iitslera

[iitslera]

unexpected summer ✶ conrad fisher

english isn’t my first, suggestive content, fluff & summer romance  ──  requests are open .ᐟ

                                         ──  ✦  ──

Summer had arrived at Cousins Beach with its humid heat, the salty breeze tangling your hair, and the smell of the sea mixed with wet wood and freshly bought ice cream from the small pier kiosk. From the very morning you arrived at your uncle’s summer cabin, carrying your suitcase, you felt that this summer would be different. There was a certain brightness in the air, a kind of energy that made every moment feel like it could change your life.

You decided to take a walk along the beach, feeling the warm sand sink beneath your bare feet and the waves brushing against your ankles. The sound of seagulls and the ocean was almost hypnotic, and the quiet of the beach gave you an unusual sense of freedom a space to yourself before meeting new faces. That’s when you saw him.

Conrad Fisher was near the pier, sitting on a piece of driftwood, tossing stones into the water without much interest in anyone else around. His dark hair was tousled, perfectly messy, and his gaze, intense and observant, made him seem like he had stepped straight out of a book. There was something in his posture, in the way he moved casually yet confidently, that made him seem untouchable but impossible to ignore.

Distracted, you tripped over a partially buried piece of wood and almost fell. He raised an eyebrow, that look of someone who’s seen it all but finds amusement in little mishaps. He walked toward you slowly, unhurried, and offered a small smile, just enough to make your heart race.

“Hey… careful there. I don’t want the first impression to be you face planting in the sand,” he said, his voice deep and slightly teasing.

You flushed and laughed, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. The way he looked at you felt like he was trying to see right through you. “Thanks… I’m new here, and I’m still getting the hang of walking on sand,” you replied, trying to sound casual, though your voice came out softer than intended.

He raised his eyebrow again. “I’m Conrad. I take it you’re the new neighbor, right?”

“Yes,” you said. “We just moved”

From that moment, a silent game began between the two of you. Each encounter became more frequent: sunset walks along the shore, playful races to reach the waves, shared ice creams on the hot sand. Conrad kept his distance from everyone else, but with you, he was different more open, showing glimpses of humor and vulnerability that he rarely let anyone see, and that smile, that smile that seemed only for you.

Every interaction was charged with tension: hands brushing accidentally, glances lingering a second too long, smiles that seemed to hide secrets. The electricity between you grew with every day a push and pull of closeness and restraint that neither of you could admit.

One afternoon, as the sun began to dip behind thin clouds, you found yourselves sitting together on the sand. The golden light of the sunset highlighted your faces, your shoulders barely touching. The warmth of his presence made your heart beat faster. He didn’t say anything, but just being near him filled the space between you with a quiet, electric tension.

“You know… I didn’t expect to enjoy having company this summer,” he finally murmured, his voice low and sincere, “but with you… it’s different.”

Your chest warmed, and without thinking, you whispered, “I feel the same way.”

His gaze softened. Everything around you seemed to stop: the waves, the breeze, the distant sounds of people… it was just the two of you. Slowly, he leaned in, and his lips brushed against yours in a soft, lingering kiss, full of curiosity and emotion. You felt the world fall away, leaving only the feeling of him his breath, the warmth of his hands lightly resting on your shoulders.

They parted just a fraction, breathing in sync, eyes sparkling with complicity. The sand, the golden sun, and the murmur of the sea seemed to conspire with that perfect moment that you both knew you would never forget.

From that moment on, every day became a discovery: long conversations at sunset, whispered confessions while walking along the shore, shared laughter, and glances that said more than words ever could. Every gesture, every accidental touch, every smile was a silent promise that this summer would be unlike any other.

Conrad started showing more of himself: prolonged teasing, protective gestures, intense looks, soft laughs that only you heard. There were afternoons when you’d sit in silence, listening to the waves, your hands brushing deliberately, playing with the tension between you something neither of you could quite name yet.

One day, as you walked near the pier, another boy came over to greet him. The way Conrad shot you a quick, protective, playful look made your heart beat faster. For the first time, you felt a twinge of jealousy you didn’t know how to handle but he seemed to notice without a word. His warm, amused smile calmed you, and at the same time, made you want to cling to him even closer.

That night, with the sky full of stars and the moon reflecting off the water, you sat together on a blanket on the sand. Your shoulders brushed, and your fingers intertwined softly. “I don’t want this summer to end,” you whispered, not daring to let go of the hand he held firmly but tenderly.

Conrad tilted his head, his lips brushing your forehead before meeting your eyes again. “Then let’s make every day count… just us, just this summer,” he said, and your lips met in another long, deep kiss full of all the feelings you had both held back until now. Every touch, every sigh, every laugh was part of building a summer you would never forget.

The rest of the summer became a constant dance of closeness and discovery: stolen kisses, prolonged touches, heated glances, conversations ending in laughter and confessions, and the feeling that every moment together was unique and irreplaceable. Even around friends, the romantic tension between you was palpable, an invisible thread keeping you connected.

There were minor misunderstandings, moments when he seemed distant or you felt insecure, but every time you came back to each other every accidental touch, every lingering glance it reminded you that what you shared was real and worth exploring.

And so, as you walked back to the cabin at the end of the day, sand still sticking to your feet and the sound of the waves following you, you knew that this summer wasn’t just going to change your routine: it was going to change your heart. Every moment with Conrad Fisher every kiss, every brush of skin, every look was a memory in the making, marking a summer that would be impossible to forget.

୨ৎ If you want to support me and enjoy extra Conrad chapters, you can do so on my Patreon: [here]

[iitslera]

Physics class ✶ Peter Parker

english isn’t my first lenguaje, Peter Parker x Tony Stark’s daughter!, and it’s kinda short, just to pass the time.

                                    ──  ✦  ──

The idea hit one random afternoon while Tony was tinkering with a new gadget in the lab, half-listening to his daughter rant on the phone: physics was impossible, Newton’s laws were clearly made to torture students, and why couldn’t schools test for more useful skills like making perfect espresso or winning every argument?

Tony grinned that “genius plan just hatched” grin. Peter was a science whiz, responsible, and most importantly someone he trusted enough to leave alone with his daughter… at least, that’s what he thought.

Peter showed up at Stark Tower that afternoon, nervous like someone had handed him a live bomb. Not his first time there, but his first time for you.

He found you at the dining table, surrounded by notes, brow furrowed, hair a messy halo. Your laptop was on a YouTube tab called “Physics for Beginners,” paused two minutes in while you scrolled memes.

“Sweetheart, meet Peter Parker. He’s going to be your… temporary tutor,” Tony said, proud as if he’d just unveiled a new Iron Man suit. “Hi,” you said, suspicious. “Nobody else available?” “Uh… nice to meet you,” Peter stammered, adjusting his backpack. “I trust him more than any Harvard professor,” Tony added. “And he works cheap.”

You chuckled, mostly at how ridiculous it was. Just like that, Tony left you alone with Spider-Man and a stack of exercises.

At first, it was all business. Peter explained concepts with a pencil in hand, scribbling formulas in your notebook. You nodded, took notes… but you couldn’t help sneaking glances. The way he leaned toward you, seeking your eyes to make sure you understood, made your stomach twist… not unpleasantly.

Peter tried to keep it professional. But Tony Stark’s daughter had a way of giving that half-smile when she got something, and it was… hard to ignore.

When Tony returned to “check in,” he found you two arguing over whether parabolic motion made more sense with baseball examples or flying armor.

“Looks like they’re getting along,” Tony said, a calculating sparkle in his eye.

Next session, Tony didn’t even bother staying. He left coffee, cookies, and a warning: “If you don’t pass, Parker, I’ll get you a scholarship… on Mars.”

The session started fine, but twenty minutes in, you were talking about everything but physics. You asked what it was like swinging through New York; he admitted it was way more exhausting than it looked.

“Guess physics helps with that, huh?” you said, biting your lip while solving a problem. “Knowing when to brake, calculating trajectories…” “Yeah… and to impress billionaire daughters,” he muttered under his breath.

By the third session, you were always sitting shoulder to shoulder. The table was huge, but neither of you wanted to admit it wasn’t just for convenience.

That day, fluid dynamics had you stressed. Peter patiently took your pen, sketching diagrams as he explained.

His hand brushed yours—just a second, but enough to flip your stomach. He froze too, cleared his throat, and kept going.

The night before the exam, Peter showed up with dark circles (late-night patrols) but still sat down to study. Tony was on a video call, giving you two the freedom to talk.

Leaning back, exhausted, you sighed. “My brain can’t take any more.” “One more problem,” he said, grinning. “This one’s fun.” “Physics… or you?” you teased. Peter laughed but didn’t answer.

The last hour was more talk than study. You shared college plans; he admitted that, while he loved being Spider-Man, he sometimes missed being just a regular kid.

There was a strange calm in the conversation, like time had slowed.

Exam day, you were calmer than expected, remembering every tip, every absurd example, every margin note.

Outside, he was waiting, hands in pockets, anxious smile.

“How’d it go?” “I think… good,” you said, smiling. “Thanks to you.”

You hugged. He hugged back, awkward but not letting go immediately. When you pulled apart, it almost felt like more… until Tony appeared.

“My daughter didn’t fail!” he cheered. “Parker, you’ve earned a place on Earth.”

Peter laughed, but even as Tony wrapped an arm around you, he kept looking at you. Between formulas and study sessions, something had shifted.

[iitslera]

🗯️ okay so... i opened a patreon.

it’s not something i ever really thought i’d do, but truthfully — this is to help support my studies (college is no joke), and i wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.

if you’ve ever enjoyed my fics, this is a way to support both my writing and my education.  it’s super affordable, i made sure to keep it accessible for everyone who wants to join 

plus! i’m currently on vacation, so i’ll be way more active over there for the next few weeks — early access, extras, and more little things for those of you who join

you can check it out [here].

seriously, thank you for even considering it. it means the world.

[iitslera]

Hi would you mind doing a Lando Norris x reader imagine. Maybe they are a couple and had a huge fight before his race which causes him to crash. Something along those lines

Thanks so much for the request! What Crashed Us is up — check it out on my profile and feel free to drop more 

[iitslera]

what crashed us ✶ LN4

english isn’t my first lenguaje, angust, emotional breakdown, swearing, slow burn reconciliation. — Thank u sm for the req!

                                     ──  ✦  ──

You never thought your story could fall apart like that. Not overnight, not right before a race, and definitely not in that goddamn driver’s room, where everything first began to burn. But there you were, standing at the door, listening to the echo of your own breath while he avoided your eyes. Lando was sitting on the bed, race suit halfway zipped up, head down, fists clenched on his knees.

You could feel his frustration from across the room, like an invisible wall pushing you to leave. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“We need to talk,” you said firmly. You didn’t want to sound desperate. You’d cried enough the night before.

Lando looked up slowly, like every second of it took effort. He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time or like he couldn’t stand the sight of you anymore.

“Right now?” was all he said. His voice was dry, rough. There was no warmth in it. Not even anger. Just exhaustion.

“Yes, right now. Because if not now, then never.”

He scoffed. Actually scoffed. Like your words were just one more annoyance, one more distraction before he got into that damn car and disappeared from you for hours.

“You always do this,” he snapped, standing up fast. “Always the worst possible moment for your emotions. Your breakdowns. Your ‘we need to talks.’ Can’t you just wait? An hour?”

“And you always ignore me!” you fired back, louder than you meant. “Lando, this isn’t a crisis. This is our relationship! It’s falling apart and you’re pretending everything’s fine. And I don’t even know if you care.”

He crossed his arms, tense. His jaw clenched in anger. He didn’t speak. He just stared, like he was daring you to shut up. Like every word you spoke pressed harder on something inside him.

“You know what pisses me off?” he said, stepping closer. “That you act like I don’t know what’s happening. Of course I do. But it’s never enough for you. Me being here. Messaging you. Holding you when I can. You always want more. You want some version of me I don’t even have access to right now.”

“I don’t want a version of you,” you cut in. “I want you to be present. When you’re with me, be with me. Not off in your head thinking about lap times and tire strategy. Lando, you’re losing yourself. And you’re dragging me down with you.”

He laughed. A cold, bitter laugh.

“So now it’s all my fault? I’m the villain because I have a job I actually give a shit about? Because I’m focused? Because I can’t sit on a couch with you and unpack feelings before a fucking race?”

“That’s not what this is about!” you yelled. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Your eyes burned, but you weren’t going to cry, not in front of him. “This is about me not even knowing where I stand in your life anymore! If I’m less important than that steering wheel, or the damn pit crew, then say so and I’ll go. But don’t keep me here just to watch myself fall apart while you drive off like nothing’s wrong.”

Silence.

Lando looked at you like you’d just slapped him. His breathing was heavy. You stepped closer, heart pounding like a drum. You needed him to say something. Something real, not defensive.

“Do you really want to leave?” he asked. His voice was low. Dangerous. Like a storm in a whisper.

“I don’t want to,” you replied. “But I also don’t want to stay if this is all that’s left.”

Then it happened.

“Then go,” he said.

Just like that. Two words, sharp and hollow.

You stared at him, stunned. Not sure if he meant it or if it was a reaction. But he didn’t take it back. He didn’t flinch. Just held your gaze with a coldness that hurt more than any shout ever could.

“That’s what you want?” you asked. Your voice shook, not with fear, but rage. “You’d rather get in that car knowing you just pushed me away?”

“I’d rather get in that car without needing permission to fucking breathe,” he snapped.

You didn’t recognize this Lando. This wasn’t the man who hugged you from behind while you cooked. Who left sticky notes on your pillow when he left early for training. Who used to say you were his peace.

“You’re cruel,” you said through clenched teeth. “Do you know that? You’re cruel, and you don’t even realize it.”

You grabbed your jacket from the hook. Your hands trembled, but you weren’t about to let him see it.

“You know what? Good luck today. With your race, with your people, with your precious circuit. I hope it goes amazing. But don’t come looking for me after the checkered flag, hoping I’ll be there waiting for you.”

You walked to the door. And just as your hand touched the handle, you heard his voice low, tight, broken.

“I don’t do it to win,” he said. “I do it because the track’s the only place I still feel in control.”

You paused. But you didn’t turn around. With your eyes closed and a lump in your throat, you replied:

“And in the process, you lost me.”

You walked out. You didn’t look back because you knew if you did, you’d break. And you weren’t going to let him see how much it hurt that he’d chosen racing over you.

You sat alone in the empty stands. No paddock pass hanging from your neck you’d left it on the handle of his dressing room door. You didn’t want to be “Lando Norris’s girlfriend” that day. That role had been stripped from you that morning. You were just yourself. And you felt hollow.

The loudspeakers announced the start of qualifying. You saw him on the screen, and your jaw tightened. You knew him. You knew he was going to drive angry. That he wouldn’t protect himself.

And it scared you.

Real fear.

Because the words you exchanged, the blades you both threw, weren’t things you could walk back. And Lando had a way of escaping pain by going faster.

Too fast.

Minutes later, it was the scream over the radio that told you something was wrong. Then the footage. The dust. The impact. That cursed corner. The barrier. His car.

Your chest seized. “No. No, no—please,” you whispered, standing up.

The crowd around you fell silent. The commentator lowered his voice. Marshals ran. The car was crumpled against the barrier.

Silence.

Then the helmet moved.

He was conscious. But they took him out on a stretcher, just to be safe. The car was totaled. His qualifying, ruined. His body, bruised. And you… shattered.

You didn’t go see him.

You weren’t even sure if you had the right.

You found out from the press that they took him to the hospital. You watched him on a stretcher, not speaking, eyes lost somewhere far away. For a moment, you felt his hatred—and you understood. Not because you left. Not even because of the fight. But because you knew him.

And you knew that crash wasn’t just about a misjudged corner. It was about driving with a heart set on fire.

And you had lit the match.

That night, as you turned off your phone, you saw his messages. Long. Desperate. You didn’t open them. Not a single one.

Maybe it took that crash to realize that love doesn’t always save you. That sometimes, if you don’t protect it, love crashes too.

Just like you two did.

You didn’t see each other for days.

After the crash, you vanished. You didn’t go to the hospital. Didn’t reply to his texts. Didn’t ask if he had internal injuries, if he’d slept, if he could still move his fingers. And that more than the crash, more than the fight, is what broke Lando.

He didn’t keep texting after that. The first few were frantic, typed with shaky fingers from the hospital bed. Then they became emptier. More automatic. More resigned. Then they stopped altogether. Just silence.

And in that silence, you both sank.

After qualifying, you flew out early. Back in London, you grabbed your essentials and crashed at a friend’s place.

At night, your mind wouldn’t stop. Replaying every word said, and unsaid. How he looked at you when he told you to leave. How you walked away without turning back. How you’d convinced yourself, out of pride or self preservation that you didn’t need him.

But you did.

And Lando needed you too. Even though he spent those days locked in the simulator, training with a bruised arm and a crushed ego. Telling everyone he was fine. That the crash was just a technical mistake.

But he knew that wasn’t true.

It wasn’t a technical error.

It was you.

It was the rage in his chest. The chaos in his head. The weight of an unresolved fight. It was racing without a compass. Without balance. Without you.

A week later, Lando came back to London. No one met him at the airport. You used to be there, wearing a backward cap, holding a coffee, tired smile waiting just for him.

Not this time.

This time, he took an Uber. Alone.

He dragged his suitcase up the stairs. The apartment door was locked. Everything looked the same except one thing: the framed photo in the entryway was missing. The frame was still there. Empty.

You had been there. And then you were gone.

He sat on the hallway floor. Helmet in hand. And cried.

You didn’t know why you came back. You hadn’t planned on it. But after all the days, all the silences, something inside you cracked. Maybe it was the bitter coffee. Or the cold bed.

Or the fact that no matter how many times you told yourself you left out of dignity or self-respect, it all felt like running.

So you ordered an Uber. And now, here you were, outside the building you once shared. Not knowing if he’d be there.

You stepped inside. Heart pounding like it might give out. The place was quiet. You walked toward the living room.

And you saw him. On the floor.

Sitting with his back to the wall, helmet resting between his knees. Lando hadn’t even noticed the door opening. His eyes were puffy. His body still. There was something so defeated in him, it nearly broke you.

“Hi,” you said, barely a whisper.

He lifted his head like it took everything he had. When he saw you, he didn’t speak. Just blinked.

And you knew, in that moment, that coming back had been the right choice.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to see me,” you added. “But… I had to come. Not to fight. Not to fix everything. Just to… be here.”

He looked down. Swallowed hard. He didn’t have the strength to pretend anymore.

“I thought you hated me,” he murmured.

“I don’t hate you,” you replied, sitting down in front of him, legs crossed. “I missed you. But I didn’t know how to come back without falling apart again.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy.

“I did break you,” Lando said bluntly. “Not just that day. Before that too. I pushed you. Shut you out. Made you feel like you weren’t a priority. I know that. And there’s no excuse.”

You took a deep breath. The words hurt.

“And I pressured you,” you admitted. “Asked for things you didn’t know how to give. I made your stability my lifeline, when you were already drowning. I thought I could save us both if I just yelled louder. But all I did was push you further away.”

You looked at each other.

No excuses. No drama. Just two people finally admitting they broke each other.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing at his arm. Lando nodded, a small shrug.

“Physically, yeah. The rest… not so much.”

“Same. I pretended I was fine. But I’m not.”

Several seconds passed. Neither of you knew whether to hug, cry, or apologize again. So you just sat there. On the hallway floor. Breathing the same air for the first time in days.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.

“But I want to try.”

You looked at him. Not with admiration. Not with anger. Just as someone seeing another human broken, but willing.

“I don’t know either,” you said softly. “But I’m not leaving if you’re not.”

Lando leaned in. He didn’t kiss you. Just rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

There were no promises. No guarantees.

Just one more try. And this time, no one was running.

Just staying.

[iitslera]

🗯️ hello hello!! I’m taking requests for Lando, Oscar, Charles, Carlos, Franco, Max, George, and Kimi rn.

I’ll open requests for the rest of the grid later — please send me something, I need to write lol

[iitslera]

late ✶ CS55

english isn’t my first lenguaje,  angst, past relationship / breakup. 

                                    ──  ✦  ──

Everything is perfectly set. The flowers, he soft music, the warm lights. Your dress hanging in front of the mirror. It’s your wedding day. And still, there’s a knot in your stomach that won’t go away.

It’s not nerves. It’s something else. A ghost of someone who never showed up. Until now. Your maid of honor enters the room, her face tight with something she’s trying to hide. “There’s someone downstairs… he didn’t say his name. But I think you should go.” Your heart drops to the floor. Because she doesn’t have to say more. You know exactly who it is.

Carlos.

It’s been three years. Three years since the last time. Since Singapore. Since the goodbye.

You make your way to the lobby, and there he is. Standing near the window, hands in his pockets, hair longer, eyes sadder. He doesn’t say anything at first. Neither do you. Until he turns, like he already knew you were there.

“Hey, princess.” And your heart breaks. 

All over again.

Madrid, 2003 — You were eight. He was nine. He knocked you over with his bike at the park. You scraped your knee. You cried.

He cried too.

That same afternoon, he handed you a note in crayon: “Sorry I made you cry. I promise to be your best friend forever.” You still have it. Crumpled, hidden in a box.

Monaco, 2021 — You were lying on his chest, listening to him breathe. “Would you marry me someday?”

“Only if you don’t plan it. Do it the way you are. Spontaneous.” He laughed.

“Then promise me… if I ever stand in front of you and ask you, you’ll know I mean it.”

You promised.

And then forgot.

Until today. 

Now he’s in front of you. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know. I just… couldn’t not come.”

“You can’t just show up on my wedding day, Carlos…”

“I didn’t come to stop anything. I just needed to see you. One last time.” And then he says it: “I never stopped loving you.”

And it knocks the air out of you. “I waited. For years. Every birthday, every Christmas, every night falling asleep hoping you’d come back. And just when I start to breathe again… you show up.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t come to ask for anything. Just… to tell you. You were the love of my life.” His eyes are glassy. So are yours. But there’s no screaming. 

No begging. Just ache.

He steps closer. Doesn’t touch you. But he doesn’t need to. His presence alone unravels you. “You look beautiful,” he whispers.

“You look late,” you answer.

And for the first time since Singapore, you say goodbye properly. No pride. No yelling. No promises.

Just truth. He walks away.

And you walk up the stairs.

The music starts playing not long after.

The ceremony is about to begin. You stand at the doors of the hall, bouquet trembling in your hands.

Your maid of honor looks at you. “Are you marrying for love… or for comfort?”

You look at her. Look down the aisle.

Look at the man waiting at the end.

And then you take a step forward.

You get married. 

Yes. You do.

Not because you don’t love him. But because loving him was never enough.

Because your story with Carlos was magic.

But it was also pain.

And sometimes, surviving means letting go of the one you loved the most. Elsewhere in the city, Carlos sits in his car, watching the sun set.

He didn’t attend the ceremony. He just watched you walk away.

His phone buzzes. A message from someone at the paddock. Something about the next race. He ignores it.

He opens the note he typed an hour ago but never sent: “If you haven’t put the dress on yet, tell me there’s still time.” He deletes it. The screen goes black.

He closes his eyes. And just stays there, letting the world move without him. Because love doesn’t always win.

Sometimes it arrives late. Sometimes it doesn’t stay. And sometimes… it just was. And even if it hurts, that’s still love too.

[iitslera]

lights, camera... censored. ✶ LN4

english isn’t my first language, Lando x Photographer!Reader, nsfw : minors do not interact !!, dom!Lando, Praise Kink

                                 ──  ✦  ──

Working with McLaren was never part of the plan. But a personal offer from their creative team for a special portrait campaign raw, stripped-down, human landed you in the center of Formula 1, camera in hand, nerves in your throat.

Your job was simple: capture the drivers outside the suits, without helmets or egos. Just skin, expression, honesty.

That’s when you met him.

Lando Norris.

No shirt. Still damp from the shower. Sitting on a stool. Looking right into your lens.

"Are you gonna shoot or just stare all day?" he asked, voice low, eyes full of mischief.

You didn’t respond.

You just clicked the shutter. Once. Twice. Three times.

"You know," he added, shifting forward slightly, "I’m no photographer, but it seems like you’re getting... distracted."

You swallowed. 

He noticed. And he smiled.

Not the PR smile. Not the fan smile. The other one. The one that felt like a secret. Like an invitation.

"Look to the side," you murmured, steadying the lens again.

"Like this?" He tilted his head just enough to show his jawline.

"Pull the shirt up a little," you added, too fast.

He obeyed slowly. The fabric lifted to reveal a toned stomach, glistening with water that hadn’t dried yet. Drops slid down toward the waistband of his pants.

Click.

Click.

Click.

"You’re blushing," he said, smirking. "Cute."

"I’m working," you replied, pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

"And I’m cooperating,” he said, hopping off the stool and walking right toward you. “But if you want, we can switch roles.”

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

He stepped closer, way too close, bracing one hand on the wall beside your face.

"One more shot," he said. "Then it’s your turn to pose for me."

Your breath hitched.

"Are you flirting with me?"

"And if I am?" His voice dropped, mouth just a few inches from yours. "You gonna run and hide behind your little lens? Or are you gonna put it down... and see what else I can do with my hands?"

Your camera was the only thing between you. Lando reached up, gently lowering it, and placed it on the desk behind you.

"You’ve been undressing me with your eyes since Tuesday," he murmured. "Don’t make me ask you to touch me, too."

Your body was already burning.

 "One more photo," you whispered.

 "Before I kiss you? Or after?"

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was urgent. Unapologetic. His hand gripped your waist as the other threaded into your hair, lips crashing against yours like he was done pretending.

Your back met the wall. Your body arched. Your breath disappeared into his mouth. Fingers curled into his shirt as he pulled you closer, so close you felt the heat from his skin and the tension in his muscles. His shirt came off with a single tug, flung somewhere you’d forget to care about.

His lips trailed down your neck. "You’re shaking," he said against your skin.

"I’m trying to breathe."

He laughed darkly. "Don’t. Moan for me instead." He kissed you again, slow and deep, before lifting you effortlessly onto the desk. Your skirt slid up as his hands traveled along your thighs.

"Do you really think I’m gonna behave after the way you’ve been looking at me all week?" he asked, fingers teasing the hem of your underwear.

"I didn’t misbehave."

"No," he said, biting your lip. "But you’re about to beg me to."

His mouth met your body like he’d been waiting for it forever.

He kissed along your inner thighs, soft and unhurried, until you were trembling. Then his tongue found you warm, slow, sure and you couldn’t hold back the sound that left you.

Your head dropped back. Fingers tangled in his curls. Legs tightening around him. He grinned against your skin. "So wet for me already," he murmured, voice hoarse. "You’ve been needing this, huh?"

"Lando—" you gasped.

"Yeah, say my name again. I wanna hear how it sounds when you come undone." His mouth worked magic tongue moving in circles, lips closing around your clit just right. Then his fingers joined in. One. Then two. Stretching you slowly, deeply, until your hips bucked toward him and you cried out.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t rush. He devoured you.

And when the orgasm hit, it was like fire. You shattered on his tongue, back arching, thighs shaking. He held you through it, licking you softly, kissing your thighs like you were the only thing that existed.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he whispered, wiping his mouth with his thumb.

You pulled him up by the shoulders and kissed him hard, tasting yourself on his lips. Your hand reached for his belt. He hissed softly when your fingers brushed him.

"Are you sure?" he asked, forehead to yours.

"I want you, Lando," you said. "Since the moment I took that first damn picture." He grinned.

"Good. ‘Cause I’m not planning to stop." He pressed you back gently on the table, aligning his hips with yours. When he pushed in slow, deep, deliberate you felt everything. He groaned softly against your ear.

"Fuck... you feel so good." Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your hands clutched his back. Every thrust was calculated, like everything else he did on track. Steady. Focused. Devastating.

"You’re perfect for me," he whispered, nipping at your collarbone. "So tight. So fucking warm. You were made for this."

The rhythm built his body rocking into yours, his name falling from your lips again and again as pressure bloomed between your hips.

"I wanna hear you say it," he growled, breath shaky. "Say you’re mine."

"I’m yours," you moaned. "All yours."

That broke him.

His movements grew rougher, needier, one hand on your thigh as he drove into you, the other tangled in your hair. You were already coming again, body clenching around him, your vision white-hot as he grunted your name and came deep inside you.

Both of you froze. Breathing. Shaking. Wrapped around each other like you’d never let go.

After a few quiet minutes, he kissed your forehead.

"You okay?" You nodded with a tired smile.

"Better than I expected to be when I walked into this studio." He laughed, low and sweet.

"Definitely more than just a photoshoot." You looked at him still shirtless, skin flushed, chest rising.

"And this… what does this mean?"

Lando ran his fingers down your spine, grounding you. "It means you’re gonna be taking a lot more photos of me," he whispered, kissing your jaw. "And that I’m done pretending you’re just the girl behind the lens."

[iitslera]

【  𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒  】   ─── welcome to my world  

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───  𝓁era’s world ✷

[iitslera]

off limits ✶ theo nott

english isn’t my first, Implied Intimacy, Slow Burn Romance, Brother’s Best Friend

                              ──  ✦  ──

There were three unspoken rules in the Zabini household:

Firstly: Don’t touch Mum’s wine glasses. Secondly : Don’t ask about the family business. And Thirdly Don’t flirt with Theodore Nott.

That third one…

Was Blaise’s personal commandment. One he gave you when you were fourteen and he caught you staring too long at Theo during a summer party. “Stay away from Nott,” he said sharply. “He’s trouble.”

You believed him. Until Theo started smiling at you like he wanted to be your trouble.

It started small.

He came over during the holidays to see Blaise and greeted you with a “Zabini” that sounded more like temptation than a surname.

At Hogwarts, he passed you in the corridors and whispered things like: “Nice earrings.” “You dropped this… unless it’s mine now.” “You always smell like strawberries. Is that on purpose?”

It was maddening.

The slow burn. The teasing. The fact that he never actually made a move… but made sure you knew he could.

One night, you found him outside the common room. Late. Alone.

You were wearing an oversized Slytherin jumper, hair messy, a book clutched to your chest. “Studying?” he asked, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. You nodded.

“Cute,” he said with a lazy smile. “Didn’t have you pegged as the academic type.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what type do you think I am?”

He tilted his head slightly. “The dangerous kind. The kind I shouldn’t like.” Your stomach flipped. Then he walked away like nothing had happened. You never talked about it.

Not when he sat next to you in the library a week later and read over your shoulder, chin in hand, watching your lips more than the book.

Not when he pulled you into an empty corridor after Charms just to say: “Tell Blaise to stop threatening me. I’m not scared of him.”

Not when you caught him watching you from across the Great Hall like he already imagined what you’d look like undressed.

No, you didn’t talk about it. Because Theodore Nott was your brother’s best friend. And this was reckless.

Then came the party. Slytherin dorms. Loud music. Way too much firewhisky. Blaise had vanished somewhere with Malfoy. And Theo found you alone. “You always hide at parties?” he asked, offering you his drink.

“I’m not hiding,” you replied. “I’m observing.”

He took a sip and handed you the glass. “Poetic.”

You smirked. “Always this persistent?”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“Want me to stop?”

You froze. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t force it.

Just left the question hanging in the air.

You looked at him really looked. Messy dark hair. Sharp jaw. Those unreadable eyes that always seemed to know more than they said.

And you whispered: “No, not really.”

The kiss was inevitable. It wasn’t sweet. It was stolen. Messy. Secret.

His hands held your face like he was trying not to break you. Yours gripped his shirt like you’d waited too long to finally let go.

After that, the world went quiet. Not because you stopped talking. Because you didn’t need words anymore.

It was in the way he looked at you in class. The way his fingers brushed yours for just a second too long. The way he walked behind you in the hallways, hand lightly ghosting the small of your back… just to see you shiver.

And you always did. The party raged on inside. Laughter. Alcohol. Loud music. Some students already asleep on the couches.

But Theo kept you away from it.

Your back was pressed against the stone wall in a dim corridor lit only by flickering torchlight. His body was close. Way too close. And on his face that expression of constant self-control… about to snap.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice low and fraying, “how hard it is not to touch you when you’re near me.”

You held your breath. Not because of what he said — but how he said it. Like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Like he was fighting himself. Blaise. The whole damn world.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

His eyes changed. Darkened. Turned hungry.

He didn’t move. You did.

Your fingers brushed the edge of his shirt, fabric soft under your hand just an excuse to close the distance.

And he gave in.The kiss was deeper this time. Slower. Rougher.

His hands slid around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear. Your lips moved with his in soft gasps. Your fingers tangled in his hair.

And for a moment, you forgot everything. Your last name. The rules. Blaise. There was only Theo. And the way his breath hitched as he held you like this.

When he pulled away, his eyes stayed closed, forehead resting against yours. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispered like a confession.

“You shouldn’t want to,” you answered.

You both smiled a little broken, a little addicted. Because you both knew this night wasn’t ending here. He took your hand. Not like you were fragile. But like you were dangerous and he liked it.

“Come with me,” he said.

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t care. When you’re falling, the landing doesn’t matter. And with him… you weren’t scared to crash.

The secret became a routine. Sneaking around between classes. Stolen glances disguised as nothing. His hand brushing yours under the Great Hall table. Silent meetings in the Room of Requirement.

Everything carefully hidden. Everything done to make sure Blaise Zabini never found out. And it worked.

Until that night.

It was late. His room became your shared haven again, a soft couch, green curtains like his house colors. Theo had you curled up in his arms.

Kissing. Laughing. Breathing.

“I forget sometimes this isn’t allowed,” you murmured against his chest. He was quiet for a second.

“Sometimes,” he said finally, “I wish Blaise wasn’t my best friend.”

You froze slightly. “And what if he finds out?”

“He won’t take it well.”

Minutes passed. Peaceful. Dangerous.Then a knock. Three sharp bangs on the door. Theo stiffened. You sat up, heart racing. “Don’t open it,” you whispered.

But the door… opened anyway.

The magic of the Room let him in.

Blaise.

Standing in the doorway. In his pajamas. Wand in hand. Face unreadable. Fury. Disbelief. Hurt.

No one spoke.

The silence was louder than any scream. His eyes went from you to Theo. Then back to you. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” was all he said.

Theo stood up slowly. Didn’t hide you. Didn’t run.

“Let me explain—”

“How long?” Blaise asked you directly. Your voice barely made it out.

“A few weeks.”

He laughed. No humor. Just bitterness. “A few weeks,” he repeated, looking at Theo. “And you didn’t say a word. After everything?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” Blaise snapped. “A fling? A way to piss me off? Or do you just want to prove you can take everything — even my sister?”

“It’s not a game,” you said firmly. Theo looked at you like you just saved him. Blaise didn’t.

“Of course it’s not. Because you don’t fall for just anyone, do you?

Then Theo broke the silence. “I’m in love with her.”

Your breath caught. Not from shock. But because… he’d never said it out loud before.

Blaise blinked like he’d just been hit with a curse.

“I can’t listen to this,” he muttered. “Not from either of you.”

And he left.

The next day, you found him outside the library. He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just… tired.

“Do you love him?” he asked. Straight to the point.

“Yes,” you said.

“And he loves you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why hide it?”

“We were scared.”

“Of me?”

“Of losing you.”

That made him flinch. Because he didn’t expect that answer. Not from you. “You’re the most important person in my life,” you said.

“And you were mine,” he replied.

There was a long silence. Then he said: “If he breaks your heart… he won’t face me as a friend. He’ll face me as your brother. And he won’t recognize me when I’m done with him.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He walked away, hand on the door but paused.

And with his back to you, said quietly: “I always knew if someone could make Nott lose his mind… it’d be you.”

And then he was gone.

[iitslera]

hiii lera, i just found your blog by chance and was so happy to see that you're open for requests. my question is that do you have any exceptions on those 3 fandom f1 drivers, football players and tv shows that you won't/don't want to write for? i don't want to request you sth/s.o that you're not comfortable at all!

🗯️ Heyyy! Honestly, I don’t really have any exceptions, so don’t worry about making me uncomfortable with your request. If that ever changes, I’ll add it to my rules. Feel free to request whatever you want just keep this in mind. Also, I write for the HP and MCU universes too!

[iitslera]

it was never hate ✶ mattheo riddle

english isn’t my first, enemies to lovers, angst, mutual pining

                              ──  ✦  ──

The first time Mattheo Riddle said your name, it was to challenge you to a duel.

You, a fiery Gryffindor with a sharp mind and sharper tongue, smiled like someone throwing a match into gasoline knowing damn well you might get burned, but craving the fire anyway. Since then, it became routine.

Fighting him. Arguing with him. Beating him... or letting him win, just to see that cocky smirk he gets when he thinks he’s outsmarted you.

And everyone at Hogwarts thinks you hate each other. That you can’t be in the same hallway without throwing hexes or insults.

But you know better. There’s something else. You don’t know what. But it’s there. Buzzing under your skin. Crackling in the air when he's near. Like static electricity. Like danger. Like... wanting.

Everything shifts the day Professor Binns pairs you up for a research project. "Ancient Magic and Its Connection to Human Emotion," the scroll says.

Mattheo groans.

You cross your arms. Binns floats off like he didn’t just sign both your emotional death sentences. “Perfect,” Mattheo mutters. “Teamed up with a Gryffindor with a savior complex.”

You shoot back, “And you’re a Slytherin with a tragic villain complex. Guess we’re even.”

Days pass. You’re stuck in the library together. Sharing candlelight and dusty pages. You argue, he rolls his eyes, you throw ink, he throws sarcasm.

But then… something starts to change.

The silences stretch out, the stares linger, your fingers brush his when you reach for the same book.

And his breathing gets heavier when you lean in too close. Until, one night, it finally happens.

It’s in the Astronomy Tower. Past midnight. You snuck up there because the library closed early, and you needed to finish translating a spell on soulbonding. “You don’t believe in this, do you?” you ask, pointing to the page.

“In what?”

“In unavoidable connections.”

He laughs, but there's no humor. Just… something bitter. “And you do?”

You nod slowly. “Sometimes I think… we don’t get to choose who we hate. Or who we want.” You words hang between you, thick in the air. And then he steps forward.

Too close.

His eyes are dark, wild, wrecked.

His voice barely a whisper: “I don’t hate you.”

“What…?”

“I don’t hate you, fuck—” His voice shakes. “I hate myself for what I feel for you. For thinking about you all the time. For wanting to kiss you every time we argue. And not knowing how to stop.”

Your heart practically stops. Your breath catches. And then you do the only thing that makes sense in that moment You kiss him first.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s messy. Angry. Addictive. His hands are desperate. Your fingers tangle in his hair like a lifeline. It’s war turning into surrender. It’s silence turning into truth.

And for that one night, nothing else matters. Not the house rivalry. Not who he is. Not who you are. Just this. Just him. Just... you.

After the kiss… You don’t talk.

He left before the sun came up. And you walked back to Gryffindor Tower with trembling hands and swollen lips and a head full of chaos.

And since then? Mattheo Riddle hasn’t looked at you once.

Three days. Three fucking days. Nothing. No notes. No smirks. Not even a passing glare in class. Just silence.

And not the charged kind. The empty kind. The kind that screams: it meant nothing to him.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter to Hermione in the library, practically snapping your quill in half.

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Hermione raises an eyebrows “Riddle? Again?”

You lie. Say it’s just the project. Say he’s annoying. Say you wish Binns had paired you with literally anyone else. But that night, alone in the Room of Requirement where you used to work on the project together…

You admit it. It hurts. Not the silence. 

But what the silence means. Until one night, you see him. Mattheo. Alone. In the courtyard, smoking. It’s 2 a.m. The moon makes him glow silver. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, hair a mess, like the night sky just tossed him here for you to deal with.

You weren’t going to stop. You were going to keep walking, pretend you didn’t see him. Pretend you don’t care. But then, he speaks. Without looking at you. “You gonna ignore me too?”

Your whole body freezes. You turn. “Excuse me? I’m ignoring you?”

Now he looks at you. And God, you hate how pretty he is. “I don’t know what you expected,” you snap. “You kiss me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive, and then you vanish. Like I was some mistake.”

His expression changes. Quiet. Wrecked. “You’re not a mistake,” he says. “I am.” You stand still. The wind cuts through the air. So do his words. “You know what’s worse than hating you?” he murmurs. “Liking you. Wanting you. Knowing I can’t have you without ruining you.”

“You’re not ruining me, Mattheo,” you whisper. “You ruin me by leaving.” He steps forward. And again. And again.

“I’m not scared of anyone,” he says. “But you? You fucking terrify me.”

“Why?”

“Because when I’m with you… I feel real.”

And then the silence returns. But it doesn’t hurt this time. Now it means something. Now it’s not avoidance. It’s a promise.

That no matter how much you try to fight it, you’ll always crash back into each other. Because this didn’t start with hate. It started with fire.

And fire always comes back.

“He’s not your enemy. He never was. He was just the perfect distraction to hide the fact that you felt too much for him to admit.”

You don’t kiss again. Not for a while, but ever since that night in the courtyard, everything changes. No more insults. No more sarcastic jabs. Something worse.

Stolen glances. Silent tension. Close proximity that feels like drowning. Professor McGonagall calls you two the most “efficient pair” in class.

If only she knew you spent 45 minutes in front of a book without reading a single word. You, pretending to take notes. Him, drawing random shapes in the corner of the parchment, right next to your hand.

And once, just once. When everyone left the classroom… he touched your wrist. His thumb brushed your skin. And you didn’t breathe for seven seconds.

The Room of Requirement becomes your secret routine. You never arrive together. But he’s always there first. Sitting in the same chair. One candle lit. A book open he never reads, because he’s too busy watching you.

Like you’re the only spell he can’t figure out. And you? You let him.

Then one night, it happens again. You’re pissed.  You saw him with Pansy Parkinson all day. Laughing. Standing too close.

“What is your deal?” you ask the moment you step into the room.

He doesn’t even look up. “What now?”

“Are you messing with me?”

He raises a brow. “Does it bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me! I’m not some game to you, Mattheo.”

He stands up, slow and steady. “You think you’re a game to me? After everything?”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

But not the kind you run from. This one hurts. He breathes out.

“You’re my fucking weakness. That’s what you are.”

You freeze. He steps closer. Closer. Closer. “Everyone sees me as the threat. The son of the monster. And I became that. It was easier. Being feared. Untouchable.” His voice cracks barely.

“Then you came along. And you didn’t fear me. You saw me. And now I don’t know how to protect myself from you.”

So you kiss him. But this time, not out of impulse. Out of choice. Out of need. Out of something you’re both too scared to name.

And this time, he kisses you like he finally gets it. Like he wants to stay.

That night, for the first time, you fall asleep in the Room of Requirement. Together. Nothing else happens. Just you. His breath against your neck. His fingers laced with yours. There’s still a war waiting outside those walls.

But for tonight? There are no sides.

Just the two of you. On the edge of something beautiful. And terrifying.

And completely real.

[iitslera]

🗯️ Requests are open! You can ask for F1 drivers, football players, films and TV shows.

✶ If you’ve requested something before and I haven’t posted it yet, it’s probably in the works — sorry for the delay .ᐟ.ᐟ

[iitslera]

                                © ₊˚ʚ iitslera

✶⋆.˚ 𝓛era. she/her. 9teen. november. scorpio. intp. 55 mexican. multifandom. ⟡ afrodite’s daughter. films and books enthusiast. gryffindor. romcom lover. f1 and tea kev’s gf. ‹𝟹

【  𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓  】   ───

masterlist .ᐟ ✶     before requesting read this...   socials.    inbox.    ──  about me !

🗯️  © iitslera. do not republish, edit, translate, or plagiarize my works. 

[iitslera]

like i’d ever fall for a culé… right? ✶ HF32

english isn’t my first language, enemies to lovers and a little bit suggestive content

                               ──  ✦  ──

You hated Barça players. Straight up. Okay, maybe hate was a strong word. But something about them just rubbed you the wrong way. Was it the arrogance? The way they walked around like football gods? Or was it that your heart had been white since the beginning of time, and anything that smelled remotely blaugrana made your blood pressure spike?

Probably the last one.

And yet, there you were. At a party in Madrid. Surrounded by unfamiliar jerseys, laughter, loud music, and for some reason players from the rival team.

More specifically, Héctor Fort.

You weren’t sure how he even ended up there (rumor had it he was friends with a couple Atlético players), but the point was: he was there. Right in front of you. Wearing that “I know exactly the effect I have” smile, his hair artfully messy, and a tight black shirt that, honestly, was not helping your anti-Barça stance.

“Mind if I come closer?” he asked, holding a drink in one hand, eyes locked onto yours with shameless amusement.

You gave him a flat stare. “Only if you’re not about to bring up the 2009 treble.”

“And what if I talk about the one that’s coming next?” he replied smoothly, leaning against the wall beside you.

You rolled your eyes.

“Not even in your dreams, Fort.”

He laughed — clearly enjoying this. “You know my last name? I’m flattered.”

“I screamed it once when you scored an own goal. One of the best days of my life.”

He clutched his chest in mock pain. “And here I was, about to offer to buy you a drink. Life is cruel.”

“Buy it for someone easier,” you said, turning your back on him and walking back to your group of friends.

But of course, he didn’t leave.

Because he was Héctor Fort. And you’d just bruised his ego. Now, you were his challenge.

It didn’t stop that night. It never did.

You started running into him at events, mutual hangouts, rooftops where someone always happened to invite “that group of Barça boys.” And every single time — he was there. With those flirty lines. With the way he leaned in just enough to hear you better. With that annoying accent you were starting to maybe find attractive.

And each time, you replied with sarcasm.

“So… switched sides yet or still playing for the villains?”

“How are you gonna resist me when ‘visca el Barça’ doesn’t even make you flinch anymore?”

“You know, you’re kinda hot when you pretend to hate me.”

And you who had sworn never to smile at him started doing just that. Without even realizing it. Because that stupid flirt knew exactly what he was doing.

One night, after a particularly intense match (which Madrid obviously won), you ran into him outside a rooftop bar. He was alone. So were you.

Both of you stopped.

“Here to rub in the score?” he asked, flashing that crooked smile he wore when he was tired but still ready to play.

“Do I need to? I saw you disappear in the second half. Looked like it hurt to watch Bellingham celebrate.”

Héctor chuckled quietly, stepping closer.

“What really hurts is you still pretending you don’t want to kiss me.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” he murmured, leaning in way closer than what was polite. “I’m not the only one feeling this. Don’t look at me like that if you’re not going to do something about it.”

You said nothing for a second. The air between you shifted heavy, electric. You were one bad decision away from something irreversible.

“I would never hook up with a Barça player,” you whispered.

“Then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me,” he said calmly. Confident. Like someone who already knew you were shaking.

You bit your lip.

And said nothing.

Because you couldn’t.

Because… maybe you did want him.

Because that annoyingly charming idiot had slipped under your Madrid jersey and into your head.

Nothing happened that night. But after that, everything changed.

Your texts with him became more frequent. Your “I’m not into you” turned into “you’re so annoying.” And your “you’re so annoying” slowly transformed into I think about you more than I should.

And when Héctor texted you after El Clásico saying: “We lost… you coming to comfort me or still pretending you feel nothing?”

Your reply was: “I’m on my way. But don’t think I like you.”

He replied with just one word: “Liar.”

You said you were going just for fun. That it was just to mess with him. That it didn’t mean anything.

And yet, there you were. Standing in front of the hotel where Barça was staying in Madrid. Heart pounding. Phone shaking in your hand. His last message still on the screen.

You hated him. You hated that he was right. Because you’d said you didn’t like him, that it was a game, that you’d never fall for a guy like him. But you thought about him. You thought about him way too much.

Héctor came down a few minutes later. No hat, no rush. Like he didn’t care who saw him. Like he already knew you were coming. Like you did, too. “I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he said, in that low, soft voice he only used when he wasn’t joking.

“I didn’t come for you,” you replied quickly, arms crossed.

“Oh no? Then why?”

“For… pride. To prove you don’t affect me.”

He smiled. “Then stay. And prove it.”

He gave you that look the one that wasn’t just a look. It was a statement.

You both went to the top floor. Not his room, obviously. The rooftop. It was empty. Quiet. Just a couple lights and the distant hum of a city that never really sleeps.

You sat at the edge, pretending to be calm. He stayed standing, watching you like every little move you made fascinated him.

“I don’t get why you bother me so much,” you muttered. “Because you like me.” “No.” “Yes.”

You glared at him. But it wasn’t hate. It was that other thing. That burn in your mouth every time you were near him and didn’t kiss him.

“I don’t like you.” “Then look me in the eyes and say it,” he replied, stepping closer.

You did.

And you couldn’t say it.

Because it wasn’t true anymore.

“This is stupid,” you whispered. “Then kiss me. Show me it means nothing.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” you snapped but you were already standing, barely a breath away from him.

“I’m not asking you to fall in love. Just stop lying.”

You froze.

You could feel his hands close, feel his presence, the heat, the tension building in your chest. Like your whole body already knew what you wanted before your mind caught up.

“I’d never hook up with a culé,” you whispered, almost like a mantra. But it was losing power.

He leaned in closer, his lips just a breath from yours.

“And I shouldn’t want a madridista who hates me. But here we are.”

You stood there. In that dangerous silence. That line between walking away… or giving in.

And you wanted to leave.

But you wanted to stay even more.

And that terrified you. Excited you. Set you on fire.

“You know what the worst part is?” you whispered, not moving. “What?” “I didn’t even like you.” “And now…”

His fingers brushed your cheek. Barely. Like he was asking for permission.

And you didn’t stop him.

“Now you annoy me in a different way,” you murmured, voice shaking.

He smiled.

“Then kiss me.”

Your lips were so close, the next move could change everything.

And he knew it.

Because you weren’t his enemy anymore. You were his obsession.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe him. Maybe you. Or maybe the universe had just gotten tired of the tension and shoved you two together.

What you did know… was what happened next.

His mouth crashed into yours with a mix of frustration and hunger. Like he’d waited too long. Like he needed to prove, once and for all, that this wasn’t a joke. That it wasn’t a game. That it was you.

It was a rough kiss. No softness. Tight lips. Hands gripping your waist. All that pent-up energy finally set free.

And you kissed him back.

With every ounce of the frustration you’d buried. With all the want you refused to admit. With the overwhelming urge to rip off your white jersey and forget the colors just for tonight.

His fingers traced your back, tangled in your hair. He pulled you closer closer like any space left between you was an insult.

You were breathing against his mouth, between kisses, barely catching air.

But you didn’t want to breathe. You didn’t want to think.

You pushed him gently against the rooftop wall, hands on his chest. You felt the heat of his skin through the fabric. He let out a low breath against your neck, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Fuck…” he murmured against your jaw, lips trailing your skin. “I swear I didn’t know how bad I wanted you until now.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Because it hurt, too. You’d fought this for so long. And kissing him was surrendering and at the same time, the most freeing thing you’d ever done.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you lied, voice trembling.

“Then kiss me like that again,” he said, biting softly at your lower lip. “And tell me you feel nothing.”

So you did.

You kissed him like you were trying to forget him and memorize him at the same time.

Your legs were shaking. His hands slid down your sides with dangerous slowness. Your back hit the cold wall, and instead of pulling away it just ignited you even more. You needed him closer. Deeper. More.

“What are we doing?” you whispered, forehead pressed to his.

“Something we shouldn’t… but I can’t stop.”

His lips trailed down your neck. Short kisses. Like little promises you didn’t yet understand. Your fingers slid under his shirt. He shut his eyes and exhaled deep and shaky.

“We’re not going further here,” you said suddenly, trying to take back some control.

“I know,” he whispered, eyes dark and full of want. “But don’t ask me to walk away from you tonight.”

And you didn’t.

You stayed.

Wrapped in each other’s arms. Kissing in silence. Touching like the world outside the rooftop didn’t exist.

And when you finally went back downstairs, lips swollen, shirt slightly rumpled there was no pretending anymore.

It wasn’t a war.

It wasn’t a rivalry.

It wasn’t pride.

It was Héctor.

And he had won you in the one way you never thought you’d fall: by kissing you until you stopped fighting.

[iitslera]

                     ୨ৎ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 …

꒰ ✶ ꒱ please be kind and respectful when sending asks. i do not tolerate hate, slander, or unnecessary drama — any of that will be blocked immediately.

꒰ ✶ ꒱ do not repost or upload my work to other platforms without my permission and proper credit. this includes translations.

꒰ ✶ ꒱ plagiarism is never okay. being inspired is fine — copying is not.

꒰ ✶ ꒱ i might be inactive sometimes due to university or personal life. please be patient with me.

                       ୨ৎ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 …

꒰ ✶ ꒱ always check if requests are open before sending yours. if my inbox is closed, the request will be deleted.

꒰ ✶ ꒱ i only write character x fem!reader — no exceptions.

꒰ ✶ ꒱ i accept headcanons, drabbles, one-shots and full-length fics. i write fluff, angst, and soft smut depending on comfort level.

꒰ ✶ ꒱ requests may take time depending on length and complexity. thank you for understanding.

                        ୨ৎ 𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 … 

꒰ ✶ ꒱ characters under 18, regardless of context or genre. this also includes characters who just turned 18.

꒰ ✶ ꒱ abuse towards the reader, incest, extreme or hard kinks, large age gaps, or first-time/virginity loss.

୨୧ ── thank you for respecting my boundaries. this is meant to be a soft, safe space for all readers

[iitslera]

stay here ✶ JJ Maybank

english isn’t my first lenguaje, I think emotional vulnerability, implied past hardship, soft angst, hurt/comfort.

                            ──  ✦  ──

The old fan buzzed lazily in the corner, spinning just enough to move the hot summer air. Outside, the sky was a dark blue ink, the palm trees just shadows against the night. Inside, the heat still clung to the walls of the chateau like it didn’t know the day was over.

"You should sleep in the bed," you said for the third time, turning to look at him.

JJ was on the floor, lying on a beat-up old blanket that barely covered the wooden boards. He was using his backpack as a pillow, arms crossed behind his head like this was totally normal, like he wasn’t clearly suffering.

"And I already told you no," he replied with a half-smile, not even opening his eyes.

"JJ…" you sighed, sitting up on the mattress. "You're gonna wake up with your neck twisted and your back wrecked."

"I’ve slept in worse places, princess," he joked, cracking one eye open to glance at you.

You exhaled, frustrated. You were staying at the chateau because your family had gone out of town, and JJ insisted on keeping you company. The night had started lighthearted—card games, a little stolen beer from John B’s fridge—but when it came time to sleep, JJ had stubbornly refused to share the bed.

"I don’t want you to think I’m trying anything," he’d said quietly, eyes serious for once.

But now, watching him sprawled out awkwardly, his blond curls messy, his long legs bent at weird angles, something in your chest tugged a little.

"You’re gonna wake up cursing me tomorrow for letting you sleep down there," you tried again.

"You didn’t force me," he said with a tired little laugh.

You didn’t respond right away. The fan kept spinning. The heat pressed against your skin. JJ looked relaxed, but you knew him better than that. When he got really still and said “it’s fine,” it almost never was.

"JJ," you whispered. "Why won’t you just sleep up here? Just sleep. I promise I won’t hog the blankets or kick you."

He opened his eyes again and stared at you. That look he gave you… like he was searching for words and couldn’t find them. Like he had some invisible fear stuck in his throat he didn’t know how to name.

"Because I like you too much," he said suddenly. Not a whisper. A confession.

You froze. So did he.

JJ sat up, arms resting on his knees, eyes on the floor like he’d just dropped a bomb. Like he was bracing himself for whatever came next. But you didn’t say anything. You just scooted over on the mattress and patted the space beside you gently.

"Then come sleep here," you said softly. "If you like me… stay."

He looked up slowly, almost like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. And then, without saying a word, he got to his feet. He sat down on the bed first, awkward and hesitant, like he was still doubting himself. Then he laid down beside you, leaving a careful amount of space between you, lying stiff on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Minutes passed. Quiet. Just the fan, the distant sound of crickets, and the rapid beat of your heart.

Until you turned. And looked at him.

"You comfortable now?"

"Much more," he said, turning to face you.

In the darkness, his eyes glinted. He didn’t touch you. Not even a brush of skin. But the silence between you was charged, humming with something unspoken, something fragile and dangerous and beautiful.

"JJ…" you whispered, barely breathing. "I’ve had feelings for you, too. For a while."

He didn’t respond with words. He just inched closer, just enough for his forehead to rest gently against yours, his fingers slowly intertwining with yours under the covers.

"Then I’m gonna stay here every night you’ll let me," he murmured.

And for the first time in a long, long while, JJ Maybank slept soundly. With you.

No fear. No act. Just him. And you.