten minutes later.

Lando: How did I do?

She typed back, Amazing. Come home to me.

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Keys dropped into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Then soft footsteps. Two pairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Oscar asked, carefully, “You scared?”

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

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

“I might.”

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

“Yeah.” She whispered.

He nudged her. “That’s it, then.”

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

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

“I made him tea,” Amelia said.

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

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

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

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

—

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

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

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

And then — P1.

Pole position.

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

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

Lando calling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m always right,” she said softly.

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

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

“I wish you were here.”

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

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

“She already knows.”

He breathed out. “Tomorrow—”

“You can win.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I love you, Amelia.”

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

He laughed breathlessly. “Yes, boss.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Only mild swearing,” Amelia muttered.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Her fingers twitched lightly over the swell of her belly.

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

Her breath hitched a little.

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

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

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

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

She smiled softly. Long nights ahead, yes.

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

—

The Austrian Grand Prix weekend had spiralled into chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

Static. Nothing but broken hiss.

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

Minutes dragged on with nothing but interference.

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

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

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

And then it happened.

A tiny nudge. Barely visible on the screen.

But enough.

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

Her heart hammered.

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

Then Oscar stormed across the finish line—second place.

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

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

Twice. Still no answer.

A third time. Nothing.

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling fast.

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

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

Then, a sudden warmth crept down her legs.

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

Her hand moved down instinctively, pressing against her belly.

Confusion flickered across her face as she realised.

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

A sharp tightening gripped her abdomen.

Her eyes went wide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT CHAPTER

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