#Thank you for sharing so I could also share it!!!

[em1i2a3]

Instant Crush

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Bob has been avoiding you and when you find out the reason why, you decide that the only way to make it up to him would need to be thorough and obvious.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst (the triforce of doom I say lol), Bob and Reader have known each other since the beginning, this takes place about a year into living in the compound together. There is a lot of miscommunication happening here between reader and Bob regarding their feelings for one another, and I frickin love that trope. Jealousy from Bob/Sentry, and The Void puts Bob down a bit for not being more forward with his feelings because he would actually have her if he tried. Oh. And Bob stutters in this.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I don’t need to tell y’all to wrap it up do I?), Semi Public Sex Acts (sex doesn’t happen in the area, but there is a lot of stuff that does happen before they need to stop themselves), Breast Play, Worship/Praise Kink, Bob is absolutely touch starved and he can’t get enough of the reader touching him, and he can’t stop touching her either, Oral Sex (both Male and Female Receiving), Hair Pulling, Messy Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum Play/Eating, Biting (with marks left), Bob and reader ar both switches (trust me on this one y’all will see lol), and some edging.

Author’s Note: This was a request made by @bellaisasleep , I loved putting my own little angsty twist on things, because a lot of people have been requesting more angst lol! Hopefully you enjoy!! I loved writing this sososososo much! Thanks for requesting it :) Also side note: I literally blasted through writing this because I listened to a live album by Daft Punk. I think I’ve found my Red Bull replacement lol.

Word Count: 21,222 (whoop whoop)

Bob Reynolds was the kind of man who made you believe in quiet things.

He made you believe in stillness, in silence, in softness not born of weakness, but of discipline so complete it bordered on sacredness. He wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, he wasn’t the first to speak or one to interrupt. He just was–in the way the moon just is above the Earth…Constantly pulling the tides of your heart before you even understood what direction you were moving in.

You met him during a mission–before you joined the Thunderbolts officially–that should’ve broken both of you. And maybe it did, in some sort of poetic, irreversible way. Because ever since that night–with blood dried on your tactical gear, and your hands trembling from adrenaline as he whispered ‘you’re safe, I’ve got you, you’re okay’–you had not really been the same.

And neither had he.

Something tethered the both of you together after that. Something deeper than any language could explain. It wasn’t love, not at first at least. It wasn’t romance. But it was something that took refuge in your bones and your soul. Something that pulsed like gravity beneath your skin every time he walked into a room.

And for a while, that was enough for you to survive off of.

You shared everything–your time, your food, your silence. You’d have late-night check-ins, and breakfasts eaten side-by-side. You would pass books back and forth with scrawled notes in the margins, sometimes you’d sit with your legs over his tracing your fingers over his handwriting, smirking at his comments and making light of what he was mindlessly writing when he was reading.

You knew how he took his tea, and coffee. You knew what his favourite drinks and snacks were, and what his preferences were in almost anything. You knew how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, and how he fell asleep faster when you were near–only because when you sat together on the couch you would hear him snoring within minutes.

You knew his rhythms and he knew yours.

Sometimes he brushed your knuckles and didn’t pull away. Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. And you often considered turning to him and asking ‘what are we?’, but the answer already lived too loud between your ribs to speak it out loud.

So you smiled through it, and neither of you said a word.

Because whatever it was–it was fragile. Sacred. And the both of you were too afraid to shatter it by asking for more and overstepping.

And yet–somewhere in the folds of all that closeness, you started to ache. Because as much as Bob let you near, you still never quite knew what was going on inside his head. You didn’t know what lived behind that long, glassy eyed look he gave you when you made him laugh, nor did you know what it meant when he lingered outside your room before you turned in, like he wanted to cross the metaphoric line, but never did.

You didn’t know if you were special, or if he was just kind. Or if the way he touched your arm to steady you after a mission was the same way he’d touch anyone. If his gentleness toward you was a language he spoke to everyone–or if you were the only one fluent in it.

And maybe you were afraid to ask, because deep down you didn’t think you stood a chance. Not with someone like him.

Not with someone who was part god basically. Not with someone who saw every part of you–your scars, your rage, and your weaknesses–and still folded himself smaller around you like you were something worth protecting somehow.

He deserved someone better, someone far more stable and less scarred. Less haunted by the things that she needed to be strong for.

Maybe he thought the same thing about you…Maybe he thought you deserved someone less fractured, less burdened, and less…Him.

So you both stayed in each other's orbit, close enough to feel the warmth, but too far to burn each other.

Until one night–stupid, and thoughtless–you came home from a bar with Yelena and Ava, laughing too loud with a glow in your cheeks that wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. You dropped onto the couch, stretching out with a grin, drunk on your three tequila pineapples.

”I don’t even know how many numbers I got, but it’s like they were handing them out like coupons!” You exclaimed, waving your phone around. Yelena and Ava had laughed with you at this comment, and you divulged in details.

What you didn’t know was Bob had been walking past the common room at that exact moment. You hadn’t heard his footsteps pause behind the wall, and you certainly didn’t see his shoulders tense up. You didn’t realize your voice–bright, careless, and sweet–carved something open inside him.

Because to you, it was a joke, but to him, it was proof.

Proof that the attention you deserved was already out there–waiting for you in the hands of someone who could say what he couldn’t. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate or stammer. Who wouldn’t hold his feelings behind walls made of fear and light.

Bob went quiet after that night. Not cold, or angry…Just…Distant.

A slow withdrawal, like the tide was pulling out to sea.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing, maybe he was tired or stressed.

But every time you passed him in the halls and got a stiff nod instead of a smile, every time you curled up on the couch alone and stared at the empty spot where his knee used to brush yours, and every time he walked into a room and kept his eyes down like he couldn’t bear to meet yours…

You felt it.

The ache.

The fracture between what you thought you were to each other and what you maybe never were at all.

You missed him, and maybe that was the cruelest part–because he was still there. Still Bob. Still your friend,

But he wasn’t yours in the way you wanted him to be.

You told yourself it was fine. That being near him was enough. That friendship–real, solid, soul-deep–was a gift not everyone got, and you should be grateful for it all. That you had no right to want more from someone who already gave you so much.

But your heart didn’t care about rights, it only cared about the shape of his silence, and how it shifted.

And it wasn’t the safe kind of shift–to the soft, companionable hush that always existed between the two of you like a favourite song on low volume–but it was something colder, and distant.

It was the kind of silence that felt like a door being slammed shut. It was becoming worse and worse by the minute.

Because now he couldn’t even look at you–his eyes used to linger on your mouth, your hands, your eyes, and now they seemed to look off into space all together.

And it only made you spiral into trying to figure out what you had done to deserve something like this. You turned every event over and over in your mind like a worry stone, each day shaving another layer of calm off your nerves.

Did you somehow push too hard, or did you say something wrong? Was it something you didn’t say to him that was making him this way? You had no clue.

But you knew you missed him so much it was settling in your chest like a bruise. Because the truth–the raw, bitter truth–was that you didn’t just miss your friend. You missed him. The way his voice dropped when he said your name to get your attention. The way he leaned in when you spoke like you were saying something important, even when you weren’t. The way his gaze would fall to your lips to see the way they wrapped around the words you were saying, or how they tilted up into a smile.

You were afraid that if you reached for him, you’d ruin everything.

So you didn’t.

That’s what brought you to Yelena’s room that night. Not to confess, but to collapse. You didn’t knock. You just pushed the door open and stepped into the scent of gun oil, candle wax, and citrus-scented dry shampoo that clung to the air and made your lungs burn.

Yelena was stretched out on her back across her bed, with one leg bent, and blade sharpener balanced on her stomach. Her eyes flicked to you, then back to the ceiling she was looking at just moments before.

You didn’t speak, you just walked in, and fell face-first into the spare pillow beside her with a loud flop. She didn’t say anything at first, but it seemed like she was expecting a visit from you.

The quiet filled the space between you like water in a sinking ship.

Then, finally–

“What happened now?” She asked, shifting a bit to look at your collapsed figure.

”I don’t know what I did to Bob that made him ignore me…” Your voice was muffled against the bedding, “But it’s starting to really get to me.” You added, flipping onto your back to stare up at the cracked swirl of white stucco that coated her ceiling. Yelena’s eyes lingered on you a second longer, then she sat up, legs crossing under her, abandoning the knife sharpener to her nightstand.

”You didn’t do anything.” She replied, this earned her a side eye from you.

“That’s what people say right before they tell you that you did.” You commented, picking at the dry skin around your nail bed, which was already raw from the prior days.

“I’m serious,” She insisted, “You didn’t do anything.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

”Then why won’t he look at me? Why does it feel like I don’t exist anymore? Your voice cracked, “I feel like I’m going insane. I thought we were–“ You stopped as the word ‘closer’ got caught in your throat like a splinter. You could see Yelena hesitate, just long enough for you to notice.

“What?” You demanded, sitting up a little, perching yourself on your elbows so you weren’t lying against the spare pillow anymore. “You know something.” You accused.

”I’m not supposed to–“

”Yelena.” You interrupted. She closed her eyes for a second, then sighed, rubbing at her temples with her fingers.

”Three nights ago,” She started slowly, “He showed up at my door in the middle of the night. I thought he was gonna pass out in the hallway.” You stared at her, a worried expression pulling at your eyes.

”Bob?” You confirmed, just to be sure, and she nodded.

“He looked wrecked. He was pale and shaking. His hands literally wouldn’t stop moving–it was like he was trying to wring the thoughts out of his bones.” You now sat up completely, your breath catching at the images that began to snap through your mind. The nervousness, the wreck that you had seen countless times before, it was easy to picture because you were the one that normally helped him through these little bouts, but this time he didn’t come to you.

”He said he heard you the other night,” She continued, “When we got home from the bar. The whole thing about getting all those guys numbers…He said–“ She swallowed nervously, “He said it felt like someone had hollowed him out.” You could feel your heart gallop at those words, stuttering even, like it stopped for a second before resetting.

“He kept saying it wasn’t your fault. That you deserved it–all the attention, and that it made sense that you wanted someone who could give you what you need. Someone who wouldn’t make you wait.” You could feel your stomach drop into the floor, like it slipped out of you and all you could feel was emptiness.

”Then he said…”Yelena’s eyes flicked to you, “He said he knew he should let go. That maybe he had finally been shown the truth–that you were meant for someone less…Burdened than him.” Your throat burned at her words, as you tried to blink away the tears that began to form in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s not true.” You said quietly.

”I know that,” Yelena snapped, “But he doesn’t.” Your fists clenched the blankets beneath you.

”Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” You asked, staring at her, watching as she shook her head.

”Because I shouldn’t have to,” She said, “Because you’re both idiots.” Your jaw clenched.

”Excuse me–“

”You’re both in love and too scared to breathe wrong around each other in case it breaks the spell,” She said, eyes flashing with anger, “I’m not your emotional translator, but I’ll put it plain and simple for you so your brain can understand. You want to know why he’s acting like a ghost? It’s because he thinks you found someone better. And you want to know why you’re sitting her on the brink of fucking tears on my mattress? It’s because you think you were never enough for him.” You were stunned by the way she had lost her composure on you. Rarely did Yelena snap like this, but it had become something that burdened her so much and killed her to witness that she just needed to let it all out, and unfortunately you were the one she lost it on.

“All you’re doing is killing each other with all this stupid silence. All this pretending. All this worship-from-a-distance bullshit.” You stared at her, the heat of her words stinging like a slap to the face.

She shook her head, quieter now.

”“What do you want me to do? Force the two of you to talk? Drag you by the hands into a room and lock the door until one of you finally confesses? That only works in movies. Real people don’t change when you corner them–they break.” You closed your eyes tightly, and sighed.

”He really thinks I want someone else?” You asked, gently.

”He thinks you already have them.” Yelena’s gaze softened–just barely, “And he thinks he missed his chance.” You shook your head, scratching the back of your neck with more pressure than needed, feeling your nails sting your skin.

“I didn’t even keep those numbers. I deleted them the second I woke up the next morning. I didn’t even think he’d care.” Yelena’s expression didn’t shift when you said this, but her voice did.

”Of course he cares,” She said, the words clipped and firm, “Because it’s you.” She stood, pacing once to the edge of the bed like she couldn’t sit still any longer.

“You know how fragile he is when it comes to you,” She continued, measuring the tone of her voice perfectly, “You’ve seen it. Felt it. You know how he quiets down when you walk in the room. How his hands settle when you’re near. How he breathes easier when you touch his arm, or sit beside him, or just fucking exist in his line of sight.”Your throat tightened, and your gaze dropped from hers, but she didn’t stop.

”And it’s not just Bob,” She added, “You know how all his other counterparts feel about you too.” Your chest stilled.

”Sentry…And The Void…” You whispered, not even considering what they must’ve been doing to him at this point. Yelena nodded.

”You think he was jealous? That was before The Void started whispering in his head about how someone else would be undressing you. How someone else would get the version of you he’s spent months trying not to dream about.” She said it without cruelty–but the truth hit like lightning to the ribs.

”You think Sentry’s any better? That part of him worships the ground you walk on…And you know how emotional he gets when it comes to being challenged.” You stared at the floor, with your stomach twisting in grief. You weren’t sure if it was anger or heartbreak in your bones, but it ached the same either way.

“I…I need to take care of this.” Yelena looked at you, and finally she eased up a bit. The tough love flickered down into care.

”You really do…It’s time. Just push all your thoughts out of the way, and for once in your life, don’t overthink it. Make it clear, and for the love of god…Make it obvious, because I don’t think either of you can survive another miscommunication.” You gave her a nod, then got up, feeling your heart fluttering.

Because this time…You weren’t going to be seeing Bob, wondering if he wanted you. You were going to be seeing him knowing he did.

——————

The next morning you had gotten ready. The sun had not even fully risen yet. It was early–so early the light outside still looked like a haze of dark purples and light blues. The hallway lights buzzed faintly as you padded down the corridor, slipping some socks onto your feet in the process. The tower was still asleep. But you knew where he’d be.

And sure enough, you found him.

Bob stood in the living room, half-crouched as he fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag. He looked like he hadn’t slept–at least not well. His shoulders were hunched, his hair damp like he’d just showered in a rush. The navy blue hoodie he wore was tight across the chest now, the fabric catching slightly as he moved. His black sweatpants clung to the muscle of his thighs, hinting at the training he’d been doing in silence for weeks now.

But it wasn’t his body that made your breath catch.

It was his face.

The exhaustion in it. The hollow weight behind his eyes.

His irises were darker than they used to be. Still blue–but not quite. Not only blue. It was like something black was blooming out from the center, bleeding toward the edges like ink dropped into water.

It wasn’t just sleep deprivation.

It was The Void.

You recognized the way his jaw clenched slightly, like he was trying to stay grounded in his body. Like he was fighting voices you couldn’t hear.

You cleared your throat gently.

He looked up, startled–then confused.

“…Hey,” You said quietly. “Mind if I join you?”

He blinked at you, slow. Like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like his brain was buffering, unsure how to process the request.

“I–Uh…I was j-just…”

”Heading to the mall,” You finished for him, offering a soft, warm smile, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater, “You…Mentioned it a few times this week. Something about your clothes fitting too tight and stuff…” Bob’s pale skin flushed slightly at the comment, as his gaze fell to the floor.

”Y-Yeah…I g-guess so.” You took a careful step closer, slowly closing the space between you both, wanting to see how he would react–he didn’t move back.

”I’ve got my car,” You added, “Might be easier than taking the bus…” He looked up at you again and this time you saw it: the hurt still flickering at the edges of his face, the wall he’d put up, and the little white dots that began to form in the middle of his pupils.

Bob could hear the voice scraping away on the inside of his skull.

“She’s just being kind…She’s taking pity on you, you know how she is. She doesn’t mean it. Don’t read into it. Don’t be pathetic. You’re not her first choice, you’re nobody’s first choice. She deserves someone better than you.” The Void hissed. Bob swallowed hard, feeling a burn tingle the back of his neck.

”…A-Are you sure?” He asked finally, voice rough around the edges, “I–I don’t want to be a b-bother.” You tilted your head.

”You wouldn’t be.” And then, with just enough softness to cut through the static buzzing behind his eyes you added, “I want to.” His hand was still on the strap of his bag, tightening around it enough to turn his knuckles white. You watched him for a moment longer, and then you reached out and brushed your fingers against his forearm. The contact was barely there, just the tips of them grazing the fabric, but you could see his entire body tense up, like something deep inside him folded at the contact. Like your skin reminded him where he was.

His breathing steadied slightly, and you didn’t comment on it, you just gave him a small smile.

“C’mon, I’ll drive.”

—————————

The drive was quiet to say the least.

It wasn’t awkward, it was just heavy, in that unspoken way that happened when hearts were too full and throats were too afraid to work. You didn’t push it.

You let the silence bloom between you. It was strange how familiar it felt again–like muscle memory. Like you’d both spent so long in each other’s rhythms that even this quiet was something you shared.

Bob sat beside you with his hands tucked in his lap, his back pressed to the passenger door like he was trying to stay small. His eyes stayed mostly on the window, but every now and then they drifted–toward the dash, toward your hands on the steering wheel. Once or twice, you caught him glancing your way, like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust his voice not to tremble.

You cleared your throat softly, your eyes on the road ahead.

“Have you been sleeping?” You asked, keeping your voice low, careful not to sound like you were prying. “You look…” You trailed off, searching for a word that didn’t wound, “Tired.” Bob shifted slightly in his seat.

”Y-Yeah, I guess.” He replied, but it wasn’t convincing, because he wasn’t telling the truth, it was obvious. You gave a small hum, gaze flicking toward him before returning to the road.

”Haven’t really seen you around much this week…” His fingers curled tighter in his lap, and you caught the motion in your peripheral, how his knuckles pressed into the soft fabric of his sweatpants like he needed something to hold onto. Like he needed something to fiddle with.

“You’ve been…Kind of distant lately,” You said, and even though you tried to keep it neutral, the words came out soft, almost close to hurt. Bob exhaled quietly through his nose, eyes locked on the window like he was trying to will the city into blurring away.

”J–Just been in a mood…T-That’s all.” You nodded slowly, one hand loosening its grip on the wheel.

”Care to share why?” There was a pause. A longer one this time. Then his head gave a short, silent shake.

“It’s n-nothing,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “Just something stupid.” But even as the words left him, something twisted deep in his gut, and then The Void spoke again.

“That’s all you are to her, isn’t it? Something stupid. Clinging to scraps, sitting beside her like a dog begging for food.” The voice was slick, slow and unmistakably cruel–like molasses laced with venom. Bob’s stomach clenched, and his eyes stung. For a second his bottom lip trembled, and he turned his face a little more toward the window, trying to hide it, willing himself not to break. He couldn’t crack now, not here, not when you were being so kind to him.

You noticed the shift though. The way his shoulders locked up, the way his breath hitched in his throat like he was swallowing something too big for his chest.

You didn’t press though. You just let your voice drift gently over the space between you, like a blanket being unfolded in soft hands.

”…Okay,” You whispered, nodding slowly, “Well…I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.” Bob let out a shaky breath and dragged one hand up to his face, rubbing his palms hard across his eyes like he could erase the wetness threatening to spill.

“O-Okay…” He responded quietly, but the sound of it cracked in the middle, and the fragility of it nearly shattered you. The silence returned, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was soft around the edges, like warm fog curling up against the windows.

When you finally pulled into the mall parking lot, the sun had risen enough to cast a thin gold glow across the tops of the buildings. It wasn’t crowded yet–just the early shoppers beginning to trickle in, and a few food court workers gathered near the entrance, sipping coffees out of paper cups. You shifted the car into park, then turned slightly toward him.

He was still staring down at his lap, his jaw tight, his hands curled loosely in the fabric of his hoodie. He looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes.

You let your gaze linger on him a second longer before speaking.

“Hey,” you said softly, and when he looked up at you, your voice dropped just enough to make him flinch slightly. “You know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even the stupid ones.”

He blinked at you. His mouth opened like he might try to argue. But he didn’t.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” You added, your expression gentle, but firm. “Not ever.”

For a moment, Bob just…Stared.

And then your next words slipped out like sunlight between clouds:

“You’re my favorite person to sit in silence with…But I’d rather listen to your voice than anything else…”

His breath caught.

His heart stuttered like a blown fuse, and a faint red crept into his ears. You saw it happen in real time–the way his face flushed, his lashes lowered, and his entire body seemed to pull inward just slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising under his skin.

He fumbled for the door handle a beat too late, awkward but endearing, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

You bit back a smile, then slipped out of your side of the car.

He followed you a moment later, hood tugged up, bag slung loosely across his chest. You waited until he stepped beside you, shoulder to shoulder, before moving toward the entrance.

The automatic doors slid open, letting in the scent of polished floors, faint cinnamon from a bakery down the hall, and the sterile chill of early-morning air conditioning.

The mall wasn’t busy yet–just soft ambient music echoing through the wide halls, janitors mopping along the corners, and the distant hum of espresso machines powering up.

Bob walked beside you in silence, but it felt…A little different now.

Not as heavy.

He didn’t look at the floor this time. He looked at you.

Like maybe he was starting to believe he hadn’t missed his chance.

———————

The coffee shop inside the mall was one of those early-bird places–half-lights still dimmed, pastries just hitting the racks, and the first drip of espresso perfuming the air like warmth incarnate. The floor glowed underfoot with the reflection of sleepy pendant lights, and the hum of milk steaming was the only thing louder than your breath.

Bob hesitated near the register for a moment, before you stepped up and began to speak.

”One medium caramel macchiato with light vanilla, and one medium Earl Grey with two milks and one pump of honey please.” You said, voice casual and kind, “And two plain croissants, one warmed…Thank you.” Bob blinked at you, his eyes wide behind the lashes that immediately dipped toward the floor when you gave the drink order like it was muscle memory.

“H-How did you remember my order so e-easily?” He asked softly, a little stunned, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. His voice was low–barely above the murmur of the espresso machine–but there was something raw and unguarded in the way he said it. A quiet awe.

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the warmth blooming under your ribs. “I used to make it for you every morning, remember? Before you decided it was–” You leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice into a teasing register, “–‘too much for my busy schedule.’” You even put up air quotes around the phrase.

Bob’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. His lashes fluttered and a pink flush crept up his neck and spread over the apples of his cheeks. You saw it rise like candlelight catching a wick. He ducked his head with a soft, embarrassed breath of a laugh, then reached for his wallet with fumbling hands.

“R-Right… I remember…” He mumbled, pulling out a folded bill and sliding it toward the barista.

You didn’t stop him from paying.

You just smiled quietly to yourself as the two of you stepped to the side of the counter to wait, tucked in that little corner beside the bakery case where the light hit just right through the large window. You could smell cinnamon and sugar hanging in the air, mingled with the scent of warm milk and the faint cedar wood cologne that came from Bob’s hoodie.

He stood so close that you could feel his warmth radiating off him–steady and grounding. Not overwhelming. Just…Comforting. Like the first time you sat shoulder to shoulder on the Thunderbolts couch after a mission, both of you too tired to speak, but not ready to separate. His presence filled the space beside you like heat seeps into a cold mug–slowly and entirely.

You glanced sideways at him.

He looked tired. Still quiet. But something in his shoulders had eased. And god, you wanted to wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest. You wanted to tell him everything–the longing, the ache, the nights you couldn’t sleep without thinking about how he used to hold your wrist loosely in his sleep when you nodded off beside him on the couch.

But now wasn’t the right time, you just stayed still and waited for your order, sipping on your drink when it came, and nibbling on your croissant.

——————

The first store you entered was some midrange basicas place–comfy fabrics, soft lighting, warm neutral palettes. It smelled faintly like cotton and burned plastic. It seemed like the store may have been under renovations or it was new, but it had a wide range to offer.

You wandered between the racks with Bob, fingers brushing hangers and the occasional sleeve. He didn’t speak at first, just lingered near you, letting the space between you stay comfortably small.

Then, after a while, he pointed at a sage green hoodie.

“Y-You think this would look okay?” He asked, lifting the sleeve with a tentative expression. You tilted your head, eyeing the color against his pale skin.

“It looks really flattering.” Your voice came out even, but a little softer than before, “Might make a few people swoon.” Bob looked away so fast you nearly laughed.

”D-Don’t say stuff like that…” He mumbled, ears turning a beet red. You gave a shrug and kept moving.

”Just being honest.” He ended up gathering a couple of things: the green hoodie, two crewneck sweaters, and a pair of slate grey sweatpants that looked impossibly soft.

“I–I think I’ll try these on,” He said, holding the small stack close to his chest like it might slip out of his grip if he didn’t hug it tight.

“I’ll hold your tea,” You added, taking the cup gently from him as he moved toward the changing room.

You leaned against the wall just outside, sipping your own drink slowly, content to wait.

And then, after a minute or two, the door creaked open.

Your breath hitched.

Because there he was–soft grey sweatpants hanging just right off his hips, cinched gently at the waist. A dark green hoodie with the tag still half-tucked under the collar, the fabric just snug enough to outline the lines of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, revealing strong forearms you always forgot he had until they were on display like this. His hair was still a little messy from earlier, his cheeks still pink, and there was something so painfully Bob about the way he stood there–awkward, shuffling his feet, eyes flicking up and then quickly back down like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I-Is it…Okay?” he asked, his voice hesitant, but hopeful. “It feels…Like me, I think…” He looked like home. Like warmth poured into fabric and held in your hands. Like something you’d missed even before you’d ever had it.

You didn’t answer his question at first, you just let your eyes sweep over him, memorizing every line and fold.

Then you nodded, your voice barely more than breath.

”It looks great.” And for the first time in weeks, he smiled. It wasn’t a big one, just a small sincere curve of his lips.

But it was enough to show you that you were breaking through to him.

Bob let out a quiet breath, still standing in the doorway of the fitting room as if unsure whether he was allowed to be seen like this—so soft and unguarded. But when you gave him that look, the one that reached all the way down to the place in him that still doubted he was wanted, he stepped out fully.

“I–I’ll get them then,” he said quietly, gathering the small stack of new clothes against his chest again. “I…Uh…N-Need things that fit anyway…” There was a shy smile tugging at his mouth now–nervous, but real. The kind you hadn’t seen in weeks.

You handed him his tea back with a gentle brush of fingers, and he looked down at the cup like it was more than a drink. Like it was proof of something unspoken. Something important.

You walked beside him to the register, watching as he paid–hands fumbling a little with the card, thanking the cashier too softly, shifting awkwardly in place while they bagged his items. You could practically feel how tightly wound his nerves were, like the very idea of doing this in front of you was enough to set off a whole chain of overthinking in his head. But he kept glancing at you, too–like he needed to make sure you hadn’t left.

You didn’t.

You waited. Quietly. Steadily.

And when he turned back toward you, you smiled again. Not big. Not loud. Just steady.

The two of you wandered the mall after that, nowhere in particular–just drifting from one store to the next like nothing had broken between you. Like the silence hadn’t once turned sharp enough to bleed. You lingered near a small bookstore where Bob picked up a paperback and flipped it open with a flicker of interest; you guided him briefly through a stationery shop, pointing out pens you thought he’d like. There was something gentle about it all–something close to healing, like you were on that brink of mending everything back together.

You were standing near a shelf of scented candles in a small boutique that sold a strange mix of home goods and novelty items–everything from mugs with sarcastic quotes to little booklets of affirmations and bath bombs shaped like animals. Bob was beside you, thumbing the edge of a journal with a soft leather cover, his thumb tracing the stitching like he was trying to decide if it was worth picking up. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up again, and you could see a faint pink mark at the bend of his elbow–maybe from leaning against a counter too long, or maybe a training bruise he hadn’t noticed. It made your chest ache a little, how much you’d missed these small details. How much you’d missed him.

Your gaze drifted up–just idly, like looking for the next thing to wander toward–and then froze.

Across the mall’s broad walkway, nestled beneath a curved arch of dark wood and glass, sat a boutique lingerie store. You knew the kind. Low golden lighting. Sheer curtains hanging in the windows, filtering the sunlight into a soft, honeyed glow. The mannequins in the window weren’t the aggressive kind with red corsets and feather boas. No–these ones were elegant. Understated. They wore lace bralettes in blush pink, satin in deep forest green, high-waisted sets trimmed in delicate embroidery, and sheer robes that caught the light like whisper-thin smoke. The whole store was intimate without being overt. Classy. Soft. But undeniably sensual.

You could almost smell it from here: some blend of vanilla, amber, and whatever fabric perfume they used on the delicate silks and velvets.

You blinked.

Yelena’s voice echoed through your head, sharp and clear:

“Make it obvious.”

Your heart gave a strange little stutter. And then–without warning–a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. A slow, sly thing that bloomed without permission. The idea came out of nowhere, but it stuck. Bright and stupid but brave.

You glanced sideways at Bob.

He hadn’t noticed your change in expression yet. He was still reading the back of a candle labeled “Blueberry whipped icing.” The soft rise and fall of his chest was steady now. A good sign. He looked a little more grounded than earlier–still quiet, but a kind of quiet that meant he was starting to feel safe again. With you.

You didn’t want to push too hard. You didn’t want to shatter this fragile warmth that was finally returning between you.

But…

You wanted him to know.

So you cleared your throat lightly.

“Hey,” You said, careful to keep your tone breezy, “Can we check out one more store before we head back?”

Bob looked up, startled, blinking once.

“Uh–y-yeah, sure. W-Which one?”

You nodded subtly toward the other side of the walkway.

His gaze followed yours.

The moment he saw it his entire body stiffened, like someone had yanked a string inside him. You watched his jaw tighten just slightly. His eyes flicked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the faint pink rush to his ears.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

You smiled sweetly. Innocent.

”Wanted to just browse, see if I can find something.” You said, already beginning to walk toward the storefront, “I’m due for a little bit of a closet upgrade myself.”

Bob walked behind you, just a step off pace, like his feet weren’t quite sure they were allowed to follow. His grip on his shopping bag had gone white-knuckled, and the tea in his free hand barely sloshed–it was held that tightly. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel the heat rolling off him in thick, clumsy waves–nerves and tension and that unmistakable Bob flavor of hesitation that meant he wanted to say something, but was afraid he’d combust the moment he opened his mouth.

The motion sensor bell above the entrance gave a delicate chime as you stepped inside.

Warmth. That was the first thing you noticed. The air was heavy with scent–rich amber, something floral, and a hint of musk that made you think of bare skin and tangled sheets. The walls were soft matte cream, accented with blush pink panels and gold railings. Velvet display tables lined the floor with bralettes folded like secrets and panties laid out in precise rows, every pair a whisper of silk or mesh or lace. The mannequins were tall, faceless, draped in slip dresses and see-through robes that shimmered when the light hit them. The ceiling lights were low and gold-tinted, casting everything in honey.

It didn’t feel like a store.

It felt like a bedroom someone loved you in.

Bob hovered just inside the threshold, blinking once, twice. His eyes flickered towards the displays and then were quickly pulled away–like just making eye contact with a lace thong might ignite him on the spot, because all he could picture was you in them. His jaw worked as he swallowed, throat visibly bobbing.

You moved casually to one of the racks, fingers drifting across rows of soft underwire and balconette bras. Pale lilacs, buttery creams, deep navy satins. You held up one and studied the lace against the light, just enough stretch to hint at comfort–just enough sheerness to suggest anything but.

Behind you, Bob stayed rooted.

He looked like he was trying to figure out how to hold his breath and exhale at the same time.

“Wonder who she’s going to wear that for…”

The whisper was cold. Low. Inside his skull, it slithered between his thoughts like oil on water.

“Probably someone who can touch her without trembling. Someone who doesn’t have to fight off every part of himself just to keep his hands at his sides.”

Bob stiffened.

The Void didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. He only had to lean close enough that the words touched a nerve already raw.

“You think she’ll let them take it off slow?” The voice purred, mockingly curious. “Or will they rip it off with their teeth?”

Bob shut his eyes at that comment, trying to shake it off as much as he possibly could, attempting to not show any weakness, or to make you aware of the fact he was hearing something.

When he opened his eyes again, you were holding two bras–one powdered blue, and the other a dark red–in one hand, and a sheer black babydoll slip in another. You glanced up at him with an expression that was maddeningly unreadable.

Casual, but not distant. Confident, but not arrogant.

Intimate.

Then you turned to the nearby fitting room attendant–a woman dressed in a long mauve cardigan and platform shoes that made her look taller than she was–and asked:

“Do you allow, like…Second opinions in the fitting room?” Motioning to Bob behind you. She glanced up from her clipboard and smiled.

”Course we do…Happens all the time.” You turned back to Bob, and this time your smile was unmistakable.

”Perfect, cause I’m going to need your opinion.” You said softly.

“I-I don’t know much about l-lingerie…” Bob stammered, frozen in place like his shoes were bolted to the floor.

You raised an eyebrow, tone light but edged with something quieter. “But you definitely know what would look good.” You turned just slightly, letting your voice drop just a little–low and warm, like a match striking the dark. “And maybe I value your opinion.”

That did it.

Bob swallowed so hard you heard it.

“…O-Okay,” He murmured, nodding once. His voice cracked just slightly around the edges, and he followed you past the velvet rope into the fitting room hallway.

The rooms were small–just a few feet wide–but the space inside felt private. Dim golden lighting pooled softly overhead, like candlelight filtered through sheer fabric. There was a bench beneath the mirror, a small side table holding a glass bowl of lavender-wrapped mints, and a faint scent of fruity body spray hung in the air–berries and peach and something a little more sugary than it needed to be. The floor was carpeted in pale rose, and the door had a long mirror mounted across it, angled to reflect the whole space in a soft, diffused glow.

“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the bench as you placed your items on the hook. Bob obeyed without argument, setting his shopping bag beside him. His knees knocked slightly as he sank down, hands fidgeting in his lap.

You reached for the hem of your sweater.

He inhaled sharply.

You peeled it over your head slowly–not teasing–but it still left the air crackling. Beneath it, you wore a soft, ice-toned bra that hugged your figure perfectly, the lace delicate across the cups, and the straps tucked lightly over your shoulders. Your skin was warm from the air in the store, flushed faintly from the earlier walk.

Bob didn’t dare speak. But his breath hitched again.

There was a mirror in front of you. You met his eyes in it.

He was already looking.

You lifted the two bras, powdered blue in one hand and dark red in the other, the lace delicate and soft beneath your fingers.

“Which one should I try on first?” You asked, keeping your tone even, but watching him carefully in the mirror.

His lips parted. “W-Whichever one y-you want,” He said, too quickly. His voice wobbled a bit, but he didn’t look away.

“Hmm.” You considered. “Then blue it is.”

You turned your back slightly–not to hide, but just enough to unclasp the bra you were wearing. You let the straps fall from your shoulders, slow and smooth, the lace sliding down your skin like a secret. You didn’t cover yourself immediately. You didn’t rush. You let your chest rise with a slow breath, your bare skin catching the warm light like satin, full and soft, your nipples slightly pebbled from the air.

You could see him in the mirror.

Bob looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

His knuckles were white against the bench. His thighs were tight. His eyes locked on your reflection with reverence and disbelief, lips parted like he was about to speak, but couldn’t find words. Like he was choking on awe.

You clasped the powdered blue bra in front first, then twisted it around your torso to hook it at the back. The lace molded to your breasts beautifully, lifting them just enough, shaping you with a soft elegance that made you smile faintly to yourself.

“Oh,” You said, tilting your head at your reflection, “Wait…I’m missing something.”

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants, and began to push them down slowly–inch by inch, letting the soft fabric slide along your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles.

You stepped out of them in just your red underwear.

They were lace-trimmed–soft, but revealing. Dark red against your skin, high at the hips, clinging just enough to show the dip of your waist and the curve where your thighs met.

“I guess you’ll just have to picture the matching color,” you said, voice warm and coy, glancing back at him through the mirror.

Bob looked like he might combust.

His eyes darted from your back to your hips, then quickly to your reflection again. His jaw was clenched tight, but his breathing was uneven–shaky in that way you’d come to recognize when his emotions were spiraling between restraint and something far deeper. Something harder to control.

You stepped closer to the mirror, smoothing a hand over your hip.

“I like the way this one fits,” You murmured, more to yourself than to him, but still loud enough to let it hang in the air like perfume. You ran your palms lightly down the lace of the powdered blue bra, watching your own fingers in the mirror–how they traced the delicate embroidery along the cups, how the fabric hugged your shape like a secret.

Bob’s breath was shallow. You didn’t have to turn to know. You could feel the heat coming off him from across the room like it had its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes met his in the mirror.

He was already looking–face flushed, mouth parted slightly, the soft tremble of his hands now visible where they gripped the edge of the bench.

“I-It looks…” He started, voice catching in the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly. “…It looks really nice.”

You raised a brow, a smirk drawing up on your lips. “Nice?”

His gaze flicked away instinctively, but he couldn’t keep it there. His eyes found you again–first your reflection, then the lace against your chest, and back to your mouth.

“I–I mean it looks…r-really good. On you. I mean…” He was unraveling by the syllable. You let the silence stretch for a beat, then hummed softly as your fingers continued gliding over the cups. You shifted your weight a little, hips tilting as you turned sideways in the mirror.

“Definitely a contender,” You sighed thoughtfully.

Then, without turning around, you reached for the next piece.

The babydoll slip–black, sheer, soft as smoke in your hands. It shimmered subtly in the golden lighting, the thin mesh draping across your fingers like a sigh.

You unclasped the powdered blue bra again, letting it slide from your body with one smooth motion. You didn’t cover yourself.

Bob’s inhale was so sharp it sounded like pain.

You stepped slightly back from the mirror, barer now than you had been before–shoulders relaxed, chest lifted with slow breath. Your nipples had peaked again in the cold air. You knew what you were doing. But you weren’t mocking him. This wasn’t a power play.

It was clarity. Honesty. Boldness.

You bent forward slowly to slide the babydoll over your thighs, letting the hem fall like liquid ink as you straightened. The mesh was translucent–barely there–and the neckline dipped into a deep, soft plunge that framed your chest beautifully. The fabric caught on your curves in all the right places before settling delicately around the swell of your hips.

Bob stared like he’d forgotten his own name.

Because when you bent forward, his eyes had dropped–not out of lechery, but because something inside him shattered. The long slope of your back, the shape of your ass in those red lace underwear, the stretch of your thighs beneath sheer fabric–it burned into him like holy fire.

And then–

“She is divine.”

The words didn’t come from Bob.

They rang in his head–low and velvet and terrible in its beauty. Sentry’s voice.

“She’s carved from the very atoms that undo me. She was made to be worshipped. Look at her. Look at her and tell me that heaven doesn’t kneel at her feet.”

Bob blinked, eyes wide and glassy.

Sentry wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t demanding control. But he was there.

Watching. Wanting.

“Let me touch her,” The voice whispered again, smoother this time. “Let me hold her the way she deserves. Just once. Just once, I swear–”

Bob pressed his palms hard to his thighs. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even breathe properly.

Because even without Sentry’s voice curling like gold-leaf flames through his thoughts, the image in front of him would’ve undone him.

You adjusted the thin straps gently, your fingers brushing across the neckline. The mesh hugged the curve of your breasts and fell soft as shadow over your waist. You looked like something from a fever dream–ethereal, vulnerable, and completely, deliberately real.

Then you turned slightly, catching his gaze again in the mirror.

The hem of the babydoll swayed just above mid-thigh, sheer and impossibly delicate. You brought your fingers down to it, rubbing the mesh slowly between your thumb and forefinger–absently, like you were testing the texture, like this was just another thing to consider.

But it wasn’t absent.

Not with the way his eyes followed every movement like they were tethered to your hands.

You turned around slowly.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, his back rigid against the wall, his hands planted hard on his thighs like they were the only things anchoring him in place. His jaw was slack, his lips parted. His pupils were blown, but not entirely black–there was still a sliver of that tender blue left in them, touched now with something gold and shimmering around the edges. The faintest glow. Like sunrise barely breaching the horizon.

They weren’t just his eyes anymore.

They were all watching you.

And god, he looked so beautiful like that–wrecked and reverent, trembling and quiet, staring up at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His eyes trailed up your body–your thighs, the curve of your hips beneath the mesh, your waist, your breasts barely concealed beneath the sheer fabric. And then they met yours again, wide and pleading.

And then, quietly, hoarsely, like the words were made of splinters:

“W-Why are you doing this t-to me?”

His voice cracked in the middle–soft and aching. He looked up at you like you had your hands around his ribcage and were squeezing. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to let go or hold tighter.

The lighting in the room caught his face just right–glossed over and glowing. You saw it clearly now, that strange shimmering in his irises–blue and gold, and something ghost-white blooming near the pupils. A storm barely held at bay.

You tilted your head, slow and deliberate, your tone laced with innocence.

“Doing what?”

His breath hitched.

“T-Torturing me…Y/N…”

The way he said your name–it landed like prayer in the quiet.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped closer, close enough for your knees to touch the edge of the bench, close enough for the hem of the slip to brush his knuckles.

His fingers twitched. Tightened. Dug into his thighs like he was trying to keep them there. Trying not to move, not to reach, not to shatter.

You shook your head softly.

“I’m not torturing you…” You murmured.

Then you leaned down slowly, slowly–until your lips hovered near his ear, until your voice was a secret you whispered against his skin.

“I’m making it obvious.”

And then you took his wrists.

Gently. Carefully. Like he was something sacred.

You guided his trembling hands up, your fingers wrapped around his wrists like ribbons, until they reached the curve of your hips. You placed them there–held them there.

Warmth.

His palms grazed the mesh first, then the shape of you underneath. He didn’t grip. Not yet. His breath stuttered like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. But then you gave him a tiny nod–barely perceptible, but real.

He got the hint.

His fingers spread slightly, molding to your skin. One thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the lace waistband. His breath caught like it physically hurt, and he looked up at you like you’d handed him the sun and told him not to blink.

He was already shaking.

You watched his expression shift–fear and awe, restraint and need, all woven together. The Sentry’s reverence. The Void’s hunger. And Bob’s aching, terrified love.

“Y/N…” He breathed, like your name was the only thing holding him together.

Then you just whispered:

”Touch me Bob.”

He gulped audibly, before he began to move slowly, like he thought rushing might wake him from a dream he wasn’t ready to lose. His palms traced the curve of your waist with agonizing care, sliding from the edge of your hips down over the soft slope of your thighs. His fingers splayed slightly, grazing the lace along the top of your underwear, then drifting lower. Each pass was like worship–like the act of memorizing, not exploring. He breathed out softly, the sound shaky, a quiet exhale against the electric silence of the room.

You let go of his wrists then and brought your hands up slowly, fingers brushing along the curve of his jaw until your palms framed his face, cradling him with a tenderness you hadn’t dared give voice to until now.

His skin was warm–feverish almost. You rubbed your thumbs lightly under his eyes, brushing along the shadows there, and his breath hitched. His lashes fluttered shut, lips parting just slightly, like he was absorbing every ounce of contact through his bones.

God, he was touch-starved.

You could feel it in how he leaned into your hands without even realizing it, like he was afraid if he pulled away, he’d lose the only safe thing left in the world.

You leaned down.

And pressed a kiss to his cheek–slow and gentle. You felt the tremble run through him like a current.

Then you whispered, barely louder than a breath:

“Do you know how long I’ve liked you, Bob?” His jaw clenched. You felt the subtle twitch beneath your fingertips–right before his nails grazed your thighs, dragging lightly through the skin just beneath the mesh. Not enough to scratch. But enough to leave a trail of heat in their wake.

He shook his head.

Not in disbelief–but like the truth was too big to imagine. Too painful to hope for.

You kissed his other cheek–longer this time. Slower. Your breath curled against his skin as you whispered:

“I’ve liked you since the very beginning…” Your voice cracked just faintly with the weight of it. “…I thought I was unworthy of you.”

His head snapped slightly–not harsh, just desperate–as he finally opened his eyes and looked at you again. And for a moment, all you could see was grief. Longing. The pain of every silent night and missed opportunity that had nearly broken the two of you apart.

And still, his hands didn’t stop moving.

They drifted up again, this time underneath the sheer babydoll, sliding over the skin of your waist, and your ribs slowly. He stopped at the waistband of your underwear–just resting there, barely touching, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your hips like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be here.

You leaned in again–closer this time.

And kissed him.

It was slow. Deep. Sensual.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

It was the kind of kiss you gave someone who’d been starving for too long. Someone who didn’t know what it felt like to be wanted in the open. Someone who still didn’t believe he was enough.

Bob moaned into it–so soft, so desperate it broke something inside you.

His arms wrapped around your waist before he even realized they had moved. He pulled you in tight, like gravity wasn’t enough on its own. His hands slid along your back and dipped beneath the mesh to hold your skin like it anchored him to this moment. His lips trembled slightly against yours, but he didn’t pull away.

If anything, he kissed you harder. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of the space that had existed between you ever again. What started as soft and reverent turned hungry in a heartbeat. Bob’s mouth opened just slightly, enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip, the faintest scrape sending a spark straight to your core. You gasped into him–eyes fluttering–and your fingers tightened in his hair, threading through the golden strands and tugging gently, just to feel the way he responded.

He groaned.

It was guttural–low and raw and laced with a desperation you hadn’t heard before. It rumbled out of his chest like he couldn’t contain it, like your touch had coaxed something from the deepest part of him that had been waiting for permission to surface.

His hands slipped downward, slow but deliberate, ghosting over the curve of your hips, down the backs of your thighs–and then suddenly he was gripping you, lifting you just enough to guide you into his lap.

You straddled him.

The motion made your sheer slip flutter like smoke around his knees, pooling soft against his hoodie. Your thighs slid across the firm shape of his lap, settling on either side of him. You could feel him now–hard beneath you, restrained but unmistakable–and it made your breath catch again, the heat between your legs pulsing in time with your heart.

Bob’s hands curled into your thighs, like he needed to hold on or risk falling apart completely. His mouth found yours again with more force this time–messier, wetter, desperate in the way he kissed you like he was trying to drink you in. There was no hesitation anymore. Just need.

One hand slid up your back, warm under the slip, his palm splayed between your shoulder blades, pulling you down into him. The other stayed low, gripping the swell of your thigh, fingertips brushing against the crease where your leg met your body. The way he held you–tight and trembling–sent shivers down your spine.

You moaned softly into his mouth, rolling your hips once against him–slow and intentional. The friction made both of you gasp. He bucked up instinctively, just slightly, just enough, and you broke the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead pressing to his.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and dazed with lust. His chest heaved beneath your hands as you smoothed them along his jaw and down to his collarbones, feeling the pulse hammering in his neck like it might burst through skin.

“I–I don’t know h-how to stop,” He whispered, voice frayed and cracking like old paper. “You…Y-You feel like heaven…”

You smiled softly, still breathless. Your hands cupped his face again, grounding him.

“I know.”

His hands moved again–one sliding along your ribs, the other dipping beneath the hem of your underwear now, just barely brushing the curve of your ass. You shivered.

“I’ve w-wanted you for so long…” He admitted, like it was being torn from him. You kissed him again–quicker this time, mouths opening, tongues brushing in heat–but as your hips rocked once more against him, you felt the coil tightening too fast.

His hands were trembling. His breath was shaking. And you knew if you didn’t stop now, you wouldn’t.

Your breath hitched–just once–before you pulled back.

Still straddling him, still shaking, still so close it felt like any more contact might ignite both of you into ruin. But you reached up, pressed your hands to the sides of his face, and whispered through ragged breath:

“…We can’t do this here.”

Bob’s eyes searched yours–wide, dazed, glassy with restraint he was barely holding onto.

“I want to,” You continued, voice low, your forehead resting against his. “God, I want to. But not like this. Not here. Not where I can’t fall apart properly. Not when I can’t take my time with you.”

He made a sound in his throat–half-groan, half-whimper–and his hips rocked up into you once, instinctively, helplessly.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his erection pressed against your center through the thin layers. Heat bloomed through your core like wildfire.

His hands trembled against you.

”I-I agree…” He whispered. But his voice crack, like it nearly broke him to say it, “I d-don’t want our f-first time t-to be rushed. I c-can’t…” His words were barely audible now, and you could hear the raw self-control in them, stretched to its limits.

With shaking hands, he shifted beneath you, guiding your hips off him gently–like it hurt to let you go. His fingers gripped the waistband of his sweatpants, adjusted awkwardly, then quietly, discreetly tucked himself up into his waistband to conceal the obvious hardness straining against the fabric. He hissed through his teeth at the contact–too sensitive now, too desperate–but he made himself breathe through it.

You slid off his lap fully, legs still trembling, and reached forward with slow, tender hands to fix his hair where your fingers had tugged it out of place. His eyes closed at your touch, his whole body leaning forward like he was still chasing the heat of you.

You smiled faintly, still breathless. Your voice was a hushed vow.

“I’m gonna change,” You murmured, pressing one last kiss to his jaw. “Then we’re gonna buy these…”

You stepped back just enough to meet his eyes fully, gaze dark with promise.

“…And speed back to the compound. Because I want you so fucking bad right now it hurts.”

Bob nearly collapsed.

His knees buckled slightly where he sat, his head tipped back against the wall like he needed the cold surface to keep from slipping under. A choked noise escaped him–almost a laugh, almost a moan–and he covered his face with both hands, exhaling like your words had hit him in the soul.

You leaned forward, just close enough to murmur in his ear before pulling away.

“Get ready, Bob. Because when we get back…I’m not holding back either.”

And then you turned toward the hooks on the wall, your slip still clinging to your skin, your thighs still warm from where you’d pressed into him.

Behind you, Bob stayed silent.

But if you had looked, you would’ve seen his hands still trembling in his lap… and a faint golden glow returning to the edges of his irises–bright, divine, and waiting.

———————

The drive back to the compound was electric. You could feel it in the air–like static clinging to your skin. Bob sat in the passenger seat, trying so hard to keep his breathing steady, his hands folded neatly in his lap for the first five minutes.

But then…His hand slid to your thigh.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t accidental.

His palm settled there slowly, like he was testing a boundary he was terrified to cross–but desperate to claim. The weight of it was warm, grounding. But his fingers…They weren’t still.

They flexed.

Gripped.

Curled gently into the softness of your skin where your sweatpants were bunched up mid-thigh. His thumb dragged a slow, agonizing stroke along the inside, brushing just beneath the fabric, right where the heat of you still pulsed from earlier. The contact was searing. Deliberate. Just barely restrained.

You sucked in a quiet breath, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

Bob didn’t say anything. But you could see it in his jaw—the way it flexed, locked, trembled. He was holding back. Every time his fingers inched higher, he stopped himself. Every time your legs shifted wider to invite him closer, his hand tensed like he was fighting himself not to slide his fingers past the waistband and straight into the wet heat waiting for him.

His forehead pressed lightly to the passenger window, eyes shut tight, breath fogging the glass. You didn’t need to hear the words to know what he was thinking.

It was written all over him.

I want her. I need her. I can’t lose control. Not yet. Not here.

But god, it was killing him.

And it was killing you.

The second you pulled into the underground garage of the compound and shifted the car into park, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire drive. His hand slid away reluctantly, fingertips dragging along your thigh like he didn’t want to leave the heat of you.

You didn’t speak. You just moved quickly–grabbing the shopping bags, handing him his, your hands shaking faintly as you both made your way across the garage toward the elevator.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

You stepped inside.

And the moment they closed behind you–

He dropped everything.

The bags hit the floor with a soft thud.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time. No fear. No silence.

Just lips crashing into yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you into him like he needed to feel your heartbeat to survive. His mouth devoured yours–hot, messy, open. Tongues sliding, breath catching. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

You moaned into it–high and breathless–and your fingers flew to his hair, threading through the light brown strands and tugging, pulling, just to hear the noise it dragged out of him.

He groaned into your mouth–deep and ragged–and the sound nearly dropped you to your knees.

His hips pinned you gently to the elevator wall, just enough pressure to feel the tension simmering through both of you. One hand gripped your jaw, the other slid under the hem of your hoodie, palm splayed wide across your back, hot and insistent.

You didn’t stop kissing him. You couldn’t. Your hands slid down his chest, grabbing fistfuls of the hoodie that still smelled like cedar and warmth and him, clinging as his tongue swept against yours again, this time slower. Dirtier.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open–

Empty hallway, no shoes, meaning nobody was there.

Thank god.

You broke apart with a gasp, both of you breathing like you’d just survived something. Bob’s eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, his lips wet.

Without a word, you both grabbed the bags–awkwardly, fumbling through the haze–and half-stumbled into the hallway. The bags were dumped just inside the entryway, forgotten the second they hit the floor.

Then he grabbed you again.

Lifted you.

You squealed, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, arms flinging around his shoulders. He kissed you again immediately–hot, breathless, unrelenting. Your back hit the hallway wall once, a gentle thud, before he adjusted you higher, hands gripping under your thighs.

You moaned into his mouth as his tongue slid over yours again, kissing like he was burning from the inside out.

And he was.

Bob groaned against your lips, stumbling forward as he carried you–still wrapped around him–down the hallway, toward his room. You nipped at his lower lip, then kissed it better. You dragged your hands through his hair again, tugging just enough to make him gasp your name into your mouth like a confession.

He barely made it into his room.

The door slammed shut behind him with a muffled thud, his hand still pressed flat against it while the other clutched you tight to his body–your thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and mingling as he chased your lips again like a man starved. He didn’t even bother to turn the light on. He didn’t need it.

The afternoon sun spilled through his window in golden ribbons, catching in his messy hair and painting long streaks across the floor, the wall, your bare thighs where they clung to his hips. It made everything feel dipped in amber–molten and slow and holy.

He pulled back for just a second–just to look at you–and then carried you toward the bed in a few staggering steps. The second his knees hit the edge, he dropped you onto the mattress with a breathless grunt.

You bounced lightly on impact, letting out a startled giggle as your back met the sheets. Your hair fanned across his dark comforter like a halo, and your eyes sparkled in the soft light. Bob just stood there for a second, staring.

His hair was a complete mess–flushed cheeks, chest rising and falling fast beneath his hoodie, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he was still catching up to what was happening. But his eyes looked like they were drinking in the sight of you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and leaned over you, catching your mouth again in a kiss that was gentler this time—slower. He kissed down your jaw next, reverent and shaky, then down your throat, his lips soft and open, trembling against the skin of your neck.

And then, like it broke loose from him before he could stop it, he whispered—

“G-God, I can’t believe you’re on m-my bed right now.”

His voice cracked on the word “bed,” and the wonder in it made your heart catch.

You laughed softly, breath brushing his cheek as you reached up and cupped his face.

“Well…” You murmured, stroking your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You better believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, glassy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with all the softness you were offering. You traced your fingers down his cheek, and he leaned into the touch instinctively–then turned his head and pressed a kiss to the very tips of your fingers. One, then two, then three. Each kiss was slow, sacred, like a promise he couldn’t speak out loud.

And then–wordlessly, breath trembling–he sat up just enough to tug the hem of his hoodie over his head. His shirt followed, wrinkled and clinging, and when it came off, your breath caught.

God, he was beautiful.

Not just in the obvious way–though that was undeniable. He was all lean lines and pale shimmering skin, scattered with light brown freckles and stretch marks that caught in the light like constellations. But it was the rawness of him that undid you–the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his stomach tensed as your eyes moved over him, the way he looked down like he was afraid you’d flinch or look away.

You sat up without a word and ran your hands slowly along the ridges of his stomach, smoothing your palms over the heat of his skin. He gasped quietly at the contact, breath catching in his throat, but didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss just below his sternum. Then another, a little lower. Then another along the edge of a faded scar near his ribs.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Bob,” You whispered between kisses. “Do you know that?”

He shook his head–too stunned to respond–and you laughed softly against his skin, letting your mouth trail lower. You kissed the slope of his abs, the dip of his waist, the notch between his hip and belly, letting your lips worship every inch like it was sacred. His hands hovered near your shoulders, shaking slightly, like he didn’t know whether to touch you or to fall to pieces.

“I could do this forever,” You whispered.

He let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a whimper, his hand coming to rest lightly at the crown of your head. Just the tips of his fingers. Just enough to anchor him.

You looked up at him from where you knelt between his legs, kissed his navel one more time–and then you felt it.

His hands sliding down slowly to the hem of your sweater.

They hesitated.

Shaking.

“C-Can I?” He whispered.

His voice was so reverent. Like he was asking to peel back the sky.

You nodded.

“Please.”

And then–very carefully, like he was unwrapping something fragile—Bob tugged your sweater up and over your head, slow and tender, his fingers brushing your skin like he didn’t trust himself not to tremble.

The sweater hit the floor, and the golden afternoon light spilled over your body like it was meant to find you there. His hands hovered midair–still trembling slightly from where they’d dragged your sweater off–his breath held tight in his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look, even now. Even after everything. His eyes were wide and glassy, lips parted, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, gaze dragging slowly over every inch of you like he was memorizing a prayer in real time.

Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what you weren’t. But because it was you. Because you were here. In his room. In his bed. In his light.

The sunlight struck you like it was trying to worship too–glinting off the curves of your collarbone, catching in the soft line of your bra, painting warm shadows between the valley of your breasts and the slope of your shoulders. You looked almost surreal like that–so warm and real and close. Like a daydream he hadn’t dared put words to.

He exhaled–slow and ragged–and brought one hand forward, palm outstretched, fingers splayed like he was reaching toward something celestial.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Awed.

“Y-You’re…You’re r-radiant…”

The word barely made it past his lips.

You gave him a small, teasing smile, though your heart ached with the way he looked at you–like you were something sacred that might break if touched too roughly. Like if he blinked, you might be gone.

“You make it sound like I’m glowing,” You whispered.

He nodded without hesitation.

“You are.” And then finally, he touched you.

His fingertips met the soft skin of your waist first, brushing just above the band of your underwear, and sweatpants.

They lingered there, delicate and trembling, as if your warmth might scorch him. Then he slid them up slowly—achingly slowly—over your ribs, along the side of your body, until his palm flattened just beneath your breast. He stopped there. Just breathed. His forehead gently bowed until it pressed to your sternum like he was saying grace.

“I-I don’t…” He murmured against your skin, “I d-don’t know how I’m s-supposed to survive this…”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head, and whispered against the crown of it, “Think we just need to take it one step at a time…I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

He groaned quietly–like the weight of that kindness broke something in him–and kissed the center of your chest. Then he kissed lower. And lower. His mouth moving with aching gentleness, like every kiss was a vow.

When he reached your bra strap, he paused. Pressed a final kiss to the edge of the cup.

“C-Can I take this off?” He asked, voice hoarse with restraint.

You nodded slowly, arching slightly to help him.

He unclasped it with careful fingers–then pulled it away like he was parting the curtain of a temple. His eyes drank you in with a hunger that was soft, not frantic. Worshipful. Full of wonder and heat. His eyes drifted over the soft slope of your chest, the way your breasts rose and fell with your breath, the subtle curve of skin that caught the golden afternoon light like it had been painted there just for him. He didn’t speak at first. Just exhaled slowly, shakily, like the air itself was too heavy to hold.

Then, slowly, he lowered his head.

The first kiss he pressed to the top of your breast was featherlight. His lips barely grazed your skin before pulling back again, his breath shaky as he let his mouth trail across the other side. A small, broken sound escaped him.

“Oh my g-god…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Y-You feel…you feel so soft…”

He brought his hand up next–tentatively–his fingers trembling slightly as they cupped the underside of one breast. His thumb brushed gently along the outer curve, then rose higher, tracing lightly across the peak without quite touching your nipple. His palm was warm–big and careful, like he didn’t want to squeeze too hard and break the moment.

“I-I didn’t know skin could be this s-soft,” He stammered, his breath catching again as he glanced up at you–eyes glassy, wide, rimmed faintly in gold and white. “Y-You’re…y-you’re beautiful. You’re–y-you’re so–”

He broke off, shaking his head slightly like the words just couldn’t come fast enough. Like none of them were enough.

Then he dipped his head again–lower this time.

His lips trailed slowly toward the center of your chest, kissing along the swell until they hovered just beside your nipple. His breath fanned warm against the sensitive skin there, and he hesitated for a beat–watching your face.

You met his gaze. And nodded.

Your fingers slid gently into his hair, threading through the soft waves at the crown of his head, grounding him.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He leaned in and kissed right beside your nipple. Softly. Gently. Like a promise. Then again, this time a little closer. Your breath hitched, your grip tightening just slightly in his hair. His lips brushed over the hardened peak, not yet sucking, just dragging over it, teasing. His tongue flicked once, testing the heat of you there.

You gasped.

And that sound made something snap loose in him.

He groaned–low and shaky–then parted his lips and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

The heat of it sent a shock through you. His mouth was so warm, so tender–his tongue swirling softly as he drew you in deeper, sucking just enough to make your hips twitch beneath him. His eyes didn’t close. They stayed open–locked on yours, half-lidded and burning with something too big for either of you to name.

You saw it then–the faint shimmer of white blooming in his pupils, gold dust clinging to the edges like light at the center of a storm. But it was still him. He was in full control.

Your head tilted back as you moaned, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucked harder, moaning softly against your breast like the taste of you undid him. His other hand rose to cup the untouched breast, squeezing gently, thumbing the nipple as his mouth continued lavishing the other. You could feel his fingers shake, even now. Could feel how hard he was trying to stay grounded, to stay present. Not because he didn’t want to lose control.

But because he wanted you to know he was choosing this.

Choosing you.

Every second. Every touch.

He moaned again against your skin, then pulled back just slightly–your nipple slipping from his mouth with a soft, wet sound. His lips were red now, kiss-swollen and damp, his breath heavy and ragged. He looked up at you again, and god, the look in his eyes–

Wrecked, and still trying to believe this was real.

“S-So beautiful…” His mouth was already moving to your other breast. His tongue traced a slow, trembling circle around the nipple first, warm breath hitting the damp skin as his hand continued to gently knead the other. Then he sealed his mouth over the soft peak and sucked.

Your back arched, a sound slipping from your lips that wasn’t quite a moan but something deeper, hungrier. He moaned too–low and hot–against your chest like the taste of you was dragging the restraint from his bones. His hips shifted at the same time, a slow grind of heat against heat, and the sudden pressure of him rubbing up between your legs made you cry out softly, gasping.

Your fingers threaded tighter into his hair.

He grunted softly against you, and then his free hand–shaking but sure–found yours, linking your fingers together like he needed to anchor himself. His grip wasn’t tight. Just intimate. A promise made skin-to-skin.

He pulled off your breast with a soft, wet pop, and his mouth was pink and glistening now, his lips parted and jaw slack like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you looked writhing beneath him.

“G-God…” he whispered, breath hitching as he rutted forward again—slow, desperate, a grind that made your hips twitch up to meet him. “I–I want to worship every inch of you… I–I wanna taste every goddamn part of your skin until you’re c-crying my name.” Your eyes blew wide at that. Your breath caught. A sound–needy, wrecked–escaped you.

“Bob…” He sat up, only for a second.

Just long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants. He glanced up for permission–barely–but you nodded, hips lifting instinctively. That was all he needed.

He peeled them off slowly–achingly slow–dragging the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, baring more of you with every inch, and he hummed at the sight of the red underwear before him, smiling. Your fingers curled into the comforter beneath you.

“Bob…Please…” He looked up sharply at that–like the sound of your desperation hit him somewhere primal.

And then he bent forward.

His mouth pressed kisses to the inside of one thigh. Then the other.

Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

Then he did it again–lower. This time, his lips parted, and his tongue slid out just enough to lick a stripe upward along the soft skin near the edge of your underwear. You cried out, hips twitching, and his hands immediately pinned them gently down–holding you steady, grounding you.

He groaned–louder now–pressing his nose briefly to your inner thigh, his breath hot as he inhaled the scent of you. It made his whole body shudder.

You were soaked.

The dark spot on your underwear was undeniable, and when his eyes locked on it, he cursed again under his breath.

“Y-You’re so wet…”

“Bob,” you whimpered, breathless and shaking, “Please…Please touch me. I need your mouth, I–I need it so bad, I’m fucking aching.”

He pressed a kiss just beside the wet spot.

“Shhh…I-I’m gonna take my time with you…” He murmured–his voice lower now, slipping toward something more controlled but just as desperate. Bob pressed another kiss to your soaked underwear–right at the center this time–his lips lingering just long enough for the damp heat to soak into him, his breath shaking as he pulled back slightly.

Then he did it again.

And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses. Each one slower than the last, his mouth dragging across the wet fabric like he wanted to memorize the shape of you through it.

You whimpered, thighs trembling beneath his palms.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, voice cracking, “Please, please don’t tease, I c-can’t–god, I need you–need your mouth…” A broken sound spilled from his chest. Somewhere between a moan and a plea.

“Y-You don’t even know what you’re d-doing to me.” His fingers curled around the sides of your underwear, and you lifted your hips for him, trembling with anticipation as he slid the lace down your thighs–inch by aching inch. His knuckles brushed the heat of your slick folds as he worked the fabric over your legs, and his breath caught sharply.

When they hit your knees, he paused–pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then slid the panties the rest of the way off.

He balled the lace softly in one hand.

Then tossed them aside like they were no longer necessary in the world.

His hands returned to your legs, and this time he gripped them firmly–fingers splayed wide as he lifted them, draped them over his shoulders, and leaned in until your thighs framed his face like a crown.

You gasped, hips twitching upward toward him, but he just…Looked.

Stared like he was witnessing something holy.

And then he exhaled–slow and trembling–and lowered his hands to your stomach.

His palms spread flat against your skin, fingers splaying across the soft curve just above your hips. The warmth of them grounded you, anchoring you, keeping you from floating away.

“I’ve d-dreamed about this,” He whispered, voice trembling with awe. “About touching you here…K-kissing you here…Tasting you…” You whimpered again, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the sheets beside you. Your thighs quivered over his shoulders as he bent lower, his thumbs sweeping lightly over your skin, just enough to soothe, but not enough to still the trembling that rolled through your body.

Then he kissed your belly, right at the center.

A slow, open-mouthed kiss that left a trail of heat behind it, and when he pulled back, he blew softly against the spot–his breath cooling the wet spot.

He did it again. Lower.

Kiss. Warm. Lingering.

Then another gentle puff of air that left you gasping, your thighs tightening around his shoulders like your body was trying to anchor him closer.

“Bob,” you whimpered, arching just slightly beneath his touch, your hips shifting like they couldn’t stay still, not when he was this close, not when every breath against your skin made your core pulse with need.

He kept going.

Slow. Measured. Torturous.

He trailed kisses downward–along the soft curve just above your mound, the edge of your pelvis, the place where your thighs met the heat of your center–but never quite where you needed him. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, half-lidded and blown wide with awe, his lips pink and swollen from kissing every inch of you but the one you ached for.

Your hips jerked.

One of your hands clenched the comforter; the other tugged desperately at his hair.

But his hands never moved from your stomach.

He held you there, palms splayed like a vow, thumbs brushing softly across your trembling skin while your legs shook around his neck.

You whimpered again–helpless, broken–and your head tipped back with a soft cry.

He lowered his head.

Pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

Then another, closer to the edge of your folds.

Then, maddeningly slow, his lips brushed the crease just beside where you needed him the most–so close your whole body jerked.

You choked on a sob.

And then you felt his breath.

Hot and heavy.

And his voice–fragile but burning–just beneath it.

“G-God,” He whispered, eyes still locked on yours, “You’re so pretty when y-you’re begging me for it…”

Your breath hitched, before you let out a small laugh. High, shaky, and helpless.

Because it was true.

You were begging him. Practically sobbing for his mouth. And it was ridiculous and perfect and raw.

Bob gave the faintest smile–soft, wrecked, reverent.

“I-I know I’m gonna regret m-making you do that later,” he added, voice cracking just slightly, “Because when you get me back for it… It’s g-gonna destroy me.”

Your laughter melted into a groan.

”I’m…I’m glad you r-realized that…” Bob’s breath shuddered as he hovered there—face so close you could feel the heat of him, the faint tremble in his jaw as he fought to keep it together. His eyes flicked up through his lashes, locking on yours again. You were already wrecked, trembling, breathless, soaked.

And he hadn’t even started yet.

“W-Well then,” He whispered, his voice hoarse and reverent, like he was offering an apology and a prayer in one, “L-Let me make it up to y-you…”

And then he leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue made your entire body jolt.

It was slow–just one, long, deliberate drag from the base of your folds all the way up, thick and warm and unhurried. You cried out, hips twitching helplessly, and his hands slid firmer over your stomach to ground you again. His moan vibrated against you, low and guttural, like the taste alone had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Oh my g-god…” He whispered, his voice cracking apart at the seams. “You…You taste like heaven. L-Like I always knew you would…”

Then he dove back in.

It wasn’t gentle now. It wasn’t shy. It was consuming.

His mouth worked against you like he’d been starved for it–like it was the only thing that could keep him alive. His tongue slid into you, slow and deep, curling with purpose as he moaned against your heat, tasting the slick arousal that pulsed out of you with every trembling breath. He moved like a man who had dreamed of this for too long, cataloged every detail of you in silence, and now, finally, was committing every second to memory with his mouth.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, high and broken, “Oh my god–”

He groaned again at the sound, the vibration rolling into you as his tongue worked in slow, reverent thrusts–in and out, savoring every drop of you before moving higher. When his mouth finally slid up to your clit, he licked over it once, twice–teasing, lazy strokes–before closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking. Hard enough to make your hips jerk.

Your cry shattered the quiet.

Your thighs clamped around his head instinctively, your back arching off the bed as pleasure slammed through your core like a wave. He held firm–anchored between your legs, groaning low as he kept sucking, then pulled back just slightly.

His mouth hovered, glistening and open, breath fanning hot over your skin. He looked wrecked–lips swollen, chin slick with you, pupils blown wide with lust and awe.

“I-Jesus Christ…” He whispered, his voice lower now, stripped down to something darker. “You taste like sin and sunlight…”

Your breath caught. Your entire body pulsed with heat.

“…And I-I’m never gonna get enough of it.”

Then he was back on you again.

His mouth latched to your clit like he needed to drink from you–his tongue circling, flicking, then flattening to drag over you in waves that left you gasping. One of his hands slid off your stomach, reaching for the fist that was still tangled in the sheets beside you. He laced his fingers with yours, palm to palm, gripping tight as his tongue pressed against you again–wet and hot and desperate. You sobbed his name. Over and over, like a prayer.

“Bob–Bob–I can’t–please, I’m gonna–”

He moaned in response, and the sound vibrated through your entire body. He looked up at you through his lashes–eyes glowing faintly now, gold shimmering at the edges of blue, burning with care and awe. And he didn’t stop. He kept licking, sucking, and teasing you with his mouth like he meant to worship you apart, one tremble at a time.

Your hips bucked. Your thighs trembled. And your fingers tightened around his.

And still he didn’t let go.

As if holding your hand was the most important part. As if every sound you made, every tremor, every sob of his name was sacred, and he was anchoring you to the earth with his mouth and his touch. And you knew you were close.

Because your vision began to blur and your breath stuttered.

His grip only tightened. His mouth sucked harder. His tongue swirled with purpose. And he groaned again like he could taste how close you were. Your thighs trembled harder now–quaking around his head like they were begging to close, to pull him in and keep him there forever. Your chest heaved, hips rising again, trying to meet the maddening rhythm of his mouth. But then–God–

Bob changed.

He growled softly against you–low, primal, almost possessive–and then he truly devoured you.

His lips sealed tighter around your clit, and his tongue pressed harder, flicking and circling in messy, hungry swirls. No more teasing. No more restraint. Just heat. Pressure. Purpose. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you filled the room, slick and desperate and perfect, and your body–already on the edge–snapped.

Your fingers twisted violently in his hair.

Your other hand, still laced with his, squeezed hard–so hard your knuckles went white.

Your whole body arched off the bed as you cried out–loud and raw, his name a sob torn from your throat.

“Bob–oh my God–I’m coming–I–!”

You were writhing beneath him, bucking, legs trembling uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through you like fire. Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips stuttering against his face, and he groaned against your core like he loved it–like he lived for the way you shattered under his tongue.

And he didn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitched. Not when you whimpered from oversensitivity. Not when your body shook so hard it felt like you might fall apart. He just kept licking–slow, filthy drags of his tongue, drinking down every drop of your release like it was sacred.

He moaned against your entrance again–tongue sliding in one last time to taste you at the source–then up to your clit, giving it one final suck that made your whole body jolt.

Only when he felt your trembling finally ease–when the spasms softened into aftershocks and your fingers went slack in his hair–did he finally pull back.

His lips were slick. His chin was drenched. His eyes were glazed and golden and wrecked.

He looked like a man undone.

And then–without a word–he kissed your inner thigh once. Then the other. Then the soft curve just above your mound. Worshipful. Devout.

And then he crawled back up your body.

Kissing as he went.

Your hips. Your belly. The center of your chest where your heart still raced. Your collarbone. The underside of your jaw.

By the time he reached your mouth, you were already panting again, lips parted and waiting.

And when he kissed you–it was filthy.

He didn’t hold back. His mouth was slick, desperate, open. He kissed you like he needed you to feel what you’d done to him–how drunk he was on your taste, how ruined he was from the act of loving you with his mouth. His tongue slipped between your lips, and you moaned loudly into him, tasting yourself on him–warm, sweet, dizzying.

And he groaned at the sound, deep and low in his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest.

When he pulled back, his lips were still brushing yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

And then–voice wrecked, rough, so low it was almost a growl–he murmured:

“Y-You taste like you were made for my mouth…And I swear to god, I’d spend the rest of my life between your thighs if you let me.”

Your breath caught. Your legs twitched. Your stomach clenched with fresh heat. You were wrecked and soaked and trembling, and you still wanted him so bad it hurt.

You swallowed, tried to catch your breath–and then smiled, slow and dark and shaking with need.

Your hand slid over his chest.

Your lips brushed his ear.

And you whispered–

“Your turn.”

He blinked—once, then twice—like his brain was trying to catch up to what you meant. And when it finally did, when the meaning soaked through the haze of lust and reverence still clinging to him, he nodded—slowly, shakily.

“O-Okay…” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost a plea. He swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling fast beneath your touch. “B-But you need t-to take it easy on m-me… I’ll e-end up finishing really quick…”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh–gentle and wicked all at once.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his, “Wasn’t planning on making you finish that easily.”

Bob let out a half-choked groan–part embarrassment, part arousal, part awe.

“O-Oh God…”

And then he did exactly what you wanted–let himself fall back against the bed. His hair mussed further into the pillow, cheeks flushed, neck exposed, arms slightly bent at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them. You could tell he wanted to reach for you. Desperately. But he didn’t. He let you take control.

You moved slow.

Straddling him gently, you leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth–then his jaw. Then lower.

The edge of his throat. The hollow of it. The line where his neck met his shoulder.

He shivered.

Your lips traced down to his collarbone, teeth grazing it lightly before you kissed the center. He was so warm. So tense beneath you. You felt it all–every twitch, every catch of breath, every time he shifted beneath your hips like he was already aching.

You smiled against his skin.

Then moved lower.

Your mouth trailed down his chest now, lingering on the freckles scattered across his pecs–those warm, honey-colored constellations that dusted his pale skin like someone had painted the stars on him. You kissed each one that caught your attention.

He whimpered.

Then gasped when your teeth grazed the meat of his pec, a little nip just beside his nipple.

“F-Fuck…” he breathed, hands fisting the sheets at his sides now, his eyes fluttering closed like he couldn’t handle watching you do this to him. “I-It’s t-too much–y-you’re…”

You kissed the center of his chest again. “You okay, Bob?”

He nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah, y-yeah, I just–y-you’re killing me…”

You continued your descent.

Lower now. Down the gentle slope of his abdomen, where muscle twitched beneath his skin at your touch. You traced your tongue along the soft trail of hair that led lower, then kissed the spot just below his navel.

That’s when you felt it.

The hardness beneath his sweatpant and boxers–thick and straining, the outline unmistakable against the fabric. He was ready. So ready it nearly made you groan just from the heat of him pressing up into your thigh.

But you didn’t rush.

You kissed around it.

Along his hips. His lower stomach. The spot just above the waistband.

He whimpered again–this time louder, more desperate.

His hips shifted up instinctively, trying to get friction, contact, anything.

You just smiled–sweet, dangerous–and looked up at him.

“Bob,” You murmured, brushing your hand slowly over the waistband, teasing your fingers just beneath it, “What do you say?”

He was panting now. Eyes wide, lips parted, sweat gathering at his brow. His voice cracked when it came.

“I-I’m… I’m sorry f-for teasing you…”

Your eyes glittered.

“Oh?”

He nodded frantically, breath hitching again as your hand slipped fully beneath the waistband–but didn’t pull it down yet.

“P-Please…” He gasped, chest arching up toward you. “I-I’ll never do it again…P-Please, I-I c-can’t–just–please…” Your smile turned downright sinful.

“Good boy,” You whispered.

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers together–tugging them down slowly, until the fabric cleared his hips and the tension finally gave way.

You sucked in a breath as he sprang free–thick and flushed and already leaking, the tip glistening with pre-cum and twitching ever so slightly as the cool air hit him. He was…Big. Bigger than you’d expected. Bigger than anyone you’d ever seen before. Long, heavy, impossibly hard, the flushed head slightly curved and swollen with need. And the moment you stared, it hit you in a new way.

His thighs were trembling, his chest heaving. His whole body was braced like he was fighting not to lose it just from being touched.

“Holy fuck, Bob…” You breathed, and the awe in your voice made him twitch again.

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and leaned up onto his elbows, his eyes wide and desperate, golden light faint at the corners of his irises now.

“I-It’s n-not usually… I mean–I-I don’t–” His voice cracked, flustered, like he was about to apologize for the way his erection stood proud and leaking for you, like he was embarrassed for how ready he already was.

You reached out and wrapped one hand gently around the base of him, fingers barely managing to meet. You gave the slightest stroke, thumb brushing along the underside–and watched the way his breath stopped. His hips stuttered upward just barely, like he was trying not to buck.

”Don’t apologize.” You cooed, licking your lips slowly as your eyes dragged up to meet his again. You leaned down, so your breath ghosted over the tip, and his whole body stiffened.

Then your tongue flicked out.

One slow, teasing lick–just a soft, playful swipe across the head, collecting the salty bead of pre-come that had formed there. The taste hit your tongue, warm and slick and uniquely him, and your mouth curled into a smirk as you pulled back just enough to speak.

”You taste so good Bob.” And he felt his arms give out. He dropped back to the bed with a helpless groan, one hand flinging over his face, the other clutching the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

“I-I c-can’t–oh fuck, I c-can’t survive this…”

You let your grip slide higher along his shaft, fingers gliding with slow, steady pressure until your hand circled just beneath the head. He twitched again, and your thumb gently teased the tip.

“Poor thing,” You murmured, voice syrup-slick and sinful, “Already shaking for me?”

His head tipped back with a moan. “P-Please…”

You bent down again–this time kissing the tip, soft and slow.

Then you opened your mouth.

You took just the head in first, lips sliding over the crown, tongue swirling gently as you let him sit heavy and hot on your tongue. He moaned loudly, his hips twitching again, barely restrained, and his hand shot up to grip the pillow behind his head.

You pulled back, slowly, with a slick pop, then looked up at him again–your lips glossy, your voice low.

“You okay?”

He nodded frantically. “I-I don’t know how m-much of this I-I can take…”

You grinned.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Then you took him back into your mouth–this time deeper, slower, letting your lips stretch around him, inch by inch. You felt every pulse, every twitch of his erection as your tongue pressed beneath the shaft and your throat adjusted. He groaned so loud it echoed through the room, raw and wrecked.

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, slow and firm, while your tongue swirled and licked, teasing that sensitive ridge just beneath the head as you bobbed up and down in a rhythm that had him panting.

“F-Fuck–oh god–please–you’re gonna–g-gonna kill me…”

And you just moaned around him–low and hot–sending vibrations through his entire body. You didn’t stop.

Not when his thighs tensed. Not when his breath hitched. Not even when his hand left the pillow and dropped to your shoulder, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold on for dear life.

You kept going. Letting him slide deeper with each pass of your mouth, your lips gliding down his shaft as your tongue pressed and curled beneath him–dragging along the sensitive underside just to hear the way he gasped, then choked, then whimpered your name.

Your hand worked in tandem—fisting around the base of him in slow, steady strokes that kept time with the rhythm of your mouth. And the sounds he made were everything. Guttural, helpless, and pleading. Like he didn’t know whether he was supposed to worship you or fall apart for you.

Then his voice cracked.

“J-Jesus–” He gasped, hips stuttering upward as you took him deep again. “I-I’m–f-fuck, I’m close–!”

You pulled off instantly.

Not cruelly. Not abruptly. Just smooth, controlled, intentional.

His erection slipped free of your mouth with a slick pop, strings of spit still connecting your lips to the tip as it twitched in the air–wet, flushed, leaking.

Bob choked on a sound–half sob, half whimper–and his eyes flew open, dazed and pleading. His chest heaved beneath you, rising and falling in uneven, desperate bursts as his hand shot forward like he didn’t understand why you’d stopped.

You licked your lips.

Saliva coated your mouth, your chin, even your cheek, and you wiped at it absently with the back of your hand–eyes locked on his the entire time.

He looked destroyed. Pink-cheeked and sweat-damp, pupils blown wide and blinking like you’d just left him in the middle of a battlefield without a weapon.

“W-Why’d you…?” He whispered, voice cracking on the edge of devastation. You giggled, sweet and sinful all at once. Then leaned in–close enough for your lips to brush the underside of his jaw.

“I told you,” You murmured, voice velvet-wicked and dripping heat, “I wasn’t planning on letting you finish that easily…”

Bob whimpered again–audibly this time–and his hips twitched like they couldn’t handle the tension coiling inside him. He looked down at himself–still fully hard, twitching, slick from your mouth–and then back at you like you’d committed an act of holy betrayal. You smiled wider.

Then, slowly, you let your hand curl around the base of his erection again–just enough to feel him throb beneath your touch.

He gasped–eyes fluttering shut, head falling back onto the pillow.

“And besides…” You added, voice lower now, dripping promise, “If you’re going to cum anywhere…” You leaned up, brushing your mouth beside his ear, your breath hot and deliberate as your body shifted higher–lining yourself up along the length of him, not yet taking him, just letting him feel the heat of your soaked core hovering, “…It’s gonna be inside me.” His whole body jolted at your words–like the thought of being inside you, of finishing inside you, hit him somewhere primal.

His hands found your hips–hot and trembling–his fingers splayed wide like he was trying to hold himself together with touch alone. You watched the way his throat bobbed, how his eyes flickered down to where your body hovered just above him, and then back up again.

“I-Is it…Is it safe?” He asked softly, voice frayed and wrecked and barely holding together. “I-I mean, f-for you…?”

You smiled–slow and knowing–and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel the way his breath stuttered.

“Yes, Bob,” You murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his. “I’m clean… and I’m on birth control.”

He exhaled–shaky and hot, like he’d been holding the breath in his chest for days–and the sound of it ghosted across your lips.

But before you could tease him again–

He moved.

Fast.

You let out a surprised yelp–half laugh, half moan–as he rolled you underneath him in one sudden, fluid motion, his body moving like instinct, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce and your hair splayed across the pillow as you looked up at him–eyes wide, mouth parted in shock.

“Bob!” You gasped, breathless with laughter.

But he was already there–already kissing your neck.

His mouth found the pulse point just below your jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as you laughed and moaned beneath him. One hand cupped your hip while the other braced beside your head, his chest flush to yours, heat rolling off his skin in waves.

“I-I knew…” he whispered between kisses, his voice ragged and thick, “I knew you’d be the person who w-wrecks me like this.”

Your breath caught. And then you smiled–soft and wicked and full of everything you hadn’t said yet. You reached up, cupped his face gently between your palms, and you kissed him like you were trying to pour the very ache of your love into his mouth, like you needed him to feel how much you wanted this–him. Not just now. Not just physically.

But all of him Forever, if he’d let you.

He moaned into your mouth, hips rocking down instinctively, grinding the thick length of his erection against your soaked core. You gasped into the kiss, fingers tightening against his jaw as he rutted forward again–slow, teasing strokes that slid his length right through your slick folds, nudging against your clit every time he rolled his hips.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked with need, “Y-You feel so wet…I-I can feel how bad you want it…”

“I do,” You breathed against his lips, “I want you so bad, Bob. I want all of you…”

That undid him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you–really look at you.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lashes damp at the corners. His lips were kiss-swollen and pink, and his breath stuttered as he propped himself on one elbow and reached down between your bodies with his other hand.

You felt it when his fingers wrapped around himself again–heard the soft, wet sound as he dragged the flushed head of his erection through your folds one more time. Up and down ever so slowly.

Your hips twitched.

And then he found your entrance.

He paused, just for a beat.

His eyes flicked up again, searching your face, checking one last time.

“Y-You sure?” He whispered.

“I’ve never been more sure,” You breathed, hand sliding down to rest over his thudding heart.

That was all he needed.

He pushed forward.

The first inch made your whole body tighten–heat blooming in your core like something sacred breaking open.

He was thick. Stretching you already. But he went slow like every second mattered. His breath stuttered as he pressed in deeper, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t look away. Your mouth parted, a soft moan falling from your lips as you felt him sink inside you, inch by careful inch, filling you with such deliberate tenderness it made your eyes sting.

“Oh my god,” You whimpered, back arching slightly, thighs trembling, “B-Bob…”

He was shaking too–sweat beading along his brow, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to lose it from just the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“G-God…” Bob gasped, voice shaking as his hips rolled forward another inch. “You’re t-taking me s-so well, Y/N… You’re stretching around me so g-good…”

Your breath caught, hips twitching as he filled you deeper, the weight and width of him making you gasp. You could feel everything–every slow inch of him, every tremble in his arms as he held himself up, every quake in his breath as he tried to keep from sinking into you too fast.

Your arms slipped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, your nails digging into his back—not harsh, not clawing, just enough to leave small crescent reminders that you were there. That this was real. That he was inside you.

And still he pushed deeper.

Bit by bit.

Agonizing. Perfect.

Until he bottomed out–his hips flush with yours, the thick head of his cock pressed just barely against your cervix.

You gasped, your whole body jolting softly beneath him. “Ah–B-Bob–just a little careful…”

His eyes flew to yours, wide and wrecked. He nodded quickly, breathless. “Y-Yeah. Y-Yeah, I got you. I-I’ll take it slow…” You nodded, teeth catching your bottom lip as your legs curled tighter around his waist. He was trembling now—arms braced on either side of your head, his body a taut wire strung between reverence and restraint.

He kissed you.

Soft and deep, his mouth pressing to yours with a desperation that made your chest ache. Then he pulled back just enough to move–slowly.

He slid out–inch by inch–until only the tip remained inside you, slick and hot and pulsing. And then he thrust forward again.

Gentle.

Deep.

Your moan was soft, trembling, like it had been carved from somewhere sacred inside you.

Your eyes fluttered open, and his were already there–locked on yours.

And oh god, the way he looked at you.

Like he was drowning in the sight of you. Like your face was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

His hips rolled again–smooth and slow–pressing into you with that same impossible depth.

You whimpered softly, your nails digging into his back again, and for a second, you half-worried that it might hurt him–but he didn’t react.

Not a flinch.

He just kept moving steadily. Like your body was the temple and he was made to worship inside it.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his voice cracking as he whispered:

“I-It’s like you w-were made to hold me l-like this…” You whimpered again, hips rising slightly to meet his next thrust, and the friction—slow, full, rhythmic—made your toes curl.

His hand slid to your face, cradling your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. He kissed you again–deeper this time–tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm that matched the motion of his hips.

“I-I love the way you sound…” He murmured against your lips. “Love the way you look at me like I’m s-someone worth this…”

You moaned into his mouth, your body trembling beneath him, and he didn’t stop.

His thrusts stayed slow, steady, deep.

His praises never stopped either.

“You’re so b-beautiful…You feel so fucking good around me… I-I could stay inside you forever…”

Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering as another slow stroke dragged a cry from your throat. “B-Bob…”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Always.”

And he rocked into you again, his breath ragged and mouth still brushing yours as he filled you over and over, every thrust a promise, every kiss a prayer.

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and your voice–low and breathless–shook against his mouth.

“F-Faster, Bob… please.”

His hips paused, his breath catching. His eyes opened just enough to meet yours–wild and warm and so full of emotion it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

“You sure…?” He whispered, his voice cracking with restraint, with reverence.

You nodded, lips brushing his cheek. “Yes. I want to feel you. All of you.”

He groaned like you’d just ripped something out of him–deep and raw and ragged. Then his hips rolled forward again, a little harder this time. A little deeper. You gasped, your head tipping back against the pillow as he started to move faster–still gentle, still careful–but with a new kind of rhythm. One that made your whole body arch to meet him.

Every thrust dragged a soft cry from your lips, and he swallowed each one with kisses–down your jaw, across your cheek, then lower, to your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, just beneath your ear, and you shivered as his breath caught.

“I c-can’t stop kissing you,” He whispered. “Y-Your skin–your neck–fuck, you taste like everything I’ve ever needed…”

Then he bit you.

Just once–just enough to leave the faintest mark. And before you could even moan his name, his tongue was there, licking the spot like he could soothe it back to calm. But it only made you shake harder beneath him.

“F-Fuck, Bob–” You gasped, nails dragging lightly down his back now, digging in just enough to make him whimper. “You feel so good–so deep–God, you’re perfect—”

He let out a broken noise, hips stuttering, and the next thrust hit deeper, grinding gently against the soft barrier of your cervix. Your moan was wrecked—high and ragged and unrestrained.

“Y/N,” He moaned hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut, his voice so low and hoarse it barely sounded human. “Y-You’re squeezing me so tight–I-I can feel you pulling me in–I can’t–fuck–”

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath trembling against your lips as he kept thrusting, deeper and faster now–wet and hot and slippery with everything you’d given him, the sound of your bodies joining filling the room like something sacred and messy and alive.

His moans were desperate–soft at first, then deeper, throatier, more broken with every roll of his hips. You could hear the tremble in them, like he was fighting himself with every breath, trying not to fall apart too fast.

“You’re so good for me,” He whispered against your mouth, voice frayed with awe. “Y-You’re everything–I can’t–I don’t ever wanna leave this body, this bed, this moment–”

You whimpered, your hands clawing at his shoulders now, your whole body rolling up to meet each of his thrusts, matching his rhythm even as your legs trembled around his waist.

“I’m s-so close,” You gasped, “Bob, I–I’m gonna–”

“I feel it,” He moaned, and he didn’t stop moving—just kept pushing deeper, grinding slower at the end of each thrust now like he was trying to drag your orgasm out of you with his body. “C-Come for me, baby–please–I-I wanna feel you lose it–I w-wanna feel it all–”

And it was messy now.

So messy.

Your slick was coating him, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your moans were tangled with his–louder now, echoing off the walls, hot and unfiltered and desperate. He was shaking on top of you, muscles taut, chest slick with sweat, the tension in his body barely held together by the grip of your hands on his back.

Your nails dragged down his spine again, and he let out the loudest moan yet–a broken, reverent cry against your shoulder.

“I-I can’t–I c-can’t hold it back much longer–” He gasped.

“Don’t,” you whispered, panting against his mouth, “Don’t hold back. Just f-fuck me, Bob…P–Please.” You whimpered.

He growled–soft and wrecked–and his next thrust was deeper, smoother, the angle perfect. You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave–rolling through you in waves that left your whole body writhing, crying out, sobbing his name. Your thighs locked tight around his waist. Your arms clung to him like a lifeline.

And he felt it.

Felt you tighten, clench, squeeze him so hard it almost pushed him over the edge with you.

He groaned–loud and hoarse–and kissed you through it, his thrusts slowing just enough to ride out the quake of your orgasm, whispering broken praises between each kiss.

“You’re so b-beautiful like this–so perfect–so good–so fucking good for me–” His hips stuttered once–then twice–shallow and trembling as he tried to hold on. But the way your walls pulsed around him, still fluttering from your orgasm, dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest.

“F-Fuck–I’m gonna–oh my god–” His voice cracked, and then he thrust deep.

All the way in.

One last, hard, perfect stroke that ground right up against your cervix–flush, thick, shaking.

And he came.

You felt it.

The hot flood of it–spilling deep inside you, thick and molten. His whole body shuddered, his arms trembling as he clutched you, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a small, broken sound.

“Ah–fuck–ngh– Y/N–” His whimper was soft and wet, lips brushing your skin as he moaned through his release. He stayed buried inside you as he came, throbbing, pulsing with every wave, hips twitching in small jerks until it slowed–until all he could do was breathe. His arms folded under your shoulders, and he let himself settle on top of you with a low, shaky sigh. His weight was warm and grounding, not heavy–just enough to make you feel wrapped in him, surrounded by him.

You sighed too–soft and slow and utterly wrecked–and your nails grazed lightly up his back, dragging in gentle, satisfied lines over sweat-slick skin.

“Holy shit…” You whispered, your voice breathy with awe and disbelief.

Bob let out the faintest laugh–hushed and dazed and still short of breath. Then his lips started moving again. Everywhere. Pressing lazy kisses to your throat, your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the space beneath your ear. Tiny, messy kisses. Adoring ones. He couldn’t stop.

“Y-You’re unreal…” He murmured against your skin. “C-Can’t believe I’m here. With you. Inside you. Like this…”

You smiled, your heart fluttering.

He shifted–just enough to raise his head and look down at you, cheeks flushed, lips red, hair a golden, tangled halo. You reached up, cupped his face with one hand, and ran your thumb gently along his cheekbone, pushing his hair out of his face int he process.

“Hi,” You whispered.

His chest rose with a warm, broken laugh, and his hand came up to cradle your face in return–his palm cupping your jaw like it was precious.

“Hi,” He breathed, voice still trembling.

You both giggled–giddy, overwhelmed, barely able to process the way the world still felt like it was glowing from within.

Bob leaned in, kissed you softly–slow and messy and open-mouthed, like he was still drunk on you. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back and sat up slowly, his cock still sheathed inside you, twitching slightly from overstimulation.

You whimpered softly at the shift, and his hand rubbed along your thigh.

“I-I’m gonna pull out,” He informed quietly. “Just…Real slow.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

He moved gently–so gently–and as he slid out of you, you both gasped softly. You could feel it instantly: his cum already dripping out of you, thick and warm and sticky against your inner thighs.

Bob saw it too. His eyes widened slightly. He let out a soft groan.

“Y-You’re already leaking…”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, trembling slightly, before carefully gathering what had come out of you on them and pushing it back into you. You jolted at the suddenness, back arching slightly with a small gasp.

“B-Bob!”

“Shhh,” He murmured, kissing your knee as he slowly pushed his fingers deeper. “W-Want to make sure you keep a l-little bit of me in you… F-For a little bit longer.”

Your cheeks burned.

He pulled back just slightly and watched–mouth parted, breath trembling–as his fingers glistened, slick with the mix of you both. He looked enchanted by it. Awestruck. And when he pulled them out, you reached for his wrist before he could wipe them clean.

You brought his hand to your mouth.

And licked.

His eyes nearly rolled back.

You wrapped your lips around the tips of his fingers and dragged your tongue along them, tasting the arousal still warm on his skin. The mix of your essence and his. His breath hitched sharply. His other hand gripped your hip.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice barely holding together. “That’s… god, that’s so hot…”

You smiled against his fingers, slowly letting them slip from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. His gaze stayed locked on you, eyes dark and glassy.

And then he said it.

Voice low. Reverent. Almost dreamlike.

“I could die right now…And it’d still be the most beautiful moment of my life.”

You laughed softly–your laugh shaking a little this time, because of how honest it sounded. How completely undone he looked saying it.

And then you tugged him back down into your arms.

Because you needed to feel him again.

Because his body, warm and wrecked and trembling, belonged right there–with you.

He let out a small, contented sigh, nuzzling his nose gently into your cheek as his arms wrapped around your waist. His body still trembled faintly from the aftershocks, and he was warm–so warm, like his skin was humming with leftover sunlight and your name.

“…Y-You know…” He murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and shy in a way that was almost too soft to hear. “I-I really…Really like you. R-Right?” You blinked, and then a laugh bubbled up from your chest–sweet and wrecked and giddy.

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes, your smile tugging crookedly at your lips as you whispered, “If that mind-blowing sex wasn’t a testament to that, I’d be interested to see what is…”

Bob flushed deep red. His laugh cracked as it left him–quiet and breathless, like it had been knocked loose by your words. He kissed you again–softly, lovingly, like he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, he was still smiling, cheeks pink and eyes glassy.

“We…W-we should drink some water,” He said, voice low and dreamy and still a little unsteady. “A-And then do it all over again…M-Maybe in your room this time…”

You arched a brow, your grin turning sly. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For evenness.” He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For symmetry.”

You laughed—loud and unrestrained this time, the sound muffled only slightly by his lips as they brushed along your shoulder.

“Get the water bottles,” you said, running your fingers slowly through his sweat-damp hair, “And I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He groaned softly against your skin, already rolling off the bed with a dizzy grin whispering, “A–Anything for you.”

[wosospacegirl]

Hiya mate!, Can I have a request maybe a Leah x reader or Alexia x reader. Where the reader join the current girlfriend trend and video their reaction..... Thank you

Love all the fic you made love lots

Current girlfriend- Alexia Putellas / Leah Williamson

I couldn't choose between my captains, so I did a little thing for both of them - two separate blurbs in one.

Word count: 1.7

..

Alexia Putellas

You weren't really someone who posted a lot on social media. Not when you were a teen, and absolutely not now that you dated Barcelona's golden girl.

Alexia liked her privacy. She liked knowing there were things the fans, the media, and the world didn't know. Your relationship wasn't necessarily one of those things. She didn't keep you tucked away in some apartment, hidden from everyone and everything. 

No, she didn't mind being seen walking down the streets with you; she couldn't care less about the cameras in her face when a game ended, and you had come down to the pitch to hug her.

She just didn't like leaving much of a digital footprint, and you were the same way. You liked to keep some things just between the two of you.

But oh. When you saw that little TikTok prank, you couldn't help yourself. You wanted to try it, but you also didn't like the whole world seeing it…the camera would give away parts of your shared home, and that was something just for you two and the people closest to you.

So you decided to film it just for yourself. That way, you could still participate in the trend, keep yours and Alexia's privacy intact, but the prank would have to be tweaked a little.

You tucked the phone into one of the sofa pillows. Didn't have to hide it much, Alexia was terrible at noticing things she wasn't actively looking for.

You sat on the sofa and gave the camera one last look. Great, the frame was perfect.

"Ale, come here!"

Alexia was getting ready for training, focused, in her usual headspace, and of course, you had to mess with her. Just a little.

She said something back from upstairs that you couldn't make out, but then she appeared a few minutes later. And she looked so beautiful with her training jersey on, it made you wanna keep her to yourself.

"So I have this small party at work this Saturday, can you go with me?" You asked gently.

Alexia's face softened. "No lo sé, cariño, tengo que revisar mi agenda" [I don’t know, love, I have to check my schedule.]

You were very used to that response, you expected it even, so you just smiled back, leaning even further into the sofa, you were just getting comfortable.

"Well…as my current girlfriend–" you pretended to cough so it would give her some time to comprehend and let the word settle in. "--you need to be present! It's at 7 pm."

Alexia's smile faltered a bit, and you could see that she was caught between a mix of "did I hear that right?" with "that can't possibly be true."

"Qué?" [What?] She said, her eyebrows furrowing. She was so confused, it was funny and cute at the same time.

"Dinner, at 7 pm, amor," you repeated, but not the part she clearly wanted. "But if you can't go, it's alright…"

"No, no," she shook her head. "Current? Current girlfriend?"

Bingo

"Yes?"

"No? Why current? We've been dating for three years." She said, her voice a little impatient now, as if she was asking herself why she even needed to be saying that.

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't change anything, we are still CURRENTLY dating," you emphasised the word.

Alexia moved on her heels, she opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She looked at you, then looked at her training bag on the floor.

"No me gustó eso," she said. "Not current.. solo novia, okay?" [I don't like that/ just girlfriend, okay?]

The pout on her face was so extremely cute that you weren't able to keep your composure. You got up from the sofa and wrapped your arms around her.

For a few seconds, she stood there, arms crossed, but then she gave in.

"I don't like that word," she mumbled against your shoulder, her voice almost in a whine. "Current makes it sound temporary."

You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face as you held her tighter. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."

"We're not temporary," she pulled back just enough to look at you, that little pout still there. "Sí?"

"No, we're definitely not temporary." You said, kissing her whole face.

She studied your face for a moment. "Wait..." Her eyes narrowed. "You're smiling too much. Why are you…"

Her gaze moved around the room and landed on the phone peeking out from the pillow. Okay, maybe Alexia did have some hidden ability to find phones, actually. 

"Ay, por Dios,"  she groaned, but you caught the corner of her mouth twitching. "You filmed this?"

"Maybe."

"Qué tonta eres…" [You are such a dork] she said, fighting a smile. "Delete it."

"I was already planning to," you laughed, pulling her even closer. "It was just for me anyway. I wanted to see if I could make Barcelona's golden girl pout."

"I don't pout."

"Hmm." You kissed her forehead. "You definitely pout."

She huffed against your neck, but her arms tightened around you. "Next time you want to mess with me, just ask for attention like a normal person."

"Where's the fun in that?"

..

Leah Williamson

You were bored out of your mind. It was a rainy afternoon. It was grey, cold, and your girlfriend had some annoying thing she had to attend to. Meaning: it wasn't a great day at all.

Leah needed to be at some Lionesses' dinner, one to welcome the new girls who had just received their first senior call-up.

You weren't allowed to go since plus ones weren't permitted, so you decided last minute that you would go to some café and do something. You just didn't want to stay home alone.

You had a couple of uni assignments that needed to be done, some research you had to complete for your internship the other day, but the day was already depressing as it was…you didn't need to bring more of that into your already grey day. 

So drinking very expensive coffee and delicious pastries was the right answer. Plus, Leah felt bad that you couldn't go with her and had given you her card.

Your life had been so uneventful lately. With Leah's tight schedule and your responsibilities, you two couldn't go out much or spend the amount of time together that you would like. So you thought, why not make today a little different?

You weren't an influencer, per se, but you had a fair share of followers on Instagram, so why not do a little Instagram Live while you got ready for your outing and Leah got ready for hers? It was June–Pride month–and nothing better to celebrate it than showing off your very hot, very English Captain, Champions-winner girlfriend.

You had your dress on already, and Leah was doing her hair on the other side of the room. She looked pretty. She was wearing mom jeans, a plain white shirt, and a black leather jacket on top of that, you knew your followers would thank you for showing Leah and her outfit.

Again, very Pride Month. Very much gay.

You had obviously asked Leah if it was okay for her to show up in the live stream. She said yes (she always did whenever you asked her to film something with you), so you propped your phone on top of your makeup organiser and pressed play.

In a few minutes, you had a couple of hundred people watching you, to say the least. You began talking about random stuff, nothing really important, just about your day and your routine. 

Leah would casually walk behind you, stopping just long enough to wrap her arms around you and kiss your head before disappearing again, looking for her shoes or bag.

The people watching the live went crazy whenever Leah showed up. It was honestly funny, the amount of fire emojis running up and down on your screen.

Then, a comment popped up asking you to do a prank on Leah, the "Current Girlfriend" prank. The comment quickly disappeared among a hundred others, but it was enough time for you to read it and decide that you were going to do it.

"Leah," you said, looking at her while putting your lipstick on. "Come stand with me for a bit."

Leah was in a very good mood, so she did it quickly and without complaining. She stood by your side and wrapped one arm around your waist, bringing you closer. She kissed the top of your head while looking at the camera.

You decided that was the perfect moment.

"Well, my current girlfriend and I look so fine today and—"

"Current?" Leah interrupted, looking down at you, using the same voice she used when she was surprised. "Okay, wow!"

"What?" you asked, trying to sound clueless, which you were very good at.

"Current girlfriend?" Leah lifted her eyebrows cockily, as if she couldn't believe what was happening. "Who are you talking about? Not me, I'm sure."

"Of course I'm talking about you!" you said, looking at the phone, and then back at her. "Aren't you my current girlfriend?"

She laughed. Really laughed as you were trying to keep an emotionless face.

"I don't understand you," you said. "What's so funny?"

"You," Leah said. "You are funny, silly even, saying things like 'current girlfriend' as if you want to have a different girlfriend in the future."

"I never said that!" You smiled at her before pecking her lips, leaving your lipstick stain on her mouth. "You're being dramatic."

"Me? Dramatic?" Leah asked, pointing at herself, "You're messing with me, aren't you? That can't be possible."

You turned back to your mirror, the Instagram Live still going strong. You picked up some blush, applying it while watching Leah through the reflection.

Leah was so annoyingly confident that it was nearly impossible to pull these types of pranks on her. She didn't get annoyed or mad, she would actually laugh about how ridiculous it all sounded.

"Well…" She watched you through the mirror, making eye contact and putting two fingers in front of her mouth with that knowing look. She knew exactly how much you liked that gesture. "Maybe I should start looking for a future and steady girlfriend since this one–"

Now it was your turn to interrupt her. You rolled your eyes dramatically.

"Don't even finish that sentence," you warned, pointing the blush brush in her direction. "It was all a prank, okay?"

"Oh yeah?" she said, turning to face the phone screen with that smirk of hers. "I didn't even notice, baby." She winked at the camera. "Your girl's not as slick as she thinks she is."

..

a/n: hope you guys liked it!!

Tag list: @footy-lover264, @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender, @neutraiise, @milkveed, @browercc, @ace-of-baked, @ikzzzya, @sky-the-trans-guy00, @knight-16, @wosohk04, @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon, @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog

[anonf1writer]

like you always did. like he always did. — LN4

summary: lando is going through something and he pushes you away. written. 8,8k words. content: angst to hurt to comfort. warning: suggestive language. mental health struggles. based on this request

note:¹ sorry lando I used a few real moments from your races to write about something that says more about me than about you lolll but I was in the mood and this is what I came up to.

note²: this was supposed to be 500 words 🤪

──────────────────

April 13th.

The Bahrain Grand Prix.

That’s when things started shifting.

It had taken you a while to see it, but now, if anyone were to ask, you’d be able to not only find the exact date on the calendar but also prepare a PowerPoint presentation of all the little things that had been piling on since then. The missed call at the airport, the distracted answer when he got home. The extra silence on your way to the grocery store. The way he reached for your hand and unconsciously brushed your knuckles with his thumb, but his mind wasn’t really there.

Back then, you told yourself he was taking his last weekend harder than usual. Qualifying sixth, finishing third, getting a five-second penalty and dropping to 14th. It all weighed on him. Of course it did. You didn’t need to be a genius, or his girlfriend, to know that. Not if you had seen his interviews, right after the race. If you had heard the disappointment in his voice. In his words.

The self-blaming had been there, not just between the lines, but laid open for everyone to see. For everyone to judge. For everyone to share an opinion on.

So you didn’t take it personally. The quietness, the unhappiness, the overthinking. The shifting. Because it didn’t feel about you. It felt about him.

Instead, you gave him some space and made sure to be there for him in any way you could be. You asked him about it, of course. About his feelings. About his well-being. But you didn’t push when he deflected the topic. Neither entertained him when he wrapped his arms around your waist and apologized for not answering your call.

“It’s fine,” you said, threading your fingers in his curls while he hid his face on your neck. “Are you okay? Wanna talk about it?”

Lando shook his head and nuzzled further into you. And so, you respected that. You didn’t insist. You cooked some dinner, chose some random and superficial sit-com for you to watch together. You tried to make him laugh. You tried to cheer him up. At night, you spooned him in bed, pressed your lips right between his shoulder blades, and expressed how proud you were. From his overtaking, to his fairness, to his ability to stay true to himself. And then when he sighed and leaned into your touch, you kept smothering his back with kisses. You reminded him how impressive he was. And how despite everything, he still had managed to make his way up and get a spot on the podium for himself. And you were proud—so, so proud.

Lando still didn’t talk, still didn’t share, but he did roll over and kissed you. He tangled his legs with yours, sneaked his hands under the fabric of your old t-shirt, and made sure to fill you with affection. He murmured how much he had missed you, how good it was to be back. How much he loved you. How beautiful you were. He proved how thankful he was to you. Proved with his actions, with his determination to make you feel good. To have you gasping for air, sighing his name, and biting your lip after cursing in ecstasy over and over again.

The next morning, things seemed better. Not perfect, but better. As if he was on his way of getting himself back out there. He joked more. He laughed from the heart. He snuggled with you on the couch, and he absently thread his fingers in your hair before falling asleep. There was a lot of kissing involved, too. A lot of distraction. All the time. A lot of making the most of your time together, before he had to leave again.

By Thursday night, after you had helped him pack, you were both in the shower, breathing out each other’s names, saying goodbye in that intense, filthy and yet loving way you always did before a race.

So, yes, things had seemed better.

Despite the sadness.

Despite the frustration.

Despite everything.

Lando had seemed better.

Things between you two had seemed better.

Normal.

Or, at least, that’s what you thought.

Because then, on Friday morning, before the sun had risen and when he left again, he didn’t leave you a note. He kissed your forehead in your sleep, you vaguely remembered that, but he didn’t leave a cheeky post it on the fridge. Something he always did. Even when you were there, watching him scribble down the words right in front of you. From Bahrain to Bahrain. Including Australia. China. Japan.

Just a reminder that I love you. And I’ll miss you. x

I love you. And I’m gonna miss your head… I mean your brain, naughty girl! ;)

Just so you know, last night I let you win at Mario Kart. Please forgive me. I love you.

Damn you look hot sleeping all naked in bed. Gonna miss that sight. See you soon! Love you.

Please wear my clothes while I’m away. Wanna be all over you even when I’m not. x (ps: I love you)

That morning, uneasiness quivered in your belly. You looked around the kitchen, once and twice, just to make sure a new note hadn’t fallen on the floor. You checked the bed. You checked the nightstands on each side of the bed. When you didn’t find anything, you frowned.

Had something happened?

It was silly, though. You knew that. It wasn’t his obligation to write something down. He didn’t have to do it. Still, the bell rang inside your mind. An invisible red flag waved right in front of your eyes. Because it was odd. And because it felt out of place for him. It felt distant. It felt worrying. It felt like a sign of something. Like a breach in your already stablished routine.

And yet, it was just a post it.

Just a note.

Something that felt really—really—silly to mention. After all, Lando had never given you any reasons to overthink things. He had never made you feel anything less than the most important person in his life. He had never treated you with anything but love, kindness, and respect. Not even during that past week, when his mind had been clearly swamped by thoughts and pressures he hadn’t been ready to name. He still kissed your forehead every morning, even before he left for the next grand prix. Still made your tea exactly how you liked it, without even asking. Still pulled you close at night like you were the only solid thing anchoring him to the world. So you didn’t want to be the kind of person that made a big deal out of such a small detail. Out of nothing. Especially when his mind seemed to be already so full of guilt.

And therefore, you didn’t say it.

You didn’t bring it up.

You made yourself coffee, texted him good morning, and asked him to let you know when he had landed in Jeddah. You also joked about already missing him in bed, how cold it already felt without him. You kept it light-hearted. Kept it simple. Kept it normal. And you moved on from it. You got yourself ready for work. Checked social media. Texted some friends. Stepped out into the outside world.

Hoping to bring some normalcy to yourself.

Eventually, he replied. As soon as he landed. Casual. Simple. Affectionate. Just like usual. Proving a tiny slip up in your routine didn’t necessarily mean a thing.

So, you convinced yourself everything was normal. Because there was no reason to think otherwise.

Later in the afternoon, you texted him a picture of you watching the first practice session. Like you always did. From your living room, wearing one of his older McLaren hoodies. Adding a random comment here and there. Just to let him know you were paying attention. That you were there for him, even when you weren’t. Then, as soon as it ended, you congratulated him on finishing second. You told him those 0.007 seconds were nothing, and that you believed he could finish at the top of the list next time. After that, you put your phone aside. You did some laundry. You went through some emails. And you waited for him to text back. Like he always did.

Except this time, he didn’t.

Hours went by, the second free practice session was about to start, and you had to double-check your phone to make sure it had actually happened. That he really hadn’t replied. Even though he always did. No matter what. Just to let you know he was there. That he was thinking of you, too.

You swallowed, opening his chat. Sitting on your couch, still wearing his clothes. Peeking at his beautiful face on the big screen as he got ready in his car, surrounded by his team. Only to find out your texts had gone from delivered to seen, and yet never replied. And with that, you frowned at your screen.

Because for the first time since you’d started dating, Lando had read your text messages, and hadn’t acknowledged them. At all. Not even after the hour went by and the live transmission ended. Nor, at least, after you swallowed your pride and tried reaching out again. And again. Congratulating him on finishing first, reminding him how you knew he could do it. How much you believed in him.

As if you hadn’t noticed his absence.

As if you hadn’t noticed the shift.

As if you weren’t feeling it now.

The fear.

The doubt.

The agitation.

The heat on your chest.

The heaviness in your belly.

The skipping beats of your heart.

That Friday night, you laid awake in bed longer than usual. Rereading your texts. Scrolling down his Instagram posts. Checking fan accounts if only to make sure he was okay. That nothing bad had happened to him.

It was ridiculous, though. To stress like that.

To overthink without reaching out.

So you tried again, because you couldn’t pretend anymore.

Hey, you sent to him, feels weird not to hear from you all day. Is everything ok?

His reply, and apology, came only after midnight. It woke you up, of course. You were waiting for it. For the moment your phone would buzz in your hand. For the moment he would show up.

Sorry, he texted. Just got back to the hotel.

He explained himself, then. Apologized again. Told you how exhausted he was. What a long day with the team it had been. Going over strategies, through details, all the mistakes. Trying to make little changes, trying to help him win. Now, he just needed to catch some sleep, he needed to be rested for practice, and then for qualifying. He needed to focus. He needed to do better. So again, he apologized, then promised to call the next morning. As soon as he woke up.

And you took that.

Half-relieved, half-even-worse-than-before. Pretending not to be hurting, not to be confused. Saying not to worry about it, saying that you understood. Because you did. At least part of it.

You told him you’d be waiting for his call. That you loved him. And wished him a good night.

Lando replied right away after that. He told you he loved you as well. So much. That he missed you. And that he hoped he would dream about you.

His sweet words brought a smile to your face, and you hold onto that. You fell asleep hoping it would get better, praying things wouldn’t fall apart. Because why would they?

On Saturday morning, true to his words, Lando called. It was brief, too busy around him, a lil distracting. But he called. He asked how you were, he whispered how much he missed you, he repeated he loved you more than a few times. He sounded off, but not at yourself. More like tired. More like worried. More like afraid. So when you asked about the race and he changed the subject, you bit back your honest answer. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and tried not to think too much of it. You played along. And you didn’t let him know how constantly nervous he was suddenly making you feel.

Before he hung up, he promised you he would text after the third practice session, like he always did. And once again he didn’t let you down, he stayed true to his words. He texted a picture from the car, an excited “donnnneeee” with a funny face underneath his helmet. You smiled at that. You congratulated him. Texted a random selfie yourself. Let him know how hot you thought he looked driving like that. Flirted a little bit. Then blushed and giggled when he flirted back. Naturally, when he announced he had to go, you wished him good luck. You told him you’d be watching him. Cheering for him. Like you always did.

When you thought about it, you couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if qualifying that day had been different. If he hadn’t crashed. If he hadn’t missed the opportunity to start on pole. Because you could tell that, even though things had started shifting in Bahrain, it had been Saudi Arabia that had officially blown everything up.

You were watching, when his car hit the wall. Of course you were. And even though you could tell he was fine, your heart might’ve as well been in that car with him and smashed into tiny pieces, wanting to absorb his frustration and swallow the million thoughts that were probably swirling in his mind. Because you heard it in his voice, when he called himself a “fucking idiot” to his team.

Lando wasn’t okay.

He wasn’t okay at all.

Aware of that, you didn’t wait for him to call.

You called him.

Once.

And twice.

And thrice.

By the fifth time, he answered.

“Hey,” he said, low and exhausted, carrying heartbreak in every letter. “Can’t really talk right now, but I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Not a scratch. Text you later, ok? Love you.”

And then he hung up. Before you could even open your mouth to reply.

You frowned and stared at your phone for a few minutes before understanding what had happened. Before making sense of the many voices in the background, the calling of his name, the rushing that could only come from the paddock. You had to force yourself to imagine being in his position, and then to accept he couldn’t control everything around him. That there were commitments he couldn’t run away from. So you couldn’t take it personally. You couldn’t make it about you. About the relationship. About how worried, weird and confused you were feeling right now.

You had to force yourself to let him be.

So, you didn’t text him. Not like you wanted to, at least. Because you did send an ‘I love you’, followed by a red heart emoji, and you did tell him to please call you as soon as he could. But you didn’t mention how much it stung not hearing from him, not being the first and only thing in his mind. And you didn’t let the petty side of you snap at him when he finally showed up. Because he did show up. Later than you wished. From the darkness of his quiet hotel room. Shirtless, lying in bed. Symbolically sharing a pillow with you while staring at your face through the screen of his phone—a position you were mirroring from your side, as well.

“It is what it is,” he said, voice low and emotionless. “Gotta make sure to sleep well tonight and overtake as many cars as possible tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, comfy and tucked in, just like him.

“Why? I’m the one who drove into the wall.”

You pressed your lips together and sighed. Searched for words inside your brain and tried to comfort him. Tried to cheer him up. But you knew there was no point to it. You could feel it, in his voice, in his breathing, in his silence.

So, eventually, you asked, just as carefully as the topic felt, “Is there something else going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “Something feels… Off.”

Lando sighed. He moved his head, snuggled his face into the pillow, and looked at the hand holding his phone. Or his wrist. Or his fingers. Or just whatever there was in front of him. Anything, but your face.

“I’m starting p10 tomorrow,” he said. “That pole could’ve been mine, but I crashed into a fucking wall, so…”

You furrowed your brows.

“And I get that, I just—”

“Can we please… Can we just not talk about it?”

You closed your mouth and blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t necessarily attacking you, but it made it clear that he wasn’t too far off from exploding. And if there was one thing you knew, is that you didn’t want to be the one lighting up the match the night before a race.

“Okay.” You nodded, your cheek brushing the fabric of your pillowcase—his pillowcase. “Yeah. Of course.”

Lando rolled over, then. Lying on his back and staring at the ceiling while keeping his arm stuck in place. While holding his phone—holding you—away from him.

You blinked again. And again, and again. Your chest tightened, and your stomach clenched tight.

“Hey,” you murmured, words getting out of your mouth before you could even think of them, “I love you, you know that, right?”

A beat of silence went by.

Faint streetlights outlined him just enough for you to notice the way he breathed in slowly, filling his lungs before letting it all out at once.

And then, he rolled back to his side, his cheek hitting his pillow and his eyes landing on you.

“I know,” he murmured, and a smile twitched at his mouth. Just barely. “Yeah. I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You don’t—”

“I need to get some sleep.”  

You pressed your lips together, then swallowed the lump in your throat.

Chest tightening.

Heartbeat speeding up.

“I can’t…” He shook his head, then rubbed one hand down his face. “Fuck. I love you. And I’m sorry. I really am. But I just… I can’t do this right now. I really can’t.”

He hung up, then, and the thud of your heart pulsing in your chest made it hard for you to comprehend things. You darted your eyes across the apps on the screen, around the dark bedroom, back to the phone. As if somehow you would find him there. Or maybe find some answers, at least.

Once again, you tried to understand him. See it from his point of view. The traveling, the racing. The pressure. The loneliness. The frustration. It made sense. Of course it did. It wasn’t easy. You knew it wasn’t. And yet…

Your breath hitched, and your eyes glistened.

You put your phone away and blinked rapidly, although not fast enough to stop the first tear from slipping out. Still stunned, still confused, you covered your face with both hands and cried quietly. All alone. Your chest aching with the weight of whatever was happening to him.

Because no matter how much you understood, it hurt. The fact that he wouldn’t lean into you when he clearly needed the most. The fact that instead of seeking your presence, he was pushing you away. So suddenly, so unexpectedly. So easily.

It hurt you so much that you barely slept that night.

And it hurt you so much that when Sunday morning arrived, you didn’t text him. At all. You stared at your phone, you laid in bed, you tried to do something useful. But you mostly just watched time go by. How the clock ticked, how race time became closer and closer each hour, and minute, and second.

How he never reached out.

It hurt you so much, and it confused you so much, that you didn’t text him good luck. Nor praised him every time he overtook. Nor celebrated the fact that he started tenth yet managed to finish four. It wasn’t easy, but you didn’t know how to behave. For the first time in so long, you didn’t know what to say to him. How to make it better. How to fix it.

How could you even fix something you didn't know it had broken in the first place?

Unable to keep watching him, to keep feeling like that, you turned off the TV and got up from the couch. You didn’t need to hear his voice during post-race interview. You didn’t need to see his life moving forward while you felt paralysed in time, just waiting for him to show up.

And so, Sunday went by, and you got no word from him. At all. And you cried. A lot. Because you had no idea why. And because he didn’t seem to need you. Because he didn’t seem to want you.

Then it was Monday morning.

And Monday afternoon.

And a lot of pacing was done.

Sadness slowly turned into anger.

Disbelief.

Self-love.

Awareness that, no matter what, you didn’t deserve that.

Finally, when nighttime arrived, and before emotions took fully over, you texted him again.

Thought you’d be home by now, you said, did you fly yet?

Surprisingly, he typed a response right away.

Yeah. Changed my flight to London, he said.

Mid-way to the kitchen, you stopped on your track. Heat flushing through your body and ears ringing as you read and re-read his words. Nostrils flaring as you breathed in. And out. Deeply. Heavily. Loudly.

Are you being serious right now? you typed back.

Yeah. Going to Surrey tomorrow morning and flying straight to Miami on Wednesday.

And then, alone in the apartment, you laughed.

Mostly because you didn’t know what else you could do.

Because your hands were shaking, and your heart was racing, and your boyfriend was trying so hard to stay away from you that he wasn’t coming back home anymore. And he hadn’t fucking let you know.

 Well thanks for the heads up, you found a way to text. Good to know that’s where I stand in your life.

Sorry, he said.

Are you? Really?

Unsurprisingly, this time he didn’t reply.

He read. He typed. He gave up. And then he left the app, a loud and clear last seen underneath his name indicating he wasn’t even trying to reach out. Not anymore.

Things were a blur after that. Tuesday sucked, stepping out into the world and having to live your normal life sucked. Being awake sucked. All you wanted was your bed, to cry yourself to sleep, to wake up from whatever nightmare you had been stuck in.

Then his friend texted you, asked if he could give you a call. And you frowned, but said yes, of course, and answered even before the phone could fully buzz in your hand.

“Have you talked to Lando today?” he asked.

You gave a bitterly laugh at that, closed your eyes and pinched the tip of your nose.

“I haven’t, no.”

“Figured,” his friend said. “I’m worried.”

And that got to you. Not because you hadn’t been worried up until then, but because it proved this—whatever this was—was bigger than you.

So you sighed, dropped your body on the couch, and stared at the wall across from you.

“Yeah, me too,” you admitted. “He was supposed to come home, but… Did he tell you? He was going to London?”

“Not really. He just showed up on my door.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

Silence.

“We were supposed to fly with him tomorrow,” his friend added.

“And you’re not anymore?”

“No. He said we shouldn’t.”

“Shit.”

You texted Lando that night. After you and his friend realized you didn’t know what to do. That something was up, but Lando wasn’t sharing it with anyone. You told his friend you had never seen him like this, that he had never shut you out like this, so you didn’t know what to do. His friend, on the other hand, told you it wasn’t his first time experiencing it, although it had been so long ago he had even forgotten about it. He shared a few stories about Lando’s struggles, being careful not to expose him too much, but also trusting you needed to know. Because, according to him, Lando needed you right now, he was just too afraid to ask.

So, of course, you caved in and reached out.

Can we talk? , you texted. I’m worried.

But he didn’t reply.

He also didn’t answer your call.

And then, before you knew it, Lando was flying back to Miami. Adding oceans and thousands of miles to the already stablished distance between you. Sharing with strangers the excitement over the one-year anniversary of his first win. Posting pictures on Instagram as if things weren’t falling apart.

The following weekend, the aching feeling in your gut didn’t only get worse, but it lingered. It settled. Because by then, it was official. Lando had fully stopped talking to you. He had stopped calling. He had stopped texting good morning. He had stopped sending silly photos from the garage. He had simply stopped sharing the little updates he always used to. The ones that didn’t matter to anyone but you.

He also never texted after practice. Or after sprint qualifying. Or even after winning the sprint race.

Friday.

Saturday.

Sunday.

Nothing.

Not even once.

This time, you couldn’t watch the Grand Prix. So you didn’t. You got the news from social media, you heard it from his friends, from his family. People who apparently had no idea of what was happening to him.

Just like you.

Then again, you didn’t congratulate him for finishing second. You also didn’t have the strength to worry about him finishing second.

Because it wasn’t fair.

And because you really couldn’t understand.

Not anymore.

It hurt, and you still didn’t even know where it was coming from.

You didn’t see it coming.

Because things had changed after Bahrain, yes. But had they really changed that much? To the point of him going radio silent for two, three, four, five days? A week? To the point of him changing flights and not coming back home? To the point of him running away from you?

Was it really supposed to be like this?

Wondering when he would be coming back?

If he would come back?

Once again, you cried yourself to sleep.

You screamed at your pillow.

You stared at his social media way longer than you should’ve.

And then, you saw it.

The story on his sister’s close friends. A picture of him sitting on the floor with his niece, apparently hanging out at his brother’s house.

It was the last drop of water before emotions fully flooded inside you.

Before you finally understood you had to do something about it. You had to say something. You had to speak up. You had to be strong, determined, and firm. And you had to let him know you couldn’t do this anymore, because you truly couldn’t. Not like this.

And so, you texted him.

One last time.

One last try.

When you put your phone away, your brain and your heart battled against each other. Part of you wanted to run away and never look back, part of you wanted to wait to see what would happen next. You knew people would tell you to gather your things and get out of his place. You knew people would tell you he didn’t deserve a second chance. You knew people would tell you the mere idea of forgiving him was ridiculous.

But these people didn’t know him like you did. These people didn’t live the relationship like you did. They didn’t understand long commitment came with patience, and listening, and growing. They spoke with the mind, they told you what they read about, they shared what perfection was supposed to be like. But they didn’t stop to hear your side. Or any side. They didn’t stop to analyse the many times you had messed up. The many times Lando hadn’t judged. The many times Lando had been there for you. They didn’t stop to see it from your point-of-view. From your perspective. The perspective of someone who couldn’t let go of him just like that. Not without hearing him first. Not without trying to understand him first.

That is…

If he wanted to be understood.

If he wanted to be forgiven.

If he wanted to be heard.

And when you thought about it, you weren’t so sure he did.

Especially as time went by, and by.

And he didn’t text.

He didn’t call.

Even though he read.

Even though he knew.

Eventually, crying and wondering consumed you.

Wearing the same old McLaren hoodie of his, curled up on the couch, staring at the window. With a long-forgotten cup of tea sitting on the coffee table, a random TV show running non-stop on the opposite wall. Volume so low you couldn’t even make up their words.

You fell asleep.

Somehow, at some point.

And then, you heard it. The soft clicking of keys hitting the bowl by the door.

You jumped slightly and blinked a couple times, neck hurting from the awkward position you’ve been in. In the darkness of the living room, with nothing but the telly still on, you felt the tension in the air before you looked to your side and over your shoulder. Before you found him. Lando. Standing across from you, outlined by nothing but the restless flashes of whatever episode Netflix had made it through.

You froze, then. Felt the air get stuck in your lungs. Felt his own pain. His own fear. His own nervousness. Staring all right back at you.

“I got your texts,” he said. Or murmured. Voice low and tired.

You blinked, unwillingly ignoring his words as you took his presence in. Noticing how the flickering screen casted shadows that carved deep lines under his eyes, exaggerating the already intense amount of tiredness and sadness he didn’t even try to hide. Noticing how his curls looked messier than usual, how he hadn’t shaved, and how his hoodie and joggers looked all wrinkled, as if he had been wearing them for days.

 He didn’t look any better than you. If anything, he looked worse. Focusing on you with his hands stuffed in his pockets, holding himself back as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there in the first place.

“I thought…” he tried, he paused. He breathed in and out, he cleared his throat. “Was afraid I wouldn’t find you here anymore.”

You held your breath at that. Looked away from him, sat straight on the couch, rubbed your eyes. Then answered with the same energy as him. “You could’ve texted back. I would’ve told you.”

From the corner of your eyes, you caught the way he nodded. How he looked away just to take his hand off his pocket and place his phone and car keys next to the bowl. Next to where he had already placed his apartment keys. Like he always did.

“I fucked up,” he said.

Silence settled, and the distant laughter from the audience vibrated from the TV, filling the room.

You snorted, then. You shook your head. You placed your feet on the carpeted floor and stood up from the couch.

“You did way more than that,” you said.

Lando didn’t move, but he glanced at you. Watched you turn on your feet and meet the aching green of his eyes, then cross your arms across your chest and shrug.

“You ignored me. You pushed me out. You woke up one day and decided to lash out on me for whatever frustrations you were feeling on the track. You left me wondering what the hell I could’ve done to you. You made me cry night after night. You made me feel like shit. And for reasons that I have yet to understand.”

He blinked. Then looked down to your feet.

A beat of silence settled between you.

And then another one.

And another one.

“And I’ve been so worried, Lando. So fucking worried. Because I can see that something’s up with you. That you’re being weird because you are going through something. But then I’m just so… Confused. Because why are you punishing me, and only me? Why are you going to your friend’s, taking pictures with fans, smiling at everyone at the paddock, spending time with your family, but ignoring me? Honestly, why only me? What have I done? Why can’t I be the person you run to?”

“I’m… Fuck, I’m sorry.” With a sigh, he closed his eyes and placed the heels of his palms on top of them, growling with frustration. “You’re right, I know you are. I just, I didn’t want you to… Fuck.”

He breathed in, and out. Slowly, heavily. As if trying to calm himself down.

“Not again, not again,” he whispered, right before a light sob punched its way out of his throat. “Fuck.”

You flinched, taking in another chocking sound as he shook his head and failed to contain the tears in his eyes. His body shuddering as he finally exploded. Right in front of you.  

In all these months together, you had never seen him fall apart like this. You had seen him get emotional, you had seen cry from so much laughing, you had comforted his sad days. But you had never seen him like this. As if something had fully broken inside him. As if he genuinely felt past way and beyond repair.

Instincts touched your heart. They woke you up. They had you taking a step forward and dropping your arms to your sides, before freezing you on the spot again.

But then he took a step backward and hit his back against the door, dropping down to the floor while sobbing and gasping for air. And that was more than enough to push you forward. To have you sprinting across the living room and kneeling next to him.

“Lan…” you murmured, hands already reaching for him.

“Fuck,” he cried into his hands, shaking his head and pulling his knees to his chest as if he was trying to make himself disappear. “Fuck, f-fuck… Fu-ck…”

You fought his resistance and found the strength inside you to force him into you. To grab his shoulders and pull him firmly enough until he was falling against your chest and crying on you. With you.

“I… I can’t…”

“Shh…” you whispered, kissing the top of his head and then nuzzling your cheek onto his curls. “It’s okay… Just let it out… Just let it all out…”

He sobbed again, but didn’t fight it anymore. He let you hug his shoulders and hold him close to you, and in return you let him pour everything out. Both sitting on the floor, still under the flickering of the TV. Your back half-against the door, half-against the wall. Legs sprawled while he leaned into you. As awkwardly and as uncomfortably as you could possibly be.

The way he cried and gasped for air hit you with a knife in your chest. You remembered his friend’s words, how this wasn’t the first time it happened to him, how in the past it hadn’t been a one-time thing. And the thought of it scared you. It broke your heart. Imagining him going through this all by himself, in his hotel room. Away from home. Away from you.

Eventually, you lost track of time. You could feel the overall tension of your body. The scratchiness of your own throat after you’d stopped holding back your own tears. The heaviness of his body breathing against you. Then, there was silence. His shakiness slowly turned into weakness, his arms found its way around your waist, and his face nuzzled onto your neck. Gently. Carefully. So vulnerable and so shattered that part of you was afraid of what would come next. Of how he would react to it.

Until he sniffed. And you sniffed.

And then he kissed your shoulder, pressed his lips on top of your—his—hoodie, and pulled back. Sniffing a couple more times, sitting upright, trying to gather himself.

“Thank you,” he said, then cleared his throat. Voice raspy, husky.

You didn’t move from against the wall, just sat a little bit straighter and searched for his eyes. And for his hand. Linking your fingers with his and not letting him pull away. Not again.

“Of course,” you whispered, as if any startling noise could scare him away. “Are you okay? I mean… Not okay, but… Y’know… Okayish? Better than a minute ago?”

Lando’s mouth twitched, as if your words amused him.

“I am, yeah. Better than this whole week, actually.”

You nodded. Slowly. Knowing what the next question would be.

“Have this been happening a lot?”

Lando shrugged. He looked down at your linked hands, brushed his thumb on your knuckles, then rubbed the back of his other hand under his nose and sniffed again.

“Not a lot but… I guess so, yeah… I don’t know.”

“Lan… Babe… Why didn’t you—”

“Don’t.” He closed his eyes. “Please. I hate that you saw me like this. This wasn’t… I didn’t want you to see this.”

“Then what am I here for? Hm? If not to be there for you when you need it?”

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, finally glancing back at you.

With red, puffy, exhausted eyes.

Eyes that searched all over your face.

Eyes that seemed to get softer and softer as they examined you.  

“God, you’re just so… Fuck,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t want to push you away, I just… I didn’t know how to be around you when I’m like this… I didn’t know how to talk about it… I didn’t want it to happen in front of you… And I just… Fuck I don’t know. I made it all worse. Pushing you away made it even worse. I wanted to talk to you so many times… Wanted to get you on a plane and have you right next to me… And when you stopped texting and I realized what I was doing I panicked even worse… I couldn’t stop it anymore, and I didn’t know how to take it back, and I just… Fuck I don’t know, I don’t know. But I’m sorry babe, I’m really sorry.”

You swallowed the new lump in your throat and nodded, blinking away a few tears, then wiping away the one that found a way to fall down your cheek.

“I know,” you said. “I really wish you had told me, tho. I would’ve jumped on that plane in a heartbeat, and I wouldn’t have judged you. Just like I’m not judging you now.”

Lando nodded, looked down at your still connected hands, shuffled on the carpeted floor. “I wasn’t afraid of how you’d react,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t judge me. I was just… Embarrassed, I guess. I don’t… God this is so hard. I hate that I’m failing like this. And I hate that it’s everywhere. I hate that I fucked things with you, I hate that I let you down. I hate that I’m letting everyone down. I hate that I haven’t been driving like I know I can. I hate that—”

“Hey.” You squeezed his hand and leaned forward, closer to him, noticing the way he was working himself up again. “You didn’t let me down.”

“C’mon.” He scoffed, but still glanced at you. “Of course I did. You were right before, about everything you said. How I treated you the last few weeks.”

“I mean, yeah…” You moved closer, your thighs pressing against his as you sat right by his side. Facing him. “I don’t agree with the way you handled things so far, but you didn’t let me down, Lan. I was just… Worried. Because I could tell you weren’t doing okay, and I wanted to be there for you. That’s all.”

He dropped his shoulders, as if leaning into you, too.

“I wished you were there, too,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret that was only for you to hear. “So many times.”

“Well, I’m here now.” You placed your hand on the back of his neck, the one that wasn’t still attached to his fingers, and watched him close his eyes at your touch. Your mouth curled up. “And I’m not going anywhere. Unless you kick me out, of course.”

He sighed, and even if his eyes were still closed, his lips twitched up. Just like yours. “I could never.”

“Good.”

A moment went by. A moment in which you just sat there on the floor, with the TV flickering around you as you scratched the back of his neck and watched him relax under your touch.

“Should we go to bed now?” you asked. “Put things on pause for a bit, get some sleep, and wait until tomorrow to talk about what’s been going on?”

“Fuck, yes.” He dropped his head back with a sigh, as if that was the best idea he’d ever heard. “Please. I haven’t slept properly for so long.”

You smiled and dropped your hand from his neck. “That’s because I wasn’t in bed with you.”

“Oh, I have no doubts of that.” He chuckled and stood up from the floor, then helped you out to do the same. “You actually have no idea how badly I want to hold you right now.”

“I think I do, actually.”

Standing across from each other, you and Lando shared a look, a knowing one. And then you tilted your head towards the bedroom, murmured a c’mon, and moved around him to turn off the TV. Sticking to your words and putting everything on pause. Cursing and chuckling when you realized it was suddenly too dark to see where you were going, then thanking him when he walked ahead and turned on the lights down the hallway.

It felt easy, to find your way back to him. It felt natural. The routine. The little details. As if despite everything, nothing had changed. Not really. You still walked into the bathroom together, then brushed your teeth with the door open. Then, when you walked to the closet and changed into a clean, old t-shirt, Lando stayed behind for a quick shower. Like he always did after a flight. You got into bed first, scrolled down your phone just for a bit, then snuggled under the covers. Facing the wall, the windows, like you always did. Allowing the streetlights and the brightness from the bathroom to be the only things illuminating the room.

A few minutes later, you heard the water from the shower slow down to an end. You heard him move around. You heard him turn off the lights, then step outside and drag his feet to bed. Finally joining you in. Wearing nothing but boxer briefs, smelling like soap, deodorant and shampoo. Wriggling his body closer to yours.

“Fuck this feels good,” he murmured. Breathed out. As if all the tension had finally, finally, left his body.

You smiled. Absorbed the darkness of the night. Felt his hand land timidly on your waist while the warmth from his body made its way to yours.

“Um… It this… I mean…” He cleared his throat. “Can I?”

You frowned at the windows. “Can you what?”

“Y’know…” he trailed off, then tapped his fingers on your side.

“Seriously? Are you asking permission to touch me?”

“I mean, yeah…” He chuckled, a little bit shy. “I’m trying to be respectful. After what happened, I just… I don’t know. Don’t want to assume.”

You rolled your eyes, but let your lips curve into a smile anyway. And then you grabbed his hand and pulled it forward, bringing his arm around you as you kissed his fingers and then pressed them against your chest.

“Don’t you dare stop touching me.”

He sighed, loudly, another chuckle of relief shaking off his chest. Pressing his chest to your back and sneaking his other arm under your neck. Fully spooning you. Tangling legs with you. Kissing the back of your shoulder once, and then twice.

You closed your eyes, but you could tell how much was still happening inside him. How many conflicted emotions were still battling for attention. How much apprehension kept holding back his actions. And you knew you couldn’t change that in one night. You knew half-conversation wouldn’t suddenly fix whatever had cracked between you in the last fifteen days.  But you also knew you were ready to stay anyway. You were ready to listen. You were ready to understand. Or at least try. Because that’s what you always did. Because that’s the kind of person you were.

And then Lando sighed. Just barely. Half-held in his throat. His knee brushed the back of yours. Then pulled away, then touched again. His fingertips moved around your hand, his arm against your chest loosened, then tightened, then stilled again. His other arm, under your neck, twitched. You kept your eyes shut, pretending you weren’t noticing, but keeping track of his tiny movements. How his nose brushed your hair once, then again, like he was turning his face. Finding a spot. How his breath tiredly hit the back of your neck, how his foot tickled yours.

And that’s when you finally whispered, “You’re tossing.”

“Sorry.”

Silence.

Except for his breathing, never settling into a slow rhythm. Never slowing down.

You blinked your eyes open and rolled over, shuffling on the mattress until you were lying face to face and both of your hands were resting on his chest.

He adjusted instantly, eyes meeting yours in the darkness, hand now on your back and sneaking underneath your t-shirt.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he murmured, his breath hitting your chin.

You leaned in just enough to press your forehead against his. Voice lowering to a delicate whisper when you spoke again. “Liar. What’s on your mind? Tell me.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, I do. I definitely do.”

He smiled. Tip of his nose gently brushing yours.

“I missed you,” he said.

And that got a smile out of you, too.

“I missed you too. But am I supposed to believe that’s what’s keeping you awake?”

“I mean…” Lando chuckled, then shrugged.

Through blurry sight, you watched his eyes shift the attention to your mouth, then the way he parted his lips and slid his tongue between them, getting them wet. Those puffy, sweet, tender lips you had missed so much.

Your belly fluttered. Your heartbeat expanded all through your chest.

Taking a deep breath, you moved one hand to his neck, spreading your fingers open until your thumb was running across his mouth.

Lando closed his eyes and pursed his lips, laying one gentle kiss. And then another one. As if he was getting your fingerprint.

You knew where you were getting to. You knew what your next move would be. And yet you didn’t rush it. It was only when Lando pressed his hand on your back and pulled you the tiniest bit closer that you finally caved in. That you moved your hand to his cheek and finally kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. Not at first, at least. Not while you both curled around each other with tenderness and carefulness. Him enveloping your bottom lip, while you took care of his upper one. And then switching so you could both get a taste of all of it.

Lando sighed, as if the last piece of the puzzle had been placed, and you felt yourself smiling at him. So you pulled away, just enough to take a breath and drag your tongue on your own lips, as if savouring him. Or maybe just getting you wet and ready for more. And that seemed to be enough to shift something inside him, because he launched himself forward and covered your mouth with hunger. Taking control over the kiss and demanding a more urgent pace.

It was your turn to sigh. Hand moving to the back of his head and leg hopping around his hips. Mouth parting wider to let his tongue slip in and search for yours.

Lando pushed you onto your back, pressing half of his body on top of yours while one arm remained under your neck and the other wandered down your side.

“Bloody fuck I missed you,” he murmured, kissing you deeper. Louder.

You whined just softly enough for him to hear you, both arms wrapping around his neck, then both hands threading through his still wet hair.

Lando pulled back, then. Panting. Moving his lips down to your jaw, then to your neck. Palm digging onto your flesh as he moved to your belly, then up your chest.

“I love you,” he said. “So much.”

You closed your eyes to the ceiling and smiled, fingers still brushing and still stroking the back of his head.

When he moved back to your face, he pecked your mouth one, two, three times. Then rested his forehead on yours, catching his breath.

“Yep. Now I’m good to sleep,” he murmured.

And at that, you cackled. Genuine laughter floating up your chest and getting through your mouth louder than you intended it to be.

“You’re such an idiot,” you laughed.

And he smiled. Watched you with nothing but fondness and admiration in the green of his eyes.

“I am, yeah.” He moved his hand back to your waist, gave it a light squeeze, and quickly pecked your lips. “And I’m sorry. For everything. I don’t want to lose you. You make everything better. You make me better. And I just... God, I really fucking love you.”

That softened the smile on your face. Teasing and playfulness fading into seriousness and attention.

 “I thought I’d stay at my brother’s until I had... Things…Under control... But then I...” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I was so bloody stupid for thinking I’d be able to get through this without by my side. Without letting you know what was going on. Because then I’d spiral even more… When I couldn’t call you… When I couldn’t talk to you… And then I read your texts... And you asked if I was trying to break up with you...”

He laughed, but there was no humour in it.  

“Never panicked more.”

You pressed your lips together. Let a sigh out of your nose and tilted your head.

“I would apologize for it, but… If that’s what it took for you to come back to me, then I’m not sorry for anything I said.”

He nodded, rolled back on his side and pulled you along with him.

“I know. You shouldn’t be. No matter what I was going through, it wasn’t fair to you.”

“Glad we agree on that.”

Lando smiled, and you smiled, too.

“We do have to talk about what happened,” you added, “but you’re not losing me. You just gotta let me in. Believe me when I say I love you too, every side of you. Even the chaotic, anxious one.”

“Even the loser one?”

“You’re not a loser.”

“Still...” He pulled back an inch and swallowed, searching for your eyes in the comfort of your own dark room. “Will you love me, even if I lose?”

“Babe, I’ll love you even if you decide to leave Formula 1 and run a farm in the mountains.”

Lando smiled. And then he chuckled.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that,” he said, leaning back in and encouraging you to roll over until you were facing the windows once again. “Not now, at least.”

He spooned you from behind, just like he always did.

And then he spoke again, just a quiet murmur by your ear.

“Maybe in the future… When we have kids.”

“Kids?” you gasped with amusement, your voice an octave louder than before.

“Yeah. Kids. Family. The whole thing.”

“You’re thinking about having kids?!”

“Not right now, but... Yeah. In the future. Is that ok?”

You bit your lip, staring through the window as you pictured Lando as a dad. As your husband. As your forever partner in life.

And then, you nodded.

“It is, yeah,” you whispered. “In the paddock… In the mountains… Wherever you want. I’d love to grow old with you.”

He hummed and snuggled into you. And you closed your eyes, relief and happiness finding its way back to you. Like it always did when you were next to him.

“Good night, babe,” he said. “I love you.”

Exhaustion, warmth and comfort pulled you into unconsciousness, but not before you could whisper one more time, “I love you, Lan.”

──────────────────

[kimberlychapman]

Hard same. They tried to get me. My mother pressured me HARD about it...constantly told me I'd "never get a job" if I didn't "put a professional face on" (ie makeup), but she also routinely said I looked like a "slut" if I wore any blue-to-purple shade of eyeshadow (it was the 80s ffs).

I hated putting it on. I hated having to take it off even more. I resented how much there was to it and how expensive it was. I didn't like the smell or the feel.

So one day I stopped wearing it. Just flat-out stopped. I was in my late teens. I kept it around for years and years "just in case" and maybe once or twice beyond that put some on for photos or something, but that was it. I didn't want to do it anymore, so I didn't.

My mother put the pressure on me big time. She never relented, not even up to the point where I estranged myself from my parents entirely. She clearly felt that if she "had to" put on her face to go to the grocery store, how dare I exist in the world publicly without doing it.

Fast forward to my late 40s. In those last pre-pandemic days when I still socialised outside my home, the pressure I got about makeup was constant. When I would politely reply, "Thanks but no thanks" to the "friends" of mine who constantly pressured me to "just try a bit" they were clearly miffed. Again, in them I could see the same resentment of my mother, though it was never clearly stated...if they "had to" do it, how dare I not?

The pandemic hit. They started enjoying not "having to" put it on, but then grumbled about it for zooms, even social ones. At one point during a WI meeting one of them said, "I put on makeup for all of you so you'd better appreciate it!" and then laughed in that "I'm not really kidding" sort of way. I said, "It's okay, you don't have to. We like you just fine with or without it." The reaction was....not good. Once again, how dare I suggest that a woman have her own choice in the matter?

Anyway, these "friendships" degraded pretty fast thereafter. They all wanted to go out again and unmask and wear lipstick and show it off to "share it" with friends, along with the plague germs, I guess.

But I'm still masking up and not wearing makeup. My face isn't for other people's bullshit.

forever grateful i was simply too lazy to let the makeup industrial complex get its hooks in me. I was just like im not doing all of that. in fact. im doing none of that

[nebrasska-alasska]

Quick Announcement

Hello all, hope you are all doing well. I'm just stopping by to say that my family friend who I watched Sonic 3 on opening night with passed away a few days ago unexpectedly. I've been numb and been struggling to process, and it's been kinda rough, to say the least. And this feels kind of weird to share with a bunch of people I don't know, but at the same time, I feel like I need a small break and I just wanted to be upfront with everyone as to why that is instead of just going ghost for a bit.

So basically, I'll just be stepping away from the blog for a week or so to kind of process and take some time. I still have a backlog of fanart to reblog, so I'll probably stop by once a day to work through the amazing pieces people have tagged me in.

And with that being said, I also don't know when the next chapters for my fics will be uploaded (I was only able to publish them this past weekend because they were short and already mostly completed, including the stupid ms paint pictures I posted for them), so I suppose either checking in on this blog or subscribing to the stories themselves will be the best way to know when the next chapters are out. I don't know how long it will take for me to be able to write again, it could be a short while or a long while, but I'll be back soon. Thank you all for understanding, and I wish you and your loved ones to all be in good health <3

[allsteddie]

Car Problems [Steddie]

Based on this Mechanic!Eddie AU and @whathehonestfuk suggestion of Garage Owner!Wayne.

Usually, Wayne prefers to keep out of his nephew’s business. As long as Eddie is doing his job in the garage, his chores at home and is not committing any crimes in his spare time, Wayne tries not to bother him too much.

Their little system has been working very well since Eddie was a teenager, thank you very much, and their life has been quiet and good and without any major events, as life as a garage owner in Hawkings, Indiana, is expected to be.

That is, at least, until the Harrington kid comes into the picture.

Wayne has known the Harringtons for at least twenty years, and he’s fairly sure Eddie and the Harrington kid had not been friends when they were in school. That seems to have changed, though, because it’s been three months since the kid has been showing up at the garage with “car problems” every other week.

That’s bullshit, in Wayne’s humble opinion.

The guy drives a fucking BMW and his family is loaded. He could replace the fucking thing faster than Wayne can climb the stairs that separates the garage from the apartment he shares with his nephew, there’s nothing wrong with his car.

The Harrington kid is here for Eddie. Wayne knows it, everybody who works in the garage knows it, Eddie knows it. The only problem is that Eddie isn’t doing anything about it.

That wouldn’t be a problem if his nephew had no interest in the other kid, but he has. Wayne knows that easy smile and little cocky attitude Eddie puts on whenever Harrington is around, he’s seen him act the same way around Jamie Landon, at least for the couple of months they had dated in High School.

(He can’t say he knows Steve Harrington that well too, but no one would pretend to have car problems so often just to chat with a mechanic if they didn’t have any ulterior reasons, really.)

And yet, here’s Eddie; clearly interested in the Harrington kid, knowing that the other guy is also interested in him and doing absolutely nothing with that knowledge.

Wayne promised himself that he wouldn’t meddle once he noticed his nephew’s predicament. Whatever Eddie wanted to do with his life, Wayne would let him.

But that was before Wayne had to endure, for three months, his nephew and Harrington flirting and exchanging longing glances in the middle of his garage. As patient as Wayne considers himself to be, there’s no way in hell he’s letting this shit go on for much longer.

He doesn’t have to wait much to take action. A week after Harrington’s last visit, on a Saturday morning, from where he’s working on the Parkers’ minivan, Wayne sees the kid’s car approaching.

Harrington parks outside and makes his way quietly in the garage. Wayne just watches as the kid looks around the shop, probably looking for any sign of Eddie. His face drops a little when he doesn’t see Eddie anywhere.

“Can I help you with anything, kid?” Wayne asks, cleaning his hands in a rag as he walks around the minivan and steps towards the boy.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Munson,” Harrington says, with a small wave. “Is Eddie working today?”

“Yes, he is, but he’s on break. Why? Having problems again?”

Harrington hesitates, looking around once more. There’s a blush creeping up his cheeks and he doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands.

“I… er…”

Wayne sighs. He finishes cleaning the grease off his hands and stuffs the rag in his back pocket, before lifting his gaze to look Harrington in the eye.

“Do you like my nephew, kid?” he asks, bluntly.

“What!?”

“Hey, I’m not judging. I just wanna know. Do you like my nephew?”

There’s hesitation there again, and something close to panic, but the Harrington kid is no coward, apparently, because after the first shock, he seems to get a grip on himself and nods.

“Yes,” he says, face so red someone could mistake it for a sunburn. “Yes, I do.”

Good enough for Wayne.

“Do you want to come by tonight for dinner? I’m meeting some friends at Joe’s, but Eddie’s gonna be home. You boys can talk things over then.”

Whatever Harrington had been expecting when he decided to drop by the garage this morning, Wayne Munson asking him on a date on behalf of his nephew was clearly not it. He doesn’t utter a word.

“Harrington,” Wayne presses and the boy snaps out of it, large eyes staring at Wayne with a mix of shock and wonder. “Do you want to come over tonight for dinner?"

“Yes!” He squeaks. Clears his throats, then tries again. “Yes, Mr. Munson. I’d love to come over tonight.”

“Very well. I’m heading out at seven, so you should stop by seven thirty.”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Wayne agrees. “Now, please, stop pretending you’re having problems with that fucking car and come back when my nephew is not on the clock. I’ll let him know you guys have a date tonight.”

“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!”

“Just go home, Harrington.”

“Right, sorry.”

With a few more apologies, Harrington gets into his car and gets the fuck out of there in record time, the vehicle driving smoothly and without a single weird noise, as Wayne well knew it would.

Car problems. Yeah, right.

“Was that Steve’s car?”

Wayne turns around and sees Eddie walking back to the shop after his break. The disappointment clear as day on his face.

“Yes, it was. Looks like there was nothing wrong with his car this time after all,” Wayne says.

The frown on Eddie’s face deepens and Wayne gathers all the self-control he’s got to stop himself from laughing.

“Good for him, then,” Eddie mutters, displeased.

“Yeah, good for him,” Wayne agrees. He pats his nephew on the shoulder as he passes him, then stops when Eddie finally looks at him. “Oh, and before I forget, Harrington is coming over for dinner tonight.”

“Wha- are you… what!?”

“I asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner tonight and he said yes. He’ll be here by seven thirty.”

“What do you mean!? You’re going out with your friends tonight.”

Wayne finally lets out a laugh. “I know, but you’re not. Congratulations, Eddie, you’re finally getting a date with Steve Harrington.”

He pats his nephew’s shoulder again, then goes back to work.

@nicememerino, tagged as promised.

[espressheauxs]

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 || 𝐈 || 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭

summary : the “right person, wrong time” kind of chaos decided it wasn’t done with him – it hadn’t really started, after all. It wanted him to feel in a way that not even Plato could immortalize the kind of punishment Zeus would strike down on him for feeling he deserved again. It was starved of a beginning, of a place in Jack’s life.

pairing : jack abbot x f!reader

words : 2.2k~

themes/warnings : MINORS DNI/DNR. Loads, and I’m talking LOADS of hurt before the comfort that follows, Age gap relationship (reader starts off in her 20s & jack in his 30s, progresses to late 20s/early 30s & jack in his 40s), implications of power imbalance, inappropriate workplace feelings, heavily implied emotional infidelity, actual infidelity (not from Jack or reader), mentions of grief/death/being widowed, religious/mythology references & allegory, mentions of mental/emotional health issues, jealousy, misunderstanding because two idiots are in love with each other, miscommunication because said idiots do not communicate with each other, mentions of therapy and medication, conflicting feelings about having/wanting children and being married, jack is so down *bad* for you like he just wants to give you the world, eventual smut maybe idk yet, Shen is a bestie ™ , reader has some specific / non North American characteristics / cultural references, but anyone is welcome to read!

p.s: if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

note : wow a mostly fully outlined fic is in the works. So far I’ve messily outline 5 parts. Thank you sosososososo much to @slyyywriting @celestianstars for proof reading. Also, @abbotjack you made a post asking to be emotionally endangered with anything jack related…okhereyougobyeeeeee

Jack never really had to think about the phrase “right person, wrong time”.

He thought he had “right person, right time” figured out, until life decided it wasn’t really going to be fair and vanish the floor out from under his feet.

The grief still keeps up with its daily appointments, reminding him it still exists with each prescription and psych appointment he has.

That he, after losing more than just part of his leg, now has to learn how to exist as only himself with his heart missing as well. It still is, or was, some days. He was still trying to figure that part out.

Medicine was his only purpose now. Has been for a long time. Only the chaos is different now – more controlled, predictable.

The “right person, wrong time” kind of chaos decided it wasn’t done with him – it hadn’t really started, after all. It wanted him to feel in a way that not even Plato could immortalize the kind of punishment Zeus would strike down on him for feeling he deserved again. It was starved of a beginning, of a place in Jack’s life.

His life decides he needs it now– the chaos night you start shifts with him; you transferred starting in your last year of residency, some 400 something miles east of Pittsburgh, chasing a purpose, a challenge, an ideal.

Dana loves you instantly, and much to Jack’s chagrin, you find a camaraderie in Dr. Shen in between iced coffee runs and bad jokes while charting.

Jack often sees you arrive a little while before he does, chatting it up with the nurses in the break room over the latest episode of British Bake Off, or huddling over a shared plate of pansit on the nights no one ever dares to call it the Q-word. Other nights, it’s steamy plates of your carbonara on the nights no one ever wants to label the S-word.

You’ve always offered when he walks by, but he simply shakes his head and mumbles a gentle thank you.

It fascinates him, the way you’re close with everyone. He’s close with Dana and Robby, but you are something else entirely different to him – professional, and enthusiastic to learn from anything Jack had to say keeps a safe enough distance from either of you reaching for anything more than an easy going working relationship.

The distance also exists as the ring that he wears, and so do you, in a necklace tucked under your scrubs – as the love he’s afraid will die a second death if he doesn’t hold on to the last memory he has, and the one that had just been borne to you.

He’s easily got at least a decade and change on you. It’s not appropriate, he knows. He’s pushing forty something, your attending, and you’re his newly minted resident in her twenties. Barely having started living life.

Jack thinks you’re too sweet sometimes. A lot of the time, really. It’s the way your face warms up when he looks directly at your eyes when he asks you why you make a decision or a give a dosage, or the way your nose sweats a little when he compliments you on a job well done.

Yet he admires it all the same, especially when he sees how you are with the oldest and the smallest patients.

Especially with the smallest ones that came in crying and left happy after dealing with a hair tourniquet on a nine month old’s little thumb. The parent thanks you with a watery laugh and a smile, and the baby squawks happily when you magic a small toy from the hospital’s gift shop from your scrubs pocket and pretend to make it sing.

He does not, can not, let himself dream about something far more dangerous than being shot at. It felt like a betrayal to the memory of a life and a love he barely got to live.

—

He doesn’t remember exactly when it happens or what you said, but you had opened up his chest in a pseudo emotional thoracotomy and burrowed yourself into his heart just by being you, if only to mend whatever he had left of it from the inside.

Night by night, case by case, guidance on your research in exchange for the good protein bars from Shen’s secret snack stash only you knew about.

Jack feels it ardently when you’re performing an actual thoracotomy under his guidance. Lithe fingers slicing and examining a bloodied heart.

His throat just aboutdries up when you look at him - not because it disgusts him (he’s seen far, far worse) , but seeing how you maneuvered someone’s thoracic cavity and their heart was like feeling it in his own, slowly being fixed by you, being examined for further damage that could be fixed.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he says after the patching up is done and he looks at you with blood smeared all over his gloved hands.

“Yeah, you think so, Doc?” You ask in a hushed tone, eyes glistening with enthusiasm and adrenaline.

His heart knows he shouldn't like it, the way it looks when you’re coming down from the high of saving a life while blood is smeared all over you.

Jack huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and looking at you with admiration and disbelief at your own fearlessness when breaking someone’s chest open, “Take the win. Besides, it was far too risky to do it by myself.”

You don’t immediate catch the way the timbre of his voice drops as he says it, but the look in his eyes gives it away mostly, and it leaves you feeling baffled by his praise for the first time.

“..what?” Your lips tug awkwardly, not knowing how to react or what to do, especially not with bloody PPE that has definitely been soaked all the way through.

—

Somehow, there’s a closeness between you that follows. Of things left unsaid yet understood. Often silently working like a well oiled machine, a singular unit perfectly in sync while caring for a patient, affirming your decisions and you wordlessly predicting what he needed in the ER.

When Robby had asked Jack who he would recommend as a fellow out of your group, he didn’t think twice when he said your name.

“She’s the smartest one out of all of us,” he’d once said to Robby while nursing a doordash order on the roof , “this hospital would be stupid not to keep her.”

He’d certainly be for not advocating for the best resident he’s had in years.

Robby had recommended Shen. Not because he didn’t like you or because he didn’t think you were capable. But reading Jack’s glowing recommendation about you only affirmed what he suspected. Time would only tell if Jack himself could see beyond his own words.

Shen stretches out a hand, blindly sipping on his coffee as Robby and Dana slip him a $50 bill each the next time they’re in front of the betting board.

—

Jack finds himself lingering, feeling a little more, without knowing how or when – only that he does, and you exist in him long after the sun has gone up and the moon has gone down.

The corners of his lips tug in a secret smile, as his nose is able to catch the whiff of your perfume and your own smell whenever he helps tie your surgical gown and you help with his.

He tries, he really does try to ignore the feeling that burrows itself deep whenever you pat his back after helping him tie on the surgical gown.

Your hands always lingered a little longer than they should, like a balm to soothe his aches, as if to tell him - “I have you. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Jack finds it easier to sleep in his bed on the days that you do, as if your touch carries him all the way to safety, away from sand & heat and the phantom burn he still felt in his leg.

On those nights, he dreams of a feeling that only wakes when he’s not.

—

The two of you never, ever fought. Disagreements? Sure. Difference of opinion only to arrive at the same answer? Definitely.

Jack knows that that’s what he likes about you since you came on several months ago. You’re definitely the favorite out of all the residents he’s taught. The prodigal resident that was never afraid to ask why decisions were being made.

It’s what makes you an excellent doctor in his eyes, noticing things that people often don’t. It was easier for him to teach a resident that was self confident but not arrogant, and unafraid to get their hands bloody.

But your fearlessness was something he didn’t like if it involved you making a decision that put you at risk.

Sure, he’d sometimes find it funny when you were the only one to vocally tell Gloria to fuck off when she knew fuck all about being on the front lines after she denied yet another increase in security (until then, no one had ever heard you drop so many f-bombs - Jack couldn’t not laugh when he was there to witness Robby’s eyebrows all but fly to his hairline when it happened). No one but Robby ever did that (less riddled with cuss words), everyone else simply ignored what she said.

Hell, you’d even ignore what Jack would say sometimes in light hearted, less life or death situations.

But this? It was never, never this – making a decision of this magnitude without consulting him on something you’d ever only seen him do once.

“You should’ve never, ever done that by yourself.” His eyes are full of bewilderment at the mess that he had walked into as the patient is rushed to OR 1 upstairs.

“Yeah, well, I did what you taught me to do – if I waited any longer for you to tell me what to do the patient would’ve fucking bled out!”

It’s the first time the two of you ever got into an argument. The two of you never, ever argued especially not in the middle of a literal bloody mess where everyone could see and hear. But your patience was worn past thin and your fucks had long flown out the window.

“I’m your attending, that’s not the kind of decision a resident gets to make on their own!”

Jack isn’t prepared for the way you all but stomp your foot on the pedal of the biohazard bin, practically shoving your bloodied scrubs and gloves into the damn thing. Nor is he prepared for the way you point at him furiously with your left hand, where he sees the thin band of silver taunting him.

He is not a religious man, but in that moment he knows he became a martyr for a love that could never be worshipped like he used to know how to do.

“You do not get to pull rank on me!” Your voice is loud, and you’re well past the point of giving a fuck after the way your life in and out of this hospital has been lately. “I may be younger than you, Dr. Abbot, but I’m not fucking stupid!”

“That was not the standard of care.” His voice drops, full of warning as he looks directly at you. For the first time in years, the tinnitus in his ears re-emerges as his eyes flit between your face and your hand. “You’re lucky that it’s something I’m not reporting.”

He regrets it the instant he sees the way the shock on your face melts into disenchantment, and the bile burns at his throat when he sees the way light leaves your eyes.

It's the first time in a long time he wished he’d rather fall on a sword, rather than ever see that look again.

The look that told him what everyone else could see between you – that you were to Jack what Psyche was to Eros.

That you cared about him and what he had to say in a way that was more than appropriate.

Your chest heaves as you look at him, eyes riddled with a rage that squeezes in his heart. His eyes zero in on the ring again as you rub your face, hair wild in all directions from the braid it was in.

“Well fuck the standard of care, and fuck you for making me feel like shit.”

The smallness and the vulnerability in your voice hits Jack squarely where it hurts, in the places where you had started to carefully stitch the broken pieces of him back together.

“Take a bre–”

The words die on his lips as you shoulder past him, shoving the door open and knob rattling as you let it go to storm your way out and past the nurses station and down the hall.

That night, a patient’s heart was saved at the expense of two.

—

© espressheauxs, 2025

[stylesispunk]

"whatever you'd like us to be" | part 3

harry castillo (materialists) x fem!reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: the one where you and harry have your first fight.

w.c: 5,7k >

warnings: age gap (harry is 45, reader is 29-30), fake dating, fluff, angst, miscommunication. a lot of kissing for two people who are just pretending to date. me, and that's the biggest warning.

A/N: Hi! I wanted to share a brief update with you. This one was fun to write, but at the same time, it feels like coming back to my angsty roots. The game between them is getting too real now. I was thinking about that specific Pedro's fit, that green shirt and bye. Your reblogs and comments mean a great deal to me, so please don't hesitate to share your thoughts, as I truly enjoy reading them. Thank you so much, and happy reading!

Remember, I now have an AO3 account, where I'm also posting the chapters.

The moment Harry’s lips brushed yours again, softer and more insistent this time, something in you just cracked.

You started laughing out of nowhere.

It bubbled out of your chest before you could stop it, and you felt him freeze for a second, pulling back just enough to frown playfully down at you.

“Are you—are you laughing right now?” he asked, one brow arched, trying so hard to look offended, but the corners of his mouth were already twitching.

You pressed a hand to your face, shaking your head as you kept giggling. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why. I think I’m just—” you gasped between laughs, “I’m tired and this whole ridiculous night and… you… and your face when you kissed me like we’re in the middle of a movie...”

“Wow,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms, pretending to be wounded. “My face?”

You doubled over in laughter then, the sheer absurdity of everything hitting you at once. And when you glanced up again, he was laughing too, shaking his head, his hand on his chest like he was genuinely offended but absolutely not.

“I swear to God,” he grinned, pointing at you, “you are magical.”

“I know,” you managed between breathless laughs. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

He moved closer, eyes soft, and without thinking twice, he kissed the tip of your nose.

And you laughed again.

And so did he.

Something broke. Perhaps the wall used as limit between the both of you, perhaps the fear. You had no clue. But all of this…You had no idea how to stop a feeling that had came in a natural way.

You were addictive to Harry in a way he could had never imagined.

And Harry? Harry was the kind of love you had always dreamed of.

After the both of you had stopped laughing. He glanced at you, longer than it was needed.

“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked, brushing up the warmth that tinted his cheeks in red color.

You gave a soft laugh as you stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, it’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

Harry grinned, brushing past you just close enough to make your heart stutter in your chest again. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, trying and failing to fight back the smile tugging at your lips as he disappeared down the hall. The door clicked shut, and you exhaled a long, shaky breath, leaning your back against the wall for a second.

What the hell are you doing?

This was supposed to be fake. Safe. A harmless deal to get people off your backs, not stolen glances and soft kisses and him making your heart trip over itself like some idiot in a bad rom-com.

And now he was in your apartment. Using your bathroom. Like he belonged there. In the space of your life.

You pushed off the wall and wandered into the tiny living room, absently tidying the already tidy throw pillows, too aware of your own reflection in the dark window, the faintest hint of a blush still on your cheeks.

A moment later, the bathroom door creaked and Harry’s voice floated out.

You didn’t even realize how heavy your eyelids had gotten until you felt yourself sway a little on your feet. The adrenaline, the tension of the night, it all hit you at once like a wave you couldn’t fight anymore.

Without thinking, you made your way to your bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to take off your heels or fix the way your dress twisted awkwardly around you. One of your heels dangled off your foot while the other was half-planted on the floor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The soft, familiar comfort of your mattress felt like heaven after this night.

Somewhere in the haze between awake and sleep, you heard footsteps. A familiar scent, something like clean cedar and warmth, surrounded you as Harry appeared in the doorway.

You barely cracked one eye open, your voice a lazy, mumbled whisper.

“How many hours were you there?”

He huffed a soft laugh, moving closer. “I was in there like for five minutes.”

You let out a weak, sleepy little laugh, eyes falling shut again as you murmured, “Felt like hours.”

Harry crouched down beside the bed, his hand gently brushing your arm, careful, tender. “Hey, do you want to change out of this dress? Or are you committing to this look for the night?”

You smiled; eyes still closed. “Committing.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray piece of hair off your face, and you felt the mattress dip slightly as he sat on the edge.

“You have those tiny soaps in your bathroom.”

You laughed. “Hey, those came in a gift basket! And they smell amazing, don’t lie.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as his arms slid beneath you, one around your back and the other under your knees, effortlessly lifting you a few inches off the bed.

“Let’s change you into your pajamas,” he murmured, a teasing edge in his voice. “Okay?”

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to smirk at him. “I sleep naked,” you joked, your words slow and slurred with exhaustion but your grin entirely smug.

He groaned, his head dropping for a second against your shoulder as he let out a laugh. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered, the warmth of his breath brushing against your neck, making your skin tingle.

“Not my fault you’re the one insisting on taking care of me” you teased softly, letting your head fall against his shoulder as he sat you up.

He grabbed one oversized sleep shirt from the edge of your bed that he supposed it was your pajama. The soft fabric smelled a little like laundry detergent and you, your perfume. A scent he had found himself becoming addicted to. He held it up for you to see it.

“Will this do?”

You grinned; eyes half-lidded as you reached out for it. “That’s my pajama.”

Harry helped tug the dress’s zipper down, averting his eyes with dramatic over-the-top modesty as if was fighting looking at the bare skin in front of him, though the faint smirk on his face betrayed him.

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, pulling the sleep shirt over your head.

“If you say so,” he replied, tossing your dress onto the nearby chair before helping you lay back down properly, your head hitting the pillow with a sigh of relief.

He draped the blanket over you and lingered for a second, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“You, okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, the words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. All you managed was a quiet, honest, “Yeah.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then crouched down beside the bed, his face so close to yours you could see the stars inside those brown eyes even in the dim light.

“Do you want me to take your makeup off?” he asked gently, his voice barely a murmur like he was afraid to break whatever strange, delicate thing had settled between you both tonight.

You huffed a quiet, amused breath, your lips curling up. “You offering spa services now, Harry?”

He grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Full package, sweetheart. No extra charge.”

You laughed, something soft and weightless in your chest, and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

He stood and disappeared into your bathroom for a second, coming back with a makeup wipe he must’ve found in one of the drawers. He knelt beside you again and carefully started wiping away the makeup from your skin, slow, tender strokes that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t fully understand.

Neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for your steady breaths and the soft drag of the wipe against your skin.

“You’ve got no idea how beautiful you look like this,” he murmured, almost to himself, like it wasn’t meant to slip out.

Your eyes fluttered open to look at him, and for a second, you didn’t have it in you to tease him.

“Harry…”

He met your gaze, his expression open and raw in a way you hadn’t seen before. Like the carefully crafted version of him that belonged to the world out there didn’t exist in here, in your tiny apartment.

“I’m sorry for tonight,” he said again, his hand brushing a thumb over your cheek. “For being a selfish prick.”

Your heart ached and melted in the same beat. You caught his hand in yours, holding it there.

“I’m still mad,” you whispered. “But you are everything but a selfish prick” you smiled at him.

Harry let out a soft, breathless laugh, the kind that sounded like it surprised even him. His shoulders dropped a little, like the weight he’d been carrying all evening loosened just enough to breathe.

“You’re dangerous to me, you know that?” he murmured, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth like he was fighting the urge to kiss you again. “I come here thinking I’m the one calling the shots and you… you wreck me that easily.”

You grinned, your thumb absently brushing over the back of his hand. “Good.”

He chuckled, leaning his forehead gently against yours, his free hand cradling the side of your face. The warmth of him so close, the soft, unguarded way he was looking at you, it made your heart stumble in your chest.

He placed a kiss on your cheek “Thank you for blessing my life with your light.”

You chuckled, “Goodnight, Harry.”

His smile softened, something almost reverent in his gaze as he whispered back, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, his hand still against your face, your fingers tangled with his. And then, like he didn’t quite want to let go, he gave your hand one final squeeze before slipping away, turning off the bedside lamp and letting the soft hush of the room wrap around you both.

Even in the dark, you could sense him looking your way one last time.

And just before sleep pulled you under, you heard his voice, low and rough and meant only for you.

“Sweet dreams, my treasure.”

During the Saturday midday, the lunch rush was starting to pick up, the warm hum of conversation blending with the whir of the espresso machine and the occasional clang of cups against saucers. You were halfway through rattling off instructions to Mia and Celine about restocking the pastries when the bell above the door chimed.

“Mia, make sure we’ve got enough croissants for the next hour, and double-check the almond ones, they’ve been flying out.”

She nodded, jotting it down on her little notepad. You turned to Evan, pointing toward the register.

“Ev, can you handle the front while I—”

And then you saw Harry.

Standing in the doorway of your coffee shop like something straight out that movie scene you would’ve rolled your eyes at any other day. Hair a little messy fresh out the shower, sunglasses perched on his head, that infuriatingly perfect green shirt with his collar, unbuttoned.

Your heart stuttered so hard you were half-convinced everyone might’ve heard it.

He spotted you instantly, his whole face changing the second his eyes landed on yours, softening, his mouth curving into that boyish, slightly crooked smile that did terribly inconvenient things to your stomach and set your belly on fire.

You swallowed, blinking like you were trying to ground yourself, still holding the half-empty tray of muffins in your hands.

“Uh…Ev, cover me for a second, yeah?”

You barely waited for Evan’s distracted “Yeah, boss, got it” before making your way toward the front.

Harry leaned against the counter, as casual as if he hadn’t nearly broken and mend your heart last night, as if he belonged in this little world of yours.

“Hey, trouble” he greeted softly, his voice a touch rough around the edges, maybe nerves, maybe lack of sleep, maybe… something else.

You crossed your arms, trying for composed and unimpressed, though your pulse was doing its own thing entirely.

“Didn’t expect to see you here at this hour,” you said, arching a brow.

“I didn’t come here for the coffee today,” he replied, that small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He glanced around the place like it was the first time he’d really seen it. Then his gaze settled back on you, they even darkened a little.

“Came for you.”

“Harry, I know I’m the boss here, but I’m working.”

Harry chuckled softly, leaning a little closer across the counter, his voice dropping to that familiar teasing murmur only meant for you.

“Yeah? Well, I’m on my break,” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes, biting down a smile you weren’t about to let him fully see. “You don’t work here, Harry.”

“Details.” He shrugged, shameless, that playful gleam in his eyes making your pulse skip again. “Can’t a man visit the woman who’s been haunting his thoughts since she kicked him out of her apartment last night?”

You sighed, shaking your head as you grabbed a clean rag and started wiping down the counter just to give your hands something to do.

“I didn’t kick you out,” you mumbled.

“You practically tucked me in and sent me home,” he shot back, grinning wider when your cheeks gave you away, warming with color. “Which was admittedly very adorable, by the way.”

“Harry…” you warned, though the edge in your voice was soft, barely there.

He held up his hands in mock surrender, but his expression sobered, that teasing edge melting into something gentler.

“I just wanted to see you,” he said, quieter now. “Make sure we’re… okay. And if it takes me ordering a dozen pastries to keep you standing here a few more minutes, I’ll do it.”

You glanced at him, his eyes open and sincere in a way that tugged at something deep inside you. The little hum of the shop around you faded for a second.

“I’m mad.” you muttered, not quite able to hide the softness behind it.

But harry completely ignored you, “Hey, Mia, right? May you take my order, please?” he asked, leaning casually on the counter.

Mia blinked, cheeks a little pink. “Uh—y-yeah, of course! What can I get for you?”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “Harry…” you warned.

He shot you a sidelong glance, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Since the boss is too busy to serve me,” he teased, “I’ll have whatever pastry she makes best. And a vanilla late. Extra hot.”

Mia gave you an uncertain look, like she wasn’t sure if she was about to get in trouble or win employee of the month. You sighed dramatically, shaking your head.

“It’s fine, Mia. I’ll get it.”

Mia gave a little relieved laugh and stepped aside.

Harry straightened up, that smug grin still in place. “See? Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“I fucking hate you,” you muttered under your breath, ducking behind the counter, grabbing a fresh pastry from the display like you weren’t internally melting under the weight of his gaze.

Harry chuckled, following your movement with a lazy, satisfied kind of grin. “You keep saying that, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning his elbows on the counter to watch you work. “But somehow, you keep feeding me.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, plating the pastry with a little too much force. “That’s called customer service, asshole.”

“Mmm, sure it is.” He grinned wider, tilting his head. “You always call your customers assholes?”

“Only the ones who deserve it.” You slid the plate toward him with a sharp little smirk.

Harry reached for it, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear.

“At least, I’m your favorite?”

Your stomach flipped. Damn him. And you hated how easy it was for him to do this, to walk in here like he owned the place, like last night hadn’t left your heart in knots.

You sighed, shaking your head with a helpless, reluctant smile as you handed him his coffee. “Don’t push your luck.”

You watched him casually grab a seat near the window, his posture relaxed but somehow still commanding the whole space. From behind the counter, you caught glimpses of him making calls, occasionally typing on his phone, all while seeming completely at ease in your little shop.

Evan sidled up beside you, elbow resting on the counter with a knowing grin. “You know, boss, you’ve been staring at him for like ten minutes.”

You rolled your eyes, hoping your face wasn’t too obvious. “I’m not staring.”

“Sure, you’re not,” Evan teased, voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “Boss, you’re practically drooling.”

You shot him a warning glare and quickly turned back to the orders piling up, but you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through your chest every time you caught Harry’s gaze, even if he didn’t know you were watching.

An hour slipped by. The midday rush had died down, and you were finally catching your breath when the bell above the door chimed.

You didn’t think much of it at first, just another customer, until you looked up, and your stomach did a full somersault.

Harry’s mom and his sister.

Walking into your coffee shop like as it they had picked your café as their weekly meeting place.

Your eyes widened so fast you were sure everyone in the place could hear your heart slamming against your ribs. You felt the unmistakable heat crawl up your neck and into your face, and Evan, ever the menace, leaned in with a smirk.

“Oh my God,” he whispered under his breath. “Boss, you’re so red.”

You sent daggers to him, and he immediately backed up.

Harry looked up from his phone, and the second he saw them, a grin spread across his face, but not before his gaze flickered toward you. Like he already knew this was going to fluster you, and maybe… enjoyed it just a little too much.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to take a deep breath, wipe your palms on your apron, and walk over to their table like you weren’t internally debating sprinting out the back door.

Harry was already smirking when you reached them, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, the other nursing a cup of coffee he hadn’t even touched.

His mom spotted you first, and her whole face lit up like she’d just run into a long-lost friend.

“Darling!” she exclaimed, rising slightly from her seat as if to greet you properly. “How are you?”

And if that wasn’t bad enough, his sister, sitting across from her, grinned like she’d just been let in on the world’s juiciest secret.

You swallowed hard, your voice wobbling only slightly.

“I’m good, thank you. Um—how are you both?”

Harry’s mom reached out, catching your hand in hers with so much tenderness.

“Oh, so much better now that we finally get to see your place! It’s adorable, just like Harry said it was.”

You blinked, side-eyeing Harry, who had the audacity to wink at you.

You cleared your throat, trying to remember how words worked.

“Uh—thank you. Really. And it’s nice to see you again, Liz.”

Liz leaned her elbow on the table, chin propped in her hand as she grinned up at you.

“You’re even prettier in daylight. And honestly, we’ve been dying to try this coffee ever since someone wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

You felt your face burn again, and somewhere behind you; Evan coughed a laugh.

“I—uh—I’ll get you both something,” you stammered, retreating a little. “On the house.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine. Really.” You flashed the politest, not-at-all-panicking smile you could manage before turning and practically speed-walking back behind the counter.

As soon as you were out of earshot, you slapped Evan on the arm. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

He just grinned. “I didn’t have to. Your face did all the talking.”

You didn’t even look back at the table as you practically dove into your tiny office behind the counter, shutting the door and leaning against it like it might protect you from the whirlwind Harry Castillo had just dragged into your coffee shop.

Your pulse was still racing, your stomach a tangled knot of nerves and frustration. God, you could kill him. Who just shows up in your work unannounced, plants himself there like he owns the place, and then drags his mom and sister in like it’s some casual brunch meet-and-greet?

You hated how easily he made himself at home in your world. Hated that your heart still fluttered like some reckless idiot at the sight of him.

A knock came at the office door a moment later before Evan let himself in, carrying a tray of two iced lattes and a pastry.

“Don’t stab me,” he said lightly, setting them down on your desk. “I come in peace. And with gossip.”

You gave him a look. “What now?”

Evan smirked. “Harry Castillo asked for you.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were in your office. Which is true.” He shrugged, then grinned. “He looked kinda bummed. Poor guy. Big bad finance guy being iced out by the boss lady.”

“Good,” you muttered, plopping down in your chair and scowling at the door. “He deserves to be bummed. Who the hell does this, Evan? Who brings his family without warning? I can’t—” you gestured vaguely to the air, “—do this. I didn’t sign up for… whatever the hell this is.”

Evan sat on the edge of your desk, one brow arched. “I thought you knew them already?

You glared at him. “I do. But it’s not that simple.”

“Mmm,” Evan hummed knowingly. “Sure seems like it should be. But hey — for what it’s worth? His mom and sister seem pretty crazy about you.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the chair. “I’m going to throw him out the second I step out there.”

Evan patted your shoulder. “I’ll light a candle for him.”

And with that, he grabbed the empty tray and sauntered back out, leaving you alone in your storm of tangled feelings.

The worst part? A small, traitorous part of you didn’t want Harry to leave your side.

A few minutes later, another knock came at the door, but this one was softer. You huffed out a breath, assuming it was Evan again coming back to poke the bear.

“Evan, I swear to God—”

The door cracked open, and it wasn’t Evan.

Harry peeked in, his stupidly handsome face cautious and unapologetic. His hair a little mussed like he’d been running his hand through it, he was nervous. The moment your eyes met his, your heart betrayed you with a sharp, uninvited thud.

“Hey,” he said quietly, lingering in the doorway. “Can I…?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, giving him a pointed glare. “I’m working.”

“I know,” Harry murmured, stepping inside anyway and closing the door behind him. “Just… needed a minute.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched as he shifted his weight awkwardly, his confidence from earlier stripped down to something more vulnerable.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you,” he went on, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t thinking. My mom and Liz just… they were nearby and wanted to stop by, and it was a dumb call not to ask you first. I’m sorry.”

You wanted to stay mad. You really did. But his voice had that unguarded edge again, the same one from your apartment last night, and it made it so damn hard.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “You’re breaking all the rules again.”

He smiled faintly, a shadow of the cocky grin you knew. “Yeah… I figured.”

You sighed, your walls crumbling just a little. “You can’t keep doing this, Harry. You can’t drop into my life whenever you feel like it and drag your whole world with you. I’m not some accessory you can introduce like a prop. I’m… me. This is my place. My job. My people. Whatever mess we have, that’s outside and just for pretending, so stop playing with me.”

Harry’s grin faltered, and for a second, you saw it, the flicker of guilt, of something raw and sincere beneath the charm he wore like armor.

“I’m not playing with you,” he said, voice low, steady in a way that made your pulse stutter. “I swear to God, I’m not. I… I get it, alright? I’ve been a selfish bastard about this, about us, if there even is an us, and I keep showing up without thinking how it affects you. That’s on me.”

You kept your arms crossed, every word digging under your skin because part of you wanted to believe him and another part didn’t know if you should.

“Harry, this was supposed to be fake. A plan. A harmless distraction to piss off an ex and get your ego stitched back together. I never signed up for this.”

“I know,” he breathed, his hand dragging through his hair like he was trying to pull himself together. “I swear it wasn’t planned. I wasn’t thinking. I just… fuck, I wanted to see you.”

Your throat tightened painfully, because damn it, this wasn’t supposed to hurt like this.

He took a careful step forward, closing the space between you. His voice softened, the way it did when it was just you and him, stripped of every audience, every performance.

“Let me be part of your life, as a friend at least.” he admitted. “

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, I know.”

You sighed, the last of your walls giving way, exhausted from holding them up for so long.

“Fine,” you muttered.

The clocked marked eight p.m. The sun had set a long time ago and you had sent Evan, Celine and Mia home, promising you were going to be in charge of closing the shop tonight. You were wiping down the last table, the chairs already stacked, your playlist of soft acoustic covers playing low in the background.

The bell above the door jingled softly, and even without looking up, you knew it was Harry.

It was getting late, the street outside quieting down, the golden glow of your café’s hanging lights reflecting off the glass.

You sighed, a tired smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you straightened up and turned to the door.

There he was, in the same outfit as before, hair a little messy, two brown paper bags in his hands. His smile was small, almost sheepish this time.

“I brought peace offerings,” he announced softly, lifting the bags.

You crossed your arms, trying your best to look unimpressed, though the warmth blooming in your chest made it difficult.

“It’s late,” you said, glancing at the clock. “Kitchen’s closed. Staff’s gone. You should be, too.”

“I know,” he replied, stepping fully inside, letting the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. “But you weren’t answering my texts, and I figured you’d still be here. You always stay up late.”

You raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged with a crooked grin, setting the bags down on one of the tables you hadn’t cleared yet.

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched up. “What’s in the bags?”

“Pasta,” he grinned, opening one to reveal takeout containers from that hole-in-the-wall place you’d dragged him to once and swore by. The kind of place no one would guess a guy like him would even step foot in. “And wine but technically not, since you get a bit tipsy.”

You tried not to melt, but damn it, it was getting harder. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grinned, pulling out two forks and waving one at you. “

You sighed, dropping the rag on the counter and walking over, the exhaustion of the day settling heavy in your bones, but somehow, seeing him here, looking at you like you were the only thing in the room, made it all feel a little easier to carry.

“Thank you” you melted, sitting across from him as he started unpacking the food.

His smile softened, and this time it wasn’t cocky, wasn’t teasing.

“Do you have glasses?” he asked, looking around.

“No, but I have two mugs inside my office” you replied, walking towards there.

Then you came back with the two mismatched mugs from your office, one with a faded Central Perk logo, the other a plain white one you’d meant to replace for months. Harry grinned when he saw them.

“Classy,” he teased softly, but you caught the fondness in his eyes as he took them from your hands.

“Shut up. It’s all we have,” you smirked, leaning your hip against the counter as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured the deep red liquid into each mug.

The café was so quiet now, just the soft hum of the fridge in the back, the faint music still playing, and your heartbeat hammering too loud in your ears as he stood so close. His shoulder brushed yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

Then, you felt him stiffen, his hand pausing mid-pour as if some invisible current passed between you. He turned his head, his gaze locking with yours.

And before you could even take a breath, his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t the testing, uncertain kind of kiss you’d shared in the middle of that party, or the hesitant one in your apartment. This was desperate, unspoken words crashing into each other. You melted instantly, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt as he stepped into you, deepening the kiss like he’d been starving for it.

Your back hit the counter, and in one easy move, he lifted you up onto it, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to keep him close.

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, both of you breathless. His forehead pressed against yours, his hands gripping your thighs like he wasn’t sure if he should be apologizing or saying something else entirely.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he murmured.

Your lips curved into a smile, catching your breath. “Break the rules?” you asked.

“Oh, shut up for once,” Harry grinned against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, like he was savoring it, like you were the only thing in the world worth tasting.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, his hand cradling the back of your neck as he pressed gentle kisses there, then to the hollow just beneath your ear. You let out a soft breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he moved lower, the scrape of his stubble against your skin making your stomach flutter.

“God, you drive me fucking insane,” he murmured against your neck, his words a little slurred from the wine and whatever spell was holding the two of you there, alone in the dark café. “I swear… Lucy had no—”

And you froze. Like ice water down your spine.

Your whole body tensed; your hands stiff against his chest. You felt it, felt the air shift between you like a thread snapping.

“What?” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him.

Harry blinked, realizing what he’d let slip. His face paled, his mouth opening, closing like he couldn’t figure out which words to reach for.

“Wait... I didn’t—”

But it didn’t matter. The crack in the moment was already there, and you felt the ache blooming in your chest.

You slid off the counter, untangling yourself from his hold.

“Get out, Harry.”

“Hey—hey, no, listen to me—”

“I said, get out.” Your voice shook, but you kept your chin up, kept your heart from spilling out right there on the café floor. “Take your dinner, take your wine. And leave.”

He stepped closer; his face was pained. “It’s not what you think—”

“No, Harry,” you cut him off, voice steady now, sharp in a way you didn’t even feel anymore. “For once… don’t break the rules. Just go.”

And you turned your back on him. Because if you didn’t, you knew you wouldn’t be able to.

Harry stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching you turn away like you were slipping through his fingers. The sound of the mug tapping softly against the counter was like a breaking point.

“Please,” he whispered, voice raw.

“I said out!” you raised your voice, words came out sharper than intended, slicing through the heavy, aching silence of the empty café. Harry flinched like you’d actually struck him, his shoulders tensing, jaw clenching as he looked down at the floor.

“I get it,” he said quietly, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “I fucked up.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight, your hands shaking just enough that you had to brace them against the counter.

Harry lingered there for a beat longer, like he wanted to fight for the right to stay, but knew he didn’t have it.

Your stomach twisted, some awful bit of anger, hurt, shame and the sharpest pull of affection you weren’t ready to admit.

The door opened, a cool gust of night air rushing in as he stepped outside. He glanced back once, his gaze catching yours, and the look on his face damn near shattered you.

Then he was gone.

And God, you felt so foolish, still waiting for confessions of love that never would come.

You felt stupid to even think that a man like him could have fallen in love with you.  

💌tags<3: If you would like to be removed of perhaps you don't like this anymore, please tell me.

@jasminedragoon @stcrrjoon @sptbear @picketniffler @greenwitchfromthewoods @fallout-girl219 @suzysface @aomi-recs @capuccinodoll @fvispunk @orcasoul @joeldarling @mystickittytaco @onlythehobi @darkheartgatita @isabella-rose-trastamara @spencercmlover @brittmb115 @correapunk @aomi-nabi @annulmaelae @32-flavors @berriesarepunk @joelmillerpascal

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@ro-nahime-things @kimi01985 @pastelpinkflowerlife @isabella-rose-trastamara @majuia

[gojoidyll]

The asshole was mispronouncing your name on purpose; you were sure of it. Anytime you would carefully belt out the syllables as clear as you could, he would always mess up and it would be on a different letter every single time, and it doesn’t help the fact that you’ve already mastered his weird as fuck alien name. It was also pretty obvious because the fucker would laugh, his mandibles clicking as he mimicked some human-like laugh that sounded familiar as hell to you, but you couldn’t quite place it.

To compensate, you would flip the hunter off and continue staring off into the great expanse of space (while also deciding to give the asshole a well deserving nickname while you were at it).

Speaking of space…

Your eyes looked from twinkling star to star, towards a moon you could probably float over to, and a planet that probably had toxic air engulfing it. Three years ago, give or take a few months cause your inner clock was absolute shit, if someone told you that you would be abducted and sent to a another planet to be hunted by a stronger species and then befriend someone of the same species and team up with them to take out the ones hunting you…, well, you would laugh and probably escort them to the nearest mental institute. But now that you were sitting in a space ship next to someone who could quite literally rip out your spine as easy as plucking a flower from a field, you started to believe in a whole lot more crazier shit.

“How far is it to earth anyway?”

During your time with your unlikely enemy turned friend, you found yourself sharing more about your life then you thought you would, but you figured talking to the hunter would be far better than going crazy like a few people did back on that planet.

You looked over at him and he surprisingly already had his arm out to you, your planet projecting as a mini hologram on his wrist as a time converted to “human hours” as he liked to call it was displayed.

At the speed you both were going now, it would take two years to get back to earth. You had no doubt in your mind that someone else probably already moved into your apartment, missing posters were probably taken down, and your family probably already finished funeral processions a week ago.

“Can we get there any faster?”

He turned to look at you then.

“Yeah,” you muttered, “guess not…, but uhh- thanks I guess. Even though I helped you out, you didn’t have to take me home.”

Besides being a total dick sometimes, you also learned that he absolutely loathed sappy shit. So you doubted he would give the same heartfelt sentiments that you just did, but whatever – you were human. Wasn’t it ok to show that sometimes?

“Talk like that again and I’ll mark you down as emergency food.”

What a bitch.

You flipped him off again.

[piastrisun]

opposite.

pairings: charles leclerc + ex female reader.

summary: you were once a perfect match in the public eye, but after the breakup, he moves on fast, choosing someone who couldn’t be more different from you.

faceclaim: jessica alexander.⠀warning: hate comments.⠀

notes: inspired by opposite by sabrina carpenter. i’ve been obsessed with eics lately. i loved making this tbh.

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liked by username1, username and others

f1gossip yn yl and charles leclerc have officially called it quits after nearly three years together.

sources close to the couple confirm the breakup happened a few weeks ago, citing distance and demanding schedules. “they still care about each other deeply but are focusing on their individual paths,” a rep says.

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username the sources are definitely her eyeliner stains and his new girlfriend lol

username2 they say ‘still care’ but i see a guy who’s already checked out

username3 this breakup was inevitable i fear

username4 love is no real what the fuck

username5 i feel bad for her, but also like… what did we expect

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liked by arthur_leclerc, username and others

charles_leclerc Grateful to be joining the @/ampmonaco family as their newest ambassador. An unforgettable night. Thank you to everyone who made it special. ❤️

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username how’s the rebrand going dude

username1 he didn’t even tag her. mysterious queen

username2 she’s so beautiful but this feels so off 😭😭

username3 she supported him through his worst season and he hard-launches a new girl on a brand deal?? wild

username4 he looks good and unbothered

username5 does THAT looks unbothered to you????

username6 the way he always keeps it classy. love that she’s private

username7 i think his type is just beautiful women

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ayladrew added to their stories.

replies to your story:

yourusername AYLA DREW WHAT THE HELL

yourusername delete this oh my god

yourusername 😭😭😭😭

ayladrew no ❤️ love you tho

charles_leclerc and others liked your story.

lottierose TELL EMMMMMM 🗣️🗣️

ayladrew i know i posted this so he could see it but he liked it and now i wanna report his account

lottierose you should tbh

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YOUR CHATS: CHARLES LECLERC.

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liked by maxverstappen1, username and others

yourusername paris with @/givenchy  ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ merci for having me! 

view all comments 

username is that what i think it is…

username1 REVENGE DRESSSSSSS

ayladrew need you biblically 

username2 wdym charlesyn, aylayn it’s THE ship

ayladrew 😘

lottierose just be my wife 

username4 if charles can’t handle you I CAN

username5 MAX LIKED THIS????

username6 him and charles don’t even follow each other anymore but he’s still liking his ex’s post 😭😭

username7 is this him picking a side…

username8 i know i need to touch grass but hear me out in this one…

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liked by username9, charles_leclerc and others

f1gossip Charles Leclerc’s ex girlfriend YN and current girlfriend Alexandra share a moment after Givenchy’s SS runway in Paris.

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username ?@:&/£:&:&

username1 THE WORLD HAS HEALED

username2 oh my god

username3 we used to pray for times like this 

username4 and nothing for charles!!!!

username5 have you all seen the video???

username6 they had the biggest smiles they’re so cute 🥹🥹

username7 charles like is killing me LMAOOOO

username8 we’re witnessing herstory…

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[nooralanqar-new]

I have come to love you as human beings and true friends. Whether this war continues or ends, you and your families will always remain in my heart as people whom fate chose to be a source of support for me and my family.

In my most difficult times, I turn to you. You have not only offered me emotional support, but you have also been a refuge opening your hearts to me with kindness and compassion. Your words always reflect a deep understanding of our suffering, as if you are living it alongside us.

I’ve begun to share my burdens with you as I would with my dearest friends, and in you I have found someone who truly listens and cares. Here in Gaza, there is no one left who can comfort me everyone is drowning in their own pain, and all of us carry burdens far greater than we can bear. That’s why we are in desperate need of those who still carry light within them so we can find hope through it and of those who still have strength so we can lean on it.

And I say this with complete honesty: just as I seek safety and emotional support, I am also in urgent need of financial support. I don’t receive enough donations to sustain us, and I am doing everything I can to provide even the bare minimum for my children. If there’s any way to reach kind-hearted people who can help or any method that could increase the donations please, I beg you, act now and without delay.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

If You Lived One Day in Noor's Shoes... In Gaza, Amid War, with Three Children - How Would You Feel? A tent with no roof, fear that never fades, and hunger that returns every night. Noor is a mother of three, struggling to survive under the rubble of war.

Your voice in this poll is a gesture of solidarity and justice. Don't hold it back.

If you can help Noor and her children, click here to support their campaign.

[pricesprincess]

Can you do one with the reader ovulating, not wanting to get off John? I love your writings!

18+ explicit smut + reader is ovulating

Your body was changing and you caught the subtle shifts of it. Tender breasts, scents have changed, and slight cramping. Also, you wanted to fuck John from the time you woke up to the time you slept.

You knew what it meant.

Ovulation week.

It was circled on the wall calendar that John walked by each morning and that man was a menace if anything who loved to tease his sweet little wife. So, that morning after a shared cup of coffee, he helped you dress, his fingers trailing up your arms with a deep chuckle.

"What are we doing, baby?" You asked with a slight pout as he kneeled in front of you to help slip your shoes on, his blue eyes locked onto your heated gaze with a lazy grin. John silently stood up and kissed you tenderly, but it had your pussy clenching around nothing.

Your husband was quiet as he guided you out of the house, his hand settled on your lower back, sometimes drifting down to your ass that he squeezed loving when you backed into his greedy palm.

John was a gentleman, always has been.

But during your Double O, which meant ovulation and orgasm week, as you call it, seeing John do the most mundane things had you sweating under your clothes like you spent all day in the sun.

His scent tripled when you got a whiff of it, and he was even more handsome, which seemed impossible but whenever you stared at him, all you could think about was drowning him in your cunt, letting him get you off until you couldn't speak or even think about anything.

He catered to you like he always did, and it made you all giggly, like a schoolgirl with her very first crush. You linked your arm with his when you both walked inside the mall. "Baby...are you getting a haircut?"

What an evil husband you have.

His hair was getting a bit shaggy and while you love it on him, you also love how short and cropped it usually is, but he made sure to make it long enough for you to pull on when he's eating you out.

John answered with a smile and nodded towards the hair salon right next to the nail salon next door. "I'm gettin' one and you can get your nails done all pretty so I can see them later wrapped around my cock." His vulgar whisper had your thighs clenched together.

He kissed your cheek and checked you into the salon, already having an appointment before he paid in advance with a tap before he left, kissing you again, which made your tummy flutter.

All the women in the shop gushed about your husband, but all you wanted was his dick however you could have it, inside your mouth, cunt. Hell, you wouldn't even care if he smacked you with it.

You settled in the chair and let your mind drift to what John would have planned tonight. He was a man who knew how to please a woman and you felt like the luckiest wife ever to have him as a husband. An ache bloomed in your gut as you wished they hurry.

As soon as your nails were done, you bid everyone a thank you and a smile with a wave before making a mad dash next door to run into John, your face pressed into his chest. "Watch where you're goin' darlin', could run into the big bad wolf." He chuckled, holding you.

You looked at him with a sultry smile. "Oh, sorry, sir! I didn't even see you there; I was thinking about my husband. You see, he is so sexy and good to me, I have trouble thinking about anything else." You giggled and wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying.

"Oh? Well, you might need to tell me about your husband so I can replace him." John replied, making you laugh. He hooked his arm around your waist once you moved and guided you to his car.

Between his haircut and his scent, you found yourself in the backseat with your dress bunched around your hips as you sunk down on his fat cock, feeling him stretch your cunt to accommodate his girth.

John tucked his face in your tits, letting you use him as a human dildo. "Can't get enough of me, huh? S'okay darlin', use me." His words spurred you to create a nasty symphony of wet squelching and moans as he bared your breasts for him to play with.

You whined when he hit your sweet spot, turning your cunt into a dripping mess of slick and spit. Before you ended up in this predicament, you sucked him off while he fingered you.

It was only supposed to get you off until you made it home, but after the first orgasm, you wanted more of that and John.

With his cum smeared on your thighs and your panties tucked in his pocket, John drove him with your face in his lap, sucking off the mess you made, unable to get enough of him. When you got home, you pushed him on the couch and dry-humped him until you came.

That night during dinner, you sat perched in his lap, his cock nestled deep inside you as you both hand-fed each other dinner in the candlelit kitchen.

All the lights were off, bathing the house in darkness.

For dessert, John had you spread out on the table and his face between your legs, cleaning the mess this time.

In the morning, before he left, you woke him up with a blowjob that had his toes curling. During his shift, you would send him charged messages and pictures of the things you did around the house and you always made sure to give him a view of your naked body.

"What a bloody tease." John murmured, knowing his dick and fingers and mouth wouldn't get much of a break. But he didn't mind it one bit.

comments and reblogs are really appreciated. <3

[piastriprincess]

hate  to  be  lame  ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  driver!reader  ,  not - so - secret  relationship  (oops!)  ,  first  i  love  you  . word  count 1.8k author’s  note  part  iii  of  the  orange  show  speedway  extended  universe  !  this  is  a  certified  self  indulgent  piastriprincess  banger  .  sorry  i  literally  can’t  leave  these  two  alone  <3  they’re  my  babies  and  i  love  them  too  much  !  also please  suspend  your  disbelief  that  a  racing  bulls  driver  would  ever  be  allowed  to  win  a  race  that  max  verstappen  was  competing  in  .  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  and  lmk  if  you  have  any  requests  !  title  is  from  hate  to  be  lame  ,  also  by  lizzy  ! 

“And that is P1. Congratulations! Incredible, incredible job.”

This is it. The moment you’ve quietly dreamed of for your entire career, your most secret hope you’d never dare to speak out loud, the fantastical what-if you’ve scribbled into manifestation journals made entirely real. First place. You’ve won a Formula One race.

Your cheeks feel wet, suddenly. You think you might be crying inside your helmet. Not the elegant, misty kind you’d imagined once after a particularly good qualifying — these are real, messy, chest-heaving, happy tears.

“Yes!” you manage to choke out, half-scream and half-sob, as you start your cooldown lap, waving to the crowd as you pilot the car around the familiar track. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it. Thank you guys. Amazing race.”

“Believe it, superstar. You’re a race winner,” your engineer says fondly in your ear, her voice wavering around the edges; you think she might be crying a little bit too. There’s silence, for a minute, and you use it to try and control your heartbeat, hands trembling around the wheel. When she crackles through the radio next, her tone is careful, but you swear you can hear the twinkle in her eye. “Rest of the podium is George in P2 and Oscar in P3, by the way. Thought you might want to know.”

You nearly laugh, already sore-throated and giddy with joy. Oscar’s on the podium. Your Oscar, who’s been the quiet constant in your life since that night at the hotel pool in Jeddah, who believed you could do this even when you didn’t believe it yourself. You won, and you get to share it with him. The thought makes your heart feel impossibly full in your chest. 

It’s been nearly six months since the two of you started dating. You’re not keeping it a secret, not exactly. Just… private. You’ve become well versed in the art of stolen moments during race weekends, summer breaks spent together in Melbourne and your hometown, late-night phone calls where you fall asleep mid-sentence and wake up to Oscar’s muffled snores. It’s been nice, having something that only belongs to the two of you. Something quiet, steady, yours. 

Still, the people who need to know in the paddock know. Oscar, ever the rule follower, had been endearingly meticulous about the whole thing, pulling up HR protocols on his laptop one evening and mumbling something about team loyalty and not jeopardizing your contract. You had to crawl into his lap and kiss him until the adorable worry lines between his eyebrows melted away. 

Outside of your team principals, you’d decided to let people discover it on their own. Isack was the first to figure it out, sending you a blurry photo of the two of you holding hands leaving a team hotel with a caption that included a lot of French swear words you had to Google Translate and an incensed demand to tell him absolutely everything.

Your engineer was next — you were somewhat unsubtle over the radio when Oscar and Max crashed out in Singapore, abandoning your usual quiet focus to blurt a number of panicked questions about whether Oscar was okay. She had a PhD in mechanical engineering, but it probably wouldn’t have taken a genius to connect the dots. 

Lando was the most memorable. He’d barged into Oscar’s driver’s room a few weeks ago without knocking in typical Lando fashion, chattering on about needing a phone charger, only to stop in his tracks and scream so loud nearly the entire garage heard him. In his defense, it had been a bit of a scene: Oscar pressing you into the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, both of you so caught up in the heated kiss that you hadn’t even noticed the door open. The two of you had flown apart like shrapnel at his reaction; you’d gone completely crimson and Oscar had looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. The real drama came later, though, when Lando found out he hadn’t been the first to know and sulked theatrically around the paddock for days. 

You’re still smiling to yourself at the thought of celebrating with Oscar as you finish your cooldown lap and pull into parc fermé, body buzzing with half-adrenaline, half-disbelief. It’s like an out-of-body experience, everything feeling disconnected, like you’re watching yourself live your happiest moment from the outside in. Luckily, you’ve seen your boyfriend win enough times this season to be able to do what comes next on autopilot — park the car, climb on top, wave to the crowds, pose for photos. The crowd noise in your ears is deafening, but you manage to keep your composure. 

It’s what you’d promised, after all, one lazy off-week Saturday. Oscar had insisted that before the season was over, the two of you would be on the podium together, and that you had to figure out a ‘protocol’ for when the moment came. 

“We’re going to have to be really careful,” he’d said, tracing patterns on the curve of your bare shoulder as you lay tangled together in his bed. “Like, serious strategy. I need a plan in advance, because if you’re up there next to me with that smile you get when you’re really happy, I won’t be able to think straight and then I’ll end up making it way too obvious to the entire world that I’m head over heels for you.”

You’d blushed and swatted at him, but you’d agreed: if it ever happened, you’d keep it lowkey. Separate celebrations, professional congratulations. Save your moment together for later, when there weren’t hundreds of cameras tracking your every move.

But now that the shoe’s on the other foot, Oscar has apparently forgotten every single thing you talked about, because when he pulls into his P3 spot behind you, he doesn't follow his protocol at all.

You’re just pulling off your helmet and balaclava, jumping down from the hood of the car, when you hear hurried footsteps behind you. By the time you turn, he’s there, flushed and beaming and not even pretending to play it cool. You know how you must look. You can feel the way your hair is plastered to your forehead with sweat, cheeks ruddy from the heat. But he’s still staring at you like you just handed him the WDC on a silver platter, eyes crinkling at the corners with so much fondness it makes your chest hurt. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and before you can react he wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you clean off the ground in a hug so tight it makes you yelp in surprise. “You won. You fucking did it, baby.”

“Osc, what are you doing,” you gasp out in between giggles as he swings you in a circle, your feet kicking uselessly in the air. “Put me down, you maniac!”

He relents, setting you back on the ground but keeping his arms locked around your waist like he doesn’t trust the moment to stay real if he’s not holding onto you. “I’m so proud of you,” he says softly, voice coming undone around the edges. “I knew you could do it. I mean, I always did, but seeing it happen… I’m just — fuck, I love you so much.”

The words tumble out of his mouth like they’re the most natural thing in the world, even though it’s the first time either of you have said it. You feel like you’re floating outside your body again, the noise and lights and chaos of the paddock post-race blurring around the edges into this one distilled perfect moment. He said what you’ve been too shy to voice for weeks with the devastating certainty of something completely unplanned and entirely honest.

For once, Oscar didn’t overthink anything.

For once, you wish he had. 

“Osc, we’re on camera,” you whisper, eyes wide, and he freezes like a deer in headlights.

You glance to your right. Your entire team is staring at you, slack-jawed. There’s approximately seven boom mics pointed in your direction. One of the Sky Sports producers is visibly losing their minds at the PR gold they’ve just managed to capture. Even Lando has his phone out and is clearly recording with a shit-eating grin on his face, probably Twitch streaming the entire thing. 

Oscar, to his credit, cycles through about five different expressions in the span of two seconds. First there’s confusion, then a dawning horror, then a sort of helpless, sheepish panic that would be incredibly endearing if it wasn’t happening in front of half the world. “Oh,” he says, so quiet you can barely hear him over the screaming of the crowd. You think if he gets any redder he might melt into the asphalt. “Oh my god. I — Is that live?”

It should be mortifying, but looking at Oscar’s face — slightly freaked out, but proud and completely unrepentant — you find you don’t have it in you to care even a little bit. You just giggle, dizzy with the joy and lingering adrenaline and something deeper, more terrifying, more wonderful. “I think you just hard launched us.”

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. I mean, I wanted to say it, I’ve been trying to tell you for ages but then you won and you just looked so pretty and I was so proud of you and… it slipped out.” He sighs, gaze so earnest that it unfurls something warm in your chest. “I wanted it to be more special than that.”

You reach up to touch his cheek, hands still trembling. “It was special. Is special.”

And then, softer, though you know the mics can still probably pick it up: “I love you too. For the record.”

That’s when he kisses you. Not careful or strategic or mindful of where you are at all, and for several heart-stopping seconds you forget that there are thousands of cameras pointed at you. Really, you’re pretty unconscious of anything beyond your boyfriend’s mouth against yours. When you finally pull away from each other, the crowd has somehow gotten even louder, and Oscar is smiling so hard at you that it looks like it might hurt his face a little bit.

So there’s no chance of the two of you keeping it secret anymore. And the protocol you’d so carefully planned had been completely blown. But Oscar wraps his arm around your shoulders and drops a kiss to your temple, whispering another I love you into your hair, and you think some moments might be worth breaking all your rules for.

[seeul8rzz]

WHAT—??? You’re way too good!! Mydei’s body markings are way too complicated, I could never draw them… You need love, patience, effort— basically everything!! Seriously amazing (⑉>ᴗ<ﾉﾉﾞ✨👏✨👏✨👏

I also really love the way you drew the sweat! Sweat can look like just simple lines, and because it’s so simple, it’s actually hard to make it look natural…

I always learn so much from your work, and thank you for this wonderful content! I’m sure it must’ve been super hard to draw! Thank you for working so hard and sharing it with us 🙏🏻✨

POV: Your First Time with Mydei

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[cheriedivine]

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 | Chapter 7

previous | chapter 7 | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (No use of y/n)

꩜ content warnings: smoking, weed, smut (finally)

꩜ WC: 11.7k

꩜ Author’s note: THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT AND IM SO TERRIFIED PLZ… also thank u guys for the sweet comments and messages i’m over the moon grateful, this series is so special to me and it’s not even close to be done okay… y’all will get tired of my ass. Anyway enjoy the chapter love u happy pride month<3

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

"Wait, but when did you actually catch feelings for me, though?" you asked for what had to be the millionth time.

Honestly, Ellie didn’t mind repeating herself. If anything, she kind of loved it. The way you always wanted to hear it again, like replaying your favorite song over and over again. Every time she recalled it, she seemed to remember something new. Like the way your eyes lingered just a second too long on hers when you talked, or how your pinkies always seemed to find each other when you sat side by side. Small things. Things she could never forget.

September had slipped by quickly, and in the blink of an eye, October had arrived, trading warm evenings for cooler nights and scattering orange and brown leaves across the sidewalks. It had been a month since your first kiss, (Not like you were counting or whatever). A month of sleepovers, shared sweaters, tangled limbs, nonstop texting, and sneaking into the diner’s back office during your breaks for rushed makeout sessions. Maria had almost banned you from going back there altogether. Ellie had just grinned and said, “Worth the risk.”

“I’ve told you like, a hundred times,” she said now, clearly enjoying the way you whined for her to say it again.

The two of you were tangled up on her couch, limbs lazily thrown over each other. Ellie was supposed to be sorting through prints for her gallery, her best photos from the week. Some from your recent hangouts: walks in the park under trees turned orange, city crosswalks filled with motion blur, candids of you laughing or distracted, the occasional stray cat she couldn’t help but snap. She’d taken the gallery prep seriously. Of course she had to. But lately, it was like you kept happening to her, distracting and consuming in all the best, worst ways.

You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, a book open in your lap, rereading the same paragraph over and over. You weren’t even paying attention to the text. How were you supposed to focus when she looked like that? Her sleeves pushed up, veins visible along her tattooed forearm as she leaned over her table, elbows braced, studying the scattered prints.

“Your death stare is making it very hard for me to analyze these pictures,” she muttered without looking up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. I can feel it burning a hole through my skull.”

“Can’t help it,” you said, smiling. “You’re too pretty.”

God, the way that made her chest flutter. She shook her head, hiding a tiny smile. Trying to play it cool, but she was already blushing hard. She gathered up the prints and slid them into a folder, then walked over and dropped her full body weight onto you with a dramatic sigh. Her favorite move. Full body crush, almost knocking the air out of your lungs. Face buried in your chest like she could inhale you and forget the gallery pressure altogether.

You didn’t mind. Not even a little. You stroked her hair slowly, gently, like she was fragile, like you knew how much she needed softness. You stayed like that for a while, Ellie breathing you in, inhaling your scent like the oxygen she needed to live, her eyes were closed as you ran your fingers through her hair.

Both of you spent more time together. Even more than before. On the rare day you didn’t hang out because your schedules didn’t align, it felt like a tragedy. Like someone had sent her off to war. It was all so giddy, high school-level giddy. You felt like a teenager again…sneaking out of the group hangs early just to be alone with her. Play-fighting over who had to hang up first. So many dates, even if Ellie still stubbornly insisted on calling them hangouts like it made a difference. You’d been doing the romantic shit before you even kissed.

“C’monnn, just wanna make sure you weren’t secretly foolin’ me or something.” You pouted again, that same little face that made Ellie’s knees weak every time.

Ellie groaned and buried her face deeper into your chest, voice muffled. “I mean, what haven’t I told you?” Then she tilted her face to look up at you, cheeks slightly red from being squished against you.

“When we met I was basically obsessed with you. But I told myself, ‘Don’t be a creep, Ellie. This is why you only have one friend. Stop being delusional.’” She paused, a little smile tugging at her lips. “But with you, everything felt different. Like I didn’t have to hide. Still, I was too stubborn to admit I liked you like that. Lived in constant denial.”

You watched her talk. Taking in every expression, you could study her mouth and eyes for hours and never get bored. The way her brow furrowed when she talked about feelings. The way her voice softened at the edges when she looked at you like this. You’d heard this story before, at least a dozen times. And still, it made something warm unravel in your chest.

“So that explains the flirting with random girls?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in mock interrogation.

She groaned. “I had to cope in some way, plus seeing all those guys hit on you at the diner kinda ripped me apart, but didn’t say anything.”

“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms, “I laugh when I’m nervous. Doesn’t mean I liked it. Plus, I flirted with you all the time. You were just too hard-headed to notice.”

Ellie grabbed the nearest cushion and tossed it at your face.

Which of course triggered a full-blown pillow war.

You wrestled and squealed and laughed until Ellie gave up and surrendered. You were breathless, Ellie’s limbs sprawled on the couch, with you sitting between her legs, flushed and grinning.

And then she grabbed your face, gently leaning in, still catching her breath and kissed you like she’d been waiting all day to do it.

You think about it all the time. How everything but still nothing changed after the kiss, like it was always meant to go this way. There was no big moment or sudden change. Just small things that added up to everything.

Ellie started picking you up after your late shifts, waiting out front in her beat up truck with the heater cranked and a hoodie in the passenger seat for you to throw on. She always claimed you looked better in her clothes, especially that faded blue hoodie, the one she kept pretending she didn’t miss when you “accidentally” took it home.

Your hangouts had shifted into something else. There wasn’t that quiet, aching longing hanging in the air anymore, not in the same way. After that night at your apartment, Ellie promised she’d take you on a date. A real one.

Like the kind you’d gush about in those cheesy movies you love, and what better place to live out a cliché than the fair…where the air was thick with fried grease and too-loud pop music, and where she finally had a decent excuse to hold your hand on the roller coasters.

Neon lights blinked in seizure-inducing patterns while kids screamed on rickety rides in the distance. Ellie had dragged you from booth to booth, fully committed to her vendetta against rigged carnival games.

“I swear this is the one,” she said, squinting at the line of wobbling bottles.

“You said that about the ring toss. And basketball. And the darts.”

Her eyes locked on the duck shooting booth. Yellow plastic ducks glided across a narrow trough, jerking mechanically as bubbles popped around them.

“Oh,” she said, eyes glinting. “This is my game.”

You trailed behind her as she calmly gave the booth guy a crumpled five, taking her jacket off and handing it over to you.

She rolled up the sleeves of her flannel, revealing her forearms, tattoo on full display, veins trailing down to her hands like thunders on a stormy night and took her place at the mounted water gun like it was a sniper rifle.

You blinked. “Oh my god.”

She leaned in. Tongue poking out slightly. Face unreadably focused. Hands gripping the water gun with total control, like she’d done this before, maybe in a past life. The light caught the curve of her jaw just right, and your brain short-circuited.

You started to feel as if you had been lit up in fire, was it hot in here?

Ellie didn’t speak. She just adjusted her stance a little, lips pursed, and let the water stream rip. One by one, the ducks fell, each hit perfectly in the center like she had memorized the timing and rhythm.

By the time the buzzer rang, Ellie had cleared the whole line.

You stared at her, wide eyed. “What the fuck,” you breathed.

Ellie blew imaginary smoke from the tip of the gun. “Told you. My game.”

You gaped. “Are you secretly, like… ex-military?”

“Duck assassin,” she replied coolly, already pointing to a shelf of prizes.

She chose the smallest one, a crooked little stuffed bear with lopsided button eyes and shoved it into your arms in exchange of her jacket, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though she was clearly suppressing a smug smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh.” She bumped her shoulder into yours. “You like the bear though.”

You did. Stupidly so.

You held it to your chest and muttered, “Yeah I do.”

She was grinning like stupid, tossing her jacket over your shoulders like a shield, as she grabbed your hand and dragged you to the next game.

You still sleep with that bear sometimes. Not that you’d ever tell her.

Another time, it was the planetarium. This one had been your idea, half-jokingly, you didn’t expect much when you pitched it, just a casual “we could go to the planetarium or whatever,” but when the words fell out of your lips Ellie’s eyes gleamed like a kid on christmas morning.

“No way,” she’d said, practically bouncing. “I thought you weren’t into that kind of stuff?”

“Wanna go or no?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in.”

She’d shown up five minutes early, hair still damp from a rushed shower, hoodie zipped up to her chin, smelling faintly like mint and laundry detergent. Her eyes were wide, childlike, curious, like she wasn’t totally sure what she was about to walk into but her pulse rushed from the thrill.

Inside, the lights dimmed. The dome lit up. Stars bloomed across the ceiling like someone had torn open the sky. Ellie tilted her head all the way back, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “This is… fucking sick.”

You were already watching her more than the ceiling.

“Knew you’d like it,” you said, voice low.

She didn’t even respond. Just stared upward, entranced, like the stars were spelling out something only she could read.

Halfway through the show, during some slow narration about galaxies forming, you felt her hand brush against yours on the shared armrest. A light graze. Just the backs of your fingers, hesitant at first. Then she slid her pinky over yours, this time more purposeful. Like it was no big gesture, but you felt like the sun was imploding inside of you.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you, just linked your fingers together, her thumb tracing small circles over yours, soft and delicate.

Her voice stayed low the whole time, whispering random facts on your ear, with the sweetest tone, like she couldn’t help herself.

“Neptune’s winds are faster than the speed of sound,” she muttered. “Like… hypersonic. That’s insane.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, too distracted by the glint in her eye.

“And Jupiter’s Great Red Spot is a storm. Like a storm. It’s been raging for three hundred years and it’s big enough to fit Earth inside it, like—” she made a quiet whooshing sound, “—in one bite.”

Her hand squeezed yours a little. Like she got excited and forgot she was even holding you.

You nodded. “That’s… intense.”

She shot you a glance. “You’re not listening, are you?”

She could’ve told you the sun was made of hot dogs and you wouldn’t have noticed. You were too busy staring at her profile, glowing faintly blue under the artificial sky.

“Yeah, no sorry I got a bit lost, what did you say?”

Ellie smirked, a bit shy now. “Nothing.”

She leaned in slightly, placing a quick peck on the top of your head, breathing in your perfume, then turned away, but she saw the smile tug at your lips.

After the show, you walked out into the cool night air, fingers still brushing like they weren’t quite ready to let go.

“I’m not usually, like… a space person. But that was cool.” You said, as you walked out into the night.

Ellie bumped her shoulder into yours. “You’re a space person now. Deal with it.”

You gave her a look, maybe more earnest than you meant it to be. “Only because of you.”

She paused. Looking at you. Then shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket and looked away, clearly fighting a smile.

“Whatever,” she mumbled, ears a little pink. “You’re welcome.”

You both stood there for a second, silent.

But your favorite one was definitely the arcade date. You hadn’t planned it, it was just one of those random afternoons where Ellie showed up at the diner unannounced, leaning against the doorframe waiting for your shift to be over, with that smug little grin of hers.

“You busy?” she asked, truck keys twirling around her fingers.

You weren’t. Not even a little.

The drive was filled with chatter, windows rolled down, music loud, and Ellie’s hand tapping against the steering wheel, like she was playing the backup drums on whatever song was playing. You were both laughing, until you passed a neon sign that read ARCADE & PIZZA, you practically almost turned the wheel yourself.

“Wait Ellie turn around—pull over.”

Ellie flinched. “Okay okay— Jesus you scared me for a second.” You grinned, already unbuckling your seatbelt as Ellie pulled over the parking lot.

“I haven’t been to an arcade since I was like twelve I think” you said as you threw Ellie’s hoodie over your head.

“Wow. Nerd” she snorted, earning a small kick on her heel.

Inside, it smelled like childhood. Pizza and dusty carpets, it was oddly nostalgic. The place was loud, packed with kids and their parents, and a couple of teenagers. Neon lights were blindingly colorful, you felt like your twelve year old self again.

“Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles dramatically. “Where the competition at?”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe over there, at Jason’s 9th birthday party.” you joked, pointing at the table surrounded by little kids.

Ellie scoffed, “Pffft, easy wins, where is the real competition at?" she glanced over at you.

Oh, you knew where this was going.

“Just say you want to get your ass kicked by me, Williams, not that hard.”

Her grin widened. “You’re on now. Loser pays for the winner’s pizza.”

“Deal.” Both of you squeezed your hands, like you were making some sort of business deal, but this was way more serious.

You didn’t know Ellie had a competitive streak until she practically shoved a 10-year-old out of the way to get to the skee-ball machine.

“Ellie,” you hissed. “You can’t just—”

“He was taking forever,” she snapped, already rolling the ball with deadly focus. “I got shit to prove.”

She won three games in a row.

“Okay, what the fuck,” you growled, staring at the air hockey scoreboard like it had insulted your ancestors. “You’re cheating. There’s no way.”

“You’re just bad,” she teased, throwing the small ball in the air and catching it with her hand. “Maybe I should give you lessons. Private ones.”

“Wow. Cocky.”

“I mean, I did just wipe the floor with you.”

“Oh yeah?” you leaned forward, tempting her, but then you turned around, spotting the motorcycle racing game. Two bikes. One screen. Destiny.

You dragged her over the machine, both mounted the fake bikes revving them like you’d trained your whole lives. Ellie leaned forward, focused her hands gripping the throttle. Her tongue poked out, focused. You knew that look.

Meanwhile you adjusted yourself on the seat, inserting the quarters on the coin slot, your back was slightly arched, causing your shirt to ride up a little and making the small dimples on your lower back visible. Ellie almost fell from her bike at the sight of that. And you weren’t even aware.

“It’s over for you Williams, prepare to eat dust.” you teased.

“You fucking wish.”

The countdown started and the game launched. You took the lead, she trailed behind you, both leaning into turns like you were actually swerving through a neon-lit city. At one moment, your eyes drifted toward Ellie’s arms, her forearm tattoo flexing, adorned by her pulsing veins from gripping the bike handle. God it was unfair—you almost forgot you were in a competition with her.

“Hey, eyes on the road,” she joked, but she was secretly enjoying your staring.

In the end? You won. Throwing your arms up in celebration. “HA. SUCK IT.”

Ellie blinked at the scoreboard in disbelief, “No. Rematch. Right now. My screen lagged.”

“Boohoo excuses are for losers.” you laughed so hard you almost fell off your bike.

The next stop was the dance machine.

Ellie looked skeptical. “I don’t know, dude…”

You were already dragging her by the hoodie. “Nope. No backing out. It’s fate.”

She rolled her eyes but followed. “If I break my ankle, I’m blaming you.”

The game started. The song was fast, the tiles lit up like a rave, and the both of you? Horrible dancers. Absolutely terrible.

You couldn’t stop laughing. Ellie missed the first five steps, almost fell twice, and kept yelling “this is a fucking death trap!” like the machine was out to get her.

But then, something shifted.

Halfway through, she got weirdly into it. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. She started nailing every step, stomping on the lit tiles like she was born in a dancing tournament. She even grabbed your waist at one point, spinning you into position like it was a choreographed number.

“Are you sabotaging me?” you shrieked.

“This is war,” she said, dead serious.

She won that round. You demanded a rematch. She won again.

“Okay,” you panted, doubled over. “You win this one.”

“Jealous.”

“You literally looked like you were summoning demons with your feet.”

“And?”

You played other games after that. Basketball hoops. Whack-a-mole. She tried to win you a prize at the claw machine and got so mad she almost kicked it.

But then— you saw it. The air hockey table.

You gasped. “Oh no.”

Ellie followed your gaze. “Oh yes.”

You both slammed quarters into the machine. Ellie narrowed her eyes, “I’m going to annihilate you.” she said.

You smirked. “You literally just lost the motorcycle race.”

Ellie sighed like a martyr. “Fine. But I’m not holding back.”

“You’ve never held back in your life.”

You both slid your coins in. The machine lit up with that familiar vvvvvmmm of the puck loading up. Ellie rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and positioned herself like she was about to defuse a bomb. You grabbed your paddle like it was a mortal weapon.

The puck dropped.

The first point? Yours. Quick and clean.

“Fuck yeah!” you whooped, lifting your arms.

Ellie pointed dramatically. “Beginner’s luck.”

The next round? She scored while you were still dancing from your previous win.

“Rude!” you cried.

“Focus up,” she said, eyes glinting.

You both got so intense. The puck clacked across the table like a bullet. Your knuckles started aching from the collisions. Ellie was muttering things like “calculated trajectory” and “this is physics, baby,” which was ridiculous and also extremely hot.

The score climbed. 4 to 4. 5 to 5. 6 to 6.

Final point.

She squinted at you over the rim of the table. “Winner gets a kiss.”

You blinked. “You just made that up.”

“So?”

“…Fair.”

The puck shot out again, and for a moment, everything slowed. Ellie lunged. You twisted your paddle. The puck bounced off the wall—

—and slid right into her goal.

You blinked. Slowly. Then looked up.

Victory.

Ellie just stood there, stunned. Paddle slack in her hand.

“I think you’re choking,” you said softly. “Want some victory soda?”

She groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “I hate this stupid game. This game is rigged. It’s broken.”

“You’re a bad loser, you know that?” you grinned, crossing your arms.

“Can I at least get a consolation prize?” she pouted, and gave her a small kiss on her cheek.

Those memories blurred together now. Warm and fast, like a highlight reel you couldn’t help but replay in your head. The way Ellie had looked at you in the planetarium, her face glowing with stars. The way her tongue poked out when she focused, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp, and tattoo flexing. The way her hand gripped your waist during that stupid dance game, both of you laughing too hard to breathe.

You hadn’t slept together yet…not all the way, but the tension had started blooming between you in glances and lingering touches and shared hoodies, every moment a little more fragile. All of it, layered like sediment, the slow, quiet shift between friendship and whatever this had become.

Now, Ellie was lying on top of you like a human blanket, gallery prints long forgotten, the curve of her nose pressed into your chest. She was supposedly taking a break,though it had turned into her full-body flopping onto you with all the drama of someone who hadn’t slept in three days. You threaded your fingers through her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp the way you knew she liked. She let out a hum, breath slow and even against your collarbone.

“You’re supposed to be working on your gallery,” you reminded her softly, lips brushing the crown of her head.

“M’working,” she mumbled. “Just horizontally.”

“Ellie.”

She groaned into your chest. “Just five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well now I mean it.”

You smiled despite yourself, thumb brushing over her temple. Her whole body was warm and heavy and tangled with yours, one of her legs slung over both of yours, her arm wrapped lazily around your waist. She wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Ellie sighed dramatically, face still smushed into your chest. “Mmm. Don’t wanna do the gallery. Hate the gallery. Gallery sucks.”

You laughed. “You’re the one who’s been obsessing over it for weeks.”

“Yeah, but right now I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Laying on top of the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Very important.”

You rolled your eyes, heart doing the embarrassing flutter it always did when she said shit like that. You ran your fingers through her hair again, feeling her melt further into you.

There was a pause. Soft. Heavy.

Then Ellie looked up, that specific gleam in her eye that always meant trouble.

“What if we ditched this gallery prep bullshit for a little while?” she said.

You raised a brow. “And do what, exactly?”

“I dunno. Go for a drive. Kidnap a raccoon. Smoke a joint on the beach. Something not involving fluorescent lights and burn out.”

You bit your lip. Thinking about it. The clock blinked past 10 pm. The apartment was quiet. The weight of October air clung outside the windows, thick and chilly.

You sat up slightly. “Wait. Beach?”

Ellie grinned. “Beach.”

You both got up immediately, snatching your jackets and hoodies, slipping into your shoes in a rush. You grabbed your bag as Ellie tossed a blanket at you and snatched her keys before the two of you hurried out of the studio.

The windows were cracked. Your hair whipped around your face in the night wind. Ellie drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting absentmindedly on your thigh, her thumb tracing light circles over the fabric of your jeans.

She looked free, wind in her hair, face lit up by the passing headlights, radio humming low.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

The beach was mostly deserted, just the soft hum of the tide and the faraway glow of streetlights behind you. You hopped out of the truck, the sand sticking on your shoes damp beneath your feet.

Ellie tossed you her hoodie, hitting you straight to your face.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later,” she grinned.

You pulled it on without protest. It smelled like her cologne, warm and familiar. “Thanks.”

“Race you to the shore!” she shouted, already kicking off her boots.

“Wait!” you laughed, fumbling with your own shoes before taking off after her. Your bag bounced against your side with every step, slipping off your shoulder as you ran, breathless and giggling as the cold air filled your lungs.

At one point, Ellie turned suddenly and knocked you off balance, wrapping her arms around you as she spun you both around. You tumbled to the ground in a heap, landing right on top of her, both of you breathless, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the rush of it all.

You turned onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked at her.

“It’s… really nice out here.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, brushing the sand from her jeans as she stood. Then she held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

You slipped your fingers into hers without hesitation, like muscle memory. Like saying yes to her had always been easy.

The two of you wandered toward the water, the waves stretching out endlessly before you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked, a light breeze brushing over your skin, carrying the scent of salt and earth. Ellie’s jeans were cuffed above her ankles, feet bare, toes sinking into the wet sand beside yours.

She was quiet for a while, and you didn’t rush her. The silence was soft between you, not heavy.

Then, almost like she was thinking out loud, she said, “I think I’m burnt out.”

You glanced over, watching her eyes follow the moonlit waves. “From the gallery?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s like… the more I try to prepare, the more it feels like I’m running on empty. Like I’m squeezing everything out of myself and there’s nothing left to give.” She gave a small laugh, dry and tired. “Kinda pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic,” you said gently. “You’ve been putting your whole heart into it. That’s a lot.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She just kept walking.

“Maybe,” you added after a beat, “you don’t need to squeeze anything out. Maybe you just need to breathe a little. Let yourself recharge.”

She looked at you then. Really looked at you. And something in her expression softened.

“Maybe some fresh air is exactly what you needed,” you said, nudging her shoulder lightly. “Who knows—maybe the ocean brings back your inspiration.”

But her inspiration was standing right in front of her, with wide eyes and a soft smile, that same smile that reassured her from her doubts and fears, that made her believe everything was gonna be alright.

Ellie snorted. “Yeah maybe.”

You kept walking a little farther until the sand grew softer and untouched, the sound of the waves a little gentler here. Ellie paused, scanning the area before she pulled the blanket out from where it had been tucked under her arm.

She laid it down carefully, smoothing it out before sinking onto it with a sigh. You sat beside her, legs crossed, watching as she leaned back on her hands and tilted her head toward the sky.

The stars were scattered and quiet tonight. The kind you could get lost staring at without realizing how much time had passed. A breeze passed over you both, cooler now, but comforting. Ellie’s arm brushed yours as she shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

The sound of the waves filled the silence between you, steady and calming. You both had your jeans cuffed, ankles cold and damp from the water. The blanket was barely big enough for two. Your knees were touching.

Ellie was rummaging through the pocket of her jacket with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Boom.”

She held up a perfectly rolled blunt between two fingers like she was revealing a magic trick.

You blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re gonna get me fired, you know that?”

“Please,” she scoffed, pulling out a lighter, “you can just live with me and be my muse forever. I’ll make you coffee in the mornings. Feed you clementines while you read on the couch.”

She lit the blunt, taking a painfully slow drag, and passed it to you. The smoke curled around her lips and you wanted nothing else but to press yours against hers.

“Muse salary probably sucks.”

“It does,” she admitted. “But the benefits include me and… me, and cuddling 24/7.”

“Wow. How could I resist.”

You took a hit, coughing just a little on the exhale. The haze settled slowly over your limbs, warmth spreading through your chest and cheeks. Time slipped a little sideways.

The blunt moved back and forth between you in a rhythm as natural as breathing. The stars were pinpricks above the ocean, shimmering, scattered, infinite.

Ellie leaned back on her elbows, gaze fixed on the sky. “You ever think about how the light we’re seeing from some of those stars started traveling toward us before the human brain even existed?”

You tilted your head toward her, confused, blinking slowly. “What?”

“Like… we’re looking at the past. Some of those stars could already be dead. We’re just seeing the ghost of them.”

You stared at her, momentarily forgetting about the blunt burning between your fingers.

“You’re literally the nerdiest person I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks. I try.”

The blunt burned lower in Ellie’s fingers, smoke curling around her jawline, eyes soft and half-lidded as she looked at you.

“You’re staring again.” Her voice was low and teasing but not like before. This wasn’t about calling you out. This was about pulling you in.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t even try.

“You look really pretty right now.”

Her brows raised a little, almost surprised. But she didn’t deflect it, didn’t joke it away this time. Just blinked, slowly, lips parting.

She kept going, voice soft and raspy from smoke and salt air. “And Earth moves through space at like, 67,000 miles per hour. Which means no matter what we do, even if we’re just sitting here, we’re still flying through the void. Isn’t that kind of fucked up?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at her. With her messy hair, jeans cuffed like a little boy, freckled face lit up in moonlight and awe. She looked like she belonged up there, with all the stars and the galaxies, floating above you like in a dream. And she kept gesturing toward the sky, completely unaware of the way her words made your ribs tighten.

You blinked slowly, a breath catching behind your teeth.

God. I’m really falling in love with her. Was all you could think about.

Not in the loud, crashing way. Not like the movies. No. This felt quieter. More dangerous. Like something blooming in the dark. Like the soft ache of knowing, really knowing…that if you let yourself, you’d never stop wanting her. Not just her body, not just her kisses. But her.

The way she got really quiet when she was focused. The way she always turned down the volume on her phone before coming into your apartment. How she knew the difference between your tired silence and your mad silence. How she never let your coffee go cold. The way she let you rest your head on her lap without making a big deal about it. The way she touched you like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Something that always came back. The way she looked at you like maybe, just maybe, she already knew.

You passed the blunt back to her with a shaky hand, trying not to exhale your whole damn soul.

“You okay?” she asked, catching your eyes for a second too long.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to ground yourself. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She smiled at you, all teeth and freckles and affection. And you were doomed.

You wanted to kiss her and tell her how far fucking gone you were, that she has already ruined you and there is no turning back. Instead, you just smiled, barely.

“You ever just… forget how good this feels?” Ellie asked quietly, her voice rough with honesty. “Like the world gets so loud, and you forget how simple it can be to just stop for a second?”

You turned your head, so you could look at her. “Yeah. I think we forget to stop because we’re scared everything will fall apart if we do.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, gentle and tired. “Yeah...”

You smiled faintly, the sound of the tide folding over itself again in the background. “Guess that’s what fresh air’s good for.”

Ellie huffed a small laugh through her nose, and without thinking, she reached for your hand in the space between you. Her fingers grazed yours before curling around them, warm and sure.

Neither of you said anything after that. You didn’t need to.

She took another drag and leaned her head back to stare at the sky. “Fuck man, I should’ve brought my camera, the view is unbelieveable,”

You sighed dramatically, then reached into your bag. “Oh, Ellie…”

She glanced over, puzzled, until you pulled out her camera and held it up triumphantly.

“No fucking way,” she laughed, sitting up straighter, her entire face lighting up. “You’re the best. Are you kidding me?”

“You think I don’t know you by now?” you said, handing it over. “I saw it sitting by your keys and figured you'd regret leaving it behind.”

She shook her head in disbelief, already adjusting the lens. “God, you’re unreal.”

You blushed, trying to play it cool, but it was impossible with the way she was looking at you—like you were some rare artifact she'd just unearthed.

Then she brought the viewfinder to her eye. “Don’t move.”

You froze. “What?”

“Stay like that,” she said, voice softer now, focused. “You look—just stay.”

The shutter clicked once. Twice. She shifted slightly, capturing you from another angle, then tilted the camera up toward the sky, the stars, the waves behind you. The sound of the shutter was rhythmic and careful, like she was trying to memorize every second.

She lowered the camera slowly, then looked at you again, really looked. The way the moonlight enhanced your features and the air blew your hair in all the right directions, like slow motion, she couldn’t hold herself back, she didn’t have to anymore.

Ellie leaned in, cupping your face in both hands, her thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones. Her touch was warm and steady, like she was grounding herself through you.

Then she kissed you. Firm and certain.

It wasn’t soft, not this time. It was hungry. Her lips moved against yours with purpose, urgency threading through every second. You melted into her touch instantly, your hands finding her waist and pulling her closer until there was no space left between you.

Her hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, her blunt abandoned somewhere in the sand beside you. And you kissed her back like you could bury the ache under your tongue and hope she didn’t feel the way you melted against her.

She tasted like weed, salt and chapstick and something inherently her. Your fingers tangled in the fabric of her jacket, clinging to her like she was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

When you shifted, she followed, leaning into you as the kiss deepened, her hand slipping to the back of your neck, thumb still grazing your skin like she couldn’t stop touching you.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, your lips brushing as you smiled against her mouth.

She looked at you through half-lidded eyes, flushed and dazed. “You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmured. “It’s not fair.”

And when you finally pulled back, she didn’t move far, her forehead bumped gently against yours, eyes still closed. Neither of you said anything for a moment. You just breathed together.

“We should probably…” she whispered, voice hoarse, like she wasn’t sure where that sentence was going.

“Go home?” you offered, a little breathless, a little terrified.

Her eyes opened, hazy and low-lidded.

“Yeah. Home.”

But her fingers didn’t leave your cheek right away. And when you finally stood, brushing sand off your jeans, folding the blanket with shaking hands and adjusting your bag, you felt Ellie’s hand on your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned just in time for her to grab your waist and hoist you up with a laugh, throwing you over her shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“Ellie!” you shrieked, kicking your legs, your fists beating half-heartedly against her back. “You’re gonna make me fall on my ass!”

“Relax,” she snorted. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice was muffled by your own laughter, face buried in the fabric of her jacket.

She finally set you down by the car, both of you breathless with laughter, your heart was still thudding from more than just the chaos. Her hand lingered at the small of your back as you climbed in, and you sat there for a second, staring out at the ocean one last time, still high from the weed and the kiss.

The car ride home was awfully quiet. But not the kind that meant nothing was happening. It was the kind of quiet that pulsed. That built up like crashing waves.

Ellie’s hand had been resting on your thigh the whole way. Her thumb traced slow, lazy circles into your skin over the fabric of your jeans, and the warmth of her touch was burning through you.

You shifted in your seat. Crossed and uncrossed your legs, then stilled, because the pressure of her hand there firm, warm, claiming, was making your brain short circuit.

The music was low. Just a beat, pulsing through the speakers. Her fingers flexed slightly against your thigh every time the bass dropped. You didn’t even know what song was playing. Neither of you said anything. But your skin was on fire, your mouth dry, and the only thing you could focus on was how badly you wanted her. Right here. Right now. And it was obvious, painfully, dangerously obvious…that she felt it too.

All you could think about was her mouth. The way she’d kissed you back on the beach. The way she tasted. The way her hand had cradled your jaw like you were precious and hers and ruinable all at once.

Your breath caught in your throat when her fingers squeezed your thigh a little, just enough. But she didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. Eyes focused on the road. Her lips parted, jaw set tight. Like she was holding herself back from something.

When she parked, neither of you moved.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And then you opened the door, heart hammering.

Ellie was behind you in a second, grabbing the blanket, your bag, the abandoned water bottle in the cupholder. And still, somehow, her hand found the small of your back as she guided you inside.

By the time she pushed open her apartment door, something had already shifted.

Because the second it clicked shut behind you…She dropped everything. Your bag hit the floor. The blanket was halfway off your arm when her hands grabbed your waist and yanked you in like she’d been starving.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud. Her lips found yours instantly. Messy, hot, urgent.

You gasped, one hand flying to her shoulder, the other tugging at her jacket like it offended you that she was still wearing it.

The weed still in your system made everything so much more intense. Her mouth, her scent, the drag of her hands over your waist. It was like every nerve in your body had been rewired just for her.

She kissed you like she was burning up, rushed, teeth knocking, too much tongue, but somehow that just made it better. Sloppier. Desperate.

You smiled against her mouth, and her hand immediately grabbed your jaw, angling your face the way she wanted.

Your fingers dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer. “Ellie—”

“Yeah?” Her voice was ragged. Her lips brushed your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone.

“Your room—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Because she kissed you again, like she already knew.

You both stumbled messily toward her room, laughter and breath tangled between kisses. Ellie’s fingers tightened around your hand, grounding herself in the feeling of your skin. Her head was spinning, not just from the weed but from the fact that this was real. You were here, touching her like you needed her.

She silently thanked herself for tidying up earlier, the faint scent of cedarwood and laundry detergent curling around the space like an invitation. There were no distractions. Just you, her, and the electric charge buzzing between every touch. You kicked off your shoes without thinking, and she was already guiding you back, hands firm at your waist as she gently eased you onto the bed. Her body followed, urgent, reverent, starved—lips crashing against yours like waves meeting the shore. You didn’t hesitate. You pulled her closer. She hovered for just a beat, eyes devouring the sight of you, flushed and waiting.

No lens could ever even come close to capturing the way her eyes saw you, the glistening on your face, with your pupils dilated and lips puffy, something holy worth waking up to, like a small prayer whispered before risking everything you got.

She didn’t waste any second, she was all over you, like smoke lingering in the air after you’d shared a cigarette. Intimate. Sharing the object that had been around your lips and hers, she always inhaled a little too hard, like maybe she could taste you through the nicotine filling her lungs.

But now she could have you. In this moment, she laid on top of you, and you were looking at her with those wide, doe eyes. And right now, nothing else in this room, or in this world, mattered. You were waiting for her just as much as she had waited for you.

Your fingers grazed her collarbone, tugging slightly at the fabric of her shirt, pulling her in, as if you’d die if you didn’t taste her in this second, like your life depended on it. She reciprocated, lips hungry—slow, memorizing the crevices of your mouth, giving you entrance to her own, tongues swirling around, slow dancing together.

Ellie cupped your face, her calloused fingertips rough against your tender skin, tickling your flushed cheeks. She trailed kisses from your lips to your jaw, her mouth hot and open tingling on every spot, you sat up slightly, and Ellie took it as her cue to lower her lips to your neck, warm breath hovering the flesh of your neck, as she left open mouth kisses, like she was trying to memorize the rhythm of your pulse with her lips.

Your hands were tangled on her auburn hair, fingers pulling softly with each kiss.

A small moan slipped past your lips, you tried to cover it by snuggling your face into Ellie’s neck, but she noticed.

And oh lord—she wanted to replay that little sound for the rest of her life.

Something shifted in her. Primal. She was starving for you. She needed to cover every inch of your skin with her mouth, trace a map across your body, taking note of every sweet spot that made you squirm under her.

God she was high on you, just by kissing. Pathetic.

You pulled back to look at her again, and the look she gave you?

Fuck. It was unraveling you.

Slowly, you pressed your lips to hers again, the kiss deepened. Messy, sloppy, perfect.

Hands roamed slow and lazy, tangled in fabric and hair, fingers trailing like they had nowhere else to be. Then, suddenly, the weight shifted. You felt an arm slide beneath your back, the other steadying you both. And before you could say something , Ellie pulled you up, lifted like you weighed nothing and settled you gently into her lap. Your thighs bracketed hers now, knees sinking into the bed, your lips still locked together.

Now both of you were chasing dominance with your tongues, breathy moans and low groans spilling between kisses. Ellie's hands rested on each side of your hips, gripping the soft flesh, digging her fingers into your skin.

Meanwhile you lowered your hands down to her stomach, slipping under her shirt. Her skin was warm and soft, so soft. You traced little circles with your fingertips as your hands traveled to her back.

Ellie broke the kiss for a second, catching her breath, and when her eyes met yours, she knew—

You needed her as much as she needed you.

She gave you a small nod— permission, and you took it as a welcome sign.

You lifted her shirt slowly, as if you were giving her the chance to say something, to stop you. But she didn’t. She raised her arms letting you tug it off completely and tossed it aside. Bare freckled skin now only framed by the black sports bra she wore, muscles tensing from the shyness she suddenly felt.

She followed immediately, helping you out of your shirt, leaving you in your bra. Ellie had been waiting for this moment since that night she’d accidentally caught a glimpse through your door. The image of your bare back, the strap of your bra. It had been burned into her memory ever since.

She was so caught up in that thought, she didn’t even realize when you shifted your weight completely and she was now the one lying beneath you, with your knees caging her hips.

Ellie’s breath caught in her throat, her hands instinctively settling on your clothed thighs. You could feel her heartbeat pounding beneath your palms, a steady drum that matched your own. She looked up at you like you were a miracle. Her pupils were blown, partly from you and from the weed, lips parted, and you could see the faintest tremble in her chest as she tried to keep her breathing even.

You dipped your head, brushing your lips over hers, soft and slow. A kiss like a secret. One she’d never tell anyone else but you. You pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes—her lashes fluttered, lips chasing yours, already missing the contact.

Her hands moved, skimming up your thighs, slipping under the hem of your bra strap. Her touch was reverent, like she didn’t quite believe this was real.

“You’re so…” she whispered, voice barely there, but the rest of the sentence vanished in your mouth as you kissed her again. Deeper this time, your tongue sliding past her lips, tasting her like she was something you needed to survive.

Your hips shifted, rocking forward just slightly, and the sound Ellie made.

Fuck.

A soft, breathless whimper was enough to make your head spin.

Her fingers dug into your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you to her. You could feel her muscles tense beneath you, her body responding to every inch of you.

“Tell me this is real,” she breathed, voice cracking around the edges, raw and so full of need it made your chest ache.

“It’s real,” you whispered against her lips. “I’m here.”

You leaned down again, trailing kisses along her jaw, down her neck, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. Ellie let out a shaky exhale, her hands sliding up your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine.

You smiled, teeth grazing her collarbone. Ellie groaned softly, arching into you as your kisses grew messier, more urgent, like you were trying to mark her soul with your mouth. She let you take your time, let you explore her inch by inch like she was sacred territory.

When you sat up again, her hands followed your movement. One trailing along your ribs, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. The way she was looking at you then? Like you were starlight. Like she’d never let anyone else touch you the way she did.

You leaned into her touch and whispered, “You okay?”

Ellie nodded, eyes glassy, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile.

“Better than ever.” She looked completely undone, flushed cheeks, strands of hair sticking to her forehead, eyes drunk on the sight of you.

You leaned in slowly, like you were about to worship her. Your lips ghosted over hers, brushing once, twice, teasing. Cruel. And when you finally kissed her, it was all teeth and tongue, heat and hunger.

She groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your sides and gripping your waist like she was trying to keep herself grounded to the moment. But she couldn’t, not while you were grinding down on her, slowly, hips rolling just enough to make her curse against your lips.

“Fuck—” she gasped, breaking the kiss as her head fell back into the pillow, exposing the long line of her neck.

You didn’t waste the opportunity.

You pressed your mouth to her throat, biting softly just below her jaw, then trailing your tongue over the spot like an apology. Her fingers slipped under the band of your bra, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts, breath coming out in shallow, desperate pants.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” she muttered, voice rough and broken.

You pulled back to look at her, lips wet and a little swollen, eyes hazy.

“Yeah?” you whispered, breath brushing her cheek. “What are you gonna do about it?”

That lit something in her. She sat up just enough to crash your mouths together again, teeth clashing, tongue tangling with yours in a messy, frantic kiss. One of her hands slid down, gripping your ass, pulling your body harder against her lap, hips bucking up with zero shame.

You gasped into her mouth, nails dragging down her back, and Ellie cursed again. Low, and filthy.

“Can I?” she whispered into your mouth, hands moving to unclasp your bra, her voice trembling with restraint.

You let her—let her strip you bare, skin flushed and burning. She stared for a second, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, then she leaned forward and kissed the top of your breast, slowly, her mouth trailing lower. Her tongue flicked across your nipple and your head fell back with a moan, hips grinding down on instinct, desperate for friction.

Ellie groaned when she felt it, her hands grabbing your waist and helping you move, guiding you to rock against her in slow, aching circles.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice wrecked. “Just like that.”

Your hands tangled in her hair, tugging with each roll of your hips. Every kiss got sloppier, every sound louder, every breath more frantic. Ellie was everywhere—mouth on your chest, hands gripping your ass, hips thrusting up into you like she couldn’t fucking help it.

You felt drunk on her—on the heat, the pressure, the want of it all. And when she looked up at you again, eyes glassy, lips slick, it was over for you.

“I need you,” you said, barely audible, but it was enough.

Her hands stilled, holding you there. “You have me.”

Ellie was already breathless beneath you, her cheeks flushed, lips kissed swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run for miles, but it was nothing compared to what you were about to do to her.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against hers again, slower this time. A whisper of a kiss, soft and drawn out, like you were trying to memorize the way her mouth felt…like you had all the time in the world. And you did. This was yours. She was yours.

From her lips, your mouth began its descent, trailing to the edge of her jaw, to the spot just beneath her ear that made her inhale sharply. You kissed down her neck, stopping at the hollow of her throat to leave a lingering, open-mouthed kiss there. Your tongue grazed the skin, slow and warm. She whimpered, her hand instinctively gripping the sheets.

Your kisses continued down, over the curve of her collarbone, across the center of her chest. You mouthed over the black fabric of her sports bra, feeling the way her breath hitched when your teeth grazed her nipple through the fabric.

“Fuck,” she whispered, squirming slightly beneath you. “You’re—teasing.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled against her skin and kept going.

You pressed soft kisses down her stomach. Pausing just above her belly button, letting your breath tickle her skin. Every inch you touched left her gasping, her muscles twitching under your mouth. You looked up at her then, eyes locking with hers. She was already gone. Lips parted, gaze completely fixated on you.

Still not breaking eye contact, you reached the waistband of her pants. Your fingers toyed with the button, and you watched her nod without saying a word.

You undid them slowly, dragging them down her legs, eyes never leaving hers. She lifted her hips to help you, the soft hiss that left her lips making your thighs clench. You peeled them off, tossing them aside, leaving her in nothing but her dark boxers. The sight in front of you left you in awe, legs trembling, laid out just for you—was enough to make your core ache.

But you weren’t done yet.

You leaned in again, kissing along the sharp lines of her hips. One side, then the other. Slowly. Warmly. Her hands fisted the sheets, a sharp gasp escaping her lips when you mouthed at the sensitive skin right at the waistband, trailing down to place an open mouth kiss to the wet spot of her boxers. You looked up again—still holding her gaze, and hooked your fingers into the fabric.

“Okay?” you murmured.

She nodded quickly. “Yes. Fuck—please.”

Still keeping your eyes locked with hers, you reached for the waistband of her boxers and pulled them down, slow and careful, exposing her inch by inch. Ellie lifted her hips again, obedient and trembling, and you slid them down until she was bare in front of you.

You could’ve stopped just to stare. Her thighs were slightly parted, her breathing ragged, her tattoo curling along her forearm as she gripped the sheets. She looked like she could cry just from the anticipation.

You settled between her legs and let your fingers slide through her folds, wet, warm, already soaked. She gasped, hips jerking slightly.

“This all for me?” you asked, fingers teasing but not entering.

“Shut up,” she rasped, her voice thin, wrecked. “You know it is.”

You smirked, leaned in, and kissed her hip again, just to be cruel. Then, slowly, you pushed two fingers into her.

The way her mouth dropped open, the way her brows pinched like it physically hurt to feel this good, you never wanted to forget it. You curled your fingers just slightly, hitting the spot that made her whimper.

You kept your eyes on hers, and when her lips parted in another moan, you leaned in close, your voice a whisper. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Ellie looked ruined with her hair spread across the pillow, hand covering her mouth now, trying to quiet the sounds that kept spilling out of her. But she couldn’t stop them. Not when you were fucking her this slow, this deep, your palm pressing against her clit with each thrust.

“Don’t hide,” you murmured. “I wanna hear you.”

You fucked her slow, deliberate, dragging your fingers in and out while your thumb circled her clit. Her hips moved with yours, chasing the friction, her thighs twitching with every movement.

“God—fuck, that’s it—don’t stop,” she breathed. Her voice was high, strained, like she was barely holding it together.

You sped up just slightly, enough to make her cry out. Her hands clutched your forearms now, nails digging leaving half crescent moons in your skin. She moaned again. Loud, desperate, and you knew she was close.

“Come on, Els,” you whispered. And somehow that made her walls clench harder against your fingers, pulsating with every thrust.You started speeding up, hitting just the right angle, her back arched and she choked on your name.

“I’m—fucking—fuck—” Her whole body tensed, then shattered. Back arching off the bed, head thrown back, a moan breaking open in her chest. You leaned in, kissing her as she came, swallowing her moans, keeping your rhythm until she was trembling beneath you. You only pulled out once her body stopped twitching. Then, with your eyes never leaving hers, you slipped your fingers into your mouth and licked them clean, savoring her orgasm

You grinned as you dragged your fingers out with that small “pop”.

Ellie choked on a gasp, eyes wide, pupils blown.

She didn’t waste a second.

After your little display and those fucking eyes locked on hers while you tasted her off your fingers…Ellie snapped. She rolled you onto your back like a rag doll, with a roughness that wasn’t aggressive, just desperate. Her mouth was on yours immediately, hands framing your jaw, tongue sliding in as if she couldn’t get deep enough.

“Mine,” she murmured, almost to herself, between kisses. “You’re fucking mine.”

Ellie hovered over you, flushed and breathing hard, her skin glistening, her eyes blown wide with lust and awe and something deeper—something that cracked you open just by looking at you like that. You were still panting from making her come apart on your fingers, but that didn’t stop her from slipping her hands under your thighs and flipping you onto your back, her mouth crashing against yours in a hungry, lingering kiss that tasted like heat and desperation.

“You think I’m gonna let you get away with that?” she rasped against your lips, her voice low and breathless. “No fucking way–”

Your breath caught. Your legs instinctively parted around her hips, your hands clutching at her arms, the muscles flexing beneath your fingers. Ellie leaned in, pressing kisses to your jaw, then your throat, open-mouthed and wet, letting her tongue drag along the curve of your neck.

You arched into her instinctively when her lips brushed your collarbone, then went lower. She kissed between your breasts, and you felt the cool air and her hot, roaming gaze, addicting.

“So pretty,” she murmured, her voice gone thick. “Fucking perfect.”

She wrapped her lips around one of your nipples, sucking slowly, letting her tongue flick over it before biting down just enough to make you gasp. Her hand came up to play with the other, thumb circling, pinching, teasing, until you were whining, thighs rubbing together beneath her.

And she wasn’t even close to done.

She switched sides, kissing the curve of your breast before giving the same treatment to the other nipple, slower this time, messier. Her teeth grazed your skin, and then she trailed lower…tongue dragging down your ribs, over your stomach, leaving tiny wet patches and hot breath in her wake.

But she didn’t rush. She took her time, leaving small hickeys on your chest, just above your heart, another on the soft swell beneath your breast, and one lower, just to the side of your belly button. She wanted to mark you, and she wanted you to feel it every time your shirt brushed against those spots later.

By the time she reached the waistband of your jeans, you were trembling.

She looked up at you from between your thighs, and fucking hell you could’ve just cummed at the sight of her beautiful green eyes looking at you like that, all desperate and needy, hands sliding to your hips.

“Still ok?” she smirked.

You could barely form words. Just a breathless, desperate nod.

She undid your jeans slowly, dragging the zipper down with purpose, fingers teasing at the waistband as she leaned in to kiss your lower belly, just above the fabric. You lifted your hips so she could tug them down, and she did—carefully, kissing every new inch of exposed skin. Your thighs, your inner knees, the dip just above your underwear. You were soaked already, and Ellie saw it, smelled it, her breath hitching.

“Fuck, look at you.”

She pressed a single kiss to the front of your panties, right over your clit. You whimpered, bucked into her mouth, and she just chuckled low, mouthing at the wet fabric. Her tongue dragged over it once, then again, leaving it wetter with her spit. Then she sucked at it, lightly, then harder right through the cloth, until you were gasping, your hips twitching beneath her grip.

“Tastes so fucking good, even through this.”

She hooked her fingers in the waistband and tugged them off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without looking. Then she kissed your thigh again, and again, and again, until you were practically begging.

Then finally—finally, she spread you open with both hands and dove in.

Her tongue flattened against your pussy and dragged up in one slow, singular motion, like she wanted to study your body with her mouth. She moaned into you at the taste, low and guttural. Like it relieved something inside her. Her tongue flicked against your clit, soft and rhythmic, then she pulled back just long enough to spit on it, watching the mess drip and smear as she dove back in.

Your head fell back against the pillow.

“Ellie—fuck—”

She hummed again, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you still, her face buried so deep you could feel her breath inside you. Her tongue teased your entrance, then pressed inside you, slow and firm, while the tip of her nose rubbed against your clit with every movement. Hitting just the right angle.

You gripped her hair hard—really hard. And she just groaned into your pussy like it made her wetter, grinding her own hips into the mattress while she fucked you stupid with her tongue and sucked your clit in between.

The tension coiled fast and hard in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble. Ellie felt it. And added two fingers without warning, curling them up just right, and doubled down with her tongue until you broke, cumming hard with a growly cry, hips jerking on her face, your hands pulling her impossibly closer.

But Ellie didn’t stop.

She didn’t even slow down.

She fucked you through it, licking up every drop, moaning into you like she’d drown there happily.

When she finally pulled back, her chin and lips were shining. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing heavy, pupils dark and starving. Then she crawled up your body and kissed you, deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

“Didn’t get enough,” she panted against your lips. “Need you again.”

You felt her hips roll down into yours, and then again, more intentional, needy. You looked down.

She was already grinding against you, bare now, both of your slick combining. Your thighs instinctively spread wider, and Ellie settled between them, her cunt sliding against yours, hot and sticky and so fucking wet.

You gasped. “Oh my God—”

The friction was instant. The way your clits brushed together made you both cry out. She grabbed your thigh, threw it over her hip, angling you just right. Then she started to move, grinding slow and deep, her forehead pressed against yours, her breath stuttering every time your bodies slipped perfectly together.

“Feels so fucking good,” she groaned. “Shit—you’re perfect—”

You couldn’t even respond. You were too caught up in it. In the slippery, desperate rub of her cunt on yours, the raw eye contact, the sweat and tension and whimpers she couldn’t hold back.

Your hands clutched her back, your legs wrapped around her waist, and you met every grind with one of your own. You were soaked, overstimulated, and yet completely insatiable.

Ellie’s voice cracked as she picked up the pace, her hips stuttering, her sounds getting louder, higher.

“You gonna come again with me?” she begged, voice strained. “Please—*fuck—*I wanna feel you come on me.”

You nodded frantically. You could already feel it—your second orgasm, rolling in fast. Your muscles tensed, your thighs clenched around her, and then—

You both came.

Harder than before. Together.

Her body collapsed onto yours, her face buried in your neck, both of you shaking and soaked and breathless.

The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the fan in the corner and the echo of your breaths slowly syncing again. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and skin, heat still clinging to both of you, but you’re not in a rush to pull away.

Ellie’s lying on her back, arm stretched out, inviting, and you settle into her side without thinking, thigh slung over her hip, your chest rising and falling against hers. Her skin is still warm. Damp in places. You let your fingers wander on her skin, tracing the soft, faded scars scattered across her stomach.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her hand finds your waist, and she’s holding onto you like she needs the reassurance that you’re real. That you’re still here.

Your fingertip drags in slow circles, skimming across her ribs, then trailing down again, stopping to gently trace the outline of a small mark near her navel. You wonder where she got it. If it hurt. If she ever thought to tell you.

Still, neither of you says anything. You shift slightly, arm draped across her middle now, and your other hand finds her forearm, the ink there familiar beneath your touch. You trace the edge of her tattoo, carefully, like you’re memorizing it with your skin.

Ellie’s breathing deepens. You feel it in the way her chest rises under your cheek, the way her thumb starts brushing gentle lines across the bare of your back.

And then, softly, almost like a thought slipping out by accident, she finally speaks.

“You are the most beautiful girl on this planet—” A pause. A breath. “No. This universe.”

You scoff, letting your lips curve into a smirk against her skin.

“Pffft—You say that to every girl you sleep with?” you mumble, teasing, but your voice comes out quieter than you meant. Too full of feeling.

Ellie huffs a laugh, but you feel the shift in her body. She’s still smiling, but there’s something quieter behind it, more serious. Something heavy in her chest that she doesn’t quite let out yet.

“No girl has gotten lucky enough.”

You lift your head, just slightly, eyes meeting hers.

She’s not grinning. Not smirking.

She’s looking at you like she wants to kiss you all over again, but not in a way that’s messy or frantic or lustful.

She’s just there. Staring. Open. Soft.

And you don’t say anything back.

You just curl into her again, one hand resting on her chest where her heart is beating like a marching band, the rhythm of her palpitations calms you down. And she lets you stay there. Quiet. Wrapped in each other like neither of you know how to ask for more. Even though it’s already written all over your skin.

Sunlight slips lazily through the slats in the blinds, casting pale golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Ellie stirs, arm reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed, but it’s empty now. Still warm, just barely. She blinks groggily, eyes adjusting to the morning light, her limbs heavy with sleep and muscle ache.

There’s a second where panic flickers through her.

Did you leave? Was everything just a dream?

But then she smells you on her pillow. Faint traces of your shampoo, your skin, your sweat from the night before, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward, soft and slow.

She turns her head and sees it.

A little piece of paper on her desk, scrawled in your handwriting.

“Headed to work. U looked too cute to wake up. Pass by the diner if ur not busy ;)”

Ellie stares at it for a minute, then flips onto her back, one arm thrown over her eyes as a smile overtakes her entire face. It’s the kind of smile she couldn’t hide even if she tried.

Stupid. Giddy. Lightheaded.

You.

Her mind plays it all back in bits, your mouth, your hands, your body pressed to hers like it had always belonged there. The way you looked at her like you were afraid to blink and miss her. The way you touched her, so safe and sure, like you were tracing art into her skin.

And now you were just… gone.

Gone, but not far.

Her eyes flutter open again. The note’s still there. The sheets are still messy. Her chest still feels full in that unfamiliar, aching way. She sighs, long and dreamy, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

When she finally sat up, her hair was a mess, body sore in the best way. The note is still clutched between her fingers, and she reads it once more for no reason other than the way it makes her stomach flip.

She stretches, smiling like an idiot, already thinking about what she’ll say when she sees you again. Already wondering how she’s supposed to act around you now. Already imagining the way your face lights up when she walks into the diner.

Had she mentioned how irrevocably fucked she was? So completely, irreversibly, stupidly fucked for you.

How she felt like she dug a grave for herself, how this would either be the best thing ever or the worst heartbreak of her entire fucking life. And she didn’t wanna think about it, because she’s scared as shit.

She’s scared of herself more than anyone.

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

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[dudududuumaxverstappen]

SURPRISE LN4 x f. READER

note: thank you for this request! ot was so fun to write, I hope you like it🧡

request: thank you for opening for requests! can i ask for a surprise visit from reader in monaco to support lando after telling him that you couldn't be there because of sickness. he was so surprised to see you smiling, waving at him when he was standing on the podium and immediately jumped off to run toward you.

requested by: anon

warnings: none

Sweat beads on his forehead, as Lando climbs out of his car, arms thrown into the air, cheering.

Another podium. Another pole position. Another win.

He has done it once more, and your heart almost bursts with pride.

Behind you the Monaco harbour, packed with yachts and rich people, is drowned out by the cheering mass around you, the people pushing and shoving you as they jump with joy and you try to make your way through them. To him. Unfortunately you have lost the grip on Lando‘s mum‘s hand, and now she has disappeared somewhere into the crowd in front of you, probably also looking for you.

You pause for a moment, finding peace in this moment of utter chaos. Lando truly won Monaco. Your boyfriend won Monaco. It‘s real. And you couldn’t be prouder.

A big, silly grin spreads over your face the further you think about it. Your heart begins to race even faster when you continue to push forward. The energy is electric, buzzing with tension and bliss and then …

… you finally spot him, atop his car, cheering.

A breathless laugh slips through his lips as he jumps down, grinning into his helmet, overwhelmed with adrenaline and joy as cheers -hundreds of voices-erupt around him.

He did it. He truly did it. He won Monaco.

He opens his helmet, the huge smile on his face not once fading as he waves to the crowd, high-fives his team, and lets himself enjoy the moment as long as it lasts. In a few minutes he would have to go up onto the podium, spritzing champagne at one another, celebrating the win.

But for now he‘s with his fans, his team, the electric feeling within the crowd making his heart burst with joy.

With joy and—

Turning his head the slightest as he walks towards the crowd, he notices how Charles is embraced by Alex. They share a hug, a small peck and a small pang of hurt pierces his heart.

He shouldn’t be sad right now, not in a moment like this, but he can’t shake the flicker of frustration. He wishes you were here, that you could celebrate with him. That he could pull you into his arms right now, hug you, kiss you. Hear your voice, hear you say how much you love him.

But you are not here.

You got ill before the trip. Obviously he would never force you to come…

He gives his head a shake. He will call you when he’s back in the hotel, for now, he tells himself, he has to enjoy the moment. He should be proud and joyful. He gives his head a little shake, hoping to clear it of the negative thoughts.

He shakes hands with some fans, accepting their compliments with a big grin on his lips and eventually he is pulled into his mother’s arms. That’s when the tears start to roll, his own, hers - tears of pure joy and pride.

Cheeks damp with sweat and tears, hand still holding onto his mother‘s, he tilts his head back and looks out into the sea of fans, not able to comprehend the sheer joy radiating from each single person there.

And that’s when it happens.

A small shift in the crowd, right behind his mother, people move aside slightly, someone pushing forward.

He sees someone waving, smiling… in an oh so familiar way, widening into a big grin.

His brows furrow under the helmet … it can’t be…

The breath gets caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat as he realises that … it‘s you. Truly. Real.

You are here. He freezes. Too stunned to move or speak.

But then realisation hits him like a slap. You are truly here. For him, for his win.

He jumps, out of joy, against the barrier, his hand sliding out of his mother’s hold who steps aside to make room for you.

You meet him halfway through his jump, your own feet leaving the ground, laughing through tears of pride and joy.

You reach up, grabbing his helmet and without much thought kiss the front of his helmet.

“Surprise,” you say breathlessly.

He pulls you into a tight hug, lifting you off the ground … and with strength that is beyond you, pulls you over the barrier.

The cheers around you fade into insignificance as you find yourself getting lost in his arms, his warm -hot- embrace, holding him tightly, body shaking with laughter and tears.

"You did it! You did it! You won!" you say over and over again, holding him tightly. So tightly that you can feel his own body shake as well, trembling beneath your hands.

"Congrats, my love," you breathe as you eventually leave his embrace, beaming up at him. "You really did it."

An equally big grin still adorns his face, as he leans down and says, voice full of love, "Best surprise ever.”