ilovejb

[ilovejb]

| Mommy’s love |

Pairings: Alexia Putellas x putellas!baby!reader

Summary: Alexia’s daughter Y/N is obsessed with her boobs, and her milk

Warnings: breastfeeding, pure fluffy fluff

Authors note: i love boobs so cute fluffy baby appreciating alexia boobs ( in a cute way don’t make it weird )

The first thing you registered every morning wasn’t the gentle sunlight seeping through the curtains of your shared room, nor the chirping of the birds outside. It was the soft, familiar warmth radiating beside you, the comforting scent of your mommy. And then, the undeniable urge. A deep, primal pull towards the source of all comfort, all nourishment.

Even before your eyes fully fluttered open, your tiny hands were already at work, fumbling with the soft fabric of Alexia’s sleep shirt. A little whine escaped your lips, a soft, needy sound that always seemed to stir your mommy from her peaceful slumber. Her eyes would blink open, a sleepy smile gracing her lips as she registered your presence, your tiny quest.

“Hola, mi amor,” she’d murmur, her voice still thick with sleep, but already laced with that gentle, patient tone she reserved just for you. Before she was fully awake, you’d already found your way, snuggled against her chest, your little mouth latching on with a contented sigh. This was your perfect start to the day, a quiet, magical ritual where the world outside faded away, and it was just you and the comforting rhythm of your mommy’s heartbeat, the sweet, familiar taste of her milk. Alexia would stroke your soft hair, humming a tuneless melody, her love flowing into you as surely as her milk.

The days were a whirlwind of tiny socks, soft babbles, and the ever-present need to be close to your mommy. Even when she tried to steal a few moments to connect with her Barça teammates via video call, you were a constant, cuddly fixture in her lap. During one particular Zoom call, while Alexia was trying to discuss training schedules with a screen full of familiar faces, you decided that the perfect moment for a milk break was now.

Alexia, ever the multitasking marvel, tried to balance you in one arm while gesturing with the other, keeping one eye on the screen. You, however, were single-minded in your pursuit. Little rooting motions turned into determined shoves against her shirt. Alexia tried to be discreet, angling the laptop slightly, but the tell-tale signs were there. A soft sigh of contentment from you, the occasional wiggle of tiny legs.

Then, Mapi’s sharp eyes spotted it. “Alexia,” she called out, a mischievous glint in her eye, “is that… a tiny foot I see sticking out of your hoodie?”

A chorus of giggles erupted from the other squares on the screen. Ingrid chuckled, shaking her head with a fond smile. Aitana teased, “Looks like someone has their priorities straight!”

Alexia just laughed, a flush creeping up her neck. “Someone is a little… insistent this morning,” she explained, adjusting you slightly so you could latch on more comfortably, all while trying to follow the conversation about the upcoming match. You, oblivious to the teasing, were in your happy place, the world a perfect, milky haven.

Even at the Barça training camp, your need for your mommy’s closeness was unwavering. During a brief halftime break, Alexia would often sneak away from the locker room chaos to check on you. You usually stayed nearby with one of the team staff, someone you were familiar with, but the moment you saw your mommy, your face would crumple. A soft whimper would escape your lips, your little arms reaching out with an undeniable longing.

Alexia knew exactly what you needed. Without a word, she’d scoop you up, her tired muscles instantly forgotten at the feel of your small body against hers. Finding a quiet corner in the bustling environment, sometimes just a bench in the hallway or a slightly less crowded part of the locker room, she’d settle down with you at her chest.

The moment you latched on, the whimpers would cease, replaced by contented little sighs. The other players, passing by, would just smile at the familiar scene – Alexia, the world-class footballer, finding her ultimate comfort in your tiny form, and you, finding yours in her.

During a rare team dinner out, the lively chatter and unfamiliar surroundings could sometimes overwhelm you. A little frown would furrow your brow, escalating into a full-blown crying fit that no amount of gentle rocking or soothing words could seem to quell.

The clatter of cutlery and the murmur of conversation would fade into the background as Alexia instinctively picked you up.

Finding a quieter corner of the restaurant, away from the curious glances, she’d sit down, cradling you close. The moment you were nestled against her chest, your little hands reaching, a sense of calm would wash over you both. As you latched on, the cries would instantly subside, replaced by the softest of suckling sounds. Ingrid or Mapi, often the most vocal of the “aunties,” would peek over with knowing smiles. “See?” one of them would whisper, “A boob lover, just like her mom.”

Alexia would just smile, the quiet peace of the moment a welcome respite from the restaurant’s buzz.

Naptime was almost always synonymous with “Mommy’s chest time.” Even when you weren’t necessarily hungry, the only place you truly felt safe and secure enough to drift off was nestled against Alexia. Sometimes you’d nurse until your eyelids grew heavy, your little body going limp with sleep.

Other times, you’d simply lie there, your tiny hand resting on her breast, as if that physical connection was all you needed to enter the land of dreams. Alexia would just lie there too, often sacrificing her own rest, gently rubbing your back, feeling the rise and fall of your tiny chest, letting you drift off in the crook of her arm.

These quiet moments, filled with the silent language of touch and breath, were some of her most cherished.

Even after the adrenaline of a big match win, amidst the celebratory cheers and the joyful chaos of the locker room, Alexia’s thoughts would invariably turn to you. The victory was sweet, but the longing to hold you was always stronger.

She’d quickly find you in the stands, usually being cuddled by a member of the team staff, and scoop you into her arms. Leaving the boisterous celebrations behind, she’d find a quiet corner, perhaps a less crowded part of the stands or a small office.

Still in her sweaty kit, the scent of victory mingling with the sweet smell of baby, she’d sit down and bring you to her chest. As you latched on, a soft sigh of contentment escaping your lips, she’d whisper about how much she had missed you during the game, how your tiny face was her constant motivation.

Perhaps one of the most memorable instances of your unwavering devotion to “boobie time” happened during a post-match press interview. Alexia was answering questions, her voice a mix of elation and exhaustion, when your sharp little ears picked up the familiar sound of her voice from backstage.

Suddenly, a determined wail pierced through the thin walls. The interview faltered as everyone looked towards the commotion. Before anyone could react, you appeared, being carried in by a frazzled team liaison, your little face red with distress, your arms reaching desperately for your mommy.

Without a second thought, Alexia scooped you up from the staff member. The moment you were in her arms, you burrowed into her chest, your cries instantly ceasing as you sought your familiar comfort. With a practiced ease that spoke volumes about your routine, Alexia adjusted her shirt, and you latched on, your tiny hands kneading gently.

Alexia continued the interview, answering questions about the game with you nestled contentedly at her breast, giving a casual, loving smile to the cameras as if it were the most natural thing in the world – which, for the two of you, it absolutely was. The reporters, initially surprised, quickly softened, capturing the beautiful, unfiltered moment of a world-class athlete seamlessly blending her two most important roles: a star on the field and a devoted mommy.

These weren’t just moments of feeding; they were moments of profound connection, a silent dialogue of love and comfort that transcended words.

Your obsession with “boobie time” wasn’t just about the milk; it was about the warmth, the closeness, the unwavering security you found nestled against your mommy’s heart. And for Alexia, every little tug, every soft sigh of contentment, was a tangible reminder of the deep, unbreakable bond you shared, a love that flowed as freely and as purely as her milk. It was a love letter written in the language of cuddles and comfort, a testament to the beautiful, messy, and utterly heart-melting world of motherhood.

[ilovejb]

| Spoiled Rotten |

Pairing: Sugar Mommy!Scarlett Johansson x fem!College Reader

Summary: You’re a broke college student. Scarlett’s rich, gorgeous, and obsessed with spoiling you. She pays for everything — and when she finally decides to collect? She doesn’t hold back.

Warnings: Age gap (19–20 x ~40s),Sugar mommy dynamic / luxury kink,Domme!Scarlett x Sub!Reader, smut (oral, fingering, praise, light restraint)

Authors note : requested by @veja

The first time Scarlett Johansson bought you something, it was a coffee.

Not a thousand-dollar bag. Not the designer shoes you’re wearing right now. Just a coffee.

You had been standing in line with your messy ponytail, oversized hoodie, and cracked phone screen open to a digital textbook when she tapped your shoulder and said,

“Don’t look at me like that — I can afford your latte.”

You didn’t even recognize her at first.

Now, four weeks later, you’re sitting in the backseat of a black car that smells like her perfume, wearing a dress you didn’t pay for, next to a woman who buys your groceries, texts you about your midterms, and tips in hundred-dollar bills.

“Don’t fidget,” Scarlett says, not looking up from her phone. “You’re going to wrinkle the silk.”

You immediately stop squirming, pressing your thighs together under the hem of the expensive, thigh-length slip dress she picked out for you earlier that afternoon.

“I just…” you say quietly, “I’ve never been to a restaurant with a wine list longer than the menu.”

She hums, amused. “Good thing you’re not paying, then.”

You blush, but you don’t argue.

She tucks her phone away and turns to face you fully, her hand coming to rest gently on your knee.

“You’re nervous.”

You nod, and she tilts her head slightly — the way people do when they’re looking at something sweet. Or maybe fragile.

“You don’t have to impress me,” Scarlett says. “You just have to let me spoil you.”

Your throat feels tight. “But why me?”

Scarlett leans closer. You can smell her — warm skin, soft floral perfume, red wine.

“Because you’re smart. And sweet. And so polite it makes me want to ruin you a little.”

Your breath catches.

“But…” she adds, smoothing your hem like she’s reminding herself not to touch too much. “Not yet.”

Dinner is surreal.

The kind of place that doesn’t show prices on the menu. White tablecloths. Crystal glassware. Waiters who smile at Scarlett like they’re used to seeing her here.

She orders for both of you. Correctly guesses your favorite dessert. Laughs when you ask if they take student ID discounts.

Halfway through the meal, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. When you return, there’s a small velvet box on your plate.

You stare at it, then at her.

“What’s this?”

Scarlett just smiles, sipping her wine. “Open it.”

You do — slowly — revealing a delicate gold necklace with a tiny “S” charm at the center.

Your jaw drops. “Scarlett, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

You shake your head, flustered. “I can’t afford this.”

She leans in, smirking now. “You don’t have to. That’s the point, baby.”

You’re blushing so hard it hurts. “People are gonna think I’m—”

She cuts you off, voice low and honey-sweet: “Yours.”

You blink. “What?”

She picks up the necklace and stands behind you, draping it around your neck and clasping it gently.

“I want people to know who’s spoiling you,” she whispers by your ear. “And who gets to ruin you… when you’re ready.”

You don’t speak the rest of the meal.

You can’t.

You haven’t told Scarlett you’re at the mall.

You’re not hiding it from her — not really. You just figured it would be… nice, for once, to do something on your own.

You needed socks. That’s all it started as. But then you passed a window display at Aritzia, and that top you’d liked online was suddenly there in real life. Hanging on the rack. Your size. Your color.

You bite your lip and hold it up to your chest in the mirror. It’s a little cropped, with soft lace along the bottom hem. Something Scarlett would like.

Which is exactly why you hesitate.

You’ve let her pay for dinners, bags, rideshares, groceries. You told yourself it was temporary — just until your next student loan deposit. You told yourself you were still independent, even if you let her pick out your shoes.

But now you’re in the changing room, phone on silent, trying on a top you can technically afford, and you feel like you’re cheating on her.

You’re buttoning the last snap when your phone buzzes.

And buzzes again.

You freeze. Your heart jumps.

Scarlett.

Scarlett.

Scarlett.

Scarlett 💋:

Are you trying to sneak around and spend money behind my back, baby?

Scarlett 💋:

I know where you are.

Nordstrom? Really?

Your stomach sinks. You click the next message open with shaking hands.

Scarlett 💋:

Cute top. Try it in white too. I’m buying both.

You turn red, glancing around the changing room like she might be watching you through the mirror.

You:

How did you even—

I didn’t mean to hide it, I swear

I just didn’t want to bother you

Her reply is instant.

Scarlett 💋:

You’re never a bother.

You’re mine. I take care of what’s mine.

A second later, your phone buzzes again — this time with a notification from the store’s point-of-sale system.

Payment Received:

Scarlett Johansson has covered your balance of $264.71.

You exhale a shocked little laugh, one hand covering your mouth.

A knock comes at the dressing room door.

“Hi, uh—Miss? The woman on the phone said you’re all set. She also asked if you could meet her in the car.”

Your jaw drops. “She’s here?!”

The salesgirl shrugs. “Didn’t say. Just said you’d know what that meant.”

Five minutes later, you step out of the store with two new bags in your hands and a face hotter than the sun.

You spot her car almost immediately — the same sleek black one that’s picked you up from class, from your dorm, from her place.

You slip into the back seat.

She’s there.

Not in the front. Not pretending to chauffeur you.

Just waiting in the back, one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses pushed up into her golden hair, one manicured finger tapping her phone screen.

She glances up, finally, and smiles.

“That was fast,” she says softly. “I thought you might try to run.”

You swallow. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“You didn’t think I’d find out.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she raises a hand — calm, casual, in control.

“You’re mine,” she says again, this time quieter. “That means you don’t pay for anything unless I say so.”

You fidget with the handle of the shopping bag. “I just… I didn’t want to seem like I’m using you.”

Scarlett leans forward and slides her fingers under your chin.

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice dark and soft. “If you were using me, you’d be in the front seat. Not here.”

Your breath catches.

“Let me take care of you,” she whispers, thumb stroking your cheek. “That’s all I want.”

You nod, barely.

She smiles, then leans back again — relaxed, satisfied.

“Now,” she says, patting the seat beside her. “Come here. Let me see what I just bought.”

You climb into her lap without question.

You’re wearing the white lace top she picked out. The one that cost more than your entire monthly rent. It barely covers your chest, thin straps sliding down your arms every time you shift. You didn’t wear a bra — you don’t dare. Not when she asked so sweetly not to.

You stand awkwardly near the edge of the hotel bed, trying to act like this is normal.

Scarlett is sitting across from you in the plush armchair, legs crossed, a glass of red wine balanced perfectly in one hand.

She’s been staring at you in absolute silence for three full minutes.

You tug at the hem of your top. “Do you like it?”

Scarlett raises a brow, then smiles — slow, approving, like a cat that’s cornered something soft and trembling.

“You’re breathtaking,” she says, voice low. “But you already knew that.”

You try not to squirm. “I didn’t—”

She sets the wine glass down, rising from the chair with terrifying grace.

“Yes, you did,” she interrupts, walking slowly toward you. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Walking out of that dressing room with flushed cheeks, pretending not to notice how much I wanted you.”

You suck in a breath. She’s so close now you can smell her perfume — warm, smoky, sinful.

“You’ve been teasing me, haven’t you?” Scarlett murmurs, eyes on your lips. “Wearing my gifts. Flashing me those sweet, shy glances. Acting like you didn’t know exactly how good you’d look in this top.”

You shake your head, but your voice betrays you. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”

She smiles.

“Lie down.”

Your knees almost give out.

You obey without speaking, crawling onto the bed and lying back on the cool sheets, heart pounding in your throat.

Scarlett follows, slow and confident, kneeling between your legs. She runs her hands up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your tiny skirt higher and higher.

“Still wet?” she asks casually, as if it’s just polite small talk.

You nod helplessly. “Since the car.”

She hums, pleased. “My good girl.”

You moan softly — that voice, that praise — it’s too much.

She leans in, dragging her fingers up the inside of your thigh, stopping just before your center.

“Are you going to be good for me?” she murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear. “Or do I need to tie those pretty wrists down so you don’t squirm away?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

“I know you will,” she says, and finally slips her hand between your legs.

Your panties are soaked.

She groans softly when she feels it, pressing her fingers over the soaked fabric, watching your face as you twitch under her.

“God, look at you,” she whispers. “You’re dripping for me. You’ve been needy all night, haven’t you?”

You nod, barely able to speak.

“Use your words.”

“Yes—Scarlett, I’ve wanted you all day—please—”

She hooks her fingers in the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, leaving you fully bare. You cover your face with your hands, humiliated at how wet you are — at how easily she’s got you falling apart.

Scarlett laughs softly. “Shy now? After all that teasing?”

You whimper, and she grabs both your wrists, pinning them above your head in one hand.

“Keep them there,” she commands. “Or I stop.”

You nod, breathless.

She lowers her mouth to your inner thigh first, kissing and sucking little marks into your skin. Teasing.

You buck your hips slightly. “Please—”

And then she licks one slow stripe up your slit.

You gasp, thighs clenching, wrists tightening where you’ve held them. Her tongue is so warm, so deliberate, and she hums like you taste better than the wine she left behind.

“Oh my God—Scarlett—please don’t stop—”

She doesn’t.

She eats you out like she owns you — like this is what she’s been thinking about since the second she saw you in that top. Her tongue works in slow, deep circles over your clit, then dips lower, teasing your entrance. You’re moaning now, loud, unable to stop it.

And then, without warning, she slips two fingers inside you.

You scream.

“Scarlett—!”

“That’s it,” she growls, thrusting slow and deep. “Let me hear you. I want the whole damn floor to know who’s fucking you tonight.”

Your body is shaking now, hips lifting off the bed, thighs trembling on either side of her shoulders.

She curls her fingers just right — just right — and you nearly sob.

“Right there—please, right there—!”

“You’re so tight, baby,” she pants. “So perfect for me.”

“I’m gonna cum—I—Scarlett—”

She pulls her mouth off just long enough to say, “Then do it. Be a good girl. Cum for your mommy.”

That’s all it takes.

You come undone, clenching around her fingers with a cry so loud you’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so fucking gone.

She keeps fucking you through it, working you until your legs are useless, until you’re whimpering and twitching and begging her to stop — or not stop — you don’t even know anymore.

Eventually, she slows. Withdraws.

And kisses you. Deep, hungry, full of ownership.

“You did so well, baby,” she whispers, brushing your hair back. “You’re mine.”

You nod, dazed. “Yours.”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

She lifts you gently, pulling you into her lap and wrapping the silk sheet around your body.

She feeds you strawberries from the minibar. Wipes your inner thighs with a warm cloth. Kisses your neck while you melt against her.

“You’re going to wake up sore,” she murmurs, amused.

You laugh into her shoulder. “I’ll survive.”

“I’ll send a car for you in the morning,” she adds. “And a new outfit. Something soft. You’ve earned it.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed.

You’ve never been more wrecked in your life.

You’ve also never felt more loved.

[ilovejb]

HI!!!!!!!!! could you write a lewis pullman x reader where the reader is meeting lewis parents for the first time? she could also be a actress? THANK YOU!!!!

| Meet the pullmans |

Pairing: Lewis Pullman x Actress!Reader

Summary: You’ve handled press junkets and red carpets with ease—but nothing prepares you for meeting Lewis Pullman’s parents for the first time.

Warnings: Fluff, nerves, kissing, light cursing

Authors note : this is really short, also im sorry i took so long, I’m a lazy cunt

You had done press tours, stage dives, and stunts for film sets in the middle of the desert. You’d survived awkward interviews, wardrobe malfunctions, and a kiss scene with an actor who wouldn’t stop chewing gum. But somehow, none of that compared to the slow-growing ball of panic in your stomach as the plane descended into Montana.

Lewis, sitting beside you in the first-class seat with his baseball cap pulled low and fingers loosely tangled with yours, looked over with a small grin. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” you asked, even though you already knew.

“That thing where you bite the inside of your cheek like you’re being held hostage.”

You gave him a flat look. “I might as well be. I’m about to meet your parents. That’s huge.”

“They’re just people, babe. It’s not a panel at Comic-Con.”

“Exactly. Comic-Con is predictable. This is… emotional exposure.”

He laughed under his breath, then leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You’re gonna be fine. They already love you.”

“You say that,” you muttered, glancing down at your carefully curated casual-chic outfit for the third time. “But what if your mom’s like, ‘Ugh, actresses. No one who kisses Timothée Chalamet on screen is dating my son’.”

Lewis leaned back, shaking his head with a grin. “My mom loves Timothée. And she’s excited to meet you. I promise.”

The Pullman ranch was nothing like the Beverly Hills mansions or New York brownstones you were used to visiting for industry parties. It was far better.

Wide fields. A modest, warm-looking home with real character. Windchimes on the porch and the scent of baked cinnamon apples floating through the air when the front door opened. And standing there, beaming, was none other than Bill Pullman.

You froze for half a second.

“Oh my god,” you whispered out of the corner of your mouth. “The President is your dad.”

Lewis muffled a laugh and squeezed your hand.

“Hi!” Bill said, opening his arms. “You must be the young woman we’ve been hearing so much about.”

You reached out, still a little stunned, and let him pull you into a surprisingly warm and cozy hug.

Behind him came Lewis’s mom — Tamara — all grace and quiet strength, a woman whose smile felt just as reassuring as Lewis’s. She didn’t hesitate to hug you either, whispering, “I’m so glad you’re here, sweetheart.”

Somehow, just like that, you could breathe again.

Dinner was… surprisingly smooth. You helped Tamara in the kitchen, even though she insisted you were a guest. Lewis dried dishes beside you while you chopped apples for a pie she hadn’t expected to bake tonight — until she found out it was your favorite.

You watched Lewis talk to his dad in the living room afterward, barefoot and relaxed on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand and his arm resting across the backrest like he belonged here.

Like you belonged here.

That thought made something tender settle in your chest.

Later, when the sun dipped low and the mountains turned purple with dusk, you all sat on the porch sipping cider. Bill told a story about young Lewis trying to build a zipline between two trees and breaking his wrist when it snapped halfway through. You gasped, but Lewis just groaned and shook his head.

“I was twelve,” he muttered. “Trauma for life.”

“Creative genius, more like,” you said, nudging him.

Tamara leaned over to you with a knowing smile. “You bring out his confidence. He’s always been a bit… quiet. Thoughtful. But I’ve never seen him so bold since he met you.”

Your cheeks flushed. “He’s kind of my safe place, too.”

Lewis’s fingers brushed yours. Subtle, but grounding.

That night, you stayed in the guest room, while Lewis was banished to the pullout in the den with a playful “Not under our roof” from Tamara. You lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time, heart full, nerves settled, head spinning.

Around midnight, a soft knock came.

You opened the door and found Lewis standing there, hoodie pulled over his head, pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

“Can I… come in? Just to talk,” he whispered. “Swear I’ll behave.”

You let him in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, sighing. “They love you. Like… really love you. My mom said you’re one of the most grounded people she’s ever met in this industry.”

“That’s a big compliment coming from someone who’s lived in it for decades,” you murmured, sitting beside him. “I was so scared I’d come off wrong. Too Hollywood.”

“You’re not ‘Hollywood’. You’re just you. And they saw that.”

You turned to face him, brushing your knuckles over his knee. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“I want you in every part of my life,” he said simply.

His eyes were soft, deep in the shadows of the room. You reached out and tugged his hoodie gently, pulling him toward you.

He kissed you slow, the kind of kiss that felt like safety. His hands cradled your face, and yours slid around his neck, anchoring yourself in the calm of his presence.

He didn’t push. Didn’t suggest more. Just stayed there with you, his forehead resting against yours, breathing the same air.

“Stay,” you whispered.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Just to hold me.”

So he crawled in beside you. Not for sex. Not for anything except comfort. His arm wrapped around your waist. You curled into him like it was the only home that mattered.

And as you drifted to sleep, heart steady for the first time in hours, you realized this was the most important role you’d ever landed — the girl who got to love Lewis Pullman.

[ilovejb]

| Bag Duty |

Pairings : G!P Billie Eilish x female!reader

Summary : Billie tags along on a shopping trip and ends up with a reward that doesn’t come until you’re alone.

Warnings : g!p Billie Eilish, public teasing, car head, oral ( Billie r! ) dirty talk, begging

Authors note : both my lips are wet after making this. a tear rolled down my leg

“You’re gonna make me carry that, too?”

Billie’s voice drips with dramatic disbelief as you hand her another shopping bag. She’s already got two on one arm, one in the other hand, and a visible pout blooming on her lips.

You raise your brows. “You offered.”

“That was before I knew we were doing the entire mall,” she mutters, shifting the bags. “I feel like your human coat rack.”

You grin. “You look cute like that.”

“I look used,” she deadpans.

You’re not even trying to hide your amusement. Billie’s dressed in the usual: oversized hoodie (green), black sweats, chain barely visible under her collar, and her signature “you’re lucky I’m here” attitude.

You’re in Sephora now—final stop, supposedly. The lighting is bright, Billie’s already been sprayed with three perfumes, and you’ve just asked her to hold out her arm so you can test another lipstick shade.

She sighs, extending her wrist with all the enthusiasm of someone donating a kidney.

You hum thoughtfully, swatching coral pink on her pale skin. “Hmm. Not the one.”

“I could’ve told you that without sacrificing more skin,” she grumbles.

You lean in close, like you’re gonna whisper something cute. Instead, you murmur, low and soft against her ear:

“If you stop whining and be patient for, like, twenty more minutes… I’ll suck your dick until your legs stop working.”

She freezes.

The shift is immediate. Her whole body goes still, lips parted, eyes flicking to yours like she misheard—except she knows she didn’t. Her tongue runs over her bottom lip slowly, and that smug smirk starts to curl in place.

“Oh yeah?” she says, voice lower now. More dangerous.

You pretend to swatch another color like you didn’t just nuke her brain. “Mmhmm.”

Her fingers tighten around the shopping bags. She licks her lips again—pure instinct this time—and leans in behind you while you examine a new shelf of lip oils.

“You’d really suck me off for being good?” she murmurs, voice thick with heat.

You nod once, still casual. “If you make it to the car without complaining, I’ll get on my knees the second we’re alone.”

A pause. Then—

“Well, in that case…”

Suddenly she’s a model girlfriend. Holding your bags without a word. Opening doors. Asking if you want a bottle of water. She even compliments a random lipstick shade, completely out of nowhere.

You raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about lip color?”

She smirks. “Since you promised to gag on my cock.”

Your knees almost buckle.

She notices. Oh, she notices.

The car ride home is painfully quiet. Billie’s tapping her fingers against the wheel, shifting in her seat, glancing over at you every two seconds like she’s trying not to explode. Her joggers are sitting a little lower than before. You swear her thigh is flexing on purpose.

By the time you pull into the driveway, Billie throws the car in park and exhales like she’s been holding her breath since Sephora.

“I was good,” she says, eyes on fire. “I earned it.”

You swallow hard. “You did.”

She turns to you slowly, leaning back in her seat, her legs spread just slightly—enough to make your brain melt.

“Good,” she growls. “Now get in the backseat and show me.”

She barely waits for the door to shut behind you before she’s pushing the seat back, spreading her legs wide, and tugging her sweats down just far enough to free herself.

You glance up from the floor, heart pounding as your eyes land on her cock — hard, flushed, thick, already twitching. Your mouth waters.

“You said you’d show me,” Billie murmurs, cocky as ever but breath already hitching. “So do it.”

You smirk and crawl forward slowly, hands sliding along her thighs.

The second your tongue touches her tip, she groans — sharp and loud, head thunking back against the headrest.

“Oh fuuuck…”

You flatten your tongue and lick a long stripe up her shaft, slow and deliberate. Her hips buck, hands flying to your head immediately.

“Jesus—baby—fuck, that mouth…”

You take her in deeper, wrapping your lips around her and starting to bob, slow and steady. Billie lets out a strangled noise — somewhere between a growl and a moan — and her fingers tighten in your hair.

“I knew you’d be good, but I didn’t know you’d be like this,” she pants. “Holy shit, holy—fuck—slow down, I’m gonna—fuck.”

You don’t slow down.

You hum around her instead, eyes flicking up to see her completely unraveling — flushed, mouth open, jaw slack, hair falling into her face. She’s gasping your name now. Loud. Desperate.

“Fuck—baby, don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop—”

You swirl your tongue under the head and she screams. Literally. Hands slam into the seat, her thighs tensing around your head.

“I can’t—I can’t—holy shit, I’m gonna come—”

You pull back just enough to tease, stroking her with your hand as you speak:

“Already? Thought you were experienced, Billie.”

Her head snaps forward, eyes wild. “Don’t test me.”

You smirk and sink back down, taking her even deeper now — throat relaxing, tongue working, your hands gripping her hips to keep her still.

She can’t stay still.

Her legs are shaking. Her voice is echoing off the car windows.

“*Fuck, fuck, fuck—don’t stop—oh my god, baby—I’ve never—fuck, I’ve never had anyone—”

She’s full-on whining now. Loud, choked sobs of pleasure with every stroke of your mouth.

“You’re too good at this,” she gasps, voice breaking. “*What the fuck—where did you even—shit, I’m gonna fucking—”

She tries to warn you, tries to push you back, but you hold her down and take it — moaning around her, stroking her through it as she completely falls apart.

She comes hard, loud, shaking, cursing your name like it’s a prayer and a threat.

And you don’t stop until she’s whimpering.

Her hand slips from your hair, landing on the window with a breathy, spent thud.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You just… killed me.”

You rest your cheek on her thigh, licking your lips. “Worth being patient?”

She lets out a weak laugh. “I’d carry ten more shopping bags for that.”

You grin, kiss her thigh, and help her pull her pants back up while she’s still recovering. She’s flushed, twitchy, her cock softening slowly against her belly, and her voice hoarse from how loud she got.

“You good?” you ask, genuinely.

She nods, breathing steadying now. “Yeah. Just need like… three business days to recover.”

You giggle and crawl up beside her, nuzzling into her hoodie.

She wraps an arm around you, presses a kiss to the top of your head, and says — voice scratchy but full of awe:

“Best fucking head of my life. No contest.”

[ilovejb]

| Your addicted, aren’t you ? |

Pairings : Mommy!Scarlett Johansson x female!reader

Summary : A young actress finds herself caught between tension, teasing, and the kind of attention from Scarlett Johansson that’s impossible to ignore.

Warnings : Face riding, squirting, tit worship, oral (f & f), praise kink, age gap (20+), reader has oral fixation

Authors note : can’t stop thinking about Scarlett’s boobs fuckkk ( Colin is one lucky mother fucker )

The first time you meet Scarlett Johansson, she barely looks at you.

You’re standing on the set of your first major movie—sweaty palms, fake confidence—and she walks into the table read ten minutes late, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, and a vibe that makes everyone shut up instantly.

She doesn’t say hi to you. She nods at the director. She sits down.

You blink at her. That’s Scarlett fucking Johansson. You grew up watching her on screens. You had a poster of Black Widow in your room at fifteen. You literally screamed when you landed the role.

And she doesn’t even look at you.

Fine. You can handle that.

What you can’t handle is how she finally does look at you—an hour later—and gives you nothing but a raised eyebrow and the tiniest smirk when you fumble your first line.

You glare. She raises her brow higher.

She’s amused. Scarlett is amused that you’re nervous.

Okay. Game on, bitch.

Over the next two weeks of filming, it gets worse.

She’s polite—but never warm.

She knows her lines perfectly. Her blocking is flawless. She’ll kiss you on set like the seasoned professional she is—soft lips, firm grip on your waist—but the second the director yells cut, she’s pulling away like your mouth is toxic.

You try to keep it cool.

But you’re twenty. You’re new. And you’re obsessed.

Not in a cute, fangirl way. In a fuck you why are you so hot and cold way.

In a why does my heart race when you smirk at me way.

In a why do I keep thinking about your hands during my lunch break way.

It boils over during rehearsal for your first intense scene.

It’s a fight-turned-sexual-tension moment—arguing, getting in each other’s faces, shoving, pinning. The director wants the heat. Wants the enemies-to-lovers dynamic to sizzle.

Scarlett towers over you during the blocking. She shoves you back (gently). You stumble. Catch your breath. Your eyes flash.

She smirks again.

“Try not to look like a lost puppy when I get in your face, baby.”

You snap.

“Try not to act like I’m the reason you’re annoyed when it’s clearly your own ego.”

The air crackles.

Everyone goes quiet.

Scarlett steps closer. Her breath fans against your cheek.

“You should be careful with that mouth.”

You’re breathing hard. “Or what?”

She leans in, lips right by your ear.

“Or one day, I’ll shut it for you.”

You swallow. Hard.

She walks off.

You’re left trembling. Turned on. Furious. Confused.

And you can’t stop thinking about what she meant.

t’s late. Most of the crew’s gone home.

The set’s quiet, golden-hour haze stretching over everything like honey.

You’re pacing behind the trailers, script in hand, trying to burn off the tension from today’s shoot. Scarlett’s mouth had been on your neck in the last take—hot, possessive, scripted, but real enough to make you lose your fucking lines twice.

She didn’t let you forget it.

“Need another take, baby?” she’d whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Did my mouth distract you?”

You’re still fuming.

And flustered. And slightly wet.

You slam your script against your thigh and round the corner fast—

—and slam straight into a warm, solid body.

“Oof—!” you gasp, stumbling back.

Strong hands catch your arms, steadying you.

Your palm, stretched out mid-stumble, lands directly on—

You freeze.

Soft. Round. Firm. Warm.

Scarlett’s boob.

You’re cupping her boob.

Your fingers are actually curving around the underside of her breast through the thin fabric of her tank top.

You make a sound—something between a gasp and a dying animal—and yank your hand back like it burned you.

“OH MY GOD—I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know it was you—I’m sorry—!”

Scarlett just stands there. Blinking.

Then… smiling.

No—smirking.

“Wow,” she says, cocking her head. “You’re bold when you think no one’s watching, huh?”

Your face is on fire. “No! No, I didn’t mean to grab—”

She steps closer. You stumble back. She follows.

Now your back hits the trailer wall, and she’s right in front of you—taller, older, in control.

“You touched me first, baby.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I didn’t mean to!”

“But you did.” Her eyes flick to your mouth. “And you didn’t exactly pull away right away, did you?”

You’re sputtering. Your heart is hammering.

“I—I didn’t realize—”

Scarlett hums low. She leans in, palms on the trailer wall, boxing you in.

“You’ve been dreaming about them, haven’t you?”

Your lips part. “W-What?”

“My tits. You think I don’t notice?” She leans in more. “Your eyes drop every time I walk past. Every time I stretch. You can’t help it, baby. It’s okay. You’re curious.”

You’re blinking up at her, trembling.

Because yes. Yes, you are.

But fuck, not like this. Not pinned against a trailer, with your face hot and your thighs clenched and your whole body on edge.

Scarlett smirks again. “Relax. I’m not gonna punish you… yet.”

You nearly whimper. “I didn’t mean to—”

She lifts a finger to your lips.

“You’re stuttering. Are you nervous, baby?”

You nod.

“Is it because you want me to let you touch them again?”

Your lips part, and nothing comes out. You can’t lie. You can’t.

Scarlett leans in until her lips barely brush your ear.

“Next time,” she whispers, voice like velvet, “just ask me.”

Then she pulls away, turns around, and walks off like she didn’t just shatter your entire nervous system.

You slide down the trailer wall slowly, breathing like you just ran a mile, thighs soaked.

It’s quiet backstage.

You’ve been told to check the wardrobe trailer for some last-minute fittings. You’re supposed to knock. You always knock.

But your brain’s somewhere else.

Still stuck on the feel of Scarlett’s chest in your palm from last night. Still stuck on the way she whispered “Just ask me.”

Your hand’s on the door before you even think. You push it open.

You step inside—

And freeze.

Scarlett’s back is to you.

She’s topless.

Bare.

Her toned back glows golden in the dim light, all soft curves and power. Her hair’s up in a loose bun, neck exposed, shoulders perfect. And her tits—oh god—full, round, heavy, perfect, her left arm reaching for a clean shirt, the movement pulling her chest up and forward—

You make a sound. A tiny gasp.

She hears it.

Pauses.

Then… slowly… turns around.

Her eyes land on you. Her mouth curves into that wicked smirk.

“Didn’t anyone teach you to knock, baby?”

Your throat closes. Your eyes are locked on her chest, too stunned to move. You’ve seen cleavage. You’ve imagined. But this?

Bare, beautiful, right in front of you?

You’re drowning.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you stammer, stepping back.

She tilts her head. “Didn’t mean to barge in? Or didn’t mean to stare?”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie,” she cuts in softly. “You’re obsessed.”

You swallow, frozen in place.

She takes a slow step forward.

“I told you to ask,” she murmurs, closing the space between you. “But it seems like you’d rather sneak in and get a little show, huh?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You can’t speak.

Scarlett’s now inches away. Her bare breasts are right there, close enough to brush against your shirt. You can’t look away.

She leans in.

“You want them in your mouth so bad, don’t you?”

You whimper.

Scarlett hums. She reaches for your wrist, pulls your hand up slowly, presses your trembling fingers to the soft underside of her left breast.

“Go ahead,” she whispers. “Touch it. Feel what you’re so desperate for.”

You do.

And it’s heaven.

Warm, soft, heavy. Your fingers flex, curl gently around her. Your thumb grazes her nipple—hard, sensitive—and she gasps.

“That’s it,” she breathes. “Sweet little thing… you’ve never touched anyone like this before, have you?”

You shake your head.

She grins. “Good.”

Then she pulls your hand away, steps back, and grabs her shirt—slowly, pulling it over her head, giving you one last flash of perfect, glowing skin.

“You got your look,” she says calmly. “Now go cool off.”

You’re still standing there when she leaves the trailer, shirt clinging to her chest, hips swaying like she didn’t just ruin your brain forever.

And your panties?

Soaked.

It happens in her trailer.

You don’t mean for it to—but she’s there, and you’re there, and the tension between you is thick enough to choke on.

You were supposed to go over a scene. That’s it. Just work.

But then you sit too close.

And she’s in a tank top again.

And she stretches—arms overhead, arching her back, tits pushing tight against the thin cotton—and you forget how to breathe.

Scarlett lowers her arms slowly.

Catches your eyes.

Your gaze is locked on her chest.

You don’t even try to hide it this time.

She smirks.

“Poor baby,” she murmurs. “You’ve been trying so hard not to stare, haven’t you?”

You nod helplessly.

She leans back on the couch, legs spreading slightly.

“Come here.”

You crawl forward—already dizzy.

Scarlett reaches behind her, pulls off her tank top in one smooth motion.

Her tits spill free—full, bare, soft—and you gasp. You’ve never seen anything more perfect in your life.

She cups one breast lazily, thumb brushing her nipple.

“You’ve been dreaming about them,” she says. “Go on. Taste.”

You don’t even speak.

You just move forward, mouth open, lips parting as your tongue flicks over her nipple for the first time.

She gasps.

Your lips close around it, and you moan—loud, shameless, soaking through your underwear just from the taste of her.

Her hand slides into your hair.

“That’s it, baby. Suck.”

You do.

You suck gently, then harder, then swirl your tongue around her nipple like she’s candy and you’ve been starved.

She groans, head falling back, fingers tightening in your hair.

You switch to the other breast, licking a stripe up the curve, nuzzling the softness before you take her in your mouth again.

Your moans vibrate against her skin. Your eyes flutter shut. You’re drunk on her.

“You like Mommy’s tits that much?” she pants.

You nod—still suckling. Still licking like you’ll never stop.

She wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you closer.

“You’re so fucking cute like this,” she whispers. “So needy. My sweet little mouth slut.”

Your hips rock against her thigh without thinking. You’re gasping, sucking, grinding—

—and she lets you.

Lets you moan into her chest, lets you rub against her leg like a desperate thing, lets you drink her in until your mouth is sore and your pussy’s throbbing.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Make yourself cum on Mommy’s leg. I’m not stopping you.”

And you do.

Right there, with her tit in your mouth and your hips grinding like your life depends on it.

You come with a muffled cry—buried in her chest, soaking her skin, trembling.

And she just strokes your hair, cradling your head, letting you suck soft and slow as you ride the aftershocks.

“My good girl,” she whispers.

“Such a hungry little baby.”

You’re still on her chest, licking slow stripes across her nipples like you’ve been starving for her. Your mouth is wet, cheeks flushed, hair tangled in Scarlett’s fingers.

She’s panting softly, voice warm and teasing.

“You’re really addicted, aren’t you?”

You nod—still suckling, tongue swirling around the stiff peak of her nipple.

“I could leave you here for hours,” she whispers, cupping your cheek. “Let you nurse all fucking day like the greedy little baby you are.”

You moan, eyes fluttering shut. Her hand slides down to your jaw, guiding your mouth from one breast to the other.

“Don’t be shy,” she says. “Use your tongue. Taste me.”

You do. Flicking, sucking, dragging your mouth over every inch of her tits, tracing every curve and dip like a girl possessed.

She gasps when you take her deeper—grazing her nipple with your teeth before sucking hard. Her thighs press together.

“Oh, fuck—you’re making me wet just from this,” she pants. “You’re not even between my legs yet.”

You whimper against her chest, breath hot. Her hand tangles tighter in your hair.

“You want to taste that too?” she murmurs.

You nod.

She grins. Dark. Dangerous. “Then get down there.”

You slide off her lap, breathless, dizzy, already dripping. She leans back against the couch, spreading her legs slowly, letting her shorts drop to the floor.

You’re face to face with her soaked panties.

“Take them off with your teeth,” she commands, voice low.

You obey. Gently. Slowly.

Her thighs quiver as your lips graze her skin.

She’s drenched.

You kneel between her thighs and look up—waiting for permission, lips parted, eyes wide.

She smirks. “Go ahead. Show me what that mouth can really do.”

You don’t hesitate.

Your tongue slides up her slit slowly—testing, tasting. Her whole body jerks.

“Oh fuck,” she gasps. “Yes—just like that.”

You flatten your tongue, licking long and steady, letting her ride your face. Her fingers curl in your hair, guiding you.

You moan against her, and she bucks.

“Fuck, baby—you’re so good—who taught you this?”

You press your tongue against her clit and suck, just like she showed you with her tits. Her thighs clamp around your head.

You do it again. And again.

Her moans grow louder. Her hips grind harder.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You grip her thighs and bury your tongue deeper, licking faster, messier, not stopping—

Until she screams.

Her whole body shudders.

And then—

Hot, sweet liquid explodes across your face.

Scarlett squirts—hard—soaking your cheeks, your lips, your chin.

You drink it in, tongue still lapping, eyes fluttering.

She’s gasping, twitching, thighs trembling against your ears.

“Holy fuck,” she moans. “You made me squirt—fuck—my baby made me squirt—”

You look up, face dripping, lips swollen, proud and aching for more.

She stares down at you like you’re the only girl in the world.

“Get up here,” she whispers, pulling you back into her lap. “You just earned a fucking reward.”

[ilovejb]

hi! I absolutely loved ur hurt/comfort for lewis!! I was wondering if you could write a fluffy hurt/comfort about him and the reader meeting on the set of top gun maverick? I found it so cute!!

| Altitude |

Pairing : Lewis Pullman x Actress!Reader

Summary: While filming Top Gun: Maverick, the stress of your first big role threatens to pull you under—until Lewis Pullman quietly becomes your anchor.

Warnings: Fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, kissing

Authors note : I need Lewis so bad I physically ache

The sun had just started rising over the San Diego base, spilling soft orange light over the tarmac. Fighter jets stood quiet and still, engines silent for now, as the film crew scurried into place like a hive waking up.

You sat on a folding chair near base camp, still dressed in your green flight suit, fingers nervously twisting the zipper up and down.

You were supposed to shoot a reaction scene today—just a couple of close-up shots, nothing huge—but the pressure was already curling inside your chest like smoke.

A few weeks into filming Top Gun: Maverick, and you were already losing sleep.

Everyone else seemed so chill. So confident. You were the new one. The last-minute addition to round out the squadron, an actress with a couple indie films under her belt, now surrounded by established names and Navy advisors barking out commands like you were actually on deployment.

You couldn’t breathe.

“Hey.”

The voice came gently, like a soft knock on the door to your panic.

You looked up and blinked.

Lewis Pullman stood beside you, holding two coffee cups in one hand and a granola bar in the other. His hair was a mess of curls under a backward cap, and he looked like he hadn’t quite woken up yet.

“You okay?” he asked, offering one of the coffees.

You hesitated, then took it with a murmured “thanks.”

He sat beside you without waiting for an invitation, resting the granola bar on the arm of your chair.

“You looked like you might be spiraling,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m a bit of a spiraler myself.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to another anxious person.”

You stared out at the runway, sipping the coffee. Silence stretched between you—comfortable, not awkward.

“I keep thinking I’m gonna be the weak link,” you admitted, voice low. “Like they’ll realize I’m not actually cut out for this.”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, letting the morning breeze ruffle his jacket.

“Wanna hear something crazy?” he said.

You nodded.

“I almost threw up before my first scene,” he confessed. “Full body nausea. Like, was sure I’d mess up and disappoint everyone.”

Your brows lifted. “You? But you seem so—”

“Put together?” he offered with a crooked smile. “That’s the trick. I act like I am until I believe it.”

You blinked at him, then looked down at the cup in your hands. His words sank in slowly.

He didn’t ask you to smile or tell you to ‘shake it off.’ He just let the feeling exist in the open. Like it didn’t make you weak. Like it was allowed.

That morning, Lewis stayed beside you until you were called to set. And when the cameras rolled and the director called “Action,” you caught a glimpse of him just off-frame, watching you.

Steady. Quiet. Soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Filming dragged on for weeks after that morning.

Between long days on the tarmac and evening flight training, everyone was running on caffeine and exhaustion. But something had shifted quietly for you.

Because every time you felt overwhelmed, you’d find Lewis nearby—offering a protein bar, a joke, or a quiet moment where you could just be without the cameras, the pressure, the pretend bravery.

And somehow, you started doing the same for him.

You learned he hated big crowds, got overstimulated by noise, and sometimes disappeared on lunch breaks just to sit in his car with music playing low. You started bringing him iced tea instead of coffee because he liked how “unserious” it felt. You teased him, gently, and he teased you right back—but it was always kind. Always safe.

And now, it was near the end of shooting.

The hotel where the cast stayed was unusually quiet—most people had flown home for a long weekend, but you and Lewis had opted to stay. Whether that was coincidence or intentional, neither of you said.

You were watching an old movie on his laptop, curled up at the foot of his bed in your hoodie and sweats, sharing popcorn with Lewis, who was half-propped against the headboard, socks mismatched and hair damp from a shower.

You had barely touched your popcorn, too distracted by the warmth in your chest every time he laughed at the screen.

When the movie ended, neither of you moved.

The only light in the room came from the streetlamp outside, casting faint gold patterns through the blinds. The silence that settled wasn’t awkward. Just… heavy. Expectant.

Lewis shifted, pulling the blanket over both your legs.

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.

You glanced at him. “Of course.”

“What happens when this ends? Like—this movie. This bubble. Do we just… go back to real life like nothing happened?”

Your chest tightened.

“Is that what you want?” you asked.

He shook his head, slowly. “No. Not even close.”

You sat up straighter, your legs brushing his under the blanket.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had something like this,” you whispered. “Not just the movie, but… you. Us.”

He looked at you like he’d been waiting his whole life for those words.

“You make me feel like I’m not broken,” he said. “Like I don’t have to keep pretending to be confident all the time. Like I can just… exist. And you won’t leave.”

Your breath caught.

You reached up, hesitantly, and brushed your fingers through the curls above his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch like it physically calmed him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

He opened his eyes again, gaze burning now. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded.

And the second his lips met yours, the world went quiet.

It wasn’t rushed or needy. It was anchored. Like his hands had finally found the thing they were meant to hold. One slid behind your neck, the other gripping your thigh under the blanket as you leaned into him, mouths moving in slow, tender sync.

You felt his sigh as your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more—not in a lustful way, but like you were starving for connection.

His kiss deepened, lips parting as his tongue gently grazed yours, and you whimpered against him without meaning to. That sound made him pull you into his lap in one smooth movement, hands warm under your hoodie now, not groping—just touching, grounding you both.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, your foreheads stayed pressed together.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Lewis said first, voice raw and almost shy.

Your heart flipped.

“I know I’m in love with you,” you whispered.

He laughed softly, pulling you in again, this time to press kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“God, I was so scared,” he murmured. “Scared I’d lose you the second we left set.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not ever.”

You spent the rest of the night in his arms, whispering about your fears, your hopes, your dreams for life after the movie—like building a future wasn’t terrifying anymore, now that it included each other.

And when the sun came up over the Pacific, painting the room in soft morning light, Lewis was still holding you.

And you were still smiling.

[ilovejb]

| Can’t wait to touch you |

Pairings: Thomas Brodie Sangster x female!reader

Summary: Long-distance sucks, but teasing Thomas over text? Definitely doesn’t. What starts as playful turns into something neither of you can wait for any longer.

Warnings: 18+ MDI explicit content, long-distance sexting, established relationship, suggestive photos, spicy reunion, soft dom vibes, aftercare, fluff

Authors note: I got inspired after watching the maze runner 😎

The silence in the apartment had become a familiar, almost unwelcome companion in Thomas’s absence. Prague, with its fairytale architecture and the demanding schedule of his period drama filming, had swallowed him whole for what felt like an eternity. Weeks had bled into each other, marked only by the stilted rhythm of texts and the occasional, crackly video call that left you both wanting more than a screen could offer. Tonight, the silence felt particularly heavy, the space beside you in bed a tangible void aching for his presence.

You lay amidst the rumpled sheets, one of his worn t-shirts clinging to you, the faint ghost of his scent a bittersweet reminder. Your fingers traced the empty space beside you, a phantom limb yearning for his warmth. You picked up your phone, scrolling through the camera roll, each image a little pang of longing. There was the goofy selfie from your last holiday, his arm slung possessively around your shoulders, both of you radiating a shared, easy joy. A candid shot of him lost in a book, sunlight catching the soft curve of his lips, a moment of quiet intimacy you now treasured.

A sigh escaped your lips, heavy with unspoken desires. You missed the easy comfort of his presence, the way he filled a room with his quiet confidence, the simple intimacy of his hand finding yours without a word. Tonight, though, the missing felt different, sharper. It wasn't just his company; it was a deeper, more visceral yearning for his touch, for the specific way he made you feel.

With a hesitant thumb, you typed out a message, the words feeling both vulnerable and undeniably necessary.

“You know I miss you, right? But also… I need you. So badly it aches.”

You stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send, a nervous flutter in your stomach. It felt like stepping boldly outside your usual reserve, a directness fueled by weeks of pent-up longing.

Your phone buzzed a few minutes later. His name flared across the screen. You snatched it up, a hopeful warmth spreading through you.

“Yeah, darling, I know you miss me. Believe me, the feeling’s entirely mutual.” The text was followed by the familiar voice note icon. You pressed play, his low, familiar timbre wrapping around you like a warm embrace, a momentary balm for the ache in your chest. “What exactly do you need, though?” There was a playful, teasing edge to his voice, a hint of knowing that sent a shiver down your spine. “Tell me everything.”

A wave of heat flickered within you, spreading low in your belly. You bit your lip, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across your face. You stood up, pulling one of his oversized hoodies from the back of the chair. The soft fabric, still faintly imbued with his unique scent, enveloped you, the hem falling to your mid-thigh, leaving your legs bare. You wandered over to the mirror, catching your reflection.

The hoodie, the expanse of bare skin… an idea began to form, a playful rebellion against the distance. You angled your phone, snapping a quick, casual photo in the mirror.

“Thought you might want to see what you’re missing…” you texted back, attaching the picture.

His reply was almost immediate, a string of breathless texts.

“Bloody hell, Y/N.” “Are you actively trying to derail this entire production? Because you’re succeeding.” Then came the voice note, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your phone. “You look… utterly devastating.”

A thrill coursed through you, a delicious sense of power. You were getting to him, even across the miles. You decided to push a little further, to stoke the fire. You ran your fingers lightly down your bare thigh, the sensation sending a shiver tracing its way down your spine. You captured the movement in a close-up shot.

“Look what you made me do,” you texted, attaching the photo.

His response was swift, a potent mixture of exasperation and raw desire.

“You have absolutely no idea the images you’re painting in my head right now. Utterly filthy ones.” Then, the visual. A close-up photo of his hand, the knuckles slightly white as he gripped something just out of frame. The unmistakable bulge straining against his period costume trousers spoke volumes.

“Look how hard you’ve made me. Happy?” he texted. The image left no room for misinterpretation – the thick ridge pressing against the fabric, the obvious length and the heavy pulse straining beneath his fingers.

Your breath hitched. The game had definitely escalated, crossing a line into something intensely personal and charged. You swallowed, a nervous excitement coiling in your stomach. You lifted the hem of his hoodie, just a fraction, capturing the curve of your hip and the bare skin beneath, the soft shadow hinting at more. You hesitated for a long moment, the image on your screen feeling intensely intimate. You sent it.

“Immensely,” you replied simply, the single word laden with unspoken longing.

He sent another voice note, his breathing sounding ragged. “You’re playing a dangerous game, love. Just so you know, the moment I get back tomorrow night… you’re going to regret teasing me like this. In the best possible way.” The promise in his tone sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“Is that a threat, Mr. Brodie-Sangster?” you texted back, your fingers dancing across the screen with a newfound boldness.

“Absolutely,” he replied instantly. “Sleep tight, darling. Or don’t. I know I won’t be.”

The rest of the night unfolded in a series of increasingly intimate exchanges. You sent a delicate shot of your collarbone, the lace of your bra peeking out. He countered with a whispered voice note detailing exactly what he’d do if his lips were tracing that same line, the sound of his breathy voice sending a jolt through you. The anticipation thickened with each message, a taut thread stretched across the continent, humming with unspoken desires.

The next day felt like an eternity, each minute dragging with agonizing slowness.

You found yourself constantly checking your phone, the digital silence between messages amplifying the building tension. You tried to distract yourself, but your thoughts kept drifting to the impending reunion, the electric charge that had crackled between you over the digital waves.

You chose an outfit – a soft, barely-there slip that you knew he loved, the silk whispering against your skin like a promise – and waited, the anticipation a tangible ache.

Finally, as the evening shadows lengthened, the sound you’d been longing for – the distinct click of his key turning in the lock – echoed through the apartment. Your heart leaped into your throat, a rush of pure adrenaline coursing through you. You were already halfway to the door when it swung open. Thomas stood there, the weariness of travel etched on his handsome face, but his eyes, the moment they found yours, held a raw, possessive hunger that stole your breath and made your knees weak.

He dropped his worn leather travel bag with a heavy thud, the sound swallowed by the sudden, charged silence that filled the small entryway. Words seemed inadequate, unnecessary. He closed the remaining distance between you in two long strides, his hands reaching for you, cupping your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. You leaned into his touch, the familiar warmth of his skin against yours sending a wave of pure relief and a burgeoning, insistent desire through you.

His gaze searched yours, a silent conversation passing between you – weeks of absence, the playful heat of the previous night, the undeniable, magnetic pull that had drawn him back to you. Then, his lips found yours, not with a gentle greeting, but with a possessive hunger that spoke volumes of his own longing. It was a bruising kiss, demanding and immediate, a physical claiming after the enforced distance. His hands moved from your face to the nape of your neck, his grip firm, possessive. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, the familiar taste of him igniting a fire that had been banked for far too long.

He finally broke the kiss, his breath hot against your ear. “Been thinking about last night the entire flight,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with desire. “Every single word, every single picture. You have no idea what you’ve done to me.” His lips trailed down your jawline, finding the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, nipping gently before his tongue flickered out to taste your skin.

He didn’t wait for a response. He scooped you up in his arms, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and carried you towards the bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours. You clung to him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, the familiar scent of him – a heady mix of his cologne and something uniquely his – filling your senses, a grounding anchor after weeks apart.

He laid you gently on the bed, his gaze still locked on you, a silent promise hanging heavy in the air. He shrugged off his jacket, his eyes tracing the line of your body beneath the silk of your slip. You reached out, your fingers tentatively tracing the line of his jaw, the slight roughness of his stubble a welcome sensation against your skin.

Your hand then drifted lower, finding the hard ridge straining against his trousers.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darkening further, a primal gleam igniting within them. He met your gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken, intensely physical desires that had simmered between you. He didn’t stop you as your fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, the metallic click echoing in the quiet room.

His trousers and then his boxers followed in quick succession, revealing him fully. His cock sprang free, thick and already throbbing with anticipation, the head glistening with pre-cum, its impressive length and heavy girth undeniable.

He watched your reaction, a possessive smirk playing on his lips. “Missed this view, haven’t you?” His voice was a low, husky invitation, laced with a confident knowing.

You swallowed, your gaze lingering on the impressive length of his erection. “Desperately.”

He reached for you then, his hands sliding beneath the hem of your slip, his long fingers finding the warmth and dampness between your legs.

You gasped, your back arching slightly as his touch ignited an immediate, visceral response. “So wet for me,” he murmured, his thumb finding your most sensitive nub and pressing gently. You cried out softly, your thighs parting instinctively, offering him more.

He continued to pleasure you with his fingers, his touch knowing and deliberate, teasing you right to the very edge. All the while, his eyes held yours, a potent connection of shared, escalating desire.

He savored your reactions – the way your breath hitched, the soft moans that escaped your lips, the involuntary tremors that ran through your body.

Then, he shifted, kneeling between your legs.

You watched, mesmerized, as he positioned himself, the full, hard length of his cock now inches from your slick heat. He braced his hands on either side of your head, his gaze intense, possessive. “Ready to feel me inside you again, darling?” he breathed, his voice thick with lust.

You could only nod, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, your body already aching, throbbing for the deep connection only he could provide.

He entered you slowly, deliberately, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch. You cried out softly, the sensation both exquisite and slightly overwhelming after the enforced absence. He paused, letting you adjust, his eyes searching yours, filled with a possessive tenderness.

You could feel the impressive girth of him filling you completely, a deep, satisfying pressure that chased away the emptiness.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head back slightly.

“More than good,” you whispered, your hips already beginning to lift, instinctively seeking more of him.

He obliged, beginning to move with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each thrust was deep and knowing, a claiming that echoed the weeks of longing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting to feel every inch of his hard length buried inside you.

His hands roamed your body as he moved, cupping your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples until they were tight and aching. His praise was a low murmur against your skin. “So tight,” he’d breathe, his grip on your hips firm, guiding your movements. “Perfect. You grip me so well.”

The pace quickened, the friction building, the soft sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room. You met his thrusts, your own desire escalating with each slide of his thick cock within you. You were slick and wet around him, and he groaned with each deep, satisfying penetration. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the taut muscles flexing beneath your touch.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours, his tongue plunging into your mouth in a mirroring of the primal act below. “You’re mine,” he’d whisper between heated kisses, his breath hot against your skin. “Every inch of you.”

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, each thrust taking you closer to the edge. You felt the familiar pulsing begin deep within you, the waves of pleasure starting to build. He sensed it, his movements becoming more urgent, deeper, faster. You cried out, your body clenching around his hard cock as the first wave of your orgasm hit, shaking you to your core.

He followed quickly after, his movements becoming frantic, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he emptied himself deep inside you, the sensation of his hot, thick load filling you completely a powerful, intimate connection. He held you tightly, his body shuddering against yours.

He collapsed against you, his weight heavy, his breath hot against your neck. You held him close, the feeling of him buried deep within you a profound relief, a tangible end to the weeks of longing.

After a long moment, he shifted slightly, nuzzling his face into your hair. “Bloody hell, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice still thick with the aftermath. “That was… exactly what I needed. You feel incredible wrapped around me.”

He pulled back slightly, his gaze tender as he looked down at you, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek. “Missed you so much it actually hurt.”

You smiled, reaching up to cup his face, your thumb stroking his stubbled jaw. “Missed you more.”

He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Remind me to go away more often.”

You chuckled softly, snuggling closer, your legs still wrapped around his waist, relishing the feel of him still inside you. “Remind me to send more photos.”

He tightened his arms around you, holding you as if he’d never let go. The frantic desire had been sated, replaced by a deep, comfortable intimacy, the lingering warmth of your joined bodies a testament to the fiery, toe-curling reunion. He shifted again, rolling onto his side, pulling you with him, his hand now stroking your hair. “You’re filthy, you know that?” he murmured, a soft smile playing on his lips.

You nuzzled into his chest. “Look what you made me do.”

He chuckled, a low rumble against your ear. “God, I love it.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine. Every inch of you.” His hand then trailed down your body, lingering on your hip. “Keep your legs open for me. Just like that. Don’t move.” His voice was a low command, a hint of that soft dom energy you loved.

He then leaned down, whispering against your ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. “You want my cock that bad, darling?” He didn’t wait for an answer before his hand slipped between your legs again, finding you still slick and sensitive. He began to stroke you gently, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?”

He continued to pleasure you with his fingers, his gaze intense, until you were whimpering and arching beneath his touch once more. Then, he shifted, positioning himself at your entrance again. “Let me fill you up again, sweetheart,” he murmured, guiding his hard cock back inside you, the sensation eliciting a soft moan from your lips. He began to move slowly, deliberately, savoring each slide, watching your face intently. “That’s it, just like that,” he’d whisper, his hand now holding your throat gently, his thumb stroking your skin. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

The second time was slower, more focused on pure sensation. He explored every curve and hollow of your body with his hands and mouth as he moved within you, his praise a constant murmur against your skin. “You feel so good,” he’d breathe. “So incredibly good.”

Finally, as the second wave of pleasure washed over you, he held you tight, his own release a deep, shuddering groan against your ear. Afterwards, he held you close, tracing patterns on your back. “Missed you so much it actually hurt,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Thomas’s breathing was still uneven as he laid there with you, your limbs tangled, skin slick with sweat and satisfaction. For a moment, neither of you moved. The air was thick with warmth, the only sound the soft hum of his breath against your temple.

Then, slowly, he shifted — not away from you, but closer. He pressed a kiss to your hair, one of those soft, almost reverent ones that made your chest ache with something deeper than lust.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice rough and low, a stark contrast to the gentleness in his touch.

You nodded into his chest, nuzzling close. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He smiled — you could feel it against your forehead. His fingers moved slowly across your spine, drawing soft, lazy circles like he never wanted to stop touching you. His other hand found yours beneath the covers, lacing your fingers together.

“I don’t think I’ve ever missed someone this much,” he murmured. “Every second I was gone, I thought about coming home to you. Thought about this. Us. You in my arms again.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his in the quiet, golden light spilling through the window. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered — like you were his entire world.

“You really have no idea how much I need you,” he said, brushing your hair away from your face with the back of his knuckles. “Not just like that… just… like this. Holding you. Hearing your voice without a lag. Feeling your heartbeat under my hand.”

He tugged the blankets over you both and pulled you into his chest, wrapping himself around you like he needed to protect you from the world — or maybe just needed to make sure you didn’t disappear.

“Was I too rough?” he asked softly, almost shy now, voice thick with real care.

“No,” you murmured. “You were perfect.”

He smiled again, but this time it reached his eyes. “Good. Because I’ve got about a hundred more ways I plan to remind you you’re mine.”

You let out a soft laugh against his skin, and he held you tighter, his thumb stroking your wrist where your pulse fluttered fast.

“Next time I go away, we’re getting one of those countdown clocks,” he teased gently. “Or I’m stuffing you in my suitcase. I’m serious, Y/N. I don’t care how cramped I am, I need you too much to do that again.”

You smiled, heart full, the tension in your body finally melting away completely under his tender, grounding presence.

Then — because he was Thomas — he kissed your shoulder and added with a smirk, “Also… you’re never allowed to wear that hoodie without me again. Ever. It’s lethal.”

You laughed again, this time louder, and he grinned — proud of himself — then leaned in to kiss you again, slower this time, like it was a promise

[ilovejb]

| Scene one |

Pairings : Florence Pugh x female!reader

Summary : You met her on set, somewhere between long days and quiet looks. It wasn’t part of the script, but it felt real — slow, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.

Warnings : Florence being a tease ? Lots of teasing

Authors note : 3k words, I have become way too obsessed with flo

You weren’t even supposed to be in Thunderbolts.

Originally, your role was a small one — a two-scene cameo as a morally gray anti-hero with sharp knives and a sharper tongue. But after the chemistry test with Florence Pugh, something shifted. The room crackled. The director coughed awkwardly and scribbled something in his notebook. Two weeks later, your agent called you, breathless.

“You’ve been upgraded,” she said. “Big time.”

You landed a full supporting role, which meant months of filming… with Florence.

God help you.

Florence Pugh was magnetic in person. She moved like she knew every eye was on her — and she liked it. But she wasn’t arrogant. No. She was playful. Teasing. Mischievous in a way that made your pulse tick just a bit faster every time she smiled in your direction.

Which was often.

“You always look so serious,” she told you one day between takes, her Yelena wig slightly askew, a lollipop between her lips. “Is that your villain face? Or are you just trying not to flirt with me?”

You nearly choked on your water. “Is it that obvious?”

She winked. “A little.”

It was a game from that point on. A maddening, sweet, slow game. She’d lean just a bit too close while reading lines, her breath brushing your cheek. You’d catch her watching you during fight training, head tilted, eyes thoughtful. You once caught her recording a slow-mo video of you flipping your stunt knife — she claimed it was “for reference,” but the smirk on her lips said otherwise.

You started teasing back, naturally.

“Careful, Pugh,” you whispered during one particularly intense scene rehearsal, your face inches from hers. “You keep looking at me like that and people will think you’re in love.”

She arched an eyebrow, unbothered. “Let them.”

You couldn’t tell if it was flirting anymore, or just her natural Florence-ness. Either way, it drove you wild. But it wasn’t until the last week of shooting that something actually shifted.

You were in your trailer, half out of costume, when she knocked — then walked in without waiting.

“Sorry,” she said, grinning as her eyes roamed over you. “Didn’t realize wardrobe was optional in here.”

“Florence.”

“What?” she laughed, perching on the couch like she owned it. “Just came to say goodbye before you wrapped for the day. Unless you wanted to run that last scene again. The one where you pin me to the wall?”

Your cheeks flamed. She knew exactly what she was doing.

You crossed your arms. “You are absolutely impossible.”

“Mm,” she hummed, standing slowly. She walked over, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep your eyes on hers. “You like it.”

She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t have to. The tension between you both was a string pulled taut, vibrating with every inch of space that wasn’t quite filled.

That night, she texted you:

Goodbye scenes are overrated. Want to do dinner instead? Just you. Just me. Just… us?

The day they filmed the rooftop scene was the worst.

Not because it was cold. Not because you were bruised from a week of stunts. But because Florence Pugh was pressed up against you, panting, flushed, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing to you — and you still weren’t allowed to kiss her.

In the scene, your character saves Yelena from a sniper. You crash behind a vent, her body half under yours, her fingers twisted in your jacket.

It was supposed to last ten seconds.

It took four takes.

“Sorry,” Florence said between the second and third take, voice low as she smoothed her hand down your chest. “I keep getting distracted.”

You stared at her, your face inches from hers. “By what?”

She grinned. “You.”

You made it through the scene, barely. When the director finally called cut, you stood up too fast and muttered something about needing air.

Florence didn’t follow. But when you got back to your trailer, there was a post-it note on your mirror.

Still thinking about the way you looked at me when I said “thanks for saving my ass.” Let me know if you want to rehearse that part. Alone.

You stared at the note for too long.

Later that night, you replied with a photo — the scene’s script page, her line circled in red, your handwriting underneath:

Anytime. I’ll always have your back. And maybe your ass, too.

Her response came five minutes later.

That was smooth. I’m proud. Still want to rehearse? I promise to be very professional. Until I’m not.

Over the next few days, it escalated.

During lunch, she stole fries from your plate with slow eye contact and said, “You don’t mind sharing, right?”

You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Only if you feed me one too.”

She did. Slowly.

During combat training, she pinned you to the mat and whispered, “I win.”

You rolled her over in one move, face barely a breath from hers. “You sure about that?”

You saw it in her eyes then — the pause, the flicker, the something behind the playfulness. Like she was thinking the same thing you were:

This was no longer just a game.

But no one made a move.

Until the wrap party.

You’d both made it through the final day of filming. Hugs were passed around. The cast danced, drinks flowed, and somewhere between the bad karaoke and the champagne, you found her on the balcony, barefoot, holding a half-finished cocktail.

“Cold?” you asked, offering your jacket.

She let you put it around her shoulders, tugging it tighter. “Only a little.”

“Nice party,” you said.

“Nice job surviving a movie with me.”

You smiled. “Barely.”

There was a quiet between you. Not uncomfortable — more like the silence right before thunder rolls in.

“You were the best part of this film,” she said softly, eyes locked on yours. “And not just on camera.”

Your throat tightened. “You too.”

She stepped closer.

“Are we still playing the game?” she asked, voice like velvet.

You met her gaze. “Do you want to be?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not anymore.”

You leaned in. Not a kiss, not yet — just your forehead resting gently against hers.

“Then stop me,” you whispered, “if I’m wrong about this.”

She didn’t.

Her fingers slipped into your hair, and you finally kissed her — slow, warm, and so full of everything you’d both been holding back.

You didn’t expect her to stay the night.

You kissed her on that balcony — slow, searching, a little dizzy with the realization that it wasn’t just tension or chemistry or a well-rehearsed scene. It was real. She was real. And when she pulled away, she didn’t let go. Not even a little.

She held your hand the whole Uber ride home.

And when you opened the door to your apartment, she followed without asking.

“I probably shouldn’t,” she said, toes nudging off her shoes, fingers brushing your wrist. “I’ll stay if you ask.”

“I want you to stay,” you told her. “No games.”

She smiled. “No games.”

That night, you didn’t sleep much — not for the reasons most people would assume. You lay tangled up in each other, whispering things you should’ve said weeks ago. She played with your fingers in the dark. You traced circles on her back. She kept falling asleep mid-sentence, then jerking awake to finish it.

It was soft.

It was perfect.

It was the beginning of everything.

Months later, she was still there — Florence, in your space like she’d always belonged.

She stole your t-shirts, left half-drunk cups of tea on the counter, and kissed you with ridiculous intensity in the morning, even when your breath was awful and your hair stuck up in seventeen directions.

You made her laugh so hard once she choked on cereal. She got you back by blasting Taylor Swift in the shower and dramatically serenading you through the curtain.

Life with her wasn’t glamorous or wild — not most days. It was warm. Domestic. Good.

But there were moments.

Like now.

You were lying on the couch, her legs stretched across your lap. A bowl of popcorn rested between you, long forgotten, because Florence was snuggled against your side wearing your hoodie — and nothing else — and she was doing that thing she did where she kissed your neck in slow, innocent intervals that were absolutely not innocent.

“Flor,” you warned, barely breathing. “You’re distracting me.”

“I know,” she murmured, voice low and amused. “That’s the point.”

You tilted your head to look at her. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet you adore me.”

You kissed the tip of her nose. “Unfortunately.”

She smiled, smug and beautiful and way too pleased with herself. “You know the Thunderbolts premiere is in three days, right?”

You groaned. “Don’t remind me. Red carpets. Public attention. You in that dress that’s probably going to kill me.”

“Oh?” she said, feigning innocence. “You’ve already seen it?”

“No,” you admitted, covering your face dramatically. “But I know. I’ve seen the fittings. The smirk you get when you like what you’re wearing. I’m doomed.”

She shifted on top of you, straddling your hips, arms loosely around your shoulders. “What if I wear something extra hot just for you?”

You swallowed hard.

“Florence.”

“Yes?”

“You’re evil.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against your ear. “You love it.”

You didn’t deny it.

You were not prepared.

You thought you were.

You’d seen the dress at her final fitting — dark, sculpted, slit high enough to be illegal in at least three countries. But it was nothing compared to this. Compared to Florence walking the red carpet like she owned the planet, confident and calm and sexy as hell — like she didn’t know your brain was melting inside your skull.

Except she totally knew.

Because when she saw you — tucked near the press line, trying your best to blend in — she locked eyes with you and smirked.

It was criminal.

You stared. She winked. And just to really drive it home, she turned back toward the cameras, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and posed. Legs. Waist. That backless moment. You were dead.

A handler nudged you. “You okay?”

You blinked. “No. I’m not okay. I need a cold shower and possibly medical attention.”

The premiere rolled on — interviews, flashing lights, fans screaming her name. But your eyes were glued to her. You watched her laugh with castmates, sign posters, take selfies. She looked so alive. So herself. And also like she might actually be the hottest woman alive.

When she finally made her way over to you during a lull in interviews, you gave her a look.

“You’re evil,” you said.

“Hi, baby,” she grinned, sliding her arm around your waist like she hadn’t just destroyed your soul ten minutes ago. “Like the dress?”

You scoffed. “You know I like the dress. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past hour. I almost fainted when you turned around.”

“Really?” she said, mock-surprised. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve done a little spin.”

You groaned. “Don’t tempt me.”

She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. “I wore this for you.”

You were sweating.

“You’re so mean to me,” you whispered.

She kissed your cheek — just there, gentle and lingering — and said, “You love it.”

After the movie (which you barely survived — between her fight scenes, those smug grins, and the way she said your character’s name in one particular scene like it was a sin), the two of you snuck out early to avoid the chaos.

You made it back to the hotel suite in a blur. And then?

Then she laughed at you.

“You were literally squirming in your seat.”

“I was not,” you lied, eyes wide.

“You whimpered when I pinned someone to the floor.”

“Okay, that happened once!”

She took off her earrings slowly, deliberately. “You like me dangerous, huh?”

You stared. “Florence.”

“Yes, love?”

“Stop undressing like that unless you want me to do something about it.”

She smiled — wide, soft, pleased. Then she walked over, took your hand, and guided it to the zipper of her dress.

“I definitely want you to do something about it.”

Your breath caught.

But instead of going further, she kissed you sweetly — forehead first, then nose, then lips. Her hands slid under your shirt, fingers warm against your skin, but she didn’t rush. She never rushed with you. She just teased — featherlight touches, smiles against your mouth, a low “I missed you” that made your stomach twist in the best way.

“I want to ruin you,” she whispered, playfully, her voice like silk.

“Romantically or emotionally?” you murmured back, dazed.

She kissed you again. “Both.”

You woke up tangled in her.

There was light filtering in through the curtains — soft, pale, golden — but you didn’t dare move. Florence was curled against your chest, hair a little wild, lips parted, one bare leg thrown over yours like a sleepy octopus.

You were warm in every possible way.

Her cheek was pressed to your collarbone. You could feel her breathing — slow, deep, safe. You ran your fingers gently up and down her spine, watching her nose twitch like a cat in a dream.

God, you were in trouble.

You’d never been this soft for anyone. Never felt this quiet. Like your heart wasn’t just beating — it was resting in her presence.

Eventually, she stirred.

“Mm,” she mumbled, eyes still shut. “Why’re you awake? That’s illegal.”

“I’m admiring you,” you whispered.

“That’s worse,” she said, groggy. “You’re making me feel feelings before coffee.”

“You always have feelings,” you teased. “You just pretend they’re sarcasm.”

She cracked one eye open. “Don’t call me out like that.”

You kissed her hair. “You were incredible last night.”

“I know,” she muttered into your chest. “I was there. I saw myself on screen, remember?”

“No,” you laughed. “I mean — yes, the movie. You were ridiculously hot. I think I passed out somewhere during the third fight scene. But I meant after. With me. The way you looked at me. The way you — I don’t know. Made me feel.”

She went quiet. Then she pulled back, barely, just enough to meet your gaze.

“You felt that too?”

“I’ve been feeling it since the rooftop scene,” you admitted. “When I was trying really hard not to kiss you.”

Her smile was slow, sleepy, and a little shy — a rare thing for her. “I wanted you to. Back then. I kept hoping you’d break and just do it.”

“I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered, brushing your cheek. “You made it better.”

There was a pause. A soft hush. A heartbeat shared in silence.

Then—

“I love you,” you almost said.

But she beat you to it.

“I’m in love with you,” she said, quiet but clear.

Your heart stopped. And then raced.

You cupped her face, kissed her once — firm and sure and full of something so big it hurt.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whispered.

And that was it. No fireworks. No dramatic score. Just two people, wrapped in a blanket, clinging to each other like the world outside didn’t exist. You didn’t need anything else.

Until—

Her stomach growled.

Florence blinked. “Okay. I love you, but I also love pancakes. Which do I get first?”

You grinned. “If you play your cards right, both.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how exactly do I earn that?”

You kissed her collarbone. “By staying mine. Forever.”

Her smile softened. “Deal.”

“Okay, Florence,” the interviewer said, smiling slyly, “we have to ask. Fans are kind of… losing their minds over your red carpet chemistry with a certain co-star.”

Florence tilted her head, all innocent charm. “Oh? Which one?”

“You know exactly who.”

She laughed — not denying it, not even pretending.

“Well,” she said, crossing her legs like she wasn’t a walking smirk, “they’re pretty easy to have chemistry with. I mean, have you seen them?”

The host leaned in, clearly invested. “So, the dating rumors. Can we confirm or deny?”

Florence smiled sweetly into the camera. “Let’s just say I’m very well-fed, emotionally and… otherwise.”

The host gasped.

The internet exploded.

You, watching from backstage with your coffee half-spilled down your front, facepalmed so hard you might’ve bruised.

Later, when she got off stage and saw your face, she just grinned.

“Too much?” she asked.

You blinked. “You literally flirted with me through a national broadcast.”

“And you’re welcome,” she said, stealing your coffee and sipping it like she hadn’t just committed war crimes against your self-control.

That night, back in your shared apartment, you found her curled on the couch in your favorite hoodie (again), hair up in a messy bun, glasses slightly askew, scrolling through TikToks of herself.

“Are you watching your own interviews?” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yep,” she said without shame. “I’m hilarious. Also, did you see how many edits people made of us?”

You walked over, slid onto the couch beside her, and tugged her into your arms.

“I saw,” you murmured into her shoulder. “I also saw someone call me ‘the luckiest human alive.’ I think I agree.”

She looked at you, cheeks pink, a little sheepish now. “You’re not mad I said all that on camera?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m mad you didn’t say more. Like, tell them how you make me pancakes in heart shapes and how you hog the duvet but always end up wrapped around me anyway.”

Florence laughed, nudging your nose with hers. “Fine. I’ll give them the full report next time.”

You kissed her forehead. “Promise?”

She reached behind her neck and unhooked a delicate chain — one with a tiny silver thunderbolt charm — and placed it in your palm.

“Promise,” she said softly. “But this one’s just for you.”

You stared at the charm. At her.

“What is this?” you whispered.

“A symbol,” she said. “For everything we survived. For the movie. For how we started. For the fact that even after all the teasing and chaos, I still choose you. Every time.”

Your throat tightened. You pulled her in, held her like she was the most fragile thing you’d ever touched — and maybe the strongest too.

“I love you,” you said into her hair.

She smiled. “I know. I love you more.”

And somewhere between the thunder and the soft things, you realized you didn’t need a wedding or a spotlight or the world’s approval to feel whole.

You had her.

And that was enough.

Always.

[ilovejb]

hi I saw your requests were open!! Could you write hurt/comfort for lewis pullman? maybe they met as costars doing top gun maverick and with his recent fame people don’t like her so she comforts her? Thank you!

| A little too much |

Pairings : Lewis Pullman x female!reader

Summary : When the world refuses to see her worth, she learns to hold her head high—with a little help from the one person who always believed in her.

Warnings : Online harassment (mentions of hate comments, cyberbullying) Insecurity/self-worth struggles,hurt/comfort themes. Use of y/n. Fluffy ending though don’t worry !!

Authors note : Writing this was hard because every time I thought of Lewis Pullman I blacked out for 3–5 business days.

You hadn’t expected Top Gun: Maverick to change your life.

You were cast as Lieutenant Emily “Echo” Reynolds—one of the new recruits in the Top Gun program. Small role. One that barely skimmed the surface of the final cut, but enough to land you a seat at the premieres, a few lines of dialogue, and a credit you’d clung to in the years after like it meant more than it did. You’d done your job. Clean, professional. Not memorable, not Oscar-worthy—but you’d shown up, hit your marks, delivered your lines.

And you’d met Lewis.

He was warm. Funny. Kind in the way not many actors were, especially the ones with last names like Pullman and eyes that saw more than they let on. You didn’t expect him to talk to you much. You weren’t Glen or Miles or Monica—you weren’t the inner circle.

But he did. He talked to you. At lunch, on set, at wrap parties. You shared trailers when the sun was too hot and shade was a luxury. He shared chips with you once when you forgot to eat. You didn’t call it fate. You weren’t that romantic.

But two months later, when he called you to ask if you wanted to get dinner when you were both back in L.A.—you started to think maybe something bigger had been at play.

Now, two years later, he was famous. Not “Top Gun” famous. Not “I think I recognize him” famous. But everywhere. Talk shows, GQ spreads, Dior campaigns, dramatic indie films and tentpole blockbusters alike.

And you? You were his girlfriend.

Only… no one seemed to like that.

At first, it was little things. Tweets that said “How did she bag Lewis Pullman??” or “Y/N wasn’t even a main character lol she’s just riding the Top Gun clout.”

Then came the Instagram DMs. Pages with profile pictures of teenage girls or anonymous blank circles.

“You’re literally just a nobody.”

“He could do SO much better.”

“Why would someone as sweet as Lewis date someone as average as you?”

“Hope you know he’s going to cheat eventually. You’re just the practice run.”

“You must be amazing in bed to keep him around. Because it’s definitely not the face.”

You tried not to read them. You turned off comments. You blocked. Reported. Ignored.

But they kept coming.

And one day, one of them found your old audition tape.

They posted it to Twitter. The caption said: “Y’all remember when Lewis Pullman had to act with THIS?”

The video had 72K likes in 6 hours.

You called your agent crying. She told you to stay off socials.

You told Lewis nothing.

Because he had enough to deal with.

Because he was finally getting the recognition he deserved.

Because you didn’t want to be that girlfriend—the one who couldn’t take the heat.

You kept your mouth shut. Even when the hate turned from cruel to cutting.

Even when it bled into Reddit threads and fan forums.

“I bet she’s using him for clout.”

“She’s so mid.”

“He could date an actual actress, not some glorified extra.”

“Y/N? Seriously?”

“God, she’s just not pretty enough for him.”

You looked in the mirror and saw it too.

You weren’t model-thin. Your jawline wasn’t sharp. You had soft cheeks and skin that broke out when you were stressed. Your hair was never the perfect amount of messy and styled. Your outfits were practical, not paparazzi-worthy. You didn’t know how to pose at events. You smiled too wide. You stood with your legs too close together. You said dumb things in interviews and forgot to look into the right camera.

You were a mess.

And now, the whole internet saw it too.

The worst part?

Lewis had no idea.

You were quiet when he came home that night. His keys jingled in the bowl by the door. You were curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, blue light from your phone casting shadows under your eyes.

He dropped a kiss on your head like he always did and then paused.

“You okay?” he asked gently, brushing your hair behind your ear.

You flinched before you could stop yourself. “Yeah,” you lied, trying to smile. “Just tired.”

Lewis looked at you like he didn’t believe you. “Long day?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “You could say that.”

He sat beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulder. You stiffened again. You hated it. You hated that his warmth, the thing you used to crave, felt like acid now—like a spotlight. Like everyone could see you didn’t deserve it.

He squeezed your arm. “Babe.”

You blinked too hard, and your phone slipped from your hands. He caught a glimpse of the screen before it fell face-down onto the carpet. You moved fast to grab it.

Too late.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

You didn’t look at him.

He reached down, picked up the phone. You reached for it, but he held it out of reach. “Hey, what’s—” He opened the app. Froze. Read one comment. Then another.

You felt your stomach drop. “Lewis—”

“Is this why you’ve been quiet all week?” His voice was sharp. Not angry. But something close. Something wounded.

You turned away.

He stared at the screen, scrolling through DM after DM. “Jesus.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered.

Lewis looked at you like you’d said the most absurd thing in the world. “You didn’t want to bother me? Y/N, people are harassing you.”

“They’re just stupid fans,” you said quickly, eyes stinging. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

You didn’t know how to explain that. That some part of you felt like you deserved it. Like all those people were just saying what everyone else was thinking.

You bit your lip. “I didn’t want to make it about me. Your career is exploding. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

Lewis sat back like the words physically knocked the wind out of him. “You think this isn’t about us?”

You stayed silent.

He threw the phone onto the couch and turned fully to you. His voice was low now. Hurt. “Y/N, you were the best thing to come out of that set for me. You still are. The fact that you’re hurting and I didn’t know? That’s what makes me sick.”

Your eyes brimmed over, the tears hot and fast.

“And I don’t care what anyone on the internet says,” he continued, voice cracking a little. “They don’t know you. They don’t know what it was like to see you in costume, chewing gum between takes and mouthing everyone else’s lines because you were so damn prepared. They don’t know how you pulled me aside after I forgot my cue and whispered the right one like it was a secret. Or how you stood next to me at the wrap party and let me vent about how nervous I was to live up to my dad’s name.”

You blinked hard.

“They don’t know how you came to my mom’s birthday party even though you were terrified of meeting my family, and won over every single person in the room because you’re funny and real and kind.”

“Lewis—”

“They don’t know how you fall asleep with your mouth open and then wake up embarrassed and cover it like it makes you unlovable.” He shook his head, voice soft now. “They don’t know what I know.”

You were crying full now. Hands shaking. Voice cracked. “It just—it got in my head.”

“I know.” He reached for you, arms wrapping tight around your frame. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry I didn’t see it.”

You clung to him like you were drowning. He held you tighter.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you could breathe.

You didn’t leave the house for five days.

Not for coffee. Not for groceries. Not for air.

You canceled your lunch with your old Top Gun castmates—the few who still remembered you. You ignored text after text from your friends, all of them asking if you were okay in that soft, guilt-laced way people use when they’ve just realized how long it’s been since they checked in.

You stayed in Lewis’s oversized hoodie, the one with the tiny burn hole on the sleeve from when he tried to make you crème brûlée at 2 a.m. and nearly torched the entire kitchen.

It still smelled like him. Like cinnamon and cedar and that stupid overpriced hair gel he swore he didn’t use.

You hated that it comforted you.

Lewis didn’t push you to leave. Not once.

He cooked breakfast without asking if you wanted it. Left little Post-it notes on your mirror—drink water / you are loved / they’re wrong about you. He took every interview request and promo obligation and moved it. Cleared the week. For you.

And still, you barely spoke.

You couldn’t. Because talking meant thinking, and thinking meant reliving, and reliving meant scrolling.

You knew better. You knew not to check the tags. Not to search your name. Not to read the comments on his latest GQ cover where you were only mentioned in passing but still managed to become a target.

“She’s dragging him down.”

“PR relationship. Has to be.”

“Can someone please explain to me how Lewis Pullman went from rising star to babysitting his insecure little groupie of a girlfriend?”

“Her eyes are dead in every photo. It’s giving boring.”

“She’s so lucky he doesn’t have better taste.”

You wanted to disappear. To melt into the hardwood floor and never be seen again. You wondered if there was a way to shrink yourself small enough to fit into his pocket and never come out.

On day six, you finally said something.

“I think I want to delete everything.”

Lewis was on the couch reading a script. He looked up slowly.

“Everything?”

You nodded. “Instagram. Twitter. My website. My reels. All of it.”

He set the script down. “Babe, are you sure?”

You tried to smile. Failed. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to keep it.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. Then, he reached across the coffee table, his fingers wrapping around yours.

“You are. You’re the strongest person I know.”

He paused. “But if it’s breaking you right now, we’ll take it down.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

You breathed for the first time in days. He squeezed your hand.

You deleted it all.

One by one.

Photos from set. Gone.

Thirst traps that never made you feel sexy. Gone.

The tweet where you made a dumb joke about Tom Cruise being shorter than expected. Gone.

You cried when it was over.

Lewis didn’t say I told you so. He just wrapped you in a blanket and held you so long your leg fell asleep.

And then it got worse.

Paparazzi photos surfaced. Ones from a month ago, outside a gas station, when you’d worn your pajama bottoms in public and hadn’t realized someone was watching. You were with Lewis. He was holding your hand.

The headline read: “New It Boy Lewis Pullman Settling Down with Mediocre Nobody?”

The article wasn’t even subtle.

“She’s forgettable at best, unprofessional at worst.”

“No major roles since Maverick, which frankly wasn’t a major role to begin with.”

“Sources say Lewis’s team isn’t thrilled about the relationship.”

“She’s been described as clingy, emotionally volatile, and embarrassingly jealous.”

Your ears rang. Your chest caved in.

There weren’t any sources. That was the worst part. They just made it up. Invented a version of you the world could hate, and then handed you over to the wolves.

When Lewis found you, you were shaking.

“I’m not clingy,” you said as he walked in.

His face twisted in confusion. “What?”

“I’m not. I give you space. I don’t make everything about me. I let you work. I don’t even go to half the premieres with you because I know people will talk.”

His heart dropped to his knees. “Hey, hey—where is this coming from?”

You turned your phone toward him. Let him see the headline. The photos. The bolded words you couldn’t unread.

He paled. Sat beside you in silence.

You wiped at your eyes. “Do you think they’re right?”

Lewis’s mouth parted. “What—what the hell kind of question is that?”

“Do you regret this?” Your voice cracked. “Being with me?”

Something in him shattered.

He reached for your face, thumbs brushing tears from your cheeks like it would change the world.

“No,” he whispered. “God, no. You are the only thing that keeps me grounded. Do you know what fame feels like most days? It feels like everyone wants a piece of me except the people who actually see me. But you—you see me. You always have.”

You wanted to believe it. You really did.

But the internet was louder. The world was louder.

And you were so, so tired.

“I just don’t want to make your life harder.”

He leaned forward, forehead pressed to yours. “You make my life worth it.”

And for a minute, the noise faded.

The next day, Lewis went live on Instagram. He almost never did that. His fans were used to curated posts and PR campaigns. But this wasn’t that.

It was his living room. No filter. No lighting. Just him.

He looked into the camera, tired and soft and real.

“I’m only gonna say this once,” he began. “Because I don’t want to give hate more airtime than it deserves.”

Your heart stopped.

“If you think it’s okay to attack my girlfriend for existing, for loving me, for not meeting some standard you made up in your head—then you can go ahead and unfollow me right now.”

You froze.

“She’s brilliant. And kind. And stronger than anyone I know. She’s been dealing with so much of your bullshit while still showing up every day, still taking care of me, still making me laugh even when she’s hurting. And if you can’t respect her, then you don’t respect me.”

He paused. Let the silence hang like a gavel.

“I don’t care if I lose followers. I care if I lose her.”

Then he ended the stream.

Your phone blew up. DMs of love. Comments from strangers. Messages from co-stars who hadn’t texted in months. Your name trending—for the right reason, this time.

But none of it mattered.

What mattered was Lewis. Who came into the room ten minutes later, unsure if he’d overstepped, scared he’d made it worse.

And you? You ran into his arms like you hadn’t already collapsed there a thousand times before.

You buried your face in his chest and whispered, “Thank you.”

He kissed your temple. “Always.”

The audition wasn’t even supposed to happen.

Your agent called last minute. Some massive director was looking to cast the lead in a dark psychological drama—“female-led, intense, emotionally layered.” The kind of role people gave awards for.

The kind of role no one thought of you for.

You almost didn’t go.

But Lewis sat you down that morning, cupped your face in his hands, and said, “This is yours. Whether they see it or not, you show them.”

So you went.

No makeup. Just messy hair, a threadbare sweater, and the kind of performance that burned like salt in an open wound.

They didn’t even finish the auditions.

You got a call two hours later.

“You booked it,” your agent said, stunned. “They’re not even seeing anyone else.”

The press rollout was immediate. It was the most buzz you’d had since Top Gun, and even then, you’d barely been a footnote. This was different.

You weren’t Lewis’s girlfriend this time.

You weren’t the girl from the background.

You were the headline.

“Breakout Star Lands Role in Cannes-Contending Thriller”

“Underdog No More: Her Rise Is Our Revenge”

“Internet Favorite to Industry Force—She’s Just Getting Started”

Your name trended. But this time, there was no pit in your stomach. No acid in your throat. The hate still existed, sure—it always would—but it was drowned out by something bigger now.

Respect.

You were finally being seen.

Lewis surprised you with champagne and takeout the night the news dropped. You walked in to find candles, confetti, and a massive “YOU DID IT” banner sloppily taped to the ceiling. It was crooked. The tape peeled on one side. You cried anyway.

He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard your knees went weak.

“You knew this would happen,” you whispered.

He grinned. “No. I hoped. But you made it happen.”

You laughed into his neck, your fingers curling into his hoodie like you were anchoring yourself to the moment. Because for once, you weren’t drowning.

You were floating.

The filming process was brutal—in the best way.

Sixteen-hour days. Crying scenes that left your throat raw. Close-ups where your only job was to break. And you did. Over and over again. In front of cameras. In front of strangers.

You gave everything.

And people noticed.

The director—usually stone-faced and impossible to impress—started calling you “The Hurricane.” Not because you were chaotic, but because you destroyed expectations. Wiped the floor with them.

Critics got early footage and lost their minds.

“Where has she been hiding?”

“A performance that breaks you and rebuilds you in the same breath.”

“She carries the entire film on her back—and doesn’t flinch once.”

Even your old castmates reached out. The ones who’d forgotten your name at wrap parties. The ones who’d watched your rise without clapping. Suddenly, they remembered.

“I always knew you had it in you,” one texted.

You didn’t respond. But you screenshotted it. Just to remember how far you’d come.

Awards buzz came faster than you expected.

There were whispers. Rumors. One anonymous source told Variety, “She’s not just a contender—she’s the frontrunner.”

You got invited to every premiere. Every party. Designers who once ignored your stylist now begged to dress you. And you? You walked the carpets with Lewis on your arm, head high, smiling like a woman who’d been broken, stitched herself back together, and still managed to glow.

He was so proud.

He told you every day. In the quiet. In the chaos. In bed at 3 a.m. when you couldn’t sleep because the world finally liked you and somehow that scared you even more.

“Don’t let them tell you who you are,” he said, tracing circles on your back. “You’ve always been this. Even when they couldn’t see it.”

You turned toward him, eyes full, voice soft. “Thank you for waiting for them to catch up.”

He kissed you like an answer.

Then came the premiere.

Red carpet. Paparazzi. Flashbulbs so bright you could barely see.

You wore custom Chanel. Something sharp and soft all at once. Like you. Lewis stood beside you, dapper and wide-eyed like he’d just met you for the first time and couldn’t believe his luck.

The interviewers swarmed.

“Is it surreal seeing her success after everything she’s been through?” one asked Lewis.

He smiled—proud and unbothered. “She’s always been this good. The rest of you were just slow.”

You laughed. He winked.

Another reporter turned to you.

“What would you say to the people who doubted you?”

You paused. Let the camera linger. Let the world lean in.

“I’d say thank you,” you said. “Because it forced me to believe in myself louder than they disbelieved. And now—”

You looked at Lewis. Then back at the camera. “Now I get to prove them wrong by just existing.”

The internet exploded.

The clip went viral within an hour. Your follower count doubled. Fans made edits of you, side by side with scenes from Top Gun, then your new film, then candids of you and Lewis looking like the literal blueprint for “power couple energy.”

Your DMs flooded.

Not just with praise.

With apologies.

From strangers who’d left hate comments.

From girls who’d once written Twitter threads about how “mid” you were.

From influencers who now called you an “inspiration.”

You didn’t respond to any of them.

Because you didn’t need to.

You had nothing to prove anymore.

That night, back at your place, you kicked off your heels and collapsed into the couch. Lewis brought you a glass of wine and sat beside you like he always had. Not as your fan. Not as your shadow. But as your home.

“You did it,” he whispered.

You looked over at him. Exhausted. Radiant. Changed.

“We did.”

He smiled.

You set the wine down and crawled into his lap, arms around his neck.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“Yeah?”

You leaned your forehead against his. “Thank you for never treating me like I was hard to love.”

He exhaled. Shaky. Like he’d been holding that breath for months.

“You were the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” he said. “Loving you.”

And maybe it wasn’t loud. Maybe it wasn’t cinematic or sparkly or viral.

But in that moment—pressed against him, wrapped in his hoodie, laughter tangled between kisses—it was everything.

You weren’t too much anymore.

You were just enough.

[ilovejb]

| Shattered Glass |

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x female!wife!reader

Summary: They were already falling apart — this was just the night it broke loud enough to hear.

Warnings: Drug use (meth),domestic violence (non-graphic physical and emotional abuse).Alcohol abuse, shouting, glass breaking, verbal arguments. Emotional neglect and trauma (child present during conflict)

Authors note: requested by @horrormovielover2000 (Can be read as a sequel to Second Chance or as a standalone piece )

It starts like any other night.

Your daughter hums in her room with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, legs crossed on the floor. Crayons scattered everywhere — dragons with flower crowns, purple stars, green volcanoes, a planet with a smiling face. She’s talking to herself quietly, making up stories as she draws, like she always does when she’s anxious but pretending she’s not.

And you?

You’re in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, heating up leftovers that neither of you really want. You’ve texted Bob three times — one got left on read, the rest ignored. But you already know.

You knew the second he didn’t come home before sunset.

You knew the second you opened the liquor cabinet to grab cooking wine and saw the bottle of bourbon half gone.

You knew the second your daughter asked, too carefully, “Is Daddy still at the gym?”

Because she’s been keeping track. Just like you have.

You hear her giggle softly from the next room, scribbling stars onto a sheet of printer paper like they’re real, like if she draws enough of them, he’ll show up clean and soft-spoken like he did a few months ago. Post-rehab Bob. The one who tried. The one who tried so hard.

And you can feel it coming.

Like a storm on the edge of town.

It’s almost 10PM when the front door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall. You freeze in the hallway, your hand on the light switch.

“Hey—hey, babe?” Bob’s voice, slurred. Sloppy. The way you haven’t heard it in months. “Where’s—where’s my girls?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just breathe.

One second. Two.

Then your voice, flat: “She’s in her room. Drawing.”

You turn the corner slowly, and there he is.

Bob Reynolds. Your husband. Father of your child. Standing in the foyer with bloodshot eyes, pupils blown wide, and a lazy grin that doesn’t reach past his teeth.

His shirt is half untucked. There’s glitter on his forearms — not the kind your daughter uses. The club kind. His hands are trembling.

And his breath…

His breath stinks of vodka and meth sweat.

“Did you—did you miss me?” he grins, like it’s a joke. Like you’re going to laugh. Like this is normal.

Your nails dig into your palm.

“Go wash your face,” you say quietly.

He stumbles forward instead, kicking his shoes off so hard one flies into the wall. It thunks and your daughter’s voice calls out faintly:

“Mommy? Was that Daddy?”

You force yourself to keep your tone steady. “It’s okay, baby. Just stay in your room for now.”

“I drew a new dragon,” she says softly.

You shut your eyes. “I can’t wait to see it.”

When you turn back around, Bob’s in the kitchen, swaying slightly, staring into the open fridge like he forgot what food looks like.

“Don’t do this,” you say low. “Not in front of her.”

He laughs — that weird, hiccupy laugh that’s more mouth than voice.

“Oh, come on. I missed dinner, that’s all. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to be late.” He pulls out a half-empty can of beer from god-knows-where and pops it open like it’s nothing.

“Don’t drink that in front of her,” you snap. “Put it down.”

“Jesus, relax.” He takes a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s not like I’m—what? Gonna crash the house into a tree?”

“Bob—” You raise your voice without meaning to. “She’s six. She can hear you.”

He scoffs, louder now. “She’s drawing in her little fantasy castle. She doesn’t give a damn what I do.”

The words hit you harder than you expect.

“Don’t you dare say that,” you hiss.

He’s already pacing.

You know this dance. You’ve lived this cycle. He’s not even fully here — chemically scattered, skin buzzing under sweat and guilt. You can feel the fight coming like a train and you want to stop it.

But you’re so tired of swallowing the silence.

So you say it.

“Were you with her?”

That stops him. Just for a second.

His face flinches. Then hardens.

“Don’t start with that paranoid jealous wife bullshit,” he spits.

“I’m not jealous. I’m angry. And terrified. You came home high, Bob. Drunk. After weeks of pretending—promising—you were done.”

“It was one night.”

“It’s never one night!”

The bottle slips out of his hand.

CRASH.

It shatters across the tile.

You both freeze.

From her room: silence. Then the softest voice.

“Mommy?”

Your eyes sting. “It’s okay, sweetie. Just something fell.”

“I’ll draw you a flower,” she says quietly.

You clench your fists.

Bob stares at the broken glass, swaying. “See what you made me do.”

You spin. “What I made you do? Are you kidding me?”

“You push and push and—” His voice cracks. “I’m trying.”

“No, you’re not,” you snap. “You tried. Past tense. Then you stopped. You walked back into hell and dragged us with you.”

His hands go to his hair. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You never mean to. But I’m the one cleaning up the mess. I’m the one checking on her in the night when she cries because Daddy didn’t kiss her goodnight. I’m the one who—who—”

You have to stop. Your throat tightens.

“You’re a superpowered god,” you whisper. “But you can’t even pick up a goddamn crayon and sit with your daughter for five minutes.”

That one hits.

He turns away like he’s been slapped.

Silence.

A beat.

Then, from the hallway, soft footsteps.

You both turn.

She’s there — standing in her pajamas, holding a drawing in both hands.

A planet with dragon wings. Flowers blooming across its surface. Stars smiling above it.

“I made this for you, Daddy,” she says quietly. “In case you were sad.” Bob opens his mouth. No words come. He sinks to his knees.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You tuck her back into bed ten minutes later.

Bob doesn’t help. He doesn’t follow. He just stands in the hallway like a ghost while you kneel beside your daughter’s little bed, gently brushing her curls back behind her ear.

She’s still holding the drawing. She won’t let it go.

You whisper, “It’s beautiful, baby,” and she nods. “He’s just really tired tonight, okay? He’s… not feeling like himself.”

“Is he sick?” she asks, voice small.

You hesitate. “A little. Grown-up sick. It’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t ask any more questions. She doesn’t cry. That’s what worries you most.

She just pulls the blanket up to her chin and says, “I can draw him another one tomorrow.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

You kiss her forehead and close the door gently behind you. The moment it clicks shut, the weight shifts from your chest to your fists.

You walk down the hall and there he is.

Still swaying slightly. Still reeking of chemicals and bourbon and mistakes.

“She saw,” you say.

Bob doesn’t answer.

“She saw everything.”

He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to wake up from something, but he isn’t asleep. He’s wide awake in the worst version of himself.

You shake your head. “What did you take?”

He doesn’t lie.

“Meth,” he mutters. “Just a little. Just… I wasn’t gonna go full spiral again.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Your voice cracks on the last word.

He turns away. “I needed it. Just for one night. You don’t know what it’s like in here.” He taps his temple hard. “I’m stuck in my own f***ing head all the time.”

You step closer.

“And I’m stuck in the wreckage. Picking up every broken thing you leave behind. Including her.”

Bob flinches.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t say you didn’t mean to,” you snap. “You chose this. You walked back into it. You lied to me. You lied to her. You promised.”

“I know,” he says again, and it’s weaker this time. “I f***ing know, okay?”

You’re not even yelling anymore. You’re too drained for that.

You walk past him into the kitchen where the broken glass still glints in the dim light. You grab the broom. Sweep. One shard slices your palm as you dump the pieces into the trash. You don’t flinch. You just let it bleed.

Bob watches from the doorway. Pathetic. Hollow.

“Don’t just stand there,” you mutter.

He doesn’t move.

“I don’t know what you want me to do.”

You turn, eyes sharp.

“I wanted you to stay clean.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’m not good at this,” he says. “Being normal. Being domestic. It doesn’t feel real. I wake up and I feel like I’m still some… broken thing with a kill switch. Like one bad day and it all resets.”

“You think I’m not scared?” You drop the broom. “You think I’m not terrified every time I hear a siren or get a phone call at midnight?”

He closes his eyes.

“Don’t you dare use your powers as an excuse. This isn’t about being Sentry. This is about being a father.”

His voice is barely above a whisper: “I’m trying.”

You stare at him, eyes burning.

“No. You tried. Then you gave up. And you didn’t even look back.”

That’s when the yelling starts again.

He pushes away from the doorway. You don’t remember exactly what sets it off — maybe a look, maybe a word, maybe the sheer tension of too much truth in one room. But then the volume spikes.

“You don’t know what it’s like living with this kind of pressure—!”

“I live with you, Bob. That’s pressure enough.”

“You make me feel like I’m never doing enough!”

“Because you’re not! You disappear for hours, days—!”

“I come back, don’t I?!”

“Do you? Because this—” You gesture to his bloodshot eyes, his shaking hands, the reek of his clothes. “—this isn’t you coming back. This is you dragging the grave with you.”

He grabs a glass off the counter. Throws it. It hits the wall and shatters.

You both freeze again.

No voice this time. No question from the hallway.

Just silence.

That hurts worse.

“She didn’t even ask if we’re okay,” you whisper. “She’s used to this.”

Bob sinks to the floor slowly, like his legs give out.

His hands tremble.

“I never wanted this,” he whispers. “I wanted to be better.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer.

You stand over him.

“Fix this,” you say coldly. “Fix it, Bob. Or don’t come back next time.”

He looks up at you, eyes glossy and desperate.

“You don’t mean that.”

You stare down at him, throat tight.

And you don’t say a word.

You don’t sleep.

You lie awake on the edge of the bed with your back turned, eyes fixed on the crack in the ceiling paint. It’s from that one storm last year. Bob swore he’d fix it.

Like everything else.

You hear him in the kitchen again sometime around 3 a.m. — not sneaking, not quiet. Just loud enough for you to know he wants to be heard. Like he wants you to get up and find him. Make it okay. Clean up the mess again.

You don’t move.

Instead, you listen to the fridge door open. Then close. Then open again. Bottles clinking.

God, please let it be water this time.

A few minutes later, the front door creaks. A light step. Lighter than it should be.

He’s leaving again.

No note.

By the time the sun rises, your daughter is in the kitchen with a blanket over her shoulders and her planet drawing taped to the fridge.

You pour her cereal, make her chocolate milk the way she likes — three swirls of syrup, stir counterclockwise, not clockwise — and try to smile when she shows you the flower she drew on the back of her dragon page.

“He didn’t like the dragon, I think,” she mumbles.

“Daddy had something going on in his head,” you say softly. “It wasn’t about the dragon, sweetheart.”

She nods, like she understands, but she shouldn’t have to.

You pack her backpack. Kiss her forehead. Walk her to the bus. Wave until the yellow doors close.

Then you go back inside and sit on the couch.

The quiet is unbearable.

He shows up again at noon.

You don’t even hear the key in the lock — just the sound of the door closing too softly, like he knows he shouldn’t be here.

You don’t look at him.

Bob’s a wreck. His hoodie’s stained, there’s a fresh cut over his knuckle, and the shadows under his eyes look like they’ve taken root.

“I went walking,” he says, like you care.

You pick up the remote. Click the volume up one notch. Don’t speak.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t use again.”

You finally glance at him. “Congrats.”

The sarcasm hits harder than any punch. He winces, but doesn’t argue.

He slinks further inside like he’s testing how close you’ll let him come before you snap. You don’t say stop. Not yet.

“I slept behind the old theater,” he says. “No cops. Just rats.”

You snort, bitter. “And that’s supposed to make me feel sorry for you?”

He sits on the edge of the coffee table, hands clasped like he’s in a confession booth.

“I’m not trying to win points. I just didn’t want to go somewhere worse.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“Bob, you are the worst place.”

The air shifts.

He lets out a low, hollow laugh. “Yeah. I figured.”

You lean forward, elbows on your knees.

“You’ve got a daughter. A daughter who thinks she needs to draw you pictures to make you happy.”

He nods slowly. “I know.”

“You think this is about meth? Or booze? It’s not. It’s about the fact that you come home and look right through us like we’re ghosts in your house.”

“I don’t mean to,” he whispers.

“But you do it anyway.”

Bob’s face crumples a little. “I don’t know how to be here without f***ing it up.”

“Then leave.”

Silence.

You press harder. “No more in and out. No more maybe-I’ll-try-again. If you’re going to rot, do it somewhere else. You don’t get to take us down with you.”

You can see it in his eyes — that flicker of panic, like maybe this is the one time you mean it.

“You want me gone?” he asks.

You shrug. “You already are.”

He sits back like you slapped him.

You wish you had. Maybe a bruise would make the pain real to him.

He gets up. Paces. His hands start twitching.

“I thought you wanted to fix things,” he says.

You snap your head toward him.

“I wanted a husband. I got a f***ing ghost with a death wish.”

He knocks a lamp off the end table. It crashes, shatters.

This time, you don’t even flinch.

“You think I asked for this life?” he shouts. “You think I wanted to turn into someone you’re ashamed to love?!”

You rise to your feet.

“You didn’t want to turn into it. You let it happen.”

You’re nose to nose now, breathing the same poisonous air.

“I have begged,” you say. “I have cried and screamed and pleaded with you to choose us. And every time, you’ve picked the thing that kills you faster.”

His voice breaks. “Because I don’t know how to survive happiness.” “Then don’t drag us down into your misery.”You step back. Point at the door.

“If you don’t have a reason to stay clean, then go. Because I won’t let our daughter grow up thinking love means pain.”

He doesn’t move. For once, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t break anything else. He just looks at you like a man drowning for the last time.

And then?

He leaves.

The door doesn’t slam.

It clicks.

Soft.

Final.

You don’t know what time it is.

You just know it’s dark, and cold, and your daughter’s bedroom door is closed with a towel shoved under it to keep the smoke out.

You’re barefoot, standing in the hallway with a shattered picture frame at your feet.

And Bob is in the kitchen again — slamming cabinets, muttering to himself, breaking things he probably doesn’t even realize he’s breaking.

You told him not to come back.

But junkies always come back. Especially when they think they’re owed something.

You hear the fridge door open. Another bottle. You feel it before you hear it — the slow drag of him pulling out a chair, sitting down like this is his house, his family, like the last three days didn’t happen.

And something in you snaps.

You walk into the kitchen and grab the bottle from his hand. Whiskey, half gone.

“What the f***—” he starts, reaching for it.

You pull it away. “You don’t get to sit here and drink like this is normal.”

His eyes are bloodshot, his hands twitchy. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’ve already started.”

You slam the bottle down on the counter, just hard enough to make him flinch.

“You show up at 1 a.m. reeking of pills and bourbon and you think you can just sit at my kitchen table like this is fine?”

He glares at you, mouth twisted.

“I live here.”

You laugh. “No, Bob. You exist here. You haunt this place. You ruin it.”

He stands. Too fast. The chair screeches.

“I work my ass off not to disappear completely, and all you do is tear me down!”

“You hit rock bottom and then keep digging,” you scream. “What the hell do you expect me to do?! Applaud you?!”

His fist slams the countertop. “You don’t see me! You don’t f***ing care!”

Your chest tightens. You take one step closer. “I saw you when no one else did. I loved you when you were already rotting. But I won’t let our daughter grow up thinking this is love.”

He stumbles forward, unsteady. “Don’t bring her into this.”

You shove him back.

“Why? Scared she might actually realize her dad is a goddamn coward?”

That’s when it happens.

It’s not cinematic. Not slow motion.

It’s fast. Fast and ugly.

His hand comes up before he knows what it’s doing. Open palm, reckless swing.

You feel it before you process it — the sting on your cheek, the burn in your jaw, the sudden stillness that crashes over everything like a glass wall shattering in your chest.

Your head turns with the hit. The whiskey bottle falls and smashes on the tile, spilling amber and shards across your bare feet.

Silence.

Bob steps back, hand frozen mid-air, eyes wide.

“I—I didn’t—”

You don’t speak.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just stand there, breath shallow, and stare at him like he’s a stranger who broke in.

And in that second — he is.

Your voice comes out steady. Cold.

“If you ever touch me again, I swear to God—”

“Wait, I didn’t mean to—baby—please, I—”

You shove him. Hard.

He stumbles into the broken glass.

Your voice doesn’t shake. “You’re leaving.”

He looks panicked. “No. No, I just—I lost control, just for a second, I swear—”

“You lost me,” you spit. “You lost your family.”

Your daughter’s bedroom door opens quietly down the hall. A little face peeks out.

“Mom?”

You snap your head toward her, instantly soft. “Stay in your room, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t listen. She walks down the hall, dragging her blanket, blinking at the mess.

You kneel and block her view of the kitchen, your body between her and her father.

“Go back in your room. I’ll be there in a second.”

She sees the red on your cheek.

“Did Daddy hurt you?”

Your throat tightens. “Just go. Please.”

She obeys.

Because she knows when someone means it.

Bob starts crying. Loud, disgusting sobs.

You don’t care.

You get up. Grab his keys from the hook by the door.

You shove them at his chest. “Go.”

He doesn’t move.

“GO!”

You scream it so hard your voice breaks.

He finally turns.

He walks out barefoot, still crying, still muttering apologies that disappear with every step.

You close the door behind him.

Lock it.

And then you slide down against it, head in your hands, and let yourself fall apart.

That night, you sleep in your daughter’s bed.

She draws you a dragon with big wings.

It’s breathing fire on a man with black eyes and a small heart.

You kiss her forehead, curl up beside her, and promise yourself you’ll never let her grow up thinking this is what love looks like.

[ilovejb]

| Second Chance |

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x female!wife!reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds comes home broken—and now he has to earn his place in the family he almost lost.

Warnings: Substance abuse (meth/alcohol),Angst & yelling, Mentions of relapse/recovery, Parenting struggles, fluffy ending

Authors note: requested by @horrormovielover2000

The warmth of your daughter’s small body is tucked against your side, her cheek pressed to your arm as she watches the pages of the storybook flutter with each turn. You’re halfway through The Paper Bag Princess, and her lashes are already getting heavy.

“Then the dragon flew around the world… twice…” you say softly, dragging your voice like honey across the words, “…and was so tired, he couldn’t even move.”

Your daughter giggles, muffled and sleepy. “He flew too much,” she says, fingers brushing her tiny unicorn plushie.

“Mhm,” you hum, smiling despite the quiet ache in your chest. “That’s why you shouldn’t show off when you’re tired.”

You’re trying. Really trying. Holding onto the rituals—bedtime stories, warm baths, tucking her in just right—as if they’ll keep the world from crashing in.

Your phone buzzes silently on the nightstand. You glance at it. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a read receipt.

Where the hell are you, Bob?

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. Not anymore. But caring is like breathing with him—you can’t stop, no matter how much it hurts.

“I want Daddy to finish the story tomorrow,” your daughter mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

You hesitate, brushing hair back from her face. “He’ll try, baby.”

“Okay…” she sighs. “Mommy?”

“Yeah, love?”

“Are dragons real?”

You pause. “Only the kind we carry in our hearts.”

That seems to satisfy her. You keep reading until her breathing slows, her hand slipping from your arm. The book hangs loosely in your lap. The room is warm and quiet. For a moment, just a moment, it feels like you’re safe here.

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You jump so hard the book falls. Your heart slams into your throat. The pounding is aggressive, loud, demanding. Someone’s at the door—no, slamming at it. Your daughter shoots up in bed. “Daddy!” she squeals, awake instantly.

“Wait—wait, baby, no—” but she’s already out of bed, bare feet pattering down the hallway.

You scramble after her. “Sweetheart, slow down—!”

She reaches the front door before you do, fumbling with the handle, too short to open it completely. You get there just as it swings wide.

And there he is.

Bob.

No—what’s left of him.

His blonde hair is a mess, matted with sweat. His eyes are wide and glassy, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. The stench hits you first—alcohol, piss, something sharper and acrid clinging to his clothes. “Hi babyyyy,” he drawls, voice thick and slow like molasses. “Didja miss your old man?”

Your daughter giggles, throws herself at him without hesitation. He lifts her, almost stumbles back from the weight. She clings to his neck like nothing’s wrong.

You stand there, frozen. Your stomach twists.

“Bob,” you say sharply, but not loud. Not yet. “Put her down.”

“Aww, come on,” he slurs. “She missed me. Didn’tcha, honeybee?”

Your daughter beams. “You smell weird, Daddy.”

He barks a laugh, wobbly and too loud. “That’s just… bein’ a man, baby.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“Put. Her. Down.”

He finally does, sort of dropping her onto her feet. She stumbles, giggles, doesn’t notice your white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. Bob sways. His eyes meet yours. And for one fleeting second, something clear flickers behind them—recognition, maybe shame—but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“Hey, baby,” he grins at you. “Miss me?”

You don’t answer.

You just stare at him, your mouth dry, your hands shaking, your daughter beside you tugging his hand and asking if he brought her a present.

And the smell. God, the smell—like whiskey and sweat and something chemical and burnt, crawling on his skin. The man in front of you is not the hero. Not the husband. Not even close.

Just the storm you’ve been waiting for.

Bob stumbles over the threshold like a man who’s forgotten what home means.

His boots leave muddy prints across the wood floor. His jacket slips from one shoulder, crumpling at his side like a discarded thought. You say nothing as he makes his way in—wobbly, slow, humming some half-forgotten tune under his breath.

Your daughter is stuck to his hip, chattering happily about her day. “We made dragons at school today, Daddy! And Mommy read the dragon story! It was sooo funny.” She’s beaming, absolutely glowing, like her daddy hasn’t just shown up looking like a man pulled from a wreckage.

Bob nods, eyes too wide. “Dragons, huh? S’a good story. I ever tell you ‘bout the time I fought one?”

She gasps. “Noooo. You really did?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins, staggering toward the living room. “Biggest thing you ever saw. Breath like fire, teeth like knives. Mean son of a bitch.” He leans down, whispering theatrically, “But I kicked his ass.”

She squeals with laughter.

You’re still by the front door. Frozen.

Watching.

Counting.

One bottle of whiskey. A crushed cigarette. Meth. Definitely meth. You can see it in the twitch of his fingers. The way his jaw keeps locking and unlocking. His eyes aren’t just red; they’re wrong. Dilated. Staring through you.

It hits you again, how he can be so full of love and still dangerous like this. Your daughter clutches his leg. “Tell me more, Daddy.”

You finally speak, throat raw. “Sweetheart, it’s bedtime.”

“Aw, come on,” Bob groans, flopping onto the couch. “Let her stay up. Story time with Dad. It’s a special occasion.”

You move fast, crossing the room and crouching beside her. “No, baby. It’s late, and Daddy needs to rest.”

“But—”

“Now,” you say, more firmly, smoothing her hair. “Go pick another book. I’ll be right there.”

She hesitates, clearly torn. But she nods, pouting as she heads back toward her room. You don’t relax until she’s out of sight.

Then you stand.

And face him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper.

He laughs, as if you told a joke. “Babe, chill. I’m home, aren’t I?”

“You’re high.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re high, Bob.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just a little. Needed to take the edge off.”

“The edge off what?” you hiss. “You vanished for three days. You missed her parent-teacher meeting. You said you’d help with her reading log. You said you were getting better. And now you come in here reeking like a goddamn meth lab and want to play bedtime hero?”

He flinches. But then that grin returns—ugly now, cracked at the edges.

“I was working.”

“Bullshit.”

“Saving people, baby. That’s what I do.”

“No. Not tonight. Tonight you got high and drank yourself stupid and wandered home like a stray dog.”

He sways to his feet, stumbling slightly. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some junkie.”

“What would you call this?”

He gestures wildly, arms spread. “This? This is me surviving, okay? You think I can sleep with what’s in my head? You think I can just tuck in at nine like everything’s fine when there’s a void in there scratching behind my eyes?”

You go still.

His chest heaves. The room is too quiet now.

There it is again.

The thing no one likes to name.

The Void.

The god inside him. Or the monster. Or both. You don’t know anymore. You just know that when Bob says he’s using to keep it quiet, it means he’s slipping further away from all of you.

“I didn’t ask to be this,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Your voice is quieter now. Dangerous. “But you asked to be a father. You asked to be a husband. You chose this family. And every time you walk through that door like this, you tell me we were a mistake.”

He looks like you slapped him.

For one second—just one—he looks like Bob again. The real one. The one who held your hand in the hospital and whispered that he’d protect this baby with his life. The one who rocked your daughter to sleep on his chest, and cried when she said “Dada” for the first time.

Then he blinks. And he’s gone again.

A shadow of himself.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he mumbles, grabbing a bottle from the kitchen counter—half-empty tequila from a week ago.

You move fast.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

He lifts the bottle anyway.

You yank it from his hand and slam it down into the sink so hard it shatters.

The sound explodes in the room. Glass everywhere.

Bob stares. Stunned. “Jesus, what the hell?”

“I will not let you drink yourself into the ground in front of our daughter.”

“She didn’t see shit.”

“She sees everything, Bob! Every damn time you stumble in here like this, she looks at me and asks if you’re okay. She draws pictures of dragons with black eyes, and calls them ‘Daddy monsters.’ I am begging you to understand what you’re doing to her.”

He doesn’t move.

He just breathes.

Heavy.

You realize your hands are shaking. You push past him and grab a broom. Start sweeping.

Because you need to do something.

You need the sound. The motion. The distraction.

Bob sinks back onto the couch like all the air’s been taken out of him. “I’m not a monster,” he whispers.

You don’t look at him.

“I never said you were.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his face. “She loves me.”

“She worships you. And that’s the problem. She thinks this is normal.”

You glance down the hallway, heart aching.

“She still waits at the door every night.”

He says nothing.

“I’m pregnant, Bob.”

The words come out without planning.

He freezes.

Looks up.

“What?”

You finally meet his eyes.

“I was gonna tell you when you were clean. When you were… you. But it’s been weeks, and I don’t even know if I’ll get that version of you again.”

A long silence.

Then—he laughs.

Not out of joy.

It’s hollow. Disbelieving. A little broken.

“You’re kidding.”

You shake your head.

He rubs a hand over his face again, blinking hard. “A baby. Another baby. God.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“I’m not—” He stands suddenly, pacing now. “I’m just—it’s a lot, okay? I’m not even keeping it together as-is and now you’re telling me there’s another kid coming?”

You stare at him.

“Do you want us, Bob? Do you even want to be a part of this family?”

He turns slowly, eyes red.

“I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“I’m not asking for perfect,” you say, voice breaking. “I’m asking for present.”

You leave the room before he can answer.

Back down the hallway. Into your daughter’s room, where she’s already curled up with her second book of the night, waiting patiently.

“Mommy,” she whispers, “is Daddy staying home now?”

You press your lips together.

Tuck her in gently.

And lie.

“Yeah, baby. He’s staying.”

Your daughter falls asleep quickly, thumb curled near her mouth, the dragon story still open beside her on the bed. Her little chest rises and falls, steady, safe—for now.

You stay there a few moments longer than necessary. Just watching her.

Trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.

Trying to remember the version of Bob she deserves.

The one who used to fall asleep on the nursery floor because she wouldn’t let go of his pinky. The one who took her to the park and convinced her he was the strongest man alive because he lifted her with one arm. The one who used to whisper, “I’ll always come back,” like a promise carved in gold.

But now—

Now he comes back empty.

Reeking of pain and piss and substances you can’t even name anymore.

You close her bedroom door softly behind you.

The light in the hallway flickers—needs replacing. Just like everything else. The kitchen clock stopped last week. The front door sticks when it rains. You haven’t fixed the broken nightlight she asked for because every time you get close to doing something normal, you’re reminded that nothing about this life is.

Bob is still in the living room.

Sitting on the floor now.

He’s not moving. Just staring at the shattered glass in the sink. Like it’s some divine message he can’t decipher.

His hands are limp in his lap.

His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. He’s not crying. But it’s worse somehow. He looks quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after too many storms, when the ship’s already sinking.

You speak first.

“Do you even remember what day it is?”

He flinches, looks up.

“…Tuesday?”

“It’s Friday, Bob.”

He blinks. You don’t think he even believes you.

You walk past him and pick up his jacket—drenched in sweat, smoke, something chemical. You hold it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“Is this meth, or did you find something new?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” you snap, tossing the jacket toward the laundry basket and wiping your hands on your thighs. “Help me understand, Bob, because I’m out here every day trying to raise your daughter and keep this house from falling apart while you disappear and come home looking like a fucking ghost.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You promised,” you whisper.

“I know,” he finally growls. “I fucking know. You think I like this?”

“I don’t know what you like anymore,” you shoot back, your voice cracking. “You said you were getting clean. You swore. You looked me in the eye and said it was over.”

“I meant it.”

You scoff, bitter. “So what changed?”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then, in a voice so raw it scrapes the air: “I did.”

You want to scream. Cry. Run. Anything but this.

“Don’t give me that tragic hero bullshit,” you snap, pacing now. “You had help. You had us. We were there. Every time. I sat with you through every crash. Every mood swing. Every nightmare. And you still chose the high.”

His face twists.

“I didn’t choose this,” he snaps, standing. “You think I wake up and want to burn everything down? You think I look at her and feel nothing?”

You stop.

Let the silence settle between you.

He drags a shaky hand through his hair. “I love her. I love you. But this thing in me—it’s loud. And when I don’t quiet it, it eats me alive.”

You’re crying now.

Tears hot and fast and silent.

“Then let it eat you, Bob. Not us. Not her.”

His expression cracks.

For a second, he steps forward, like he’s going to reach for you. But he stops himself. Just stares.

“You’re pregnant,” he says again, softer now. Like it just hit him.

You nod, wiping your cheeks.

“How far along?”

“Seven weeks.”

A beat.

“Is it mine?”

That breaks you.

It slices through your chest like a blade.

You laugh. One sharp, humorless breath. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

He grimaces. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it, I know. Just like you didn’t mean to disappear. Or relapse. Or scare the shit out of our daughter tonight. But you did. And I’m the one who has to patch it all up every single time.”

Bob slumps back down onto the couch. Puts his head in his hands.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start by apologizing.”

He looks up.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For tonight. For everything.”

You nod slowly. “And then what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You kneel in front of him.

“I need you to hear this, and really hear me, Bob. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t raise two kids in a house where love feels like walking through landmines.”

He’s trembling now. You don’t think he realizes it.

“I want the man who brought home flowers just because I said I missed spring. I want the man who cried when she was born and held her like she was made of stars. Not this…” you trail off, gesturing at him. “Not this ruin.”

He blinks hard.

Looks at you.

And then—he shatters.

Breaks open.

The tears come fast and brutal. He folds in on himself, sobbing like it’s the first time he’s let it out. He clutches your wrist, not to hurt, just to hold.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to—I don’t know why I can’t stop—”

You wrap your arms around him, even though it hurts.

Even though you know this moment won’t fix anything.

Because this is still Bob.

Even if he’s buried under the weight of everything he’s become.

“I know,” you whisper, holding him as tightly as you can. “But something has to change. Or this ends here.”

His fingers dig into your back.

Like he knows you mean it this time.

Like he’s terrified you really will walk.

And the worst part is—

So are you.

The house is quiet when you wake up.

Your daughter is curled up against you on the couch, one arm thrown over your belly like she’s guarding something. You kiss her forehead and gently shift her off your lap, your lower back aching from a night of sleeping half upright.

You can smell him before you hear him.

Cigarettes. Cheap beer. Sweat.

You stiffen.

Bob’s in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table with his head in his hands like he’s the one who needs comforting. There’s a trail of dirt and god-knows-what from his boots to the back door, and the sink’s still full of glass shards from last night’s meltdown.

You don’t speak right away. You just stand there, watching him.

He doesn’t look up.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask softly. Not because you’re trying to be calm—but because if you raise your voice, you’ll scream.

“I live here,” he mumbles, still not looking at you.

“Do you?”

He finally lifts his head.

His eyes are bloodshot. His face is pale. You’re not sure how long it’s been since he slept, but it sure as hell wasn’t last night.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

You almost laugh. It’s not funny, but it’s so familiar—the way he always defaults to sorry when he’s got nothing else left to say.

You move to the sink and start picking out the bigger shards of glass from the mess he made. Carefully. Wordlessly.

He watches.

“Let me help.”

“You’ve helped enough,” you say coldly.

That shuts him up.

When you finally turn to face him, you’re exhausted in every possible way. Your body hurts, your heart hurts, your soul hurts.

“I meant it,” he says after a beat. “What I said last night. I want to be better.”

You stare at him. “You were high, Bob. You said a lot of things.”

“I meant them.”

“Even the part where you asked if the baby was yours?”

His face falls.

You shake your head. “You don’t get to play the hero after that.”

He stands slowly. “I was out of my mind. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“You haven’t known what you were saying for months.”

Silence.

You press your palms into the counter. Your voice comes quieter now, shakier. “She woke up this morning asking where her dragon drawing went. You scared the hell out of her last night. Again.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “I know. I fucked up.”

You laugh bitterly. “Fucked up doesn’t even begin to cover it, Bob.”

He looks at you like he wants to fall apart again. But you’re not giving him that out this time. Not another emotional collapse for you to clean up.

“Do you want to be a father?” you ask, blunt.

He stiffens. “Of course I do.”

“Then act like it. Because this version of you? He’s not a dad. He’s a fucking disaster.”

He flinches.

Good.

“Go get help,” you say. “Real help.”

He nods immediately. “I will. I want to.”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you? Or do you just want me to think you will so I won’t throw you out?”

“I mean it this time.”

“You said that the last time.”

His shoulders fall.

And for a moment, he looks small.

“You want a gold star for showing up at rock bottom?” you ask, shaking your head. “No. You want this family? You fight for it. Because I’m done dragging you to the finish line.”

He nods again, slower this time. “I’ll go. Tomorrow. I’ll find a place. I just need—”

“No,” you cut in. “Today. Before you change your mind. Before you convince yourself this wasn’t that bad. Pack a bag. Get out. And don’t come back until you’re clean.”

He swallows hard. “Will you wait for me?”

You don’t answer at first.

You look past him, toward the hallway. Where your daughter still sleeps. Where the nursery’s half-painted. Where the version of your life that you wanted is falling apart at the seams.

“I’ll do what’s best for the kids,” you say. “But waiting for you? No. I’ve done enough of that.”

You leave the kitchen before he can say anything else.

You don’t want more promises.

You want proof.

That night, he’s gone.

Just like that.

No grand goodbye. No dramatic tears. Just a packed duffel bag, an apology muttered in the doorway, and the weight of your daughter’s drawing tucked into his jacket.

You don’t cry.

You don’t feel relieved, either.

Just… empty.

Like this was always coming, and now that it’s here, you’re too numb to mourn it.

You lay in bed with your daughter curled beside you and a hand on your stomach, wondering what kind of father this baby will have.

And whether it’s better to hope for his return—

—or to pray he never comes back.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Bob left.

The house is quieter, but not in the peaceful way. It’s the kind of quiet that gets under your skin, presses against your chest. Like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for the next storm.

You’ve stopped expecting to find his boots by the door. You’ve stopped waiting for his voice in the hallway. But the ache hasn’t dulled—not really. It just settled in a different place. Lower. Heavier.

You’re tired. All the time.

And not just from the pregnancy.

There’s something about carrying a child and holding a whole family together at the same time that feels impossible.

But you do it.

You get up.

You feed your daughter.

You fold tiny onesies and pack a hospital bag, just in case.

And when she asks why Daddy’s not home, you smile and say, “He’s on a trip, baby. He’s working really hard to come back better.”

You don’t say what kind of work.

You don’t say that some nights, you cry into his old hoodie and hope to God this baby never knows the version of Bob you had to survive.

He texts once.

Day 9.

I’m in. It’s hard. I miss you both so much. I swear I’m doing it right this time.

You stare at the message for a full ten minutes.

Then you lock your phone and leave it unanswered.

One morning, you wake up and realize you haven’t said his name out loud in days.

That feels like progress.

But then you find your daughter in the hallway with her backpack on.

“Where are you going?” you ask, heart skipping.

“To go find Daddy.”

Your breath catches.

She looks up at you, so hopeful, so sure.

“I drew him a new dragon,” she says softly. “The old one was too scary.”

You kneel in front of her, stomach twisting.

“Sweetheart, you can’t go find Daddy. He’s still… away.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s learning how to be safe. How to be the kind of daddy you deserve.”

Her face crumples. “But what if he forgets about us?”

Your heart breaks clean in half.

You pull her into your arms and whisper, “He won’t. I won’t let him.”

That night, you write him a letter.

You don’t send it.

You don’t even plan to.

But you need to say the things you can’t say with your voice yet:

*I’m angry. You should know that. I don’t believe you yet. You’ve said you’d change before. You said it while high. You said it while bleeding. You said it while looking our daughter in the eye. You lied every time.

But I still want you to try.

Not for me. Not for us.

For her. For this baby.

Because if you come back the same man who left, I won’t let you through the door again.

I mean that.*

You fold it.

Tuck it into the bottom drawer of the dresser.

And you leave it there like a secret waiting to rot.

Week three.

The nausea is back.

You blame stress. Not just from Bob, but from everything. Doctor visits. Finances. Being the only parent at story time in the library. Carrying a child while carrying this much emotional weight—it’s no wonder your body is starting to fight back.

You sit in the bathtub that night, lights off, candles flickering, trying to breathe through the tension building in your ribs. The house feels lonelier than ever.

And that’s when the phone rings.

Not Bob.

The clinic.

“Just a routine check-in,” the nurse says gently. “He asked us to let you know he’s still clean. Still on track.”

You nearly drop the phone.

“He did?” you ask, voice brittle.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s working hard. Every day. He said he’d understand if you didn’t want to hear from him directly. But he wanted you to know he’s still trying.”

Your throat tightens.

You thank her.

You hang up.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself cry—not from anger, but from something closer to grief. Or maybe even hope.

But you still don’t text him back.

Not yet.

Day 26.

You go into early labor.

It’s a false alarm, but it scares the hell out of you.

You’re in the hospital for nine hours. Hooked up to monitors. Breathing through contractions that fade, then return, then fade again. Your daughter’s with your sister. You’re alone in a cold room with fluorescent lights and too many questions.

And you don’t call Bob.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t trust him yet—not even with this.

When the doctor finally tells you it’s Braxton Hicks, you exhale so hard it feels like your lungs collapse.

Back home, you sit in the nursery and rub your belly.

“I got us,” you whisper. “Even if he doesn’t.”

Day 30.

Bob writes a letter.

This time, he doesn’t send it.

But you’ll read it soon.

And when you do, it will hurt like hell.

Because he’ll finally admit the full truth.

The stuff he never said. The things you didn’t even know. The darkest parts he buried under the booze and the high. And for the first time… you’ll understand why he left before you could push him out.

But that’s still coming.

Right now?

You’re just trying to breathe.

Bob’s POV

There’s no mirror in the bathroom. You guess that’s intentional. Too many guys in here already hate what they see. No need to make it worse.

You splash cold water on your face. Your hands are shaking again — not like the first few days, but enough to remind you that the chemicals aren’t out of your bones yet. Not really. Not even after three weeks.

You’ve been clean for 26 days.

Feels like a lie to say it out loud. Like you’re just borrowing someone else’s life until yours gets good enough to take back.

You stare at the tiled wall and whisper, “Stay clean today.”

Not forever. Not even tomorrow.

Just today.

That’s all you’ve got.

Group therapy is at 9 a.m. sharp.

You hate it.

Everyone talks like they’re starring in some sad movie, and you can’t tell if it’s real or rehearsed.

But today, a guy named Jeremy talks about how he lost his daughter.

Not to death — to the system. Foster care. She was three.

He cries when he says her name.

And for the first time since you checked in, you want to cry, too.

Not for Jeremy.

For yourself.

For your daughter.

For the baby you haven’t even met yet.

Because you know what it’s like to wreck something beautiful with your own hands.

And you’re so fucking scared it’s too late to put any of it back together.

That night, you write a letter.

You don’t plan to send it.

But it’s the only way to say what needs saying.

I don’t know how to be the man you married.

I don’t know how to be a good father.

I only know how to survive things. And then destroy them.

I wish I could blame it on the drugs. Or the alcohol. Or my dad. But I think I was broken before any of that. I think I was born with a hole in me that never filled.

Until you.

Until her.

Until this new baby.

And the second I got scared I’d lose it, I torched it.

Because if I burn it myself, at least I’m not surprised when it’s gone.

That’s the kind of man I am.

The kind who’d rather blow up a house than admit he’s terrified of being inside it.

I remember the way you looked at me that night I came home high.

Like I was a stranger.

Like I was already dead.

And I think part of me was.

But I’m trying.

Every goddamn day, I’m trying.

I’ve been clean almost a month. I go to therapy. I talk about the way my hands shake when I think about holding our baby. I write down the names of the people I hurt. I say I’m sorry even when no one’s listening.

And I’m writing this not because I want forgiveness.

But because I need you to know — I remember.

I remember your voice reading bedtime stories.

I remember her little dragon drawing taped to the fridge.

I remember the sound of your laugh in the kitchen at 2 a.m.

I remember it all.

And it’s killing me to be away from it.

But I’ll stay away as long as it takes.

Until you don’t flinch when you hear my name.

Until our daughter stops waiting by the window.

Until I know I can walk through the door without making everything worse.

I don’t expect anything.

Not even another chance.

But I swear on my life, if I ever do come home…

It’ll be as a man you can trust.

Not a perfect man.

Just one who won’t leave you to carry all of this alone.

You fold the paper slowly.

You don’t sign it.

If she ever reads it, she’ll know it’s from you.

Day 30.

You hear someone in the hallway scream into a pillow. They’re shaking. Withdrawal still kicking the shit out of them.

You remember when you were that guy.

Sweating through the sheets.

Throwing up bile.

Hallucinating voices in the walls.

You almost left that first night.

But you stayed.

Because of her.

Because of the baby.

Because of the tiny hands that used to tug on your hoodie and say, “Daddy, watch me.” You don’t know if she ever will again. But that’s not why you’re staying clean now. You’re doing it because you should’ve done it a long time ago.

Later that day, a counselor named Rae pulls you aside.

She’s kind. Firm. A little too good at reading you. She sits across from you in a quiet room and says, “Tell me about your wife.”

You hesitate. “We’re not married anymore.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

You shrug. “I think I burned that bridge.”

“People survive fire.”

“Not if you leave them in it.”

She leans back. “Do you want to be with her?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

“Then you better figure out why you blew everything up.”

That night, you lie awake and think about the sound of your daughter’s laugh.

The one that hiccups in the middle.

Like your laugh.

Like your mother’s.

You remember your mom crying in the bathroom when your dad came home angry.

You remember the beer bottles lined up like trophies on the counter.

You remember the screaming. The smashing.

And the silence that followed.

And now?

Now you’ve got your own version of that memory playing out in someone else’s house.

And you swear — swear — you’re going to break the pattern.

Or die trying.

Day 33.

You pick up your pen.

You start a new letter.

This time, you’re going to send it.

Not to win her back.

Just to let her know:

You’re not gone.

You’re fighting.

And this time — you’re not running.

Your POV

It comes in the mail on a Wednesday.

You almost miss it.

You’re balancing groceries on your hip, your daughter tugging at your hand, when you see the envelope. No return address. Just your name — in handwriting you haven’t seen in a long time. The letters are a little shaky. Like he had to hold the pen too tight to keep from falling apart.

You know it’s him.

Even before you open it.

You press it to your chest for a second. Just to feel something.

Then you hide it in the drawer under the kitchen sink.

Because if you read it too fast, you might break.

And you’ve got too much to do to shatter today.

You wait until your daughter is asleep.

Her little arms wrapped around her stuffed lion, dragon drawings covering the wall like wallpaper. You smooth her hair. Kiss her forehead. Whisper I love you like it’s a prayer and a promise.

Then you go downstairs.

Turn off the lights.

And open the letter.

I told myself I wouldn’t write.

That if I really respected your space, I’d stay quiet. Let you breathe. Let you heal.

But I miss you.

I miss her.

I miss the baby I haven’t even met yet.

And I know missing you isn’t enough.

I know I don’t deserve anything from you.

But I’m still here. Still clean. Thirty-three days.

I go to group. I cry like hell. I talk about things I never wanted to say out loud.

Like the night I came home and scared you both.

I remember it.

I remember your eyes when I opened that door — full of fear, and fire, and heartbreak. And how our daughter ran to me like I hadn’t been gone inside my own head for months.

I hated myself in that moment.

Not because I got caught. But because I finally saw what I’d done to the people who loved me.

I’m not asking you to forgive me.

I don’t want a clean slate.

I want to earn every second of your trust.

Even if it takes years.

Even if it means you never love me again.

Because what matters now is her. And the baby.

They deserve a father who doesn’t flinch when it gets hard. Who doesn’t reach for a bottle or a needle when the silence gets loud.

They deserve someone better than who I’ve been.

So I’m trying.

Not to win you back. But to become the kind of man who never needed to be forgiven in the first place.

If you let me in again someday — I’ll be ready.

But if you don’t? I’ll still be better.

Because you taught me how.

And I’ll never stop being grateful.

You cry.

Not in the movie way — not graceful or quiet.

You cry like it’s leaving you.

Like every moment of holding it together finally cracked open and spilled out in messy sobs.

You grip the letter so tight it crinkles in your fists.

Then you fold it.

Tuck it under your pillow.

And just… breathe.

The next morning, you call your sister.

You ask her if she can watch your daughter that afternoon.

You don’t tell her why.

You just need a few hours.

Alone.

To think.

To feel.

To figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with the version of Bob who finally seems like he’s trying.

You sit on the porch with a cup of tea that goes cold.

Your hands drift to your stomach.

The baby kicks.

Not hard — just a nudge. Like a reminder.

You think about the way Bob used to talk to the bump before he got bad.

“Hi baby,” he’d whisper, “this is your daddy. I promise, I’m gonna get it right.”

And back then, you believed him.

Now?

Now you want to believe again.

But wanting isn’t enough.

You write your own letter.

Just a few lines.

No promises.

Just honesty.

I got your letter.

It hurt. But it also helped.

I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t know if I can trust you yet.

But I’m glad you’re trying.

And I’m proud of you for staying.

Keep going.

Our daughter still draws you dragons.

And I still sleep on your side of the bed.

You seal it.

Mail it the next day.

And for the first time in over a month, you feel a little lighter.

Later that night, your daughter asks,

“Mommy, is Daddy still learning how to be safe?”

You pause.

Then you smile, soft and true.

“Yeah, baby. He is.”

“Can we send him a picture of my dragons?”

You nod.

“Yeah. I think he’d love that.”

The dragon drawing arrives in the mail with a letter taped to it in your daughter’s handwriting — big, looping, backward letters. You help her spell most of the words, but she insists on writing “I love you sooooooooooo much” all by herself.

You don’t think twice about sending it.

Not anymore.

Bob’s letters haven’t stopped.

One every week.

No begging. No pressure. Just steady check-ins. Tiny pieces of him — raw and cleaned up.

You keep them in a shoebox under your bed.

Sometimes you reread them when you can’t sleep. Especially the one where he says he watches the sunrise every morning and thinks about how it used to hit your kitchen floor.

You hadn’t even realized he noticed things like that.

One Sunday afternoon, your phone buzzes.

An unknown number.

Your heart jumps. You answer.

“Hey,” he says softly.

His voice is deeper. Slower. Like he’s scared you might hang up.

You don’t.

You just… breathe.

“Hi.”

“Um,” he clears his throat. “They let me have a phone. Only one call today. I wanted it to be you.”

There’s a pause. You hear birds behind him. Maybe he’s outside. Maybe he’s walking in circles with a knot in his stomach, same as you.

“She sent me dragons,” he says, his voice cracking. “I didn’t cry. But I wanted to.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your chest.

“She misses you.”

“I miss her. You. All of it.”

Another pause.

“You look okay?” he asks gently. “I mean—safe? Resting? Eating enough?”

“I’m okay.”

He nods. “Good.”

And then, softly, “I’ll let you go. I just needed to hear your voice.”

You cry after.

Not because he said anything romantic.

But because he didn’t.

Because he respected your space.

Because he just wanted to hear you.

And suddenly, it hits you — how starved you were for the version of him who actually sees you.

A week later, your daughter gets a FaceTime call.

It’s him.

She shrieks when she sees his face, running to the screen, clutching her dragon plushie like a lifeline.

“Daddy!”

His face lights up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. “Look at you. You’ve gotten so big.”

She spins in a circle, holding her shirt up to show him the baby bump on you.

“She kicks Mommy a lot! But not me. She likes me better.”

You laugh softly off-screen. “She’s not kicking anyone. Yet.”

Bob’s eyes flick up to you just for a second.

You see everything in them.

Guilt. Love. Ache.

Gratitude.

He doesn’t say anything else about you. He just lets your daughter talk.

Lets her show him her dragon drawings, her new pink sneakers, the little scar she got falling off the couch.

He listens.

He smiles.

And when she tells him she loves him, his voice breaks when he answers.

“I love you more, baby girl. Always.”

That night, you get another letter.

You didn’t have to let me call.

You didn’t have to hold the phone so she could show me her sneakers. Or wave at me before you hung up.

But you did.

And I swear to God, I won’t forget it.

I know I still haven’t earned your trust.

But I’m building something. Every day.

A version of me who isn’t dangerous. Who doesn’t disappear.

I know now that sobriety isn’t a cure.

It’s just the start.

But you gave me that start. And I’m not wasting it.

Thank you for letting her see me.

Even if I’m not home yet, you made me feel like I’m not completely gone.

You cry.

Again.

But this time it’s quiet.

A little softer.

Another week passes.

The FaceTime calls become regular — just on Sundays.

Not long. Never longer than 20 minutes. He talks mostly to your daughter. You sit in the corner of the frame, quietly observing, nodding when she asks you something. Sometimes he glances at you like he wants to say more — but never pushes it.

He’s waiting.

And you notice things.

He looks… clearer.

His eyes don’t dart around like they’re chasing invisible demons. His voice is steadier. And there’s this calm to him now, something you haven’t seen in years — maybe ever.

It terrifies you.

Because if he’s really changing…

You might have to open the door again.

One afternoon, you finally ask:

“Are you scared to come home?”

He blinks at you through the screen.

“Yes,” he says. And then, “But not for me. For you. And them. Because I don’t want to be a tornado that touches down just to wreck things.”

You stare at him.

That’s what you were waiting to hear.

Not promises.

Not grand speeches.

Just awareness.

You nod.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

He nods back.

“Okay.”

And somehow, it feels like a peace treaty.

Not the end.

Not the beginning.

Just a truce.

You go to sleep that night with your hand on your belly.

The baby kicks again.

And this time?

You smile.

Because for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something you’re surviving.

It feels like something you might actually live through.

You go into nesting mode.

Not the Pinterest kind — no cozy blankets or baby showers or color-coded drawers.

It’s more like scrubbing the kitchen floor at midnight because you can’t sleep.

Folding the baby’s onesies three times over.

Holding your breath every time the doorbell rings.

Your daughter is beside herself.

“Is Daddy coming home before the baby comes?”

You pause.

You don’t want to lie.

But you don’t want to promise something you can’t control.

So you say, “Maybe.”

And she hugs your belly, like she’s shielding both of you.

“He’s trying,” she whispers.

You nod.

Yeah. He is.

You start writing Bob more.

Short texts at first.

Pictures of your daughter. Updates from the OB. A photo of the baby’s empty crib with the caption: “Getting ready. Still not sure for what.”

He never pushes.

Never asks “when can I come back?”

He just replies with care.

“Tell the baby I’m already proud of her.”

“How’s your back? Need me to Venmo you for a massage?”

“The crib looks perfect. You did that. All of it.”

You don’t realize how much you missed having someone to check in — even in the smallest ways.

On a rainy Friday afternoon, your daughter draws a picture of all four of you.

Stick figures. You’re smiling. So is she. There’s a baby with sparkles on her head. And then there’s Bob. Holding flowers. She holds it up to your belly.

“This is for the baby. So she knows who we are.”

You almost cry.

Because that little drawing? It feels like hope.

Like she’s already forgiven him.

Like she never stopped loving him.

And maybe — maybe that means you don’t have to pretend to hate him anymore either.

Later that night, you call him.

Not a FaceTime.

Just voice.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you echo. “Are you still… going to group? Still sober?”

“Seventy-one days,” he says, almost breathless.

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

Then you hear him crying.

Not loud.

Just quiet breaths, like he doesn’t want you to hear it.

“I don’t want to miss her birth,” he says.

You close your eyes.

You don’t want him to either.

But you also don’t know if you’re ready to let him back in that deep.

So you say the only thing that feels right:

“If you keep doing the work — really doing it — we can talk about that. Soon.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll keep going.”

That night you pull the shoebox of letters from under your bed and start reading them again.

All of them.

Start to finish.

You see the change in his words.

The difference between the early ones — full of regret and begging — and the recent ones — calm, quiet, full of real effort.

He’s not perfect.

You don’t expect him to be.

But he’s trying.

And maybe that’s worth something.

Two days later, you call him again.

This time, your voice is steadier.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say.

“About what?”

“If it happens fast… the birth, I mean. If I go into labor early, or something happens— I want you close. Not in the house. But maybe… maybe nearby.”

Silence.

Then: “Okay. Yeah. Yes. Anything. I’ll book a place today.”

You exhale.

“You can come over Sunday. Just for an hour. So she can see you in person. I’ll stay nearby. But it’s her time. Not ours.”

He swallows hard.

“Thank you.”

Sunday comes and the weather’s warm.

You dress your daughter in her favorite dragon shirt and braid her hair just the way she likes it.

She’s bouncing around the living room when there’s a knock on the door.

You freeze.

For a second, you’re back in that night — the slam of the door, the smell of alcohol, the panic.

But then you hear his voice through the door, calm and clear.

“It’s me. Just me.”

You open it.

And there he is.

Clean-shaven. Eyes tired but kind. Holding a small bouquet of flowers — daisies, your daughter’s favorite.

She screams and tackles him.

He kneels to catch her, burying his face in her hair.

“Hi, baby girl.”

She’s crying.

He’s crying.

You’re crying.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not fixed.

But it’s real.

And for now, that’s enough.

They sit on the floor playing with her dragon plushies while you sit quietly on the couch, sipping tea and watching.

He doesn’t try to talk to you.

He knows this moment isn’t about you two.

It’s about her.

And when she finally gets tired and curls up in his lap, eyes fluttering closed, he looks up at you — and mouths, Thank you.

You nod.

Just once.

Because even if you haven’t said it out loud yet…

Maybe, just maybe, you’re getting close to letting him come home.

You wake up at 3:27 a.m. with a sharp, wet pop and a gasp.

It takes a second to register.

Then the pain hits.

Hard.

Low.

Real.

You barely have time to grab your phone before another wave crashes over you. You double over, gripping the bedframe, trying to breathe through it.

Your daughter is asleep down the hall.

The hospital bag is packed.

Your heart is pounding.

You pick up your phone and do something you didn’t think you’d do — not like this, not this fast.

You call Bob.

He picks up on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Y/N?”

“It’s happening,” you say, your voice tight and high and full of fear. “The baby’s coming. It’s early.”

He’s instantly awake.

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I need to get to the hospital, but I can’t wake her up and leave her here alone—”

“I’m on my way. Five minutes. Don’t do it alone. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

You sit on the edge of the bed, holding your belly, rocking slightly.

And for the first time since the test turned positive, you aren’t scared to have him by your side.

Four minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.

Gentle. Steady.

You open it and he’s already reaching for your hospital bag, his free hand bracing your back when you double over again.

“Breathe, babe,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You believe him.

Your daughter stirs on the couch just as you’re getting ready to leave.

Bob kneels beside her.

“Hey, baby girl. Daddy’s here. Mommy’s gonna go have the baby now, okay? I’m gonna stay with you.”

She blinks blearily. “You promise?”

He kisses her forehead.

“I promise.”

She nods, then looks at you. “Be brave, Mommy.”

You almost cry.

Labor is a blur.

But he’s there.

Every contraction. Every scream. Every breath.

He holds your hand, wipes your forehead, tells you you’re doing so, so good. There’s panic in his eyes — fear, even — but he never leaves. Not once.

And when the doctor says, “She’s here,”

you both fall silent.

And then the baby cries.

And so do you.

And so does he.

He cuts the cord with shaking hands.

They place her on your chest — this tiny, perfect, pink thing — and for a second, the world stops.

Everything else falls away.

Just you, her, and the man beside you who’s looking at the two of you like you’re everything he thought he’d never deserve again.

Later, when the nurses take the baby for her first bath, he helps you sit up in bed, adjusting your pillows and brushing your sweaty hair out of your face.

You stare at him.

“You stayed.”

He meets your eyes.

“I wasn’t going to miss this. Not again. Not ever.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t have to—”

He shakes his head. “No. But I wanted to. I needed to.”

Silence.

Then softly:

“You can come home. If you still want to.”

His eyes widen.

“Are you sure?”

You nod.

“You’ve earned it.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

“I’m not perfect,” he whispers. “But I’ll keep showing up.”

You nod again. “That’s all I ask.”

Two days later, he carries you and the baby through the front door.

Your daughter runs to you, screaming with joy.

And just like that… your little family isn’t broken anymore.

It’s just starting over.

From scratch.

With love.

With choice.

That night, Bob makes dinner while your daughter plays with her dragons and you feed the baby on the couch.

He keeps glancing over at you — soft eyes, hands still moving — like he can’t believe he’s really here.

Like he’s terrified to blink in case it disappears.

When the baby falls asleep on your chest, he sits beside you, resting a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth.

You don’t say anything.

You just lean into him.

And for the first time in forever?

It feels like home again.

It’s a quiet morning.

Your newborn is asleep on your chest. Your daughter’s building a fort out of couch cushions and glitter glue. And Bob? Bob’s in the kitchen, wearing a baby-pink apron with “#1 DILF” in cursive and burning pancakes because he keeps staring at you like he still can’t believe he got this life back.

And then the doorbell rings.

Bob freezes.

You glance at him.

He sighs, mutters, “I forgot,” and walks toward the door like a man headed to war.

Because he is.

The Thunderbolts have arrived

Yelena is the first one inside — sunglasses, combat boots, and a bag of overpriced vegan baby snacks.

“I don’t like babies,” she announces. “But yours is tolerable.”

Ghost (Ava) slips in silently behind her, already kneeling by your daughter’s dragon fort with curious eyes.

Bucky comes in last, holding a plush wolf toy and looking like he definitely didn’t ask to be here but secretly wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Red Guardian is outside arguing with a neighbor about driveway etiquette.

Bob sighs again. “Be gentle,” he mumbles to you as he opens the door fully.

And the chaos begins.

The baby stays asleep for five whole minutes — a record — until Red Guardian accidentally knocks over a lamp while performing a dramatic monologue about Soviet diaper efficiency.

“She must grow strong! Like Russian baby! Built from frozen milk and shame!”

Yelena rolls her eyes and steals a waffle off your plate.

Bob tries to referee.

It’s a mess.

But it’s a good one.

Yelena sits beside you, sipping cold coffee like it’s vodka.

“So. You let him back in.”

You glance toward Bob, who’s letting your daughter paint his nails in glittery pink while he bottle-feeds the baby in his lap.

“Yeah,” you say. “I did.”

She studies you.

Then nods once.

“Good,” she says. “If he screws it up again, I’ll shoot him in the knee.”

You laugh.

Bob looks up like he heard that but knows better than to argue. Bucky eventually ends up on the floor, holding your daughter upside down like a sack of potatoes while she screams with delight.

He looks up at you.

“She’s fearless.”

“She gets it from her dad.”

He raises an eyebrow at Bob. “…Are we sure?”

You grin. “He got there.”

Bucky shrugs. “Good. Everyone deserves a second chance. Even walking hydrogen bombs.” Bob mouths thank you across the room. Bucky just nods.

Later, when the team finally starts winding down — Ghost curled up with the baby in her lap, Red Guardian asleep in your recliner, and Yelena pretending not to be emotionally attached to your daughter’s new nickname for her (“Auntie Knife”) — you and Bob steal a moment on the back porch.

The house glows warm behind you. Your family — all kinds of family — is inside. Bob leans into you, arms around your waist.”They still think I’m unstable,” he murmurs.

“You are unstable.”

He laughs quietly. “But you kept me.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “I didn’t keep you. You earned it. And you’re still earning it.”

He nods. “I’m okay with that.”

Before the team leaves, your daughter insists on taking a picture of all of you — Thunderbolts and all — squeezed into the living room like the world’s weirdest sitcom cast.

Red Guardian flexes. Yelena wears a fake scowl. Bucky holds the baby with terrifying tenderness.

Bob stands behind you, arms wrapped around your shoulders, a hand resting gently on your belly. (Because surprise — you might be pregnant again, and yeah, this time you’re happy about it.)

The flash goes off.

The photo is chaotic.

Blurry, loud, off-center.

But it’s perfect.

That night, once the kids are asleep and the house is quiet again, Bob climbs into bed beside you.

His hands are calloused but careful as he rubs your back.

“You ever think about what this looked like… before?”

You nod. “Yeah. But I like what it looks like now better.”

He brushes a kiss to your shoulder.

“You make it better.”

You turn to face him, resting your forehead against his.

“So do you, Bob Reynolds. Even with glitter in your beard.”

He chuckles. “I’m a reformed man. A glittery, diaper-changing, emotionally vulnerable ex-superweapon.”

You grin.

“God, I love you.”

He holds you tighter.

“I love you more.”

[ilovejb]

| Married and milky |

Pairings: Lewis Pullman x female!wife!reader

Summary: lewis pullman is a tired dad, a full-time simp, and extremely obsessed with your boobs — in that order.

Warnings: dad!lewis, lactation kink (light), fluff overload, domestic chaos, thirsting, no smut just vibes

Authors note: pray for me… i can’t stop thinking about Lewis Pullman, and i fear it’s going to destroy me

You hadn’t meant to fall in love with Lewis Pullman, but it had happened in the quietest, gentlest way—over coffee mugs and late-night calls, the smell of rain on the back porch, and that ridiculous way he laughed with his whole body. You were just the production assistant on set. He was the actor who somehow made being sleepy look hot. Years later, you were married, living in a cozy craftsman house in upstate New York, and waking up every morning to the chaos of two very different little humans you’d made together.

Your daughter, Sadie, five years old and full of energy, was all wide eyes and wild curls, practically bouncing out of her unicorn pajamas. She had Lewis wrapped around her little finger. Total daddy’s girl. And your son, Theo—barely eleven months—was the clingiest mama’s boy you’d ever met. If you even hinted at putting him down, he’d let out a betrayed little wail that shattered Lewis’s heart every time.

This morning was no different.

You stood in the kitchen, hair a mess, robe half-tied, baby on one hip, trying to get coffee into your bloodstream while also nursing Theo. He was latched on, humming softly, content and warm against your chest. And then, like clockwork, your husband entered the kitchen shirtless, sleepy-eyed, and unfairly hot, like some kind of domestic god with bedhead and boxer briefs that hung just low enough to be a distraction.

He paused in the doorway, eyes locked on you—and more specifically, on Theo breastfeeding.

“…God,” he muttered, voice low and a little raspy. “I still get jealous of him.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Lewis…”

“No, seriously,” he walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. “He gets you, and milk from you, and gets to sleep curled up on your boobs all day. I’m just saying. I should get dibs.”

“You do get dibs,” you said, laughing softly, adjusting Theo as he shifted. “Just… not at 8 a.m. with spit-up on my shirt.”

Lewis pressed a kiss to your neck, voice low against your skin. “I love this version of you, you know that? All sleepy and soft and feeding our baby. It’s hot. Like… wildly hot. Dangerous levels of hot.”

“Babe, we’re in our kitchen.”

“Yeah, and?”

Right then, Sadie burst in, carrying a plastic tiara and demanding Lewis attend her royal tea party.

“You promised, Daddy! You said you’d be King Sparkle!”

Lewis groaned dramatically and kissed your shoulder one last time. “Duty calls.”

As he scooped Sadie into his arms and pranced around the living room wearing a glittery tiara, you couldn’t help but watch him—barefoot, half-dressed, playing princess at full volume. A part of you still couldn’t believe this was your life. That this insanely hot, big-hearted man was all yours. That you had built this warm, chaotic little universe together.

Theo finished nursing with a sleepy sigh, his chubby cheek resting against your chest. You smiled down at him, then over at Lewis, who caught your eye mid-curtsy and winked.

Yeah. This was your favorite version of forever.

Evening settled over your little house like a worn-in sweater—familiar, warm, just snug enough to make your heart ache a little.

Sadie had declared it was “Mermaid Spa Night”—which really meant dumping half a bottle of glittery bubble bath into the tub while Lewis played sea captain and you tried not to step on any squishy plastic fish. Theo had been fussy most of the day and now was finally quiet, dozing on your chest in that heavy baby way, his chubby cheek plastered against your collarbone like he belonged there.

“Hey,” Lewis murmured, lifting Sadie out of the tub and wrapping her in a fluffy towel. “You okay?”

You nodded, watching as he gently rubbed her hair dry. “Just tired. He didn’t nap, and I’ve been used as a human pacifier since lunch.”

He gave you that look. The one he always did when you said anything involving you nursing. A flash of something dark and teasing crossed his face as he walked over, brushing Theo’s curls back and pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I’d volunteer as tribute,” he whispered into your ear.

You let out a low laugh, adjusting Theo in your arms. “Oh my god, Lewis. You’re literally jealous of a baby again.”

“Tell me it’s not insanely hot that you make milk, though.” He kissed the side of your neck, slow and warm. “Like. From these.” His hand brushed your chest, just enough to make your breath catch.

You turned to swat him away playfully. “You are impossible.”

“And yet you married me,” he grinned, then leaned in close again, eyes gleaming. “Remember when you were breastfeeding Sadie, and I asked if I could just try it once?”

Your eyes widened. “Lewis—”

“You let me. You liked it.”

“Because you were hot and I was hormonal!”

“You’re still hot. And now I’m the hormonal one,” he said, dropping a hand to your waist.

Theo stirred and let out a tiny burp, drool seeping into your shirt. Mood shattered instantly.

Lewis groaned, pulling away with a dramatic sigh. “They always know when I’m about to make a move.”

“They’ve got sixth sense for foreplay,” you said, laughing. “Tiny cockblockers, the both of them.”

Sadie shrieked from the bathroom. “MOM! DAD! The mermaids escaped!”

Lewis looked at you like a man defeated. “Rain check?”

You nodded, stepping closer so he could kiss you properly—slow, lingering, just long enough to promise later.

Later never came. Sadie insisted on three bedtime stories, Theo peed on the sheets mid-diaper change, and by the time the house was finally quiet, the two of you crashed on the couch, exhausted, tangled up like laundry.

Lewis tucked your hair behind your ear. “Still the hottest milkmaid I’ve ever seen.”

You threw a pillow at him.

The house was quiet.

Not “naptime quiet,” not “TV is paused quiet.” It was the kind of stillness that only came once both kids were deeply asleep and the universe granted you a night off from chaos.

Theo had finally slept through the feed. No cries. No midnight diaper blowouts. Sadie was curled up like a cinnamon roll in her blanket fort, and you were standing in the kitchen wearing Lewis’s T-shirt—one of the old, soft ones that hit your thighs and still smelled like him.

He walked in slow, quiet, barefoot, shirtless. His hair was a mess, and his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“You’re still up,” he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I’d get this lucky.”

You smiled sleepily. “Figured I’d enjoy the silence for five minutes before one of them wakes up.”

He stepped closer, eyes flicking down your body. “I was hoping I could enjoy you for five minutes. Or maybe… ten.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re really still thinking about it, huh?”

“I haven’t stopped,” he said honestly, his voice low and wrecked. “I’ve been so patient, baby. I let Theo have them all day—every day. And you… you just walk around leaking, looking like that, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t wanna sink my face into them like a damn starved man?”

You laughed softly, cheeks flushing.

“God, I missed these,” he murmured, stepping closer and cupping your breasts through the fabric, reverent and a little desperate. “I mean—don’t get me wrong, watching you feed him is… it does things to me. Like I get why he’s obsessed. But I’ve been obsessed since before they even made milk.”

He pulled your shirt off slowly, breathing hard, and his eyes flickered with awe and hunger when he saw the swell of your chest, full and heavy from the day.

“Can I?” he asked, soft but aching.

You nodded.

He didn’t rush. He cupped you gently, thumb brushing a nipple, then leaned down and kissed it like it was sacred. He tasted—tentative at first, then bolder when he heard your breath hitch.

“Jesus,” he groaned against your skin. “You taste like heaven.”

His hands splayed across your back, holding you so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest. There was no performance in it—just raw want, soft sighs, and Lewis finally getting something he’d been quietly desperate for since the baby was born.

“Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of this?” he whispered. “You. Like this. Full and soft and mine.”

“Lewis…”

“I know they’re for Theo. I know. But god, just for a moment… can’t they be mine too?”

You tugged him up and kissed him, messy and deep, his hands roaming your body like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. You let him worship you—because you were still his, even after becoming theirs.

Later, curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and discarded blankets, he whispered into your hair, “Thank you.”

“For what?” you murmured, eyes heavy.

“For sharing,” he said. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you give every part of yourself to them. You still save some of you for me.”

You pressed your lips to his shoulder. “Always.”

It was one of those rare, slow mornings. Sunlight poured through the windows, casting that buttery golden glow across the kitchen table. Sadie was deep in her cereal, humming to herself, little curls sticking out in every direction, while Theo sat in his high chair slapping a spoon and squealing like a gremlin.

You? You were in leggings and a sports bra, hair up, trying to sip coffee that had been reheated three times.

Lewis?

He was behind you, hands very much not helping with breakfast.

“You’re being a menace,” you warned in a whisper as he slipped his arms around your waist and slid his palms up.

“You’re being unfair,” he murmured in your ear, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Walking around in this tiny thing, jiggling all over the kitchen while I’m just… standing here starving.”

You turned slightly, narrowing your eyes. “You had your midnight snack, Mr. Pullman.”

He grinned—that grin. The one that made your knees wobble and your brain short-circuit.

“I want seconds.”

You tried to swat him off, laughing under your breath. “Sadie’s right there.”

“She’s focused,” he whispered, eyes dropping to your chest like they had a gravitational pull. “And Theo doesn’t know what these are. He just thinks they’re milk machines.”

“Which they are,” you teased, sipping your coffee.

“They’re mine,” he muttered, half to himself, kissing your bare shoulder. “Even if I have to share them, they’re still mine.”

Then—you felt it.

A very cheeky little squeeze.

You yelped, turning to smack him, just as Sadie looked up with narrowed eyes.

“Daddy,” she said with the serious tone of a child who knows something, “why were you kissing Mommy’s boobs last night?”

You choked on your coffee.

Lewis froze. “I—uh—what?”

“I saw!” she insisted, pointing her spoon like a gavel. “You were holding them like this—” (she mimed a very aggressive grab) “—and kissing them like they were cupcakes.”

Lewis coughed violently. “I—I was just—uh—helping Mommy.”

“Helping her boobs?” she asked, truly confused now.

Theo babbled something in solidarity, smacking the table.

You stepped in, still pink in the face. “Sometimes Daddies kiss Mommies because they love them very much. And also because… grown-up reasons.”

Sadie squinted. “Weird. I’m never kissing anyone’s boobs.”

“Please don’t,” Lewis mumbled. “Not until you’re married. And thirty-five.”

As Sadie went back to her cereal, totally unbothered, Lewis leaned into your ear and whispered, “We’re so getting caught one day. I need to be faster.”

“You need to be better at hiding it.”

“I can’t help it,” he groaned. “They’re right there. I’ve been deprived for months. I see them and my brain just… empties.”

You smirked and handed him Theo’s spoon. “Well, Daddy. Channel that energy into feeding your son.”

He gave you a long, hungry look.

“I’ll feed him if you promise to feed me later.”

The house was quiet for once. The kids were both out — your daughter at a friend’s birthday party and your son napping after a long morning of play. The rare silence wrapped around you and Lewis like a warm blanket, cocooning you in a bubble of intimacy that felt both new and deliciously familiar.

Lewis found you in the kitchen, humming softly while you cleaned up after lunch. His eyes darkened the moment he saw you, that familiar hunger bubbling beneath the surface, the way he always looked at you when he thought no one else was watching.

He crossed the room in two long strides, hands sliding gently onto your waist. “You smell like home,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something more than affection.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “And you smell like trouble.”

He chuckled, but his hands didn’t move. Instead, they began to roam slowly, reverently, as if rediscovering the curves of your body like the map to his favorite place.

Then, his fingers brushed over your chest — soft, tentative at first — and a familiar thrill shot through you. Lewis always had this magnetic fascination with your boobs, and it made your skin tingle every single time. But today, with the kids gone, you could see it clear as day in his eyes: he wanted you all to himself.

His lips found your collarbone, trailing warm kisses that sent shivers down your spine. “I’ve missed this,” he whispered, voice husky, “missed you.”

You leaned into him, hands tangling in his hair as his mouth found yours in a slow, heated kiss. It was the kind that melted away everything — stress, tiredness, the chaos of parenting — leaving only the two of you.

Then came the teasing, the thing you both knew was coming.

Lewis pulled back just enough to murmur, “I want you… all of you. Especially your mommy milkers.”

You laughed, breathless, heart pounding. “You want to try again?”

He nodded, shy but eager, eyes sparkling with that mix of vulnerability and craving that always made you want him more.

Carefully, you guided him as he nuzzled against your breast, tasting you gently at first, then with more confidence. The sensation was electric — his lips warm and soft, his hands holding you steady. It was intimate, sensual, and filled with that delicious lactation kink edge that sent a thrill straight to your core.

Lewis groaned softly, pulling back just to look at you with wide, adoring eyes. “God, you’re perfect.”

You smiled, fingers tracing patterns down his back. “Only for you.”

For the rest of the afternoon, you let yourselves get lost in that quiet, stolen bubble — no interruptions, no distractions, just the two of you and the simmering heat of love that felt like home.

The doorbell rang just as you and Lewis were settling into the couch, still basking in that rare quiet glow from earlier. You glanced at the clock — perfect timing. The Thunderbolts cast was coming over for a casual hangout, and Lewis had insisted on showing off his “domestic MVP” side.

You opened the door to Florence Pugh, David Harbour, and Sebastian Stan all grinning like they were about to crash the coziest, most intimate scene ever.

“Look at you guys, invading the family nest,” Lewis greeted with a shy but proud smile, slipping his hand into yours.

Florence, ever the mischief-maker, caught sight of your still-flush cheeks and those lingering hints of milk from the afternoon. Her eyes sparkled with immediate mischief.

“Okay, spill,” she said, plopping down next to Lewis like they’d been best friends for years. “What’s the secret? Lewis is glowing. Like, literally glowing. We thought it was just the lighting, but—”

David, deadpan as always, added, “I mean, the dude’s basically got heart eyes. For… you? That’s wild.”

Sebastian chuckled, leaning in. “I think he’s just obsessed with your boobs.”

Lewis’ face turned a bright tomato red. You could barely hold back your giggles as he scrambled to defend himself.

“I’m just… uh, very appreciative of, you know, what she provides,” he mumbled, voice cracking slightly.

Florence smirked. “Yeah, we saw that. The whole ‘trying your milk’ thing? Legendary. We didn’t know we were dating a lactation kink king.”

Lewis groaned, burying his face in your shoulder, but you could tell he was loving every second of the gentle ribbing. He squeezed your hand tightly, his shy jealousy mixed with pride lighting up his eyes.

David raised an eyebrow, teasing, “So, do you get exclusive access? Or is this a public boob buffet?”

You laughed, squeezing Lewis back. “Exclusive. Dad’s got dibs.”

“Dibs!” Sebastian echoed with a grin.

The rest of the afternoon passed in laughter and playful teasing, but through it all, Lewis never took his eyes off you. The way he looked — part adoring husband, part protective daddy, and all-around hopelessly in love — made your heart melt.

And when the cast finally left, Lewis pulled you close, whispering, “I don’t care if the whole world knows. You’re mine… and so are these.”

He cupped your chest with a possessive tenderness that made your knees weak.

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Forever yours, Lewis.”

It was late afternoon, the kids were with your mom for the night, and you were curled up in bed — not sleeping, not reading, just… scrolling. TikTok, Instagram, Twitter — they were flooded with edits of your man. “White Boy of the Month” wasn’t even enough. Lewis was everyone’s new obsession. And you? Oh, you were thriving.

You played one of the edits on loop — a slow-motion scene of Lewis in Top Gun: Maverick, walking with that easy, almost bashful confidence, the soundtrack matching every smirk and blink of his long lashes. Someone captioned it: “he could ruin my life and I’d thank him.”

You couldn’t help it — you snorted, then bit your lip as your body warmed with the tiniest flicker of pride. You grabbed your phone and snapped a selfie in Lewis’s shirt — oversized, worn soft from years of being stolen from his side of the closet — and posted it to your story with a zoomed-in shot of his name stitched into the collar.

“Y’all can thirst, but just know… I do more than that. 💅🏼 #WhiteBoyOfTheMonth #Mine”

Just as you hit post, Lewis came out of the shower, hair damp and curling, a towel slung low on his hips.

You looked up, blinked, and exhaled like you’d been punched. “Babe,” you groaned, “you’re making it so hard not to objectify you.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, smirking shyly as he rubbed his hair with another towel. “Didn’t realize I had to stop you.”

“Oh, you don’t,” you said, climbing off the bed and sauntering over, arms sliding around his waist. “You’re the people’s white boy, baby. But you’re my husband. My personal thirst trap.”

His ears went pink as you traced your finger across the line of his chest. “I saw your story,” he murmured. “So now the whole internet knows?”

You kissed under his jaw, slow and smug. “They knew before. I’m just reminding them.”

He pulled you closer, voice dropping. “And what are you reminding me?”

You leaned in, lips barely brushing his. “That you may be the world’s White Boy of the Month, Lewis Pullman, but you are my forever.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah?” he whispered, like you didn’t already own his soul.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And then you kissed him — slow, deep, teasing — not rushed, not desperate. Just a full, heavy moment that reminded him you were more than proud. You were possessive.

And Lewis? He didn’t mind one bit.

It was Sunday morning — the kind that smelled like warm pancakes and baby shampoo, sunlight pouring in through the curtains like honey.

Lewis had one arm around your waist, the other wrapped securely around your daughter, Sadie, who was currently passed out on his chest like a drooling little koala. On your other side, your son Theo was curled up like a kitten, one chubby hand tangled in your hair.

The house was still — not quiet, not really, because the sound of cartoons drifted in from the living room, and someone’s sock was definitely stuck to the ceiling fan. But still in the way that mattered. Still in the way that made your chest feel like it might float off your body.

Lewis looked down at Sadie, then at you, eyes soft, sleepy, and completely wrecked with love.

“How’d we get so lucky?” he whispered.

You smiled and reached over to brush a curl from his forehead. “I think you tricked me with your baby blues and I never recovered.”

He huffed a sleepy laugh. “Guess I really was the white boy of the month, huh?”

“You still are,” you said, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “But now you’re a daddy first. Mr. Milky Boobs Stealer second.”

He grinned, that shy dimple flashing, and dipped his head to whisper, “Speaking of… once the kids are down tonight, I fully plan to—”

Sadie stirred with a tiny snort, then sleepily patted his chest. “No talkin’, Daddy. I sweepin’.”

Lewis’s mouth dropped open in a silent laugh, biting back a groan. “Okay, okay, sorry, bug.”

You reached for your phone and snapped a picture before anyone moved — your sleepy husband, baby drool on his shirt, one kid flopped over his chest, the other half on top of you, all tangled in blankets and limbs and love.

Caption: “This is it. This is the good stuff.”

And it was. Not the edits. Not the red carpets. Not the chaos or the teasing or even the boobs.

This. Warm beds. Lazy mornings. Pancake batter handprints on the counter. The way Sadie said “I wuv you, Dada” and the way Theo only fell asleep when his cheek was pressed to your collarbone. The way Lewis looked at you like you hung the stars, even with a spit-up stained hoodie and three hours of sleep.

It wasn’t glamorous.

But it was yours.

And it was perfect.

[ilovejb]

| Blaugrana kiss |

Pairing : Claudia Pina x female!reader

Summary : Two players on the FC Barcelona women's team start out as rivals, but soon find a secret romance that could change everything.

Warnings : angst ? smut so MDI, fingering. Idiots in love, cata and pina ares exes.

Authors note : born to ride or whatever Lana said ( 10k words, took 2 weeks 😛 ) not proofread so watch out for the mistakes 😱

The Camp Nou training grounds hummed with a familiar energy, a blend of focused determination and the rhythmic thud of a leather ball against perfectly manicured grass. For you, it was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Donning the garnet and blue of FC Barcelona had been a dream etched into your heart since you first understood the beautiful game. Now, standing on this hallowed ground, that dream felt both tangible and terrifying.

You scanned the faces of your new teammates – Alexia’s composed focus, Patri’s quiet intensity, the infectious grin of Mapi. And then your eyes landed on her. Claudia Pina.

Even from a distance, she radiated a fierce kind of energy. Her movements were sharp, her passes laser-precise. There was an undeniable artistry in her play, the very reason you’d spent countless hours watching her highlights, dissecting her brilliance.

But as you joined the midfield group for a passing drill, the admiration curdled into something… colder.

The coach’s instructions were simple: quick one-twos, maintain possession. You slotted into a trio, eager to show your touch. Your first pass was crisp, finding the feet of Esmee. She laid it off, and you turned to find your next target.

Claudia.

Her eyes met yours, and there was nothing soft in their depths. A challenge. You passed, a clean, firm ball. She controlled it, but her return pass was fractionally behind you, forcing you to adjust your footing. A small thing, perhaps unintentional. But the set of her jaw as she looked away felt pointed.

The drills continued, and the subtle jabs persisted. A tackle in a rondo that was a little too firm. A muttered comment about needing to “keep up” when you slightly mistimed an interception. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the ball, on proving your worth through your play.

But Claudia’s presence was a constant, prickly heat.

During a small-sided game, you found yourself vying for the same pocket of space. You called for the ball, your voice clear. Claudia, already moving into that area, didn’t yield. A brief, almost imperceptible shoulder-to-shoulder contact sent a jolt through you. You missed the pass, the ball rolling harmlessly out of bounds.

“Eyes open, novata,” Claudia’s voice was low, laced with a dismissive edge. Newbie.

A spark of anger flared within you. You turned, meeting her gaze directly. “Maybe if some people weren’t so busy playing territorial, we could actually connect.”

Her lips thinned. “Territorial? I’m playing my position.”

“And making sure no one else can play theirs,” you retorted, the words sharper than you intended.

The air crackled between you, the casual rhythm of the training session momentarily disrupted. Other players glanced over, a flicker of curiosity in their eyes.

The coach clapped his hands, his voice cutting through the tension. “Alright, let’s keep the intensity high, but focused on the ball, ladies.”

The moment passed, but the undercurrent remained. You could feel Claudia’s gaze on you during water breaks, a silent, simmering hostility. It was clear: this wasn’t just about competing for a spot. For Claudia, it felt personal.

And you, despite your initial admiration, were starting to take it personally right back.

Every successful pass you made felt like a small victory against her unspoken disapproval. Every time you intercepted a ball she was aiming for, a tiny surge of satisfaction coursed through you.

The rivalry was immediate, undeniable. You both wanted the same thing: to play, to win, to shine in the Barça midfield. And in each other, you’d found an instant obstacle.

One afternoon, during a particularly grueling drill focused on pressing, you lunged for a loose ball at the same time. Your legs tangled, and you both went down in a heap. The impact knocked the wind out of you.

As you pushed yourself up, you saw Claudia already on her feet, brushing off the grass with a frustrated huff. No offer of a hand. No word of apology.

“You were in my space,” she stated, her tone flat.

“Maybe if you weren’t trying to win every single tackle like it’s the Champions League final in training…” you began, your chest still heaving.

“Someone has to have the right mentality,” she snapped back.

You stood there, glaring at her. The animosity was a tangible thing, a thick cloud hanging between you. You hated this. You hated her dismissive attitude, her constant challenges.

But even through the irritation, a sliver of something else flickered. A grudging respect for her fierce competitiveness, perhaps. Or maybe it was just the intensity of her gaze, even when laced with disdain, that held a strange kind of pull.

You pushed the thought away. Right now, all you felt was the burning desire to prove her wrong. To show her that you belonged here, not in spite of her, but alongside her. Even if every interaction felt like a battle.

The pre-season weeks blurred into a cycle of intense training, tactical meetings, and the ever-present tension with Claudia. The coaches, seemingly oblivious or perhaps intentionally provocative, started pairing you together more frequently. Small-sided games where you were forced to pass to each other, defensive drills where you had to cover for one another.

It was excruciating.

Yet, amidst the friction, something unexpected began to happen. You started to anticipate her movements. You learned the subtle shifts in her weight that telegraphed a pass, the angle of her run that opened up space. And, grudgingly, you suspected she was learning yours too.

There was a moment in a pre-season friendly, a chaotic scramble in your own half. You’d made a clumsy pass, intercepted by the opposition, leaving a gaping hole in the defense.

You scrambled back, knowing you’d messed up. Just as a shot was about to be unleashed, a blur of garnet and blue flashed past you. Claudia. She slid in, a perfectly timed tackle, deflecting the ball out for a corner.

A collective sigh of relief swept through your team. Claudia was the first back on her feet, turning to you, her expression a mask of fury.

“What was that?” she practically yelled, her voice tight. “You can’t just give the ball away like that!”

You stared at her, a confusing mix of gratitude and irritation swirling within you. “Yeah, well, thanks for bailing me out.”

“Don’t think for a second that means you’re off the hook,” she bit out, her eyes blazing. “You need to be more aware.”

“You always play like it’s personal,” you blurted out, the frustration boiling over.

Her reaction was instant, her gaze locking onto yours, something sharp and intense flickering within their depths. “Because it is.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. The casual chatter of your teammates faded into the background. In that moment, it wasn’t just about a misplaced pass or a saved shot. It was a declaration, a gauntlet thrown down.

The tension, already thick, seemed to solidify, the unspoken animosity now carrying a weight that felt… different. More significant.

The relentless pre-season schedule continued, each day a demanding blend of physical exertion and tactical drilling. The dynamic between you and Claudia remained a volatile mix of competition and forced collaboration.

You could execute intricate passing sequences on the field, a silent understanding passing between you with the ball, only to revert to clipped, almost hostile exchanges off it.

One particularly grueling evening, after a double training session under the relentless Catalan sun, the locker room emptied out slowly. The usual boisterous energy had waned, replaced by a weary quiet. You lingered, stretching your hamstrings, the muscles protesting with dull aches.

Across the room, you noticed Claudia.

She was sitting on the bench, an ice pack strapped to her ankle, her brow furrowed in what looked like discomfort. Usually, she was one of the first out, radiating an almost restless energy. Seeing her still and seemingly vulnerable was… unexpected.

The silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the rustling of your movements and the occasional clink of someone packing up their gear. You found yourself glancing at her more than once.

Finally, you broke the quiet. “Ankle bothering you?” The question felt oddly stilted, foreign on your tongue.

Claudia looked up, her expression guarded, as if surprised you’d spoken to her. “It’s fine.” Her tone was dismissive, cutting off any further inquiry.

You almost retreated, deciding to finish your stretches in silence. But something held you there. Maybe it was the unusual stillness about her, or maybe it was the persistent knot of tension between you that you were, against your better judgment, starting to feel a strange urge to unravel.

You continued stretching, the silence stretching taut again. Then, unexpectedly, Claudia spoke. Her voice was softer this time, though still carrying a hint of its usual edge.

“It’s just… been a long few weeks.” She didn’t meet your gaze, focusing instead on adjusting the ice pack.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Intense.”

Another pause. Then, almost to herself, Claudia murmured, “Sometimes… sometimes it feels like you have to prove yourself every single day. Even to the people who are supposed to be on your side.”

The vulnerability in her voice caught you off guard. This wasn’t the fiercely competitive Claudia Pina you’d come to expect. This was something… rawer.

You lowered your leg, turning slightly to face her more fully. “I get that.”

She finally looked up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “You do?”

“Coming here…” you hesitated, searching for the right words. “Everyone here is already… established. Champions. You have to earn your place, your respect. It’s not just about playing well; it’s about showing you belong.”

Your words seemed to resonate. Claudia’s gaze softened slightly, the hard edges around her eyes easing.

A beat of silence passed. Then, she sighed, a small, almost weary sound. “Exactly. And then someone new comes in…” Her eyes flickered to you, then away.

You understood. She saw your arrival as another hurdle, another person to prove herself against. “I’m not here to replace anyone, Claudia,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I just want to play. To contribute. To earn my respect.”

She was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the floor. Then, she looked up at you again, and this time, there was a different quality in her eyes. Something that wasn’t quite hostility. More like… consideration.

Her gaze lingered, studying you. It felt intense, almost unnerving, but not in the same challenging way as before. This time, it felt… searching.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low and almost grudging. “You’ve got mine.”

The words hung in the air, simple yet carrying a weight that surprised you. It wasn’t an admission of friendship, not by a long shot. But it was a truce, of sorts. Acknowledgment. Respect.

The tension in the room hadn’t vanished entirely, but it had shifted. The sharp, antagonistic edge had dulled, replaced by something… else. Something quieter, more complex.

You held her gaze for a moment longer, a small, almost imperceptible nod passing between you. The unspoken animosity hadn’t magically disappeared, but a fragile bridge had been built across the divide.

That night, something did change. The air between you no longer felt solely charged with rivalry. There was a new element present, a quiet understanding that had been forged in shared exhaustion and a rare moment of vulnerability.

The next few training sessions felt subtly different. The glares didn’t disappear entirely, nor did the competitive edge. But there was a newfound awareness between you, a sense of having glimpsed something beneath the surface of the other.

During a passing drill, Claudia’s return pass was perfectly weighted, landing precisely at your feet. Your eyes met briefly, and for the first time, there wasn’t a challenge in hers, but something that almost resembled… acknowledgment. You offered a small nod, and she simply turned away, a faint hint of something unreadable playing on her lips.

The shift had begun. The ice hadn't fully melted, but cracks were starting to appear.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears, a triumphant symphony of cheers and applause. FC Barcelona Femení had just clinched a crucial away victory, the kind that solidified their dominance in the league.

The atmosphere in the locker room had been electric – champagne sprays, joyous shouts, and the collective relief of a hard-fought win.

Now, back at the hotel, the team was slowly dispersing. Some were in the lobby, still buzzing with adrenaline, others had retreated to their rooms.

You found yourself needing a moment of quiet, stepping out onto the small balcony attached to your room. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, the distant city lights a glittering tapestry.

A few moments later, the sliding door creaked open again. You turned to see Claudia standing there, leaning against the doorframe. She hadn’t changed out of her travel tracksuit, her dark hair slightly damp at the temples.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, her voice softer than you were used to hearing off the pitch.

You shook your head. “Too much energy still buzzing around.”

She nodded, pushing herself off the frame and stepping onto the balcony. The space was small, and her presence immediately made it feel… closer. The comfortable distance you’d maintained since that night in the locker room seemed to shrink.

A comfortable silence settled between you for a few moments, both of you looking out at the city. The tension that usually simmered between you was muted tonight, replaced by a shared sense of accomplishment.

“Good game today,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.

“You too,” she replied, her gaze still on the lights. “That through ball to Salma in the second half… that was good.”

A small flicker of warmth spread through you at her unexpected praise. “Thanks. I saw the run.”

Another silence. The air felt different tonight. The usual undercurrent of rivalry was subdued, replaced by something… else. An awareness. A shared space.

Claudia shifted, turning slightly to lean against the railing, closer to you now. You could feel the proximity, the subtle heat radiating from her. Your heart gave a little flutter, a sensation you hadn’t anticipated.

She was looking at you now, her expression unreadable in the dim light. There was a stillness in her gaze that held you captive.

“You know,” she began, her voice low, almost a murmur, “for someone I thought was just going to try and take my place…”

You waited, your breath catching slightly in your throat.

“…you’re not bad.” A ghost of a smile touched the corners of her lips.

The unexpected compliment, the softened tone, the intimacy of the night… it all combined to create a shift within you.

The animosity you’d felt for so long seemed to recede, replaced by a confusing mix of… something else. Something that had been simmering beneath the surface of your rivalry.

You met her gaze, and for the first time, you didn’t see a competitor, an adversary. You saw… Claudia. The intensity in her eyes, even softened, still held a powerful pull.

Without thinking, you mirrored her movement, turning to lean against the railing, your arm brushing lightly against hers. A small spark seemed to ignite at the point of contact. Neither of you moved away.

The silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t charged with tension. It was thick with something else entirely. An unspoken question hanging in the air.

Claudia’s gaze flickered down to your lips, just for a fleeting moment, but you caught it. Your breath hitched. Your own gaze drifted to hers, lingering on the curve of her mouth.

The air crackled with a silent energy. The victory, the night, the unexpected vulnerability you’d shared… it had created an opening.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Claudia reached out. Her fingers brushed against the back of your hand, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

Her touch grew bolder, her hand turning to gently cup your jaw. Her thumb brushed softly across your cheekbone, and your eyes fluttered closed for a brief second.

When you opened them again, her face was inches from yours. You could feel her breath on your skin, warm and soft. The fight was gone. The animosity had dissolved. But the tension… the tension was still there, coiled tight, a different kind now. A magnetic pull.

Without a word, she leaned in. Your breath caught in your throat. The kiss, when it came, was not gentle. It was raw, urgent, a desperate meeting of lips that spoke of months of friction, of unspoken desires finally breaking free.

It was fast, messy, a tangle of lips and teeth. There was a possessiveness in the way she held your jaw, a hunger in the way she pressed her mouth against yours. It was a release, an explosion of the tension that had been building between you since the moment you’d stepped onto that training pitch.

The taste of her was intoxicating, a blend of the lingering sweetness of the post-match celebration and something uniquely hers. Your hands found their way to her waist, gripping the soft fabric of her tracksuit.

The kiss deepened, tongues tangling, a silent conversation of pent-up emotions. It was a kiss that shouldn’t be happening, not after all the animosity, the rivalry. But in that moment, under the cloak of the night, it felt utterly, desperately right. A dam had finally broken.

The sounds of the city faded away, the only reality the feel of her mouth on yours, the frantic beating of your hearts, the electric charge that coursed through your bodies.

This was just the beginning. The release of months of friction, yes. But also the undeniable start of something new, something that had been lurking beneath the surface of your animosity all along.

The air in the locker room after a particularly intense training session crackled with leftover tension. You and Claudia had clashed again during a drill – a disagreement over positioning that had escalated into sharp words and frustrated gestures. The coach had eventually intervened, but the underlying friction remained, a palpable energy that hummed beneath the surface.

Now, most of the team had left, the rhythmic hiss of the showers the dominant sound. You were gathering your things, still simmering from the exchange with Claudia. Her constant need to challenge you, even when you felt you were right, was infuriating.

You heard the water in the adjacent shower stall turn off. A moment later, the curtain was pulled back, and Claudia stepped out, a towel slung low around her hips, droplets of water clinging to her dark hair and the smooth curve of her shoulders.

Your gaze flickered up, catching hers. The animosity from the training pitch still burned in her eyes, a mirror of your own frustration. There was a raw intensity in her gaze that, despite your annoyance, sent a strange little tremor through you.

“Still stewing?” she asked, her voice low, a hint of challenge in it.

You met her gaze defiantly. “Someone has to have some standards around here.”

Her lips curled slightly. “Standards? Or just can’t handle a little competition?”

“Competition is one thing,” you retorted, your voice tight. “Blatant obstruction is another.”

She took a step closer, the dampness of her skin catching the light. The air between you felt thick, charged with the unresolved conflict.

“Obstructing you?” she scoffed softly. “Maybe you just need to be faster.”

“Oh, I’m fast enough,” you shot back, your own temper flaring. “Maybe you’re just afraid of what I can do.”

Her eyes darkened, and the air shifted. The animosity was still there, but it was now intertwined with something else, a raw, almost primal awareness of each other.

“Afraid?” she repeated, taking another step, closing the distance between you. You could smell the clean scent of soap on her skin, the earthy undertones of her natural scent. “Is that what you think?”

You stood your ground, your heart beginning to pound a little faster. “What am I supposed to think?”

She reached out suddenly, her wet fingers wrapping around your wrist. The touch was surprisingly firm, sending a jolt through you.

“Think this,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Before you could react, she tugged you closer, her other hand reaching out to grip your hip. The suddenness of the contact, the coolness of her damp skin against yours, stole your breath.

You were now pressed close, the thin fabric of your training shirt doing little to separate you. You could feel the heat radiating from her body, the tautness of her muscles beneath your fingertips if you dared to touch.

Her gaze locked onto yours, the anger in them now laced with a different kind of heat. A dangerous kind.

“You think I’m just trying to get in your way?” she breathed, her eyes flicking down to your mouth.

Your own breath hitched. The argument, the frustration… it was all still there, but it was being overshadowed by a sudden, fierce pull. A magnetic force that had been simmering beneath the surface of your rivalry for weeks.

“What are you doing, Claudia?” you managed to whisper, your voice slightly shaky.

“Showing you,” she replied, her grip tightening on your wrist. Her other hand slid lower on your hip, her thumb pressing insistently against the curve of your lower back.

The close proximity, the lingering adrenaline from the training, the unresolved tension… it was all creating a potent cocktail of emotions. You knew this shouldn’t be happening. Not like this. Not amidst the lingering echoes of your argument.

But a part of you, a rebellious, undeniable part, didn’t want her to stop. The raw energy between you, the push and pull of your rivalry, was suddenly manifesting in a way that felt both forbidden and intensely compelling.

Her gaze dropped again to your lips, and this time, she didn’t look away. The unspoken question hung heavy in the humid air of the locker room.

The question hung unspoken between you, thick with the humid air and the raw tension that had simmered all afternoon. Claudia’s grip on your wrist tightened, her thumb still pressing insistently against your hip. Her gaze flickered from your eyes to your mouth, a silent invitation that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

The animosity from your on-field clash hadn’t vanished, but it was now tangled with a fierce, almost desperate desire. It felt wrong, fueled by anger and competition, yet the pull was undeniable, a magnetic force drawing you closer.

“Show me then,” you breathed out, the words barely a whisper, your own hand instinctively reaching out to grip her bare arm. The slickness of her wet skin beneath your fingers was electric.

A flicker of something that might have been triumph flashed in her dark eyes. Without another word, she released your wrist, her hands now framing your face. Her thumbs traced the line of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine.

Her mouth crashed onto yours, and this kiss was nothing like the hesitant exploration on the balcony. This was raw, demanding, a furious claiming. It was a collision of anger and a desperate need, tongues tangling roughly, teeth clashing. There was no tenderness, only a primal urgency.

You met her intensity head-on, your own frustrations and unspoken desires rising to the surface. Your hands slid from her arms to her back, your fingers splaying against the smooth, wet skin. You could feel the rigid tension in her muscles, mirroring the coiled energy within you.

She pulled back slightly, her breath hot against your lips. “You think I’m afraid?” she growled, her eyes blazing. “I’ll show you what I’m capable of.”

And then she kissed you again, deeper this time, her tongue invading your mouth with a possessiveness that both shocked and thrilled you. Your own control began to slip, the anger melting away, replaced by a burning heat that spread through your veins.

Her hands left your face, one sliding down your neck, the other tracing the curve of your side, dipping beneath the hem of your damp training shirt. The coolness of her wet fingers against your skin sent a jolt of pure sensation through you.

You moaned softly against her lips, the sound raw and involuntary.

The small, enclosed space of the shower area suddenly felt intensely intimate, the sound of the remaining showers a muted backdrop to the escalating tension between you.

She broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated. “You feel this, sí?” she murmured, her lips brushing against your ear. “This isn’t just about the game.”

Your head was swimming. You knew this was reckless, impulsive. But in this moment, with her body pressed against yours, the scent of her filling your senses, you couldn’t deny the fierce pull.

Your own hands were no longer passive. You gripped her tighter, your fingers digging into the small of her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between yo.

A low groan escaped her lips. She shifted, her leg sliding between yours, a blatant, possessive move that made your breath catch.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached down and tugged the towel further down her hips, revealing the smooth skin of her lower abdomen. Your gaze followed her hand, and a wave of pure lust washed over you.

You mirrored her boldness, reaching down and gripping the hem of her towel. With a sharp tug, it fell to the wet tiles with a soft thud.

The sight of her, flushed and damp, took your breath away. Her gaze locked onto yours, a silent challenge and invitation intertwined.

You didn’t hesitate. Your own hands moved to the hem of your soaked shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. The cool air hit your heated skin, a stark contrast to the burning sensation where your bodies were pressed together.

Claudia’s gaze roamed over your bare torso, a possessive heat flickering in her eyes. She reached out, her fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, then lower, her touch sending shivers through you.

“You want this?” she rasped, her voice thick with desire.

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with anticipation.

She didn’t wait for verbal confirmation. Her hands slid lower, cupping your breasts, her thumbs teasing your nipples until they hardened beneath her touch. You gasped, arching slightly towards her, the sensation almost unbearable.

The need to touch her, to feel her skin against yours, became overwhelming. Your hands found their way to her shoulders, then lower, tracing the sleek lines of her back, the curve of her waist.

She shifted again, pressing closer, and you could feel the slick heat between her legs through your damp training shorts. A low moan escaped your lips.

“The showers,” she murmured, her voice husky, her gaze dropping to your mouth again. “Let’s use them.”

Without waiting for your response, she turned slightly, pulling you with her towards the nearest empty shower stall. The ceramic tiles were cool against your bare feet

.

She didn’t release you, keeping you pressed against her as she reached out and turned the water on. The spray was warm, cascading over your intertwined bodies.

The water plastered her dark hair to her scalp, the droplets beading on her skin. She looked wild, untamed, and utterly captivating.

The kiss she claimed then was different. Still urgent, still possessive, but now laced with a raw sensuality. The water ran down your faces, mingling with your sweat and the slickness of your tongues as you devoured each other.

Her hands roamed freely over your body, exploring every curve and contour. Yours did the same, mapping the taut muscles of her back, the swell of her breasts.

She broke the kiss, her breath ragged. Her eyes locked onto yours, a fierce intensity burning within them.

“I want you,” she stated, the words raw and honest.

And in that moment, amidst the pounding water and the lingering echoes of your rivalry, you knew you wanted her too. Fiercely. Completely.

She didn’t wait for a verbal response. Her hand slipped lower, down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Your breath hitched as her fingers brushed against you.

The touch was electric, sending a wave of pure sensation through you. You gasped, your hips tilting instinctively towards her hand.

She groaned, her fingers exploring further, finding the wet heat between your legs. You cried out, the sound lost in the rush of the water.

The argument was forgotten. The rivalry had melted away, replaced by a consuming need, a desperate urgency to connect on a level that transcended the pitch.

Her fingers, slick with water and your own arousal, began to explore you with a knowing touch. You gasped, your back arching as a wave of intense pleasure washed over you. The pounding water seemed to amplify every sensation, the slickness of your bodies pressed together, the intimate exploration of her hand.

You tangled your fingers in her wet hair, pulling her closer, your own hips beginning to move instinctively against her touch. A low moan escaped your lips, the sound raw and needy.

Claudia’s gaze remained locked on yours, her dark eyes filled with a possessive heat as she continued her ministrations. Her thumb pressed insistently against your most sensitive spot, and you cried out, your legs trembling.

The need to touch her was a burning ache within you. Your hands slid down her back, cupping her wet buttocks, pulling her closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel her own arousal pressing against your thigh, a hard, insistent throb that mirrored your own growing need.

“Claudia…” you gasped, your voice barely audible above the rush of the water.

“Yes?” she murmured, her voice husky, her fingers still working their magic.

“Please…” you couldn’t articulate what you wanted, only the overwhelming desire for more.

She seemed to understand. With a swift movement, she shifted, her hands now gripping your thighs, lifting one of your legs and wrapping it around her waist.

You gasped again, the sudden intimacy making your core clench. She pressed closer, and you could feel her wet core pressing against you,separated only by the thin barrier of your wet shorts.

The friction was exquisite, driving you closer to the edge. You tightened your grip on her hair, your head falling back against the cool tiles

.

Without breaking contact, she reached down and fumbled with the waistband of your shorts, quickly pushing them down your legs. They pooled at your ankles, forgotten.

Now, there was nothing separating you. The direct contact was electric, sending a jolt of pure sensation through your body. You cried out, your hips lifting involuntarily.

Claudia groaned, her own movements becoming more urgent. Her hand continued its intimate exploration, while her body pressed against yours, a wet, slick friction that was driving you both wild.

You reached down, your own fingers finding her soaked center pressing against her soaked tracksuit bottoms. You gripped her through the fabric, the heat radiating through the material.

She shuddered against you, her pace quickening. The small shower stall felt impossibly intimate, the steam and the pounding water enveloping you in a private world.

You were both breathing heavily, the sounds mingling with the rush of the water. Your body was singing, every nerve ending alive and tingling. The tension from the training, the months of unspoken rivalry, was finally finding its release in this raw, urgent connection.

Just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, Claudia’s fingers found a particularly sensitive spot, and a strangled cry escaped your lips. Waves of intense pleasure washed over you, your body clenching around her hand.

She held you there, her body pressed tightly against yours, until the tremors subsided. Only then did she ease her touch, her breathing still ragged

.

You leaned against the cool tiles, your body flushed and tingling. Claudia’s arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The animosity was gone, replaced by a heavy, sated silence.

The water continued to cascade over you both, washing away the sweat and the remnants of your argument, leaving behind a lingering heat and the undeniable imprint of your shared intensity.

The pounding of the water eventually became a less overwhelming presence, allowing the ragged rhythm of your breathing to become more apparent. You leaned against the cool tiles, still caught in the aftershocks of the intense encounter. Claudia held you close, her arms wrapped firmly around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder. The silence that stretched between you was thick, heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

Finally, you shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her dark hair was plastered to her forehead, droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes. Her expression was… unreadable. A mixture of something intense and something guarded.

“Claudia,” you began, your voice still a little shaky.

She tightened her grip slightly. “Don’t.”

You frowned. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t… analyze it. Don’t try to make it into something it’s not.” Her tone was low, almost rough.

A knot of something unpleasant tightened in your chest. Was this just a release of tension for her? A byproduct of your constant friction?

You pulled back a little further, a chill that had nothing to do with the water seeping into you. “So, what was it then?”

Her gaze flickered away, just for a moment, before returning to yours, the intensity back in her eyes. “It was… us. That tension. It had to go somewhere.”

Her answer felt insufficient, cold. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over you – the lingering warmth of the physical connection battling with a sudden pang of hurt.

“So, it meant nothing?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t say it meant something either,” you countered, the disappointment lacing your voice.

She released you, stepping back slightly, the water now separating your bodies. The loss of physical contact felt stark.

“Look,” she said, running a hand through her wet hair, her frustration evident. “We’re rivals. Teammates who can barely stand to be in the same room. What did you expect this to be? Some… romantic interlude?”

Her bluntness stung. You had been caught up in the heat of the moment, the intensity of the physical connection. You hadn’t really thought beyond the immediate need. But her words brought you crashing back to the reality of your strained dynamic.

“I… I don’t know what I expected,” you admitted, the defensiveness in your voice softening into something more vulnerable. “Maybe… more than just a release.”

Claudia’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her features. “There is… something there,” she conceded, her gaze meeting yours again. “But it’s complicated. You know that.”

Yes, you knew that. The constant push and pull, the underlying rivalry. It had been the backdrop to everything between you.

“So, where does this leave us?” you asked, the question hanging in the steamy air.

She hesitated, her gaze drifting down to the wet tiles. “I don’t know.”

The honesty in her voice, the raw uncertainty, was a small comfort amidst the confusion.

“We can’t just pretend this didn’t happen,” you said, the weight of the encounter settling heavily between you.

She looked up at you again, her eyes searching. “No. No, we can’t.”

The water continued to fall, washing over your naked bodies, a silent witness to the tangled emotions swirling between you. The physical intensity had been undeniable, but the aftermath felt fraught with unspoken questions and the lingering reality of your complicated relationship.

You stepped closer to her again, the coolness of the water a stark contrast to the lingering heat in your veins. "Then what do you want, Claudia?" you asked, your voice softer now, laced with a vulnerability you hadn't intended to reveal. "Because I felt something in there. Something more than just tension."

Her gaze flickered down to your mouth, a hint of the earlier intensity returning to her eyes. "I felt it too," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "But this... us... it can't be simple."

"Why not?" you challenged gently, reaching out to touch her arm again, the slickness of her skin familiar now.

She pulled away slightly, a troubled look crossing her face. "The team... they already see the friction between us. If they knew..." She trailed off, a shake of her head.

The realization hit you. The close-knit nature of the team, the potential for gossip, the way any perceived favoritism or division could be magnified.

"So, we just pretend it didn't happen?" you asked, the disappointment evident in your tone

.

"No," she said quickly, her eyes meeting yours again, a flicker of something akin to panic in their depths. "But we have to be careful. Discreet."

The word felt cold, clinical. Discreet. Like this intense, raw connection you'd just shared was something to be hidden, a secret shame

.

"So, secret then?" you echoed, a bitter taste in your mouth.

She hesitated, her gaze searching yours. "It's the only way, for now. We can't let this affect the team, our game."

Just then, the locker room door creaked open. Ingrid’s cheerful voice cut through the humid air. “Oi! You two still in here? The pizza’s arrived!”

Claudia’s eyes widened slightly, a flash of alarm in them. She took another step back, putting more distance between you.

“Coming,” she called out, her tone suddenly casual, almost detached. She glanced at you, a silent plea in her eyes.

The moment, the raw vulnerability you had shared, seemed to recede, replaced by the familiar guardedness.

You nodded slowly, a sense of unease settling in your stomach. The intensity of the showers had faded, leaving behind a confusing mix of desire and a dawning understanding of the complications that lay ahead.

As you both quickly rinsed off, the unspoken agreement hung heavy in the air. A secret. This intense, unexpected connection had to be a secret.

Later, in the communal area, the team was buzzing around the pizza boxes. Ingrid shot you both a knowing glance, a playful smirk on her face. “You two looked like you’d been in a war in training today. Everything alright?”

Claudia offered a tight smile. “Just a bit competitive, as always.” Her gaze flickered to you briefly, a silent warning.

You forced a smile in return. “Yeah, all good. Just pushing each other.”

Ingrid’s eyes danced with amusement. “That’s one way to put it.”

Throughout the evening, you felt Claudia’s awareness of you, a subtle tension in her movements whenever you were close. But there was a new layer now, a careful avoidance, a deliberate creation of distance.

Later, as you scrolled through your phone in your hotel room, a message popped up from an unknown number.

‘We need to talk. Not here.’

A shiver ran down your spine. You knew it was her. The intensity of the showers, the raw connection, was now shrouded in secrecy, potentially complicated by the watchful eyes of your teammates.

You stared at the message, the simple words carrying a weight that belied their brevity. A mix of anticipation and apprehension coiled in your stomach.

You typed back quickly:

‘Okay. When and where?’

A few seconds later, your phone buzzed again.

‘Rooftop. In an hour.’

The rooftop. Private, away from prying ears. It felt clandestine, adding another layer to this unexpected turn your relationship with Claudia had taken.

The next hour crawled by. You replayed the shower scene in your mind, the raw intensity, the brief moment of vulnerability, followed by Claudia’s immediate retreat into caution. You weren't sure what to expect on that rooftop, but the secrecy already felt like a heavy burden.

When the appointed time arrived, you slipped out of your room, your heart pounding a little faster than necessary. The hotel’s rooftop terrace was deserted, the city lights twinkling in the distance. Claudia was already there, leaning against the railing, her silhouette outlined against the night sky.

She turned as she heard you approach. The air between you felt charged, a silent echo of the intimacy you had shared, now overlaid with a palpable tension.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, her voice low.

“What did you want to talk about?” you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral.

“Us,” she stated simply, her gaze direct. “What happened in the showers… it can’t happen again. Not like that. Not here.”

Her words landed like a punch to the gut. The brief flicker of hope you had felt began to dwindle.

“So, you regret it?” The question was barely a whisper.

“No,” she said quickly, her eyes searching yours. “I don’t regret it. But it was… impulsive. We can’t let that happen again, not with the team around.”

Just then, the door to the rooftop creaked open again. Both of your heads snapped towards the sound. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light, was Alexia.

Her usual warm smile faltered slightly as she took in the scene: you and Claudia, standing apart but with a visible tension hanging in the air

.

“Oh,” Alexia said, her brow furrowing slightly. “Didn’t realize anyone was up here.” Her gaze flickered between you both, a hint of curiosity, perhaps even suspicion, in her eyes.

Claudia recovered quickly, stepping away from the railing and forcing a casual tone. “Just needed some air, Alexia. What’s up?”

You tried to appear equally nonchalant, but the flush you could feel rising on your neck betrayed your unease.

Alexia’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, her expression thoughtful. “Nothing much. Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d see the view.” She took a few steps onto the terrace, her eyes still subtly observing you both

.

The atmosphere had shifted instantly. The private intensity between you and Claudia was now under the scrutiny of your captain, someone known for her sharp intuition.

Claudia threw you a quick, almost imperceptible glance, a silent plea for you to play along.

“It’s beautiful up here,” you said, trying to sound relaxed. “You should join us.”

Alexia’s gaze softened slightly. “Maybe for a bit.” She moved closer to the railing, but her attention seemed to be subtly focused on the space between you and Claudia, the unspoken energy that still lingered.

The easy camaraderie of your team felt momentarily strained, replaced by a forced normalcy. You could feel Claudia subtly putting distance between you, her body language radiating a casual indifference that felt at odds with the raw intimacy you had shared just hours ago.

The secret had already created a wedge, and now, with Alexia’s unexpected arrival, the risk of exposure felt terrifyingly real.

You try to act normal, forcing smiles and casual conversation. But the air is thick with unspoken tension, especially under Alexia's observant gaze. She seems to be piecing things together, her questions subtly probing, her glances lingering a moment too long.

The forced normalcy feels like a fragile mask, threatening to slip at any moment.

Later that evening, the team is gathered in the hotel lobby, unwinding after dinner. Alexia, seemingly casual, pulls Ingrid and Patri aside, engaging them in a hushed conversation. You catch snippets of your name, Claudia’s, and a raised eyebrow from Ingrid.

The next day at training, the atmosphere is noticeably different. There are whispers, sidelong glances. Some teammates seem amused, others concerned. You can feel the shift, the subtle change in dynamics. The secret is out, or at least, suspected.

Claudia, typically so assertive, becomes withdrawn, avoiding your gaze, her interactions with you clipped and professional. The easy camaraderie you once shared on the field feels strained, replaced by a careful distance.

It’s clear: Alexia has shared her suspicions. The team knows, or at least, they suspect. And the fallout is starting. The tension is no longer just between you and Claudia; it’s now a palpable undercurrent that affects the entire team.

The team's awareness of the tension between you and Claudia escalates during a particularly heated training session. You're pitted against each other in a high-pressure possession drill, and the old rivalry flares with renewed intensity, fueled by the awkwardness of the suspected secret.

A misplaced pass from you leads to Claudia intercepting and driving towards goal. You sprint back, lunging into a tackle that’s a little too aggressive. Claudia goes down with a yelp, clutching her ankle.

The whistle blows instantly. Several teammates rush over, concern etched on their faces. Claudia sits up, wincing.

"What was that?" Mapi demands, her voice sharp as she looks from Claudia to you. "That was reckless."

"She was through on goal," you defend, though even to your own ears, it sounds weak.

Claudia glares at you, her eyes flashing. "You didn't need to go in like that."

The air crackles with hostility. It's more than just a training ground disagreement; it's loaded with the unspoken complexities that now hang between you.

Alexia steps forward, her expression serious. "Okay, that's enough. Something's going on here. You two have been at each other's throats since Y/N arrived, and it's not helping the team."

Ingrid nods in agreement. "Yeah, you need to sort this out. It's affecting everyone."

Patri, ever the pragmatist, adds, "The coach has noticed too. He asked me about it this morning."

A collective decision seems to form amongst the senior players. Alexia looks directly at you and Claudia. "You two. After training. The meeting room. You need to talk. Work this out."

There are murmurs of agreement from the rest of the team. There's a sense that this underlying conflict needs to be addressed for the sake of team cohesion.

Later, you find yourself sitting across a small table from Claudia in the sterile environment of the team's meeting room. The silence is thick, heavy with unspoken words and lingering tension.

Claudia avoids your gaze, fiddling with the hem of her training jersey. You can feel the weight of the team's expectations, the pressure to resolve whatever it is that’s simmering between you.

Finally, you break the silence. "So... we have to talk."

Claudia looks up, her expression guarded. "Looks like it."

You take a deep breath, the sterile air of the meeting room doing little to calm the nervous flutter in your chest. "This isn't just about tackles in training, is it?" you say, your gaze fixed on Claudia.

She finally meets your eyes, and you see a flicker of something beyond the usual competitive fire – a hint of vulnerability. "No," she admits quietly.

"From the moment I arrived," you continue, "you haven't exactly made me feel welcome. I thought it was just about competing for a spot."

Claudia shifts uncomfortably. "It was... partly that. You're good. I felt... threatened, maybe. Like I always have to fight for my place here."

"I wasn't trying to take your place," you say softly. "I just wanted to earn my own."

A tense silence hangs in the air. Then, Claudia speaks again, her voice barely above a whisper. "And then... in the showers..." Her gaze flickers away, a blush rising on her cheeks.

Your heart skips a beat. The memory of that raw, intense encounter is still vivid. "That wasn't just about competition," you say, your voice low.

Claudia finally looks back at you, her expression conflicted. "No. It wasn't. There was... something there. More than just anger."

"I felt it too," you confess. "But then you pulled back. On the rooftop. Like it was a mistake."

"No, it wasn't a mistake," she says quickly, her eyes pleading. "But it can't be... out in the open. Not yet. The team... they're already suspicious. If they knew..."

"So, it has to be a secret?" you ask, the disappointment evident in your tone.

"For now," she insists. "Until we... until we figure out what this is."

Another silence stretches between you. The weight of the secret, the confusion of your feelings, the pressure from your teammates – it all feels overwhelming.

"What is this, Claudia?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "Because I'm confused. One minute, there's this intense... connection. The next, you're pushing me away."

Claudia sighs, running a hand through her hair. "I'm confused too, okay? I've never... felt this way about a teammate before. Especially not someone I was practically at war with on the field."

Her honesty surprises you. "So, you felt it too?"

She nods, her gaze locking onto yours. "Yes. That's why it scared me. It still does."

"Why?"

"Because... what if it messes things up? The team, our play... everything?"

You consider her words. The stakes were high. A romance within the team, especially one that started with such intense rivalry, could be volatile.

"Maybe it doesn't have to mess things up," you suggest tentatively. "Maybe... maybe it could make us even better. We already read each other on the field, even when we're arguing."

A small, almost hesitant smile touches Claudia's lips. "Maybe," she echoes softly.

The tension in the room hasn't completely dissipated, but there's a shift. An acknowledgment of something real between you, beyond the animosity.

"So, what do we do now?" you ask.

Claudia looks at you, a new determination in her eyes. "We figure it out. Quietly. For us. And for the team. We can't let this divide us.”

The conversation feels like a fragile truce. The path ahead is still uncertain, but for the first time, it feels like you're both willing to walk it.

In the days that followed, a fragile understanding began to blossom between you and Claudia. The overt hostility on the training pitch lessened, replaced by a subtle awareness, a shared glance, a slightly softer edge to her competitive nature when you were involved.

Off the pitch, stolen moments became your currency. A lingering touch as you passed in the hallway, a quiet word exchanged during a water break, a shared smile when no one else was looking. The rooftop became your sanctuary for hushed conversations under the cloak of night, where you slowly began to navigate the complexities of your unexpected connection.

You found yourselves gravitating towards each other in subtle ways, a silent understanding passing between you during drills that translated into seamless plays. Your on-field chemistry, once fueled by rivalry, now held a different kind of spark, a synergy that didn't go unnoticed by your teammates, though they likely attributed it to simply finding your rhythm within the squad.

One afternoon, after a particularly satisfying training session where you and Claudia had linked up beautifully for a goal, you found yourselves stretching side-by-side.

"We... we work well together," Claudia murmured, her gaze fixed on her hamstring.

"We do," you agreed, a small smile playing on your lips. "Maybe all that fighting was just... intense practice."

She chuckled softly, a sound that still felt somewhat rare and special. "Maybe."

The secrecy, however, began to feel like a weight. The stolen moments, while precious, also came with a constant undercurrent of anxiety. You both knew that the truth, if revealed haphazardly, could create ripples within the team.

One evening, you found yourself sitting with Ingrid and Mapi in the hotel lounge, the two of them a picture of comfortable affection. Their easygoing dynamic and obvious happiness had always been something you admired. An idea sparked.

Hesitantly, you broached the subject, speaking in general terms at first. "So, you two... being together on the team... how does that work?"

Ingrid and Mapi exchanged a knowing glance. Mapi leaned back on the sofa, a relaxed smile on her face. "It has its moments. You have to be professional on the pitch, first and foremost. Our relationship doesn't change how we play or how we treat our teammates."

Ingrid nodded. "Communication is key. Being open with each other, but also understanding the team dynamic. We made sure everyone knew we were committed to Barça first."

You and Claudia exchanged a silent look. "What about... if it starts unexpectedly?" you asked, trying to sound casual. "Like... maybe there was some initial... friction?"

Ingrid raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Friction, huh? Sounds interesting."

Claudia jumped in, her tone carefully neutral. "Just curious about different dynamics."

Mapi chuckled. "Well, sometimes the strongest connections come from unexpected places. The important thing is respect. For each other, and for the team."

They shared some anecdotes about navigating their relationship within the team, the importance of clear boundaries, and the unwavering support they offered each other, both on and off the field. Their openness was encouraging.

As you and Claudia walked back to your rooms later, a quiet understanding passed between you. Maybe confiding in Ingrid and Mapi, two people who understood the complexities firsthand, could be the next step.

"What do you think?" you murmured to Claudia. "About talking to them?"

Claudia nodded slowly. "It might help. They seem to have it figured out.

The path forward still felt uncertain, but the idea of seeking guidance from teammates who had successfully navigated a similar situation offered a glimmer of hope.

You and Claudia find yourselves back in Ingrid and Mapi’s hotel room a few nights later. The initial awkwardness of the previous conversation has dissipated, replaced by a sense of nervous anticipation. You’ve both decided that honesty is the best approach, even if it feels like a leap of faith.

“So,” Ingrid begins, her usual cheerful demeanor tempered with a hint of seriousness as she looks from you to Claudia. “What’s really going on?”

You exchange a quick glance with Claudia before taking a deep breath. “It’s… complicated,” you start, choosing your words carefully. “It’s not just about on-field tension anymore.”

Claudia nods in agreement. “There’s… something else. Something we didn’t expect.”

Mapi leans forward, her expression thoughtful. “Something like… something else else?”

You and Claudia share another look, a silent agreement to lay it all out.

“We… we’re kind of… together,” Claudia blurts out, the words tumbling out in a rush.

A beat of silence hangs in the air. Ingrid and Mapi exchange a surprised, but not entirely shocked, glance.

“Together?” Ingrid asks, raising an eyebrow. “As in… together together?”

You nod, a nervous smile playing on your lips. “Yeah. It started… unexpectedly. After that training session…”

You both recount the events leading up to the present, from the initial rivalry to the intense encounter in the showers, the rooftop conversation, and the growing complexity of your feelings

. You emphasize the desire to keep things professional, the fear of disrupting the team dynamic, and your genuine confusion about how to navigate this uncharted territory.

Ingrid and Mapi listen intently, their expressions shifting from surprise to understanding. When you finish, Mapi reaches out and takes both of your hands, her touch warm and reassuring.

“Wow,” she says softly. “That’s… a lot.”

Ingrid nods in agreement. “But it also sounds… intense. And maybe a little bit exciting.”

A small smile flickers on Claudia’s face. “It is. But it’s also… scary. We don’t want to mess things up.”

Mapi squeezes your hands. “You won’t. Not if you’re both committed to making it work. And it sounds like you are.”

Ingrid leans forward, her tone serious. “The most important thing is communication. With each other, and eventually, with the team. You can’t keep this a secret forever.”

Mapi nods. “And you have to be honest about your feelings. Don’t let fear or pride get in the way.”

They share their own experiences, the challenges they faced, and the strategies they used to maintain a healthy relationship within the team. They emphasize the importance of open communication, setting boundaries, and prioritizing the team’s success above all else.

“We’re here for you,” Ingrid says, her voice filled with genuine support. “Both of you. As friends, and as teammates.”

Mapi smiles warmly. “Consider us your… relationship mentors.”

A wave of relief washes over you and Claudia. Confiding in Ingrid and Mapi feels like a weight has been lifted. Their acceptance and willingness to offer guidance give you both a renewed sense of hope.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice filled with gratitude. “This… this means a lot.”

Claudia nods, her eyes shining with a mixture of relief and determination. “We’re ready to figure this out. Together.”

The conversation feels like a turning point. With Ingrid and Mapi’s support, you and Claudia feel more equipped to navigate the complexities of your relationship, both on and off the field. The path ahead is still uncertain, but you’re no longer walking it alone.

The weight that had settled in your chest over the past few weeks begins to ease. Sharing this with Ingrid and Mapi feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. You look at Claudia, and see a similar sense of relief mirrored in her eyes.

"So," Ingrid says, a playful glint returning to her eyes, "what's the plan? Secret handshakes on the pitch? Coded messages during press conferences?"

A small laugh escapes you. "Nothing that dramatic. We just... need to figure out how to be us, while still being part of the team."

Mapi nods, her expression thoughtful. "That takes time and intention. You'll have to be mindful, both of your own dynamic and how it affects the group. But it's doable. We're proof of that, aren't we?" She glances at Ingrid, who smiles and squeezes her hand.

The comfort in their easy intimacy is reassuring. It shows you that navigating a relationship within the team, while challenging, isn't impossible.

"Cata..." Claudia starts, her voice losing some of its newfound lightness. "That's going to be... difficult."

You nod, remembering the tension at the dinner. "Yeah. It felt like there's still a lot there."

Ingrid leans back against the headboard. "You might need to have a conversation with her, Claudia. Eventually. Not necessarily to explain yourselves, but just to... clear the air a little. For everyone's sake."

Claudia sighs softly. "I know. It's just... I don't want to hurt her."

"And you won't, intentionally," Mapi says gently. "But sometimes, even without meaning to, feelings get hurt. The best you can do is be honest and respectful."

The conversation drifts into more practical advice. They talk about finding moments for just the two of you amidst the intense schedule, about establishing boundaries within the team, and about how to handle well-meaning but potentially intrusive questions from teammates.

As the night wears on, the initial nervousness fades, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and shared understanding. You and Claudia exchange a look – a silent acknowledgment of the hurdle you've just crossed and the support you've found.

Eventually, Ingrid yawns widely. "Alright, lovebirds. As much as I'm enjoying being your relationship guru, some of us have training in the morning."

You and Claudia stand up, a sense of lightness between you. "Thank you," you say again, genuinely grateful.

"Anytime," Mapi replies, a warm smile on her face. "Seriously. If you need to vent, strategize, or just have someone to listen, we're here."

Back in your own hotel room, the quiet feels different. It's no longer filled with unspoken anxieties, but with a quiet sense of hope. You look at Claudia, who is leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"So," you say, echoing Ingrid's earlier tone, "what's the plan?"

Claudia pushes off the doorframe and walks towards you, her gaze steady. "The plan is... us. Figuring this out, together. One step at a time." She reaches out and takes your hand, her touch sending a familiar warmth through you.

The future is still uncertain, but in this moment, holding her hand, with the support of your friends, you feel a sense of quiet confidence. Whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

The next few days on the training ground feel subtly different. There's a slight coolness in the air whenever you, Claudia, and Cata are in close proximity. Cata's usual easygoing demeanor seems strained, replaced by a quiet intensity. You notice her watching you and Claudia sometimes, her expression unreadable.

The tension finally boils over after a particularly intense training session. The team is packing up, the usual banter filling the air, when Cata approaches Claudia, her arms crossed.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Cata asks, her voice tight, just loud enough for you to hear.

Claudia's shoulders tense. She glances at you briefly before nodding. They move a few steps away, towards the edge of the pitch. You try to appear busy gathering your things, but your ears are straining to catch their words.

Though you can't make out everything, the rising inflection in Cata's voice and the defensive posture Claudia adopts tell you this isn't a friendly chat. You hear snippets: "...always doing this...", "...didn't even wait...", and then, more clearly, Cata's voice laced with hurt, "...we were together, Claudia. You can't just pretend that didn't happen."

Claudia's response is softer, but firm. You see her gesturing, her expression earnest. The conversation seems to escalate again, Cata's voice becoming louder, more agitated.

"And now you're with y/n?" Cata's voice cuts through the air, making you flinch. "Just like that? Did any of what we had even matter to you?"

Claudia's eyes flick towards you, a flash of distress in them. Before she can respond, Cata turns and walks away abruptly, her back rigid with anger.

The remaining players exchange uneasy glances. The comfortable atmosphere has evaporated, replaced by a palpable tension. You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach.

Later that evening, you and Claudia find yourselves alone in your shared hotel room. The silence between you feels heavy, laden with the unspoken fallout from the confrontation.

You finally break the silence. "Claudia," you begin, your voice quiet, "what was that all about?"

Claudia sighs, running a hand through her hair. She avoids your gaze for a moment before meeting your eyes, her expression a mixture of frustration and sadness.

"It's... Cata and I used to date," she says, the words hanging in the air.

The revelation isn't entirely surprising, given Cata's reaction, but hearing it aloud still makes something shift within you. A wave of uncertainty washes over you.

"And... she's upset," you state, more than ask.

Claudia nods. "Yeah. We... it was a while ago. But I think she's still hurting. Seeing me... with you... it brought up a lot."

The silence returns, this time thick with your own thoughts and feelings.

You think about the stolen glances, the growing connection between you and Claudia, and the potential complications this past relationship brings.

"Did you... did you not tell me because...?" You trail off, unsure how to phrase your question.

Claudia reaches out and takes your hand, her touch grounding you. "No, y/n. Not because I wanted to hide anything from you. It just... hadn't felt like the right time. We were still figuring things out, and I didn't want to complicate that with past history."

You squeeze her hand gently. "But it is complicated now, isn't it?"

Claudia nods, her gaze earnest. "Yes. But that doesn't change how I feel about you."

Her words are a small reassurance, but the weight of the situation still lingers. "So, what now?" you ask softly.

Claudia takes a deep breath. "Now... we talk. Honestly. About everything. About my past with Cata, about what's happening between us, about what we want for the future."

You meet her gaze, seeing the sincerity in her eyes. A sense of resolve begins to form within you. "Okay," you say. "Let's talk."

And so you do. You talk about your initial impressions of each other, the unexpected spark that ignited, the nervousness and excitement of exploring these new feelings. Claudia shares more about her relationship with Cata, the reasons for their breakup, and her perspective on Cata's reaction.

You share your own uncertainties and the vulnerability of opening yourself up to someone new, especially within the close-knit environment of the team.

The conversation flows, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with a rush of honesty. You listen intently, and you share your own thoughts and feelings without reservation. Slowly, amidst the vulnerability, a clearer understanding begins to emerge. You start to see the situation not just through the lens of potential conflict, but as a complex web of emotions and histories.

By the time the conversation winds down, a sense of calm has settled between you. The air no longer feels heavy, but lighter, clearer.

"Thank you," you say softly, reaching out to cup her cheek. "For being honest with me."

Claudia leans into your touch, a small smile gracing her lips. "Thank you for listening. And for understanding."

In that moment, you realize that this hurdle, while

challenging, has actually brought you and Claudia closer. By confronting the past and communicating openly, you've begun to build a stronger, more honest foundation for your relationship.

.

The immediate aftermath of the revelation about Claudia and Cata hangs in the air within the team. There are hushed conversations, curious glances, and a noticeable shift in the usual easygoing camaraderie.

Some players, like Ingrid and Mapi, offer you both quiet smiles of support. Others are more reserved, unsure how to process the new dynamic.

You and Claudia consciously make an effort to be mindful of the team's feelings. On the training pitch, you maintain a professional distance, focusing on drills and team strategy. The stolen glances become less frequent, the casual touches almost nonexistent when others are around.

It's an adjustment. The ease with which you and Claudia had started to connect now requires a layer of careful consideration. There are moments when you miss the freedom of your unspoken communication, the simple joy of a shared smile. But you both understand the need to navigate this situation with sensitivity.

During team meals, you find yourselves often seated near each other, but the conversations are more general, inclusive of the wider group. You notice Cata often keeps a slight distance, her interactions with Claudia polite but brief. There's an unspoken understanding that space is needed.

Slowly, subtly, the initial awkwardness begins to dissipate.

The team, accustomed to the ebb and flow of personal dynamics, starts to find a new equilibrium. Your commitment to professionalism on the field is evident, and your genuine care for each other, while more discreet, still shines through in small ways.

One evening, after a particularly grueling away match that Barça Femení wins convincingly, the team is tired but jubilant on the bus back to the hotel. The usual celebratory singing and joking fills the air. You're sitting next to Claudia, both of you leaning against the window, a comfortable silence between you.

Suddenly, Alexia Putellas, from the front of the bus, starts a chant, and soon the whole team is clapping and singing a popular Catalan tune. You and Claudia exchange a smile. The shared joy of the victory, the collective energy of the team, momentarily washes away any lingering tension.

Later, back at the hotel, most of the team gathers in the common area, some playing cards, others chatting quietly. You and Claudia find a quieter corner on a plush sofa. The buzz of the team is a comfortable backdrop to your own conversation.

"It's getting better, don't you think?" Claudia says softly, leaning her head on your shoulder.

You nod, resting your head on hers. "Yeah. It feels like it. Everyone's... adjusting."

"It helps that they're all a bit crazy," Claudia murmurs, a hint of a smile in her voice.

You chuckle. "Definitely. Never a dull moment with this team."

The comfortable silence returns, this time filled with a sense of peace and quiet understanding. The journey hasn't been seamless, but you and Claudia have navigated the initial turbulence with care and consideration.

A few nights later, after everyone else has turned in, you and Claudia find yourselves on the small balcony outside your hotel room. The night air is cool, the stars bright above. You're wrapped in a shared blanket, the city lights twinkling in the distance.

Claudia is tracing patterns on the back of your hand, her touch light and soothing. "You know," she says softly, breaking the comfortable silence, "I'm really glad we talked to Ingrid and Mapi."

"Me too," you reply, turning your head to look at her. "They're good friends."

Claudia nods, her gaze meeting yours. "And I'm really glad I told you everything."

A soft smile spreads across your face. "Me too."

She leans in, her eyes soft and full of affection. You meet her halfway, and her lips brush against yours in a tender kiss. It's a quiet moment, just the two of you, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights.

Pulling back slightly, Claudia rests her forehead against yours. "This," she whispers, her breath warm against your skin, "this feels right."

You wrap your arms around her, pulling her closer. "It does," you agree, a feeling of warmth spreading through you. The complexities of the team dynamic, the echoes of the past, all fade into the background. In this moment, there's just you and Claudia, a quiet, fluffy moment of connection under the starlit sky.

[ilovejb]

| Untouched territory |

Pairing : Lewis Pullman x female!reader

Summary : A summer lake reunion sparks unexpected and forbidden feelings with your brother's best friend.

Warnings : SMUT, porn with plot MDI also brothers best friend Lewis

Authors note : lewis pullman it seems I’ve grown quite fond of you though there are (incredibly powerful) sexual urges & desires you come to me as a long lost friend whom I once picked apples with at papa’s orchard

The familiar scent of pine and lake water hits you the moment you step out of your car. It’s the same every year, this pilgrimage to your family’s lake house, a comforting constant in your often-chaotic life. This year feels a little different, though. Your older brother is hosting a chill reunion with a few of his closest friends from college. And Lewis is coming.

Lewis Pullman. Your brother’s best friend.

The boy who’s unknowingly occupied a significant corner of your teenage heart. You haven’t seen him in over four years, not since his acting career really took off, pulling him into a different orbit.

Your brother greets you with a bear hug, his usual boisterous energy filling the porch. “You made it! Lewis and Mark are already here, down by the dock.”

Your stomach does a little flip. You hadn’t realized he’d arrived so soon. Trying to appear casual, you sling your duffel bag over your shoulder. “Great. I’ll go say hi.”

He’s leaning against the weathered railing of the dock, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the water. He’s taller than you remember, broader in the shoulders. His dark hair is a little longer, and a hint of scruff shadows his jaw. He looks… different. More grounded, perhaps.

He turns as he hears you approach, and his expression softens into a genuine smile. “You. Wow.” His voice is deeper, a low rumble that sends a surprising shiver down your spine. “You look different… in a good way.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks. “Lewis. It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” he agrees, his gaze lingering for a beat longer than strictly necessary. It’s a small thing, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Your pulse quickens slightly. It’s been years, but that familiar flutter in your chest… it’s undeniably there. Fifteen-year-old you, with your awkward crush and secret fantasies, would be losing her mind right now. Mid-twenties you are trying to play it cool, but the awareness is definitely present.

The weekend unfolds with a comfortable rhythm. Group dinners filled with old stories and laughter, lazy afternoons spent on the boat, the quiet camaraderie of movie nights. You find yourself easily falling back into conversation with Lewis. He asks you about your work, your life, treating you with a level of respect and genuine interest you hadn’t always experienced when you were just “your brother’s little sister.” That’s a noticeable shift, and honestly, it’s… nice. Electric, even. He listens intently when you talk about your graphic design work, asking thoughtful questions. He remembers little anecdotes you’d almost forgotten from years ago, weaving them into your current conversations. It makes you feel seen, truly seen, in a way you haven’t in a long time.

One evening, reaching for a can of sparkling water in the crowded fridge, your fingers brush. A jolt, unexpected and electric, shoots up your arm. Lewis’s eyes meet yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you before he smoothly retrieves the can you’d been reaching for. “Here,” he says, his voice a touch rough, his fingers lingering on yours for a fleeting second as he hands it over. Your breath hitches. It’s such a small thing, but the awareness between you feels suddenly magnified.

Later, struggling to open a stubborn jar of pickles during lunch prep, Lewis steps in without a word. He stands close, his arm brushing yours as he effortlessly twists the lid. The scent of his soap, clean and slightly woodsy, fills your senses. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the solid presence of his body just inches away. Your focus drifts from the jar to the way his muscles flex in his forearm as he grips the lid.

One sweltering afternoon, after a swim in the lake, you come out of the water wrapped in a large t-shirt and shorts. You catch Lewis watching you from the dock, his gaze lingering on your legs for a moment before flicking up to meet your eyes. There’s a warmth in his expression that makes your breath catch. He doesn’t look away immediately; there’s a lingering quality to his gaze that feels… different. Almost possessive, though you immediately dismiss that thought as wishful thinking. Still, the heat rises in your cheeks, a blush you try to subtly hide by turning away to grab a towel.

The comfortable rhythm of the lake house weekend continues, but now there's an undercurrent, a subtle shift in the air whenever you and Lewis are near. His glances linger a fraction longer, his smiles feel a touch more personal. You find yourself hyper-aware of his presence, the sound of his laughter, the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders. It's a delicious kind of torture, this proximity to someone you've secretly admired for so long, especially now that he seems to be seeing you in a new light.

One evening, the group decides on a bonfire by the lake. The crackling flames cast dancing shadows on everyone’s faces as stories and jokes are shared. You’re sitting slightly apart, perched on a fallen log, and you feel Lewis’s gaze on you more than once from across the small gathering. During a lull in the conversation, your eyes meet, and there’s a shared, almost conspiratorial smile that passes between you. It sends a little thrill through you.

Later, as the fire dies down and the others head inside, you linger by the water’s edge, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the heat of the flames. You hear footsteps behind you and turn to see Lewis.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, his voice quiet in the stillness of the night.

“Something like that,” you reply, looking out at the moon’s reflection on the lake.

He comes to stand beside you, a comfortable silence settling between you. Then, he breaks it. “This place… it hasn’t changed much.”

“No,” you agree. “It’s always felt like coming home.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Some things stay the same, no matter what else changes.”

His gaze flicks to you, and you feel that familiar heat rising in your cheeks.

Then comes Saturday night. Mark and your brother, along with Sarah, Mark’s girlfriend, decide to drive into town for live music at a local bar. You plead a headache, wanting the quiet solitude of the lake house, a break from the subtle tension that’s been building. Surprisingly, Lewis also opts to stay behind.

You find him sitting on the dock, the only sound the gentle lapping of water against the pilings. You walk over and sit beside him, the wooden planks cool beneath you. Your shoulders are close, not quite touching, but the potential is there, a tangible energy in the small space between you.

You fall into an easy conversation, talking about the strange passage of time, the surreal nature of his fame, your quiet life as a graphic designer. He asks about your aspirations, your creative process, showing a genuine curiosity that makes you feel valued. You reminisce about your childhoods, the blurry memories of past lake house summers, the silly pranks your brother used to play, the time Lewis tried to teach you how to skip stones properly.

Then, Lewis turns to you, his gaze serious, the moonlight highlighting the angles of his face. “You know,” he says quietly, his voice a low murmur that seems to carry only to you across the water, “I almost didn’t come this weekend.”

You frown, turning to face him fully. “Why not?”

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours in the soft glow of the moon. There’s a vulnerability in his expression that you haven’t seen before. “Didn’t trust myself to be around you this grown up.”

The air thickens, the comfortable camaraderie of the past few days shifting into something charged and unfamiliar. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You swallow, trying to find your voice.

“Do you always flirt with your best friend’s sister, Lewis?” you ask, the question hanging in the night air, a mix of teasing and genuine curiosity.

A slow smile spreads across his face, a genuine, slightly mischievous curve of his lips that makes your stomach flip. “Only when she flirts back.”

The silence that follows your question hangs heavy, charged with unspoken desires and years of suppressed feelings. The only sound is the gentle lapping of the lake against the dock. Lewis’s gaze intensifies, his eyes dark in the moonlight, and you feel a pull towards him, a magnetic force that seems to defy the years and the awkwardness of his being your brother’s best friend.

He reaches out, his hand moving slowly, deliberately, as if giving you ample time to pull away. His fingertips brush against your cheek, the contact sending a jolt of heat through you. You don’t move. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, the pad of his finger soft against your skin. Your breath hitches, and you find yourself leaning almost imperceptibly into his touch.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, your name a low, husky sound that vibrates through you. He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear.

“I’ve thought about this… about you… for a long time.”

The confession hangs in the air, raw and honest. Your own carefully constructed walls begin to crumble. You’ve replayed moments like this in your head countless times over the years, but the reality of his nearness, the intensity in his eyes, is far more potent than any fantasy.

Without conscious thought, you lean in, your lips finding his. The kiss is soft at first, a tentative exploration, a silent question. Then, as if a dam has finally broken, it deepens, becoming urgent, hungry. His hand cups your face, his thumb pressing into your cheekbone as his tongue slides against yours. A shiver runs down your spine, a mixture of nervousness and a desperate longing finally being acknowledged.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. “Let’s… let’s go inside,” he breathes, his voice thick with desire. He doesn’t wait for a response, simply stands and offers you his hand. Your fingers intertwine, and the simple act of holding his hand feels electric.

Inside the quiet lake house, the echoes of earlier laughter seem distant. He leads you, not to the main living area, but towards the small guesthouse, a detached building usually reserved for extra guests, a place where you might have a little more privacy. The air in the guesthouse feels thick with unspoken anticipation.

He turns to face you, his eyes dark and intent, pupils dilated. He reaches out again, this time to gently pull you closer until your bodies are almost touching, the heat radiating between you palpable. He cups the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair.

His next kiss is less hesitant, more demanding, a claiming. Your own hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath his t-shirt. You pull him closer, wanting to erase the space between you. He groans softly against your lips.

He trails kisses down your neck, the rough stubble of his jaw scraping lightly against your skin, sending shivers of pleasure through you. You arch your back, your grip tightening on his shirt. “Lewis,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mixture of anticipation and need.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours, filled with a raw hunger. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice low and husky, a hint of vulnerability in his tone.

“God, yes,” you breathe, reaching up to pull his mouth back to yours.

The urgency escalates. His hands roam your body, his touch becoming more insistent. He cups your breasts through your shirt, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them tighten instantly. You moan softly, the sound lost in the deepening kiss.

He fumbles with the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze drops to your bare chest, and you see a flash of raw desire in his eyes. He reaches out, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, then lower, to the swell of your breasts. His touch is both reverent and possessive.

You reach for his shirt, your fingers clumsy with wanting, and pull it over his head. The sight of his bare chest, the defined muscles, the dusting of hair, sends a fresh wave of heat through you. You press yourself against him, skin on skin, the friction sending sparks flying.

He lifts you, his hands gripping your thighs, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you a few steps until the back of your legs hit the edge of the narrow bed. He doesn’t break the kiss, his mouth still fused to yours as he gently pushes you back until you’re lying down.

He breaks away, his eyes locked on yours, both filled with a desperate longing. He reaches down and roughly shucks off his jeans, his gaze never leaving yours. The sight of him, hard and ready, makes your breath catch in your throat.

He kneels between your legs, his hands framing your face. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with lust.

He lowers his head, his mouth finding yours again, and at the same time, his hand slides down your body, over your stomach, lower, until his fingers find the wet heat between your legs. You gasp against his lips, your hips lifting instinctively.

His fingers begin to move, teasing, exploring, and a moan escapes your lips. The sensation is intense, overwhelming, a culmination of years of unspoken desire finally finding release. He continues to kiss you, his fingers working their magic, and the tension that has been building for days, for years, finally shatters.

His fingers continue their intimate exploration, and you arch against his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The sensations are raw, primal, each stroke sending a wave of heat through you. He watches your face intently, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.

He leans down, his lips leaving yours to trail kisses down your throat, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin. You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. The urgency between you is palpable, a desperate need to connect on a deeper, more physical level.

He shifts, positioning himself between your legs. You watch as he reaches for protection from the nightstand, his gaze never leaving yours. The anticipation builds, a tight knot of desire in your belly.

When he finally enters you, the sensation is intense, a deep, visceral connection that makes you cry out softly. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. “God, you feel good,” he murmurs, his voice thick with passion.

He begins to move, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity. You meet his rhythm, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts. The small bed creaks beneath you, the only sounds your ragged breathing and the soft sounds of skin against skin.

Each movement is a revelation, a physical manifestation of the longing that has simmered between you for so long. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, his eyes locked on yours, a silent language passing between you.

You clench around him, the pleasure building, spiraling. He groans, his body tensing. You feel the heat radiating off him, the frantic beat of his heart against yours. The world narrows to just the two of you, this intense, intimate connection.

The climax hits you in waves, a series of shuddering contractions that grip you tightly. You cry out, your nails digging into his back. He follows quickly after, his movements becoming more frantic, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he spills himself deep inside you.

He collapses against you, his weight heavy, his breathing still ragged. You hold him close, the feeling of him inside you a profound intimacy. The silence that follows is thick with the aftermath, a sated quietude.

He eventually shifts, rolling onto his side but keeping you close, his arm wrapped around your waist. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle. He looks down at you, his eyes soft, a tenderness you haven’t seen before.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, your name a soft sigh against your skin. He kisses your temple, a lingering, tender touch. He doesn’t leave. He stays, his body pressed against yours, the comfortable weight of him a reassuring presence.

He threads his fingers through your hair, his touch soothing. You lie there in comfortable silence for a long moment, the shared intimacy a palpable bond between you.

“God,” he whispers finally, breaking the silence, his voice low and husky. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You turn your head, meeting his gaze. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, a raw honesty that mirrors your own feelings. “Me too, Lewis,” you reply softly.

He smiles, a genuine, unguarded smile that reaches his eyes. He leans down and kisses you again, a slow, tender kiss that speaks volumes.

The morning after feels different. The air in the guesthouse is thick with a new kind of intimacy, a comfortable silence that hums with unspoken understanding. Lewis is still beside you, his arm draped possessively across your waist. You wake slowly, the memory of the night before flooding back in vivid detail, a warmth spreading through you.

He stirs as you shift, his eyes fluttering open. He looks at you, a soft smile gracing his lips, and reaches out to gently brush your cheek. There’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes your heart flutter.

But the bubble of your private world feels fragile. The reality of your brother, his best friend, and the potential fallout looms. Later, back in the main house, the atmosphere feels subtly altered.

Your brother’s glances towards Lewis are sharper, more assessing. There’s a quiet tension in the air during breakfast, a feeling that something unspoken hangs between the three of you.

You catch your brother watching you and Lewis interact, a furrow in his brow. He doesn’t say anything directly, but the unspoken questions are palpable. You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach.

Lewis, usually so relaxed and easygoing, seems a little more reserved around your brother. He still talks and jokes, but there’s a carefulness in his demeanor that you notice. He avoids lingering gazes with you when your brother is present, a subtle withdrawal that makes you feel a pang of unease.

One afternoon, your brother pulls you aside while Lewis is out on the lake with Mark. “Everything okay with you and Lewis?” he asks, his tone casual but his eyes holding a hint of concern.

You hesitate, your mind racing. How much do you reveal? “Yeah, why?” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

He studies your face. “Just… you two seemed pretty close last night by the fire.”

You flush slightly. “We were just catching up. It’s been a while.”

He nods slowly, but you can tell he’s not entirely convinced. “Right. Well, just… look out for yourself, okay?”

His words hang in the air, a subtle warning. You feel a wave of defensiveness wash over you. You’re not some naive kid anymore.

Later that day, you find Lewis alone on the porch, staring out at the lake. You sit beside him, the silence stretching between you.

“He knows something’s different,” you say softly.

Lewis sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I can feel it. Look, I… I care about you, you know that, right?”

You nod, your heart aching slightly at his hesitant tone.

“But your brother… he’s my best friend. I don’t want to screw that up.”

His words feel like a step back. “So, what was last night then?” you ask, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Just… a mistake?”

He turns to you, his eyes earnest. “No. God, no. It wasn’t a mistake for me. Not at all. But this… it’s complicated.”

You pull away slightly, a familiar feeling of being the “little sister,” the one whose feelings come second, creeping in.

But then, the day before everyone is set to leave, Lewis seeks you out. You’re by the dock again, the place where everything shifted.

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm.

You nod, your expression guarded.

He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been an idiot. What happened between us… it wasn’t just a moment. It was real. For me, anyway.” He looks directly into your eyes, and you see a sincerity there that melts some of your apprehension.

“I care about you, more than just my best friend’s little sister. And… last night was… incredible.”

He reaches for your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “But I’ve been so focused on not crossing a line with your brother that I haven’t really thought about… us.”

The summer ends, the lake house closing up for another year. You return to your city life, the memory of Lewis a bittersweet ache. Your texts are infrequent, careful.

Then, one rainy Tuesday, you get a call. Lewis is filming a movie a few hours away and has a day off. He asks if you want to visit the set.

Hesitantly, you agree. Stepping onto the bustling set, seeing him in his element, feels surreal. But when he spots you, his smile is just for you, a private acknowledgment that sparks something within you.

Later, in his quiet trailer, away from the controlled chaos, you finally have time alone. The air crackles with the unspoken. He pulls you close, his embrace tight.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, burying his face in your hair.

“Me neither,” you whisper back.

The conversation that follows is raw and honest. You talk about the unexpected intensity of your connection, the uncertainty of navigating it with your brother. He admits he’s been scared, but the thought of not seeing you again is worse.

He kisses you then, a slow, deliberate kiss that seals a silent promise. The stolen glances of summer have finally led to something real, something that feels like it was always meant to be, boundaries be damned.

[ilovejb]

| Offside |

Pairing : Aitana Bonmatí x female!reader

Summary : A nude photo from Aitana Bonmatí landed on your phone. Now, playing on the same team feels different.

Warnings : slow burn, mature but not really smut

authors note : around 6k

You weren’t expecting anything unusual after training.

It had been the usual grind — two hours of nonstop drills, ball control, pressing under pressure, and movement between lines. You had a slight ache in your calves, a stain of grass on your thigh, and a knot forming at the base of your spine from all the pivoting and cutting.

You’d shared the pitch and locker room with the likes of Cata, Patri, Ingrid, and, of course, Aitana Bonmatí — the legend. The midfield queen. The tactical brain in cleats. She was the type of player who made you raise your level just to survive in her orbit.

Your interactions with her had been limited. Professional. Respectful. Polite nods, sharp passes, the occasional murmured “nice ball” or “watch the press.” Nothing more.

That’s why when your phone buzzed — walking home with headphones in, still in your training gear — you barely glanced at the notification.

Unknown number. Image attachment.

You should’ve deleted it.

You should’ve ignored it, assumed it was spam.

But you tapped it anyway.

And then you stopped walking.

Because it wasn’t spam.

Your breath caught. The street sounds fell away. The photo glowed on your screen — skin, lines, ink. A nude. Intimate, artful, confident.

You knew those tattoos. You’d seen them in passing, glimpsed them in the showers, on the edge of her hip, down her ribs.

Aitana.

Your heart thundered. You stared at the image as if it might morph into someone else. Some trick of the light. Some bad joke.

But it didn’t. It stayed exactly as it was.

The muscles in your stomach clenched. A strange wave of heat swept over you, crawling up your neck, blooming in your ears.

You locked your phone and stood there for a long moment.

Your fingers hovered over the screen.

What were you supposed to do?

Pretend it never happened?

Text her and confess you saw it?

Ask… why?

Was it a mistake? A wrong number? An accidental send?

Or — and here’s what made your brain spiral — was it on purpose?

And then you made an even bolder decision.

You texted back.

You: I think this was meant for someone else…?

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

You stared at the bubble, watching for a reply that didn’t come.

Finally, when you’d almost convinced yourself to delete it again and let it vanish from your memory, your phone buzzed.

Aitana: Oh my god. I’m so sorry.

You read it. And then read it again.

She knew. She knew you’d seen it. She knew it was her.

And she was texting back.

You hesitated, fingers hovering again. Then typed:

You: It’s fine. Really. I just… wasn’t expecting that.

Another pause.

Then:

Aitana: I didn’t mean to send it to you. It was supposed to go to someone else.

That hurt. More than you wanted to admit.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting her to say. That she’d been thinking about you? That she’d hit “send” on purpose?

Wishful thinking.

Still, there was something about the way she texted — careful. Uncertain. Like she was trying not to scare you away.

Your thumbs moved before your brain caught up.

You: Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.

She replied quickly this time.

Aitana: Thanks. I mean it.

You almost left it there.

But then you added one more message.

You: You looked… good. Really good.

Aitana didn’t reply.

Not that night.

But the next morning, something shifted.

You could feel it in training — the weight of her glance when you received the ball, the extra second she looked at you during rondos, the strange electricity that buzzed every time you stood too close.

Whatever this was… it wasn’t over.

You hadn’t expected anything to change, not really.

But from that morning on, it was different.

The pitch still looked the same. The drills hadn’t changed. The staff gave out the same tired instructions. But your skin felt more alert. More alive. Every movement felt watched — not by the coaches, but by her.

You caught her eyes more often than you should have. And when you did, she didn’t look away.

It wasn’t obvious. Not enough for teammates to catch on. But you knew the difference between indifference and awareness.

It wasn’t nothing.

After training, while you peeled off your shin guards and sat on the bench beside your locker, she passed by behind you. Close enough that her arm brushed your shoulder. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t flinch.

You didn’t either.

Then came the team flight that weekend — an away match in Valencia. You always hated these. The hours of prep, the packing, the weird hotel rooms with bad curtains and one working outlet. But this time, it felt charged.

She sat diagonally across from you on the team bus. Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. But you could feel her watching you from behind the lenses.

The match itself was a blur. A choppy 1–0 win. You got subbed on in the 70th minute, didn’t touch the ball much, but covered ground like your life depended on it. And Aitana? Aitana was her usual self — elegant, brutal, clever, always a step ahead.

After the game, the team celebrated quietly in the hotel lobby. Then slowly trickled into rooms, exhausted and sore.

You were halfway into your pajamas when your phone buzzed.

Aitana: Room 814. Don’t feel like sleeping yet.

You stared at it.

Not a question. Not an invitation, either. Just… a breadcrumb.

And you followed.

You found her sitting on the edge of her bed in a tank top and shorts, hair damp from a quick shower, a water bottle dangling from one hand.

She looked up when you entered. Said nothing.

So you closed the door and leaned against it, not moving.

A beat passed.

Then another.

“Hi,” she said finally, voice low.

“Hi.”

Her eyes dropped to your shirt — a Barça tee — then flicked back up to your face.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come.”

“Liar,” you said.

And she smiled.

The conversation that followed wasn’t what you expected.

It wasn’t charged. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t even particularly flirtatious.

It was… nervous.

She told you she hadn’t meant to send the photo. That it was stupid, careless. That she never did things like that.

You listened.

She told you she wasn’t seeing anyone. That she wasn’t out to most of the team. That she didn’t know what she was doing.

You told her it was okay.

You told her you weren’t looking for drama either. That you respected her. That you liked her, honestly, even before the photo.

That made her blush. Really blush.

“You did?”

You nodded.

“How could I not?” you said, smiling softly. “You’re kind of… impossible not to notice.”

She looked down. Fiddled with the cap of her water bottle.

And then she said, almost shyly, “I notice you too.”

The air in the room shifted.

It wasn’t sudden, but it was definite.

You moved first — slow, giving her time to stop you. When she didn’t, you crossed the floor and sat beside her on the bed.

Her shoulder barely brushed yours.

“Okay?” you asked.

She nodded.

And then your hand found hers.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just there.

She squeezed back.

And then she leaned into you, cheek against your shoulder, like she’d been waiting all day for the permission to rest.

You stayed like that until your backs ached and your eyes burned from yawning.

You didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

You just sat there, together, and let the moment stretch.

The next few days were a strange mix of normalcy and tension.

Training was the same — long, demanding, relentless. But every time your paths crossed, there was an extra awareness in the air. A subtle tension that hummed between you both, like static.

It wasn’t awkward, per se. It was… something else.

She was more present than usual, more attentive, but in a way that didn’t draw attention. A glance here. A fleeting touch of your arm during drills. The smallest of smiles that felt different from all the others.

You caught her looking at you more often than before. And when you met her gaze, she’d just… smile. Not nervously. Just knowing.

It was maddening, the way she made you feel so seen, even when she said nothing.

But you didn’t talk about it. Not yet.

You couldn’t.

The day after the away match in Valencia, you found yourself alone in the hotel lobby. It was early — too early for anyone else to be up — but you couldn’t sleep. You didn’t feel tired. Not really.

Aitana had already checked out, you noticed, but you weren’t surprised. She always had this quiet, steady energy, like she was always a few steps ahead of everyone. You liked that about her.

It was then that you heard footsteps behind you.

You turned, and there she was, appearing almost out of nowhere.

She was wearing the same hoodie from the bus ride, her hair still damp from the shower, but now she had a quiet air of self-assuredness that you hadn’t seen before. It was like she’d decided something, made up her mind.

“You’re awake early,” she said, standing just a bit too close.

You smiled, a little embarrassed. “Can’t sleep.”

“You’re thinking about last night, aren’t you?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “I…”

She was quiet for a second, eyes catching yours, soft but intense. “I think about it too,” she admitted.

There was no hiding it now. She was here. You were here. And the moment was ripe with possibilities.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

She shook her head. “I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out, brushing your cheek with the back of her hand. The softness of her touch made your breath catch.

“I know what I want now,” she said, voice steady but with an underlying vulnerability that made your pulse race.

You swallowed, your mind racing. “What do you want, Aitana?”

Her answer came in the form of a kiss — sudden, but gentle. A soft press of her lips against yours, testing, waiting for your response. And when you kissed her back, everything shifted.

The world seemed to fall away. The bustling hotel lobby. The pressure of training. The uncertainty that had been hanging in the air since that photo.

For those few seconds, there was only the quiet, consuming connection between you.

You pulled away first, but you didn’t go far. Your forehead rested against hers as you both caught your breath.

“I’ve wanted that,” she admitted quietly, almost like a confession.

“I thought it was just me,” you said, smiling softly.

She chuckled. “You’d be surprised.”

The kiss was just the beginning.

The next few days were a blur of mixed emotions, lingering touches, stolen glances, and conversations that felt like they were building toward something you couldn’t quite define.

But one thing was clear: this wasn’t just a fleeting moment. Neither of you were content with it being that.

It was hard to describe what exactly changed between you two.

It wasn’t the kind of change that drew attention. No public declarations. No sudden bursts of passion that left the team gossiping. It was more subtle. A quiet shift, like the calm before a storm.

During training, your connection was undeniable. Every pass you made felt charged, every glance lingered just a little longer than usual. She was always a step ahead, anticipating your movements, helping you when you needed it, and when the play would slow down, she would look at you with something more than just professionalism.

When the team gathered for post-training meetings, Aitana would often sit beside you, her arm brushing yours in casual moments, and every time it happened, you could feel your pulse racing. You’d glance over at her, only to find her already looking at you, the corner of her mouth turning up into a soft, secret smile.

It was the little things.

She’d send you texts late at night, messages that weren’t about soccer but just about how your day was. And you’d reply, maybe a bit too quickly, but the conversations felt easy. Natural.

And yet, despite all the moments that felt right, you were still both dancing around the elephant in the room.

There was no discussion about what this was. No label. No “are we seeing each other” conversation. It was as if you were both comfortable with the unspoken connection, but the silence felt like it could burst at any moment.

It was late one evening after training when the air in the locker room seemed to thicken. You had just finished stretching, the usual post-practice exhaustion settling into your bones. You were almost done packing your things when you felt her presence behind you.

Her voice was low but clear. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

You turned to face her. She was standing a little too close, eyes searching your face, waiting.

“Of course,” you said, swallowing slightly, your heart picking up speed.

She hesitated, taking a step forward as she closed the space between you. The whole room seemed to fall away as she looked at you, the usual buzz of the locker room and chatter from teammates fading into the background.

“I need to know if this is something we’re both just… letting happen,” Aitana said, her voice quieter now, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t heard before. “I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care. Like this doesn’t mean something to me.”

You blinked, unsure whether your heart was in your throat or in your stomach. You felt suddenly exposed, as if she had stripped away all the layers you’d carefully built around yourself. She was waiting. You could feel her gaze on you, waiting for you to make a choice.

You could feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air. Would you continue this — whatever this was — or was it just another passing moment?

“I don’t want to pretend either,” you finally said, your voice steady, but your heartbeat still racing. “It’s not just something… I want to be real too.”

The words hung between you for a second. And then she closed the distance completely, cupping your cheek with one hand. Her thumb brushed across your skin, her touch soft and hesitant, but you didn’t pull away.

She leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “I’m glad you said that.”

The kiss that followed was unlike the one in the hotel. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t a spark of electricity. It was slow. Deliberate. A quiet promise that neither of you had spoken aloud but both understood.

When she pulled away, she didn’t go far. Her forehead rested against yours, breath mixing with yours in the still air of the locker room.

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

You nodded, your hands finding their way to her waist. The thought of telling the team, of exposing this growing connection between you, made the edges of your mind feel blurry. There was no rush.

“I just want this to be ours,” you whispered back.

She smiled then, a real, full smile. And for the first time, you felt the weight of the world fall away, replaced by something lighter. Something… easier.

And it felt good.

Keeping things quiet wasn’t easy — especially not on a team like Barça.

Everyone was close. Too close. Teammates noticed everything: who lingered in the hallway too long, who sat next to who on flights, who shared extra looks in the locker room. You weren’t foolish enough to think no one had noticed the shift between you and Aitana.

But no one said anything.

And maybe that was part of the code. As long as you didn’t make it a problem, no one would call it one.

The moments you had together were short, but they meant everything. A quick glance across the pitch before kickoff. Her fingers brushing yours when passing a water bottle. Late-night texts that made your stomach flip. And once, after a particularly tough game, you’d both ended up in the gym late, saying you needed to stretch. The second the door closed behind you, she pushed you gently against the wall and kissed you until your knees gave out.

You didn’t say a word the entire time.

After, you both sat on the floor, backs against the wall, flushed and breathless, giggling like kids with a secret.

“Are we crazy?” you whispered.

She smiled and leaned her head against your shoulder. “Maybe.”

But you didn’t stop.

One afternoon after training, Aitana asked if you wanted to go to her place — not for anything, she promised, just to rest, maybe eat something, watch a movie. The team had a free evening and you hadn’t had time together outside hotel rooms and dark hallways.

You agreed. And maybe you should’ve known.

Her apartment was quiet. Minimal. A little cold, like she didn’t spend as much time there as she wanted to. But there were books on the shelves and a guitar leaning in the corner. The small personal details made you smile.

She handed you a hoodie — one of hers — and you pulled it on without thinking. It smelled like her. You caught her watching as you did it, her mouth curling slightly.

“You look better in it than I do,” she said.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

But she walked closer. “I’m serious.”

You weren’t sure who moved first. You just knew that within seconds, her lips were on yours again, and it felt different this time — slower, deeper, filled with everything you hadn’t said out loud. You sank into it. Into her. Into the quiet space you were building together.

It didn’t go further than that — not yet — but it left you both breathless. Touch-starved. Wanting.

You sat curled up beside her afterward on her couch, her arm around your shoulders, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh. You watched a movie neither of you paid attention to.

At some point, she kissed the top of your head and whispered, “You don’t scare me.”

You looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”

She met your eyes, her gaze soft. “What I feel. With you. It’s not scary.”

And in that moment, all you could think was: Me neither.

But nothing could stay secret forever.

It started small. Mapi raised an eyebrow one day in the locker room when Aitana defended you during a tactics meeting a little too hard. Then Patri asked why you always sat together on the bus. You played it off. So did Aitana. But the team was beginning to notice.

One afternoon, during a water break at training, Ingrid leaned close to you and murmured, “Just so you know… we’re not blind.”

You almost choked on your drink. “What?”

She smiled, not unkindly. “You two. It’s cute. Just… be careful.”

You didn’t ask what she meant. You already knew.

You were two of the most visible players on one of the most dominant teams in the world. Anything personal could become public in seconds.

And still, you couldn’t stop.

It was supposed to stay simple. Private. Yours.

But everything changed after the Atlético match.

You’d both played brilliantly — connected on the field like you had a telepathic bond. Commentators mentioned it. Fans noticed it. There was even a clip going around online of a moment after your assist to her goal: the way she ran straight to you, the way your foreheads touched for a beat too long.

The team had won 3–0. Spirits were high. Everyone was buzzing.

But the moment you walked into the tunnel, your phone vibrated with a message from Aitana.

“Come to the hotel terrace. Alone.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The terrace was quiet, the city lights twinkling below. She was already there, standing by the railing, arms crossed, hair damp from her post-match shower. When she heard your footsteps, she turned — and you knew something was different.

“You saw the clip, right?” she asked.

You nodded.

She sighed, turning her gaze back toward the city. “They’re starting to talk.”

“The fans?” you asked, stepping beside her.

She nodded. “And the press. Maybe even the club.”

You leaned against the railing too, shoulder brushing hers. “Do you regret it?”

That got her to turn toward you again, her expression sharp. “No. Do you?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

She exhaled, something easing in her shoulders. “Then I don’t care.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve been sure about you since that night you texted me back. This… whatever it is, it’s the only thing that’s made sense to me in a long time.”

You didn’t answer — not with words. Instead, you reached for her hand, laced your fingers with hers.

That was answer enough.

You stayed careful, but the closeness between you was no longer deniable. The team didn’t say much, but the teasing increased. Alexia made a few jokes in passing. Lucy called you “the power couple” once during dinner. Even Pere had started giving you double glances during film sessions.

But it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t mocking. It was just… real now. And strangely, that made it easier.

For a while, everything was good.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with a leak.

A blurry photo. You and Aitana, on a bench near Ciutat Esportiva. She was leaning against you, head on your shoulder. It wasn’t scandalous. It wasn’t anything dramatic.

But the headline made it worse: Barça Stars Closer Than Ever — Romance Rumors Heat Up.

The comments flooded in. Some fans were supportive. Some weren’t. The media picked it up. The press asked questions. The club didn’t say anything, but there were whispers.

You and Aitana sat on her couch in silence, both staring at the same photo on your phones. You could feel her body tense beside you.

“I knew this could happen,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

She turned to you, eyes wide. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because this is my fault. I leaned in, I let it happen—”

She shook her head. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t make this something it’s not.”

You looked at her. “Then what is it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out and took your hand again, grounding you. “It’s us. And I won’t let anyone make me feel ashamed of that.”

Your throat tightened. She was so steady, so brave — and you wished you could be like that too.

“What if they try to split us up?” you asked quietly.

“They won’t,” she said, fierce and certain. “And even if they did, I wouldn’t let them.”

You nodded, but your stomach still felt heavy.

This wasn’t just a secret anymore. It was a spotlight.

And the light could burn.

The following days felt like walking a tightrope.

Training resumed, and so did the pressure — not just from the media, but from within yourself. You felt eyes everywhere. Every glance from a coach. Every hushed conversation you weren’t part of. Your mind twisted it all into suspicion.

You weren’t sure if it was real or if the anxiety was just that loud.

Aitana was calm on the outside, but you could tell it was getting to her too. The jokes from teammates slowed. The mood shifted slightly — not cold, but cautious. As if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see what happened next.

You didn’t sleep well that week.

Neither did she.

One night, after a win in the league, the team went out for dinner. Spirits were high again. The energy was lighter. You sat next to Aitana at the far end of the table, your legs touching under the tablecloth, though no one could see.

She leaned over after dessert and whispered, “Come home with me tonight.”

You nodded.

It wasn’t a question.

Her apartment was warm. Dim. Quiet. You toed off your shoes, threw your jacket on the couch, and turned to find her already watching you from the hallway.

The way she looked at you — like the only person in the world who mattered — made your heart stutter.

Neither of you said a word.

She walked toward you slowly, deliberately, and you met her halfway. Her hands found your hips, your arms wrapped around her neck, and she kissed you like it was the first time.

But it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

It was everything you hadn’t been able to say.

She kissed you like she needed to make you believe you were safe. That you were wanted. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

You moved toward her bedroom without planning it. Her fingers trailed along your wrist, your shoulder, your waist. You fell onto the bed together, tangled in each other — breathing, pressing, touching.

You undressed slowly, helping each other out of your clothes like you were peeling back armor. Every inch of skin revealed was a confession. Every whispered word, every sigh, every shaky breath — a promise.

She explored you gently, learning every part of you like she was memorizing it. Your back arched, your hands gripped the sheets, and her mouth was everywhere — your throat, your chest, your stomach — until all you could do was feel.

And then you returned the favor. Not out of obligation, but because you wanted to. Needed to. You wanted to make her fall apart, just like she had done for you. You wanted her to know that whatever this was — whatever was growing between you — you weren’t running from it.

It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just release.

It was care. Intimacy.

Afterward, you lay tangled in the sheets, your head on her chest, her fingers stroking your hair.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

But you didn’t need to.

The next morning, she made coffee. You wore her hoodie again, padding around her apartment barefoot while she scrolled through her phone.

“Bad news?” you asked.

“Not really.” She glanced up, eyes scanning your face. “They want me to do a press thing next week.”

You nodded. “You’ll be great.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “They want to ask about… off-pitch things. Personal things.”

You froze. “You think they’ll bring this up?”

“Maybe not directly.” She set the phone down. “But they’ll circle around it.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your heart picked up.

“What are you going to say?”

She walked over, wrapping her arms around your waist. “Whatever I need to. I’m not ashamed.”

You nodded, burying your face in her shoulder. You wanted to be brave like her. But you also wanted to protect what you had. You weren’t ready to lose it.

Not now.

Not ever.

The press conference came faster than you expected.

You weren’t there, but you watched it live from the players’ lounge, nerves making your stomach twist. Aitana sat calmly at the podium, her hair tucked behind her ears, expression composed and unreadable. Journalists asked the usual — tactics, recent matches, Champions League hopes.

Then came the question.

“Some fans have noticed you seem especially close with a teammate this season. Would you care to comment on that?”

There was a pause.

You stopped breathing.

Aitana smiled — not wide, but sure. “I think chemistry on and off the pitch is important. If people see something between me and a teammate, that’s because we care about each other. We all do. That’s what makes this team strong.”

Smooth. Vague. Safe.

But her eyes flicked toward the camera in a way that felt deliberate — like she was looking right at you.

Your heart squeezed.

Later that day, when she walked into training, everyone gave her a wide berth. Not in a bad way — in a respectful way. Even Alexia clapped her on the shoulder and murmured, “Well said.”

She caught your eye across the locker room. You nodded.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

Still, being careful became second nature.

You timed your exits. Sat apart during team meals. Didn’t share rides anymore. You still trained the same, played the same, felt the same — but everything had an invisible layer now. Like you were constantly performing.

One evening, after a Champions League match, you snuck into the showers after everyone had left. Aitana was waiting, leaning against the wall like she belonged there. You didn’t say a word. Just kissed her. Hard.

Later, breathless and wet-haired, you stood wrapped in towels, your forehead pressed to hers.

“This is getting harder,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“We can’t keep hiding.”

“I know.”

“So what do we do?”

She looked at you — steady, unwavering. “We win. Together. And we keep loving each other. Quiet if we have to. Loud if we can.”

You exhaled, tension breaking like a wave.

That was the plan. Simple. Powerful.

And then came the final.

The Champions League. The biggest stage.

You and Aitana were both in the starting XI. The pressure was unlike anything you’d felt before — not just for the club, not just for the fans, but for each other.

You could feel her eyes on you during the anthem.

Her fingers brushed yours during the huddle.

You played the game of your life.

Assisted the opener. Ran until your lungs burned. Held your line when it mattered. And in the 86th minute, with the game tied and the world watching, Aitana received a pass, cut past two defenders, and scored the winning goal.

The stadium exploded.

You ran toward her without thinking. She met you halfway. Arms wrapped. Bodies crashed. And this time, it didn’t matter who saw.

Her forehead against yours.

Her voice in your ear: “We did it.”

That night, in the chaos of celebration, no one stopped you when you pulled her onto the balcony of the hotel. No one cared when you kissed her under the stars. No teammates interrupted. No fans peeked. No coaches questioned.

It was just you and her — alive, victorious, seen.

No more hiding.

The photo that broke the internet wasn’t blurry.

It wasn’t from a distance or taken in secret.

It was you and Aitana, arms around each other on the pitch, cheeks pressed together, laughing like idiots with confetti tangled in your hair. A kiss hadn’t been captured — but somehow, it didn’t need to be. The closeness was loud. Obvious. Undeniable.

By the next morning, it was everywhere.

The hashtags trended. The fan edits multiplied. Headlines called you “Barcelona’s new golden duo.” Commentators praised your chemistry, your impact, your connection.

And though some voices online remained cruel or suspicious, they were drowned out by the support. You’d expected backlash — feared it.

Instead, you found freedom.

For the first time in months, you held her hand on the way to the team bus. No one flinched. No one stared.

It was real now.

Out loud.

Back in Barcelona, life shifted.

You started staying at her place more often. She stocked your favorite snacks. You left your cleats by her door. You learned her morning moods and her nighttime silences. You shared playlists. You fought over laundry. You kissed in grocery store aisles when no one was looking.

It felt like normal.

Or as normal as it could be, when your faces were still plastered across sports blogs and post-match interviews.

Pere sat you both down one afternoon at the training ground. Not for punishment — just to talk.

“As long as you don’t let it affect your performance,” he said, “I don’t care who you’re dating.”

Aitana looked him straight in the eye. “It won’t.”

He nodded. “Good.”

And that was that.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect.

There were still rough days. Games lost. Articles speculated. A few opponents made comments on the field that turned your blood cold. You learned quickly how to shield her — how to step in when her jaw tightened and her hands balled into fists.

She did the same for you.

There was one evening when you came home, silent and shaken after an ugly match. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

She just pulled you into bed, wrapped her arms around your waist, and let you cry into her shoulder.

Later, she whispered, “You don’t always have to be strong for me.”

“I want to,” you said hoarsely.

“Then let me be strong for you, too.”

That night, you made love without urgency. Without the rush of secrecy or the thrill of stolen time.

It was slow. Unspoken.

Her hands mapped every part of you again — not searching, but remembering. Your sighs were soft. Your bodies moved like puzzle pieces fitting together. And when you fell apart, it wasn’t with a cry or a moan — it was with a whispered name and a breathless laugh.

Afterward, you curled into her chest, fingers drawing circles on her ribs.

“I think I love you,” you said quietly.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t hesitate.

“I know,” she murmured. “I love you too.”

You thought it would feel scarier.

It didn’t.

It felt right.

Summer break came like a warm exhale.

After months of matches, media, and emotional tightropes, you found yourself waking late in Aitana’s bed, tangled in sheets and sunlight. Some mornings she made breakfast, wearing nothing but your oversized tee. Other days, you took walks around quiet Barcelona streets, disguised under caps and sunglasses — not to hide from the world, but to keep the peace you’d earned.

No more secrets. But still, something just yours.

One afternoon, she took you to her childhood home. Her mother welcomed you in with a smile that said everything without words. Aitana showed you old trophies, old photos — her room with books stacked against every wall. You lay on her bed, flipping through photo albums while she sat beside you, face pink with embarrassment.

“You were such a nerd,” you teased, pointing at a picture of her at ten, clutching a soccer ball and a science trophy.

“I am a nerd,” she replied, grinning. “You just like that about me.”

You kissed her shoulder. “Yeah. I really do.”

Pre-season came too fast.

Your bodies were sore again. Drills resumed. The weight of competition returned. But this time, it wasn’t heavy.

The team noticed a shift — not just in you two, but around you. The chemistry wasn’t forced. It was fluid. Passes that found each other’s feet without looking. Celebrations that ended in shared grins. Arguments that ended in trust.

There was a foundation now. Something unshakeable.

One evening after training, you sat on the rooftop of Aitana’s apartment, the city stretching out below you.

“You know,” she said, “a year ago I didn’t even know if I liked you.”

You snorted. “That’s fair. I was kind of a ghost.”

“You were intense,” she admitted. “Quiet. Hard to read.”

“And now?”

She turned, brushing hair from your face. “Now you’re the easiest part of my life.”

It hit you then — all of it. What had started as a slip of a photo. A mistake. A moment out of context.

And how it had slowly, carefully become the best thing that ever happened to you.

You thought about how close you’d come to ignoring it. To pretending nothing happened. To walking away instead of leaning in.

You thought about everything you would’ve missed.

You leaned back on your elbows, smiling softly.

“So what happens now?”

She shrugged, playful. “We play. We win. We annoy the hell out of our teammates with our gross couple energy.”

You laughed.

“And?”

She kissed you, slow and sure.

“And we keep loving each other. Loudly.”

The stars blinked above you. Barcelona hummed below.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You were exactly where you were supposed to be.

With her.

Always with her.

[ilovejb]

| Hidden Love |

Pairings : Alexia Putellas x sister!reader Ingrid Engen x sister!reader

Summary : Y/N, Alexia Putellas’ younger sister, plays for Barcelona. When she falls in love with Anika Engen, Ingrid’s younger sister, their relationship must remain a secret. But keeping it hidden from their sisters proves harder than they ever imagined.

Warnings : Angst to fluff, kissing ?

Authors note : Never written smth like this hopefully it’s good around 4k word count

You never imagined being this close to your sister, Alexia. She was your older sibling, a legend in her own right. Growing up, you’d always admired her from the shadows, seeing how fierce and driven she was. Now, playing for Barcelona yourself, it was clear she expected nothing less from you.

But there was a deeper connection between the two of you. Alexia had always been protective of you, watching over you at every practice, making sure you were okay — especially when you joined the senior team. She’d never hesitated to keep a watchful eye, even as you made a name for yourself in the team. It was hard to move out of her shadow.

But things got complicated the moment you started noticing Anika Engen — Ingrid’s younger sister.

Anika wasn’t like most people. She had this quiet strength about her that was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful — it was something in the way she carried herself. Strong but gentle, confident but with a softness you didn’t see in many others. She played for Barça B, just like you, and training alongside her felt like an unspoken bond.

At first, it was innocent — the shared glances between you two after practice, the easy laughter whenever you talked. It wasn’t anything major. But then came the day when her hand brushed against yours while you were walking back to the locker room. It felt like the whole world stopped, the connection between you undeniable.

For weeks, you tried to ignore the feelings growing inside you. Anika had a way of looking at you that made your heart race. But you had to keep your distance. Ingrid was overprotective, and Alexia… well, you couldn’t even imagine how they would react if they knew. The idea of them finding out about you and Anika made your stomach twist in knots.

But one evening, everything changed.

You’d agreed to meet Anika at a quiet café after training, the dim lighting and the soft hum of chatter around you providing a temporary escape from the pressure. You sat across from each other, talking about your day, about the team, and for a moment, it felt like the world didn’t matter.

Then, without warning, Anika reached across the table and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers lingering on your skin. Your breath hitched, and before you could stop yourself, your hand found hers. You looked up, meeting her eyes.

“I… I can’t stop thinking about you,” Anika whispered, her voice low and vulnerable.

And that was it. You kissed her. It wasn’t long, but it was deep, full of all the things you had been holding back for weeks. You pulled away, both of you breathless.

“Anika…” You couldn’t find the words. “I don’t know what this means, but I don’t want to stop.”

“I don’t either,” she whispered back, squeezing your hand. “But we have to be careful. I can’t risk losing you. Not like this.”

You didn’t want to stop either. You didn’t know how to navigate this new, messy, wonderful thing between you, but for the first time in weeks, you felt alive, free.

But you knew it wouldn’t be easy. And you were right.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of emotions. You couldn’t stop thinking about Anika, even when you were on the field. Your mind would wander to her smile, the way she laughed, the way her fingers felt on your skin. But you couldn’t let anyone know. You had to keep it a secret.

You and Anika continued meeting, each time more and more secretive. Quick stolen kisses behind the training field, the brush of fingers in the locker room when no one was looking. Every touch felt like it could send your heart into overdrive. But the fear of getting caught weighed heavily on both of you. And there were signs that someone might be onto you.

Alexia started asking questions. You’d lied, telling her you were just busy with training or that you were spending time with friends. But she could tell. You were distant, distracted. She wasn’t stupid.

And Ingrid… well, Ingrid had been keeping a close eye on Anika, noticing her behavior too. Anika was normally so composed, but lately, she’d been avoiding Ingrid’s gaze and withdrawing from the team.

Ingrid finally confronted Anika after a practice. “What’s going on with you?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “You’ve been acting strange.”

Anika’s eyes widened, and for a moment, you thought she was going to break. But she didn’t. She just shook her head. “I’m fine, Ingrid. It’s just been a lot lately.”

But Ingrid wasn’t convinced. She didn’t trust the way Anika was acting.

It was a few days after that conversation when it all came crashing down. You and Anika had decided to meet after practice at your usual spot. You’d just kissed when you heard the door to the locker room creak open. You both froze, and your stomach dropped.

Ingrid and Alexia stood in the doorway, staring at the two of you with wide eyes.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. But the silence was deafening. You and Anika broke apart, but the damage was done. Ingrid’s eyes were filled with shock and something else — hurt, disappointment. Alexia stood beside her, her arms crossed tightly, a cold expression on her face.

“Y/N…” Alexia said, her voice low and steady. “What is this?”

Ingrid was the first to react. “You’re dating her?” she demanded, her voice breaking. “Behind my back?”

You could barely find your voice. “We didn’t plan for this,” you whispered. “We didn’t mean for it to happen.”

But Ingrid wasn’t listening. She was too upset, too hurt. “You should have told me, Y/N. You know better than this.”

Alexia stepped forward, her gaze sharp and unforgiving. “This isn’t just about you, Y/N,” she said, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “This is about our family. And you betrayed that.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you choked out, tears welling up in your eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Anika stepped forward, her hand trembling as she reached for Ingrid. “Please, don’t be mad at her. It’s not her fault.”

But Ingrid pulled away. “I can’t believe you, Anika. You should’ve known better.”

For the next few weeks, things were strained. Alexia and Ingrid barely spoke to you. It was like they were punishing you — ignoring you, shutting you out. They didn’t want to see you, didn’t want to hear your apologies. You knew you’d messed up, but it was hard to find a way back into their hearts. Every time you walked past them, they turned away. You felt the coldness of their silence like a physical blow.

Anika was just as miserable. The silence between you two was almost unbearable. You missed the small moments, the stolen glances, the feeling of her hand in yours.

But there was nothing you could do. Or so you thought.

Weeks passed, and the atmosphere in the house you shared with Alexia and Ingrid became suffocating. Neither Alexia nor Ingrid spoke to you or Anika. But Mapi and Olga, noticing the change, finally stepped in.

One evening, after a tense dinner, Mapi pulled Ingrid aside. “You’re punishing them,” she said quietly. “And you’re punishing yourselves, too.”

Ingrid’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t say anything.

Olga, with a more gentle tone, addressed Alexia. “I know this is hard, but they’re not kids anymore. They’re both adults now, and they made a choice. You have to respect that, even if it hurts.”

Mapi and Olga’s words didn’t immediately change anything, but they planted a seed of doubt in Ingrid and Alexia’s minds. Slowly, the walls they had built around themselves started to crumble.

A few more weeks passed, and the tension between the four of you was almost unbearable. But one evening, as you sat in the living room, Ingrid walked in and stood in front of you.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with emotion. “I was scared. Scared that I was losing you. Scared of what could happen.”

You nodded, feeling your heart ache. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Alexia, standing behind Ingrid, spoke softly, “I didn’t want to lose you either. But I see now… you’ve grown. And I can’t hold you back anymore.”

The four of you stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the past weeks heavy on your shoulders. Anika was beside you, her hand gently resting on your arm, her presence a quiet support. It felt like the world was holding its breath.

Ingrid finally spoke, her voice trembling. “I’ve been angry at you, Y/N. But I’ve been angry at myself too. I wanted to protect you, to keep you safe. But I forgot something important.”

Alexia stepped forward, her expression softening. “You don’t need to hide from us. You can be honest with us, all of you. We’re family. And we should be supporting each other, not turning away.”

The tension in the room seemed to evaporate, replaced by a soft sense of relief that you hadn’t realized you were longing for. You stepped forward, pulling Anika closer, your heart full of gratitude.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to both Alexia and Ingrid, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Ingrid gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I know. And I’m sorry, too.”

Alexia reached over, pulling you into a hug. “I’m still learning how to be your sister, Y/N. But I’ll always be here for you. Both of you.”

Anika, who had been standing quietly, looked at Ingrid with hope in her eyes. Ingrid’s eyes softened, and she smiled, a gesture that spoke volumes.

“Let’s all just be together, as sisters,” Ingrid said, her voice light, the tension finally easing. “We don’t have to hide anymore.”

With that, you and Anika shared a smile, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was okay. The healing had begun.

The four of you — Alexia, Ingrid, you, and Anika — sat together, talking and laughing late into the night. The love and support that had been tested had only grown stronger, and the bond between you was now unbreakable.

[ilovejb]

| Lip Graffiti |

Pairings : Ingrid Engen x female!reader

Summary : Ingrid and reader can’t control themselves leaving a mark and a lot of teasing

Warnings : 18+,detailed smut so MDNI, hickeys and lots of teasing

Authors note : 2 k word count

You loved early mornings with Ingrid.

The way the world was still half-asleep, the way she smiled at you when nobody else was watching — it made everything feel like it belonged just to the two of you.

You got to the Barcelona training ground early, dropping your bag on the bench, already buzzing with the secret plan in your head.

When Ingrid walked in — hair a little messy from sleep, hoodie loose around her frame — you nearly lost it.

She smiled, soft and unsuspecting, and that was it.

You closed the distance in a few strides, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in.

“Morning,” you murmured against her lips.

Her breath hitched, but she kissed you back instantly, hands finding your hoodie, gripping you close.

The locker room was cold, but her mouth was hot, insistent, urgent. You pressed her back against the lockers, relishing the soft sound she made as her body arched toward you.

The kisses turned deeper, more desperate.

You nipped at her bottom lip, grinning when she gasped, and without even thinking, you dipped your head to her neck.

She tilted her head automatically, giving you full access.

You bit down gently at first, sucking at her skin, tasting the faint salt of her, feeling her body twitch under your hands. She whimpered — a soft, needy sound — and you couldn’t help yourself.

You sucked harder, knowing it would leave a mark.

When you finally pulled back, there was a dark red bruise blooming just under her jaw.

“Perfect,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over it.

Ingrid was still catching her breath when the locker room door creaked open.

Both of you froze.

Standing there, looking far too amused, was Alexia Putellas.

“Good morning, lovebirds,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, a smug grin spreading across her face.

Before you could even step away from Ingrid, Esmee leaned around the door, giggling. “Did Ingrid get attacked?”

Ingrid groaned, hiding her face in her hands, while you bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

The teasing didn’t stop there.

During training, Frido kept nudging Ingrid. “New strategy? Distract the opponents with love bites?”

Pina shouted across the pitch, “At least let her recover before the next match!”

You and Ingrid exchanged looks — half mortified, half thrilled.

Every time you caught her gaze, you saw the smirk she tried to hide.

She liked it. She loved it.

Later, after training, Alexia handed you both matching shirts she somehow had made overnight. Ingrid’s said:

“PROPERTY OF Y/N”

and yours said:

“Ingrid’s #1 Fan”

Without missing a beat, Ingrid yanked hers on and struck a pose like she owned the world.

You stared at her — cocky, beautiful, marked — and your body reacted instantly.

She caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, smirking in a way that sent heat pooling between your legs.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” she mouthed at you.

And oh god, you couldn’t wait.

⸻

That Night

The second the apartment door closed behind you, Ingrid shoved you hard against it, her mouth crashing into yours.

“You think you can leave marks on me and get away with it?” she growled against your lips.

You whimpered into her mouth, desperate for more.

But she wasn’t gentle.

Her hands found your hoodie, yanking it over your head roughly, her nails scraping down your sides. She tugged your shirt up and off, leaving you in just your sports bra.

She attacked your neck with kisses and bites, finding your pulse point immediately.

You gasped, clutching at her shoulders, your hips bucking instinctively against her thigh pressed between your legs.

“You like getting caught,” she muttered, biting down just above your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a deep, purple bruise.

“Fuck—” you gasped, threading your fingers through her hair, holding her close.

Ingrid slid her hands into your leggings, cupping your ass, grinding you down against her thigh.

“You’re so fucking wet already,” she whispered, voice dark with pride.

You couldn’t even speak — just nodded frantically, moving against her, feeling the delicious pressure building low in your belly.

She grabbed your chin, forcing you to look her in the eye.

“Say it,” she demanded.

“I want you,” you gasped. “Please.”

That was all she needed.

She pushed you backward until you hit the couch, making you sit down before peeling your leggings and underwear down in one rough move.

You watched her, heart hammering, as she knelt between your thighs, kissing up your inner thighs slowly, teasingly, making you whimper and squirm.

And then she finally licked a broad stripe up your center.

You choked on a moan, head falling back against the cushions.

Her tongue moved expertly, slow circles around your clit before flattening against it, sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl.

One of her hands came up, sliding two fingers inside you without warning.

You cried out, hips bucking, clutching at her hair.

“So desperate,” she murmured, tongue flicking faster. “All for me.”

She fucked you with her fingers hard and fast, curling them perfectly to hit that spot that made your vision blur.

Her mouth never left your clit, relentless and skilled, building the pressure inside you impossibly high.

You came with a ragged scream, thighs clenching around her head, body shaking with pleasure.

But she didn’t stop.

She slowed down just a little, dragging your orgasm out, licking you through it until you were begging — incoherent, wrecked.

When she finally pulled away, her lips were shiny with you.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smirking proudly.

“Mine,” she said simply.

You could barely move as she climbed onto the couch, pulling you into her lap, kissing you hungrily.

And god, you could taste yourself on her tongue.

The night blurred after that — kisses, touches, skin against skin, more orgasms that left you sobbing her name into the darkness.

You fell asleep tangled in each other, bruised and claimed and blissfully happy.

⸻

The Next Morning — Training

You stupidly thought maybe you could hide it.

Both of you wore hoodies zipped up to your throats, sunglasses even though it was cloudy.

But the second you stepped into the locker room, the team pounced.

Mapi burst out laughing immediately. “Dios mío, they didn’t sleep! They fucked all night!”

Aitana clutched her chest dramatically. “Look at them! Matching hickeys like battle scars!”

Even Alexia, ever the captain, just shook her head fondly. “You two are menaces.”

Ingrid, the traitor, just grinned and yanked her hoodie down to fully reveal the huge purple hickey blooming on her throat.

The locker room exploded in screams and laughter.

You tried to stay hidden, face burning —

but Ingrid leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, voice dark and promising. “Tonight, we’re making more.”

You shivered, knowing you were absolutely screwed — in the best way possible.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.